"It’s the new Meghan Townsend!" I proclaimed as I donned a new, huge afro wig and strutted my stuff all the way into the school dance. My High School peers jaws gaped down to their polo oxfords, which were tucked neatly into their tapered Girbaud jeans. They all fell silent. The only noise to be heard was Cris Cross’s “Jump!” blasting through the gym. They began whispering to one another and pointing. Oh no. Not again. In my effort to distinguish myself from my siblings I had made a mockery of myself AGAIN. Why were people always laughing AT me and not WITH me? Why wouldn’t anyone sit next to me on the School bus? Why did I feel compelled to eat my school lunch burrito sitting alone in a stall in the girls restroom? Why did that social service worker keep calling to ask about the cats gone missing from the neighborhood?

I guess it wasn’t THAT bad. But I was a middle child. Technically the second of four girls. I like to say that my sister Molly and I got shafted so badly that we even had to share the title of middle child. Just like we had to share everything else we ever got, from fruit roll-ups to chicken pox and head lice.

Middle Child Syndrome. The words conjure up images of a desperate, needy, neurotic Jan Brady-type. A clingy “me-too! Hey! Remember me? Hey! Wait up guys! Come on! Wait up!” kind of a kid. In a way, I suppose that is part of who I am. A person hates to admit that. But yeah, I am an annoying pesky middle child at heart. I feel it in my center. The need to be included. The desire for approval. Loathe the thought of being left out of anything. Like a dagger through my heart.

I have a distinct memory of asking my mother for ketchup on my bologna sandwich. I was about 4 years old. I did this because my sister Julie had asked for mustard on hers. What’s the opposite of mustard? Ketchup! I shall have ketchup on my bologna sandwich! My mother must have thought I was nuts, or at least lacked any sense of taste. But that is the way I thought it was supposed to be. My choices, even then, were dictated by someone else’s. I thought I had to be the exact opposite of my older sister. Not that any one ever told me that, mind you. It was an underlying assumption on my part. Four years old and already making an ass of u and me.

For much of my life, I had an underdeveloped sense of identity. If asked the question “So, who IS Meghan?” I probably would have stammered a bit and responded with “ummm... I don’t know. What do you think?”. This lack of self-definement is characteristic of middle children. I measured myself through the eyes of others. I watched for clues and gauged how I was doing by carefully monitoring the facial expressions and body language of the people around me.

I had a couple of “jail break” boyfriends. Guys I went out with because they had cars and could drive me places. They could drive me away from my house and my family. I also belonged to a gang of girls. We weren't a “Gang” like the kind that wear bandanas and flash signs. But we were a gang of girls in a sense. We were so close back then, we really kind of raised each other. At least through the teenage years. Most of those girls are my closest friends to this day.

I read on the Dr. Spock website that “Middle children...often learn non-aggressive strategies to get what they want, such as negotiation, cooperation, or seeking parental intervention”. I don’t remember beating my younger sisters up per se, but I do remember implementing tactics of full-on psychological torture. I would hide my sisters security blanket just to watch her sob in bereft agony. I would literally sit and watch my parents, exhausted from long days at work, as they searched high and low for her beloved dingy piece of fabric so they could put Molly to bed once and for all. I watched them frantically tearing the house apart, and envisioned her blanket, folded and hidden carefully under the cushion of my father’s favorite armchair. I watched them and chuckled demonically.

Deviant and sick? Why yes! That’s me! Deep rooted feelings of anger for not getting enough attention? Yes! And that is why I derived pleasure from watching my little sister shudder and weep in her suffering. MAN that is twisted. Molly, if you are reading this: I AM SORRY!!!! You were an innocent victim. My middle child comrade. I had Jan Brady syndrome, but with more sociopathic tendencies thrown in. I always ended up giving the darn blanket back, though. And surprising as it may be, I seem to have an overdeveloped sense of empathy as an adult. You might not have predicted that back then.

But I guess it’s not all bad. Apparently most middle children possess a well developed sense of empathy (aforementioned story of sibling torture clearly an anomaly, perhaps I will donate my brain to research). We make great diplomats. We are used to getting a bit lost in the shuffle. I also read on www.DrSpock.com that “Middle children take a general interest in getting to know other people...Middle children are often quiet about their needs; they may be more likely to withdraw than to make a fuss” (or perhaps resort to deviant behavior, which apparently was the case with me). So if I had learned to clearly express my needs (NEED LOTS OF ATTENTION!) I may not have had to work out my feelings of juvenile rage through insensitive sibling torture. I was doing the best I could with the resources I had at the time. So was everyone in my family.

Being our only child so far, Maggie will be spared the title of "middle child". If we are lucky enough to have another child, or even two or three more, Maggie will be the oldest. According to Dr. Spock, eldest children have their own unique neuroses. Overzealous parents, without other siblings to tend to in the early years, tend to focus more attention on the oldest child. Oldest children learn how to please their parents, and they do it well (subsequent children apparently learn to not give a hoot what their frazzled parents think). "Ironically, their very success often leads to anxiety: If being special hinges on performing up to high standards, what happens if they fail? To protect against this disaster, many firstborn children set even higher standards for themselves than their parents do, and, as a result, are rarely satisfied."

I do hope that Maggie grows up to be okay with who she is. I hate to think of her berating herself for not measuring up to some unattainable standard. To offer Maggie the best of both worlds (as a parent with only one child to focus my crazy on) I think I will introduce Maggie to her imaginary older sister. That way she can be both an oldest and a middle. Maggie, meet you sister Sara. She's real bossy, and she might beat on you every now and then, but she will take all the pressure off. Maggie, my love, you are now free to go through life as an empathetic, diplomatic middle child slacker.