Middle children are unique. There were many baby pictures of my older siblings - first born - and an abundance of my younger brother - the baby. The youngest picture of me that I had seen was when I was six. At about ten, in my mind, that could only mean I was adopted. One of my childhood friends had just discovered he was adopted, so adoption was on my mind. This deduction was totally silly. My sister and I look somewhat alike, talk alike, and defiantly have the same genes. I could even fool my sister's boyfriend when he called her into believing I was she. But that's another story. I asked my mom if I was adopted. Her reaction was shock, tears, and then assurance that she definitely remembered my birth. My childhood friend was shocked and confused when he first found out he was adopted. That emotion quickly turned to pride when his mom assured him that he was specifically chosen to be a part of their family. I soon began to feel that adoption was pretty "neat." Having a chosen, loved child is just as much a reason for celebration as that of having a biological child.
I have a middle child grandson. His mom and dad give no more attention to the oldest or the baby than they do to him. There are just many pictures at various stages of his life. I'm sure it takes an effort to always give equal attention to each. I cannot even imagine keeping up with three very active boys. They all are so different - the scientist, the artist, and the never-stop-moving. As babies all three resembled. It was definitely obvious that they were brothers.
As I look back over my blog, it doesn't seem that I paid as much attention to my precious Drew. Maybe this post will make up for it.
