I’m very reluctant to believe this, but it is true.
One of our children has turned on me, and of course, it is the middle one.
From the time that our now half-century-old daughter picked up the myth that the middle child is always the neglected one, the picked on, the ignored and the most unappreciated one, she has continually reminded her parents of their shortcomings.
She’d say, ‘The firstborn is always favored. He/she was their extreme delight. The third born is the baby, a person who gets to sleep in most, is most precious and endearing.?
And, as these years have passed, the middle one has built up resentment. She’s convinced herself that things will never get better.
But revenge is ever-present.
Parents of three, this is what you have to expect as yours mature. You must expect it, as I have. In attempting to delay the reaction I’ve gone to extra lengths to help erase and delay the inevitable.
When no one else would play golf with her in a Friday night, mixed-league, I stepped in.
When she would leave the office, ostensibly to get the mail, when she was actually getting her nails done, I’d tell those in the office I’d seen the mail truck on the highway with a flat tire.
I brushed aside their criticism of her, and went to extra lengths to build an aura of goodness around her.
Never did I not admit I was her father. Even when this blond kid from the other end of our lake came to me and asked for her hand in marriage, I felt a pang of what might have been emptiness.
Heck, I didn’t even know they were dating. If I did, I would have realized her gotcha? plan was in the works.
Despite my remarkable treatment of her, she turned against me. Oh, it took a long time, but when she got into quilting, sewing up a storm, the idea must have struck her.
She would practice making quilts while learning a trade.
Then sometime between New Year’s Day, 2007 and November 2007 her plan emerged. It was while they were at our retreat in Engadine, is my guess. And, I also believe the exact moment of discovery was when she saw my bright, orange deer hunting suit hanging in the closet.
I never bring it home. What for? With wear limited to two days a year, it never gets dirty.
I’ve had this suit a long time, ever since the ‘always right? DNR folks agreed the best way to enlarge the deer herd was to put bright colors on rifle-carrying people two weeks a year.
Now, the only deer brought home after November 15 are those found dying of laughter as they kid each other about those damnphools trying to not be seen while walking through the woods wearing bright orange.
Anyway, bright and early on opening morning this year, about 9:30, I slip on my hunting pants, one leg at a time — just like athletes.
They cover the hips all right (with some squirming), but they don’t come together at the waist. There’s more than a half-foot gap.
So, I head into the woods with this gap covered by my jacket. I can’t let the others see this, they’ll think I gained weight.
When it started to snow ‘in? I then realized what the middle, sewing child had done.
She got total revenge by altering my pants.