Yesterday, after finally being relinquished from duty, I slouched on the couch and began surfing through the outlets on my phone. I came across a Facebook post inquiring, “Did you know today is Middle Child Day? Probably didn’t until now.  It’s okay, we’re used to it.”

Oooo Snap.  Got me there.

Not that I would intentionally celebrate Middle Child Day as some sort of extra holiday to make up for the fact that Yes, you do get forgotten about, because to be honest, at some point, they all do. But it did trigger me to ponder Malcolm.

Why don’t I worry about him? Why do I feel like I can just let that one slide because, he has a good head on his shoulders? 

I don’t even think twice about him holding his own, since he is so strong, level headed and easily walks away from bad situations. Even though he has an unhealthy admiration for his big brother, I know not only could he whoop him, but he would be the first to make things right afterward.

Perhaps I have a false sense of security concerning him and I will have to watch that.  But the fact is, I have learned his tell. When he feels low, if something is truly wrong, he listens to music, drifts away and dances.

When he was a year and half, we had our first dance party around Christmas.  Until this moment, his world revolved around Wheels. When the music started, I cranked it up and began dancing wildly. His eyes lit up.  His knees bent up, down, up, down and tried to jump. He ran screaming in circles, like an animal just released for the first time since captivity, breathing in freedom. And when his older brother shouted “I got something cool, watch this” and dropped bare bum trou… Malcolm, lost in his new moves, didn’t notice everyone’s horrified gasps or Paw Paw’s dulcet “Oh Dear.” He just kept dancing.

California took a toll on Malcolm; he was bullied profusely in preschool and struggled with being stripped from familiarity. He regressed in potty training and language. At this time, we shook off the dust of an old CD player and handed it to him.  His eyes lit.  His favorite “jam”, I’m a little Tea Pot, would play loud when he was happy, and soft when he needed a hug.  Entering his room, he would be staring at his player, waiting for a consoling chat.

Upon moving home, his interest in music and desire to let it replace his emotions and pour from his body, surged when introduced to dance music.  Nervous about starting a new Pre-K and what was to come, he asked for a dance party every night until he felt safe at school.  Bass Cannon, Daylight,  Hello, Harlem Shake, New York would blare through the house, his feet moving in unison to the beat.  Sashays, spins, splits, break dance back spins, jumps, booty shakes, and swing naturally took over his spirit and made him feel whole.  Only stopping when red, sweaty, and calm.

After each session, his once insecure face had light again.  He was sure of himself. Released from whatever gloom had consumed his mind, and made free.

Impressed with his natural rhythm, I suggested he take dance class but no, “I do it just for me, mom.” Can’t argue with that.

So why don’t I worry about Malcolm?

Unlike Wheels or Stewie, obviously, Malcolm has found a way to tap into his feelings.  He was forced to early.  He isn’t afraid or ashamed to tell you he is upset. And he wants you with him while he works through it.

And if his chosen way, thus far, is to bust a move, I am all in!