The middle child considers his plight

I remember the days of old and my heart aches within me
I think of the stroller rides, the rocking chair,
the high chair in the kitchen, when mother would feed me early,
while she cooked for the others.

I remember when I was first place in the heart of the big sister,
the object of her coos, and the rider on her hip!
People in public stopped to smile at me,
but now they see only that baby.

The stroller rolls along but it is not me in the chariot
I run on my tiny legs behind,
Legs that refuse to grow long enough so that I can beat the big kids in a race
I receive no help with shoes nor am I asked to help another.
The bigger ones carry stuff; nobody carries me
They call me, "cute" yet pretend I am a "big helper," as if that will make me eager to do these awful jobs they have thrust upon me.


I have been displaced, smushed between siblings, and wronged on all sides, but I shall not despair.


Though I am small in stature and strength,

I overflow with charm and creativity.
The jobs I am given I will wisely delegate to another.
The hearts of the sisters can be moved to pity by a show of helplessness
And the brothers are blind to my maneuvers

I may have lost the fat cheeks and thighs,
but I have gained an eye-sparkle and magical smile;
a smile that has been known to disarm the angriest of mothers.

I will harness my powerful wit
build it up with much practice and patience
and one day, use it to reclaim absolute power over this household.