Does birth order matter? I’m a middle child, and I think it mattered. My sister was bull-heade
Does birth order matter? I’m a middle child, and I think it mattered. My sister was bull-headed and wild, and I grew up watching her rage against my mom. My little brother was gerber-baby cute and happy. I was weird looking and my voice was too high. As a kid, I was finding identity in relation to my world. If my sister was wild, I wouldn’t be. I’d be calm, sweet, compliant. If she was kicked out of school, I would be school president. If my brother was cute, I would be ugly. I just wanted to have my own thing, to know that I was supposed to exist, that I had something to bring. . I remember hating my siblings. I would crush my sweet little brother under a huge bean bag and laugh like Jafar as he screamed. My sister would torment me. One time I was in my room, certainly drawing dinosaurs or making up super heroes, I heard a knock at the door. I opened it to see my sister and her terrifying blonde friend ‘DD’ smiling, holding a hairspray can and a lighter. I said 'can I help you, I’m busy!’ and then she lit the lighter and blasted a giant fireball in my face. My 11 year old self, as pure as Easter morning, screamed 'Beka! Burn in hell!’ I slammed the door. It remains the only time I’ve ever truly cursed someone. . My mom said to me as a teenager, 'Jed, one day, you will love Rebekah and Luke. They’ll become some of your best friends.’ I slowly turned my head like a pissed-off owl, looked her in the eye, and said 'Never. Ever. I will go to my grave with them as my enemies.’ She laughed. And here I am. An adult. With the best sibs in the world. And my mother was right. She always is. -- source link