Workaholic? Winner? Worrier?
I am the first child. At least one of the words above might well describe me. The child much looked forward to. But also the kid you make the most mistakes with. Frantic parents fuss me silly. Tiptoeing around the bed I sleep in, whispering so I won’t wake. Nursing my mild fever like I’m about to bid Bye bye to life. And then you read, God how much you read. Books upon books offering what they think are theories, though I call them traps. Theory traps telling half truths about first kids becoming achievers, leaders, loyalists, loners. As if birth order unfolds as per standard cookie cutter formula computed to predictable precision. You often leave me anxious. Wishing I was the younger, lucky to miss being the repository of hopes and expectations an elder kid is usually burdened with. Still, I enjoy reigning as king of the castle — till it’s time to be dethroned.

Competitive? Creative? Claustrophobic?
I am the middle child. Next in line and sandwiched between older-younger, hardest to pin down in the pecking order. I do hurt making the transition to middle childhood after staying second born for a while. That demanding baby just after is quite the usurper. Pure reaction, I shape into the opposite of the kids flanking me. If the one ahead is conventional, then I’m wild child. Dancing to the beat of a different drummer, I don the mantle of negotiator, trying to keep the peace by balancing push and pull. It’s a rocky and cramped spot. I need to jostle for the same attention as the others. Not because you love me any less, I know. Guess you simply can’t help doting compulsively on that over-photographed first child as novice parents. And the youngest is mostly meant for pampering. I’d remain invisible without working tricks to get noticed, forge my own way ahead.