Middle.

Cream filling, insulation, pages, jelly, core, down feathers.  All are in the middle, tucked between two covers or layers.  The heart is essentially in the middle, between the front and back of the body.  Nestled and hidden, but essential.

The chocolate cookies of an Oreo are crunchy and yummy, but it’s really about the filling, the middle.  It’s so good that they eventually made Double Stuff, twice the middle.

Sometimes the middle can get lost.  It’s not the most obvious.  It has to work, bring people in, so they can see it’s greatness.  Middles are usually sweet, but if you don’t take notice after a while, they will get pissed, create chaos for attention.

When eating an Oreo, if you squeeze too hard, don’t open it to acknowledge the sweet middle, it will crack the entire cookie.  It doesn’t give in to pressure, it needs room.  The middle holds, stubborn.  It has to, it’s the middle.  If it doesn’t stand up for itself, first and last will forget, lost in the glory of being noticed, that the middle makes the cookie.

Middle makes most things actually.  Fluffy comforters, doughnuts, Pop Tarts, the Earth. Middle earth is where the fire lives, the warmth.  Even with such definitive importance, life for a middle isn’t always easy.

Monkey in the middle.  That’s an awful game where the middle jumps around trying to interrupt the play of the other two monkeys.  The middle has to manipulate, trick, joke, to get in the game, to participate.

Middle children, while they make up 56% of our world leaders, are never as touted as their oldest and baby of the family counterparts.  They have to cajole and charm for attention.  Middles are often scrappers, sometimes trouble makers.

It may be that the middle is overlooked, taken for granted, but perhaps it’s those exact plights that make middle so extraordinary.  They can’t rest on the first born or youngest laurel, they are middle, and only they can define exactly what that means.

My middle will be eighteen years old tomorrow.  He is a storm.  Passionate, ruffled hair, laughter, restlessness, frequent disrespect, and occasional trouble.  He is a true middle.

In his fathomless blue eyes, he is never recognized enough, never good enough, and always wanting more.

From the moment he rolled off the changing table as an infant, through all of his exhilarating and defiant adventures, raised voices, tears, endless hours of talking and a smile that could light up Paris, he has been a middle.

The center, with the unique ability to hurt and hold those around him in equal measure.

My only son is the middle of our family, he holds our heart, and that is proving to be a very big responsibility.

My thoughts from the laundry room.  Sleep Walking.

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