Originally published by The Clifton Courier, October 9, 2022

Sometimes I forget that I’m a middle child, but not for long. 

I’m from a squeal (that’s the collective noun I’m going with at the moment) of four sisters. I’m number three in the lineup, but my youngest sister didn’t come along until I was four so I spent a good hunk of my formative younger years as the youngest. Until I was four, I was used to being the baby and based on the adorable ringlets I had at the time, I have to assume I was absolutely doted on until my undeniably much cute little sister came along. So I suppose I’m a middle child with a youngest rising, which I feel like lends to certain attention-seeking personality traits. 

My second-oldest sister has a saying (which I always have to credit her for because otherwise that’s taking the spotlight off her brilliance and don’t want to be responsible for that) about being number two or three in a family of four or more: you have to share everything, even being the middle child. 

This might make it sound like we’re extremely competitive with each other, but we’re actually quite a cooperative sisterhood. And any past tension is now the source of dark but warm-natured jokes. But it has manifested in me personally in ways which, by now, would be quite obvious. 

I mean, I’m no psychologist but I reckon producing a 700-word column about my thoughts each week is at least partly fuelled by a desire for attention. The bright colours and bold waistlines that make up my wardrobe scream at people to look at me. And I have the loudest sneeze out of anyone I’ve ever known. 

But there are other things that pop up that make me think “oh yeah, I’m very a middle child”.

Like the other day when I was walking barefoot through a car park and felt the sting of some kind of insect bite. I made a comment about thinking I had been stung by a bee.

I was with my Curly-Haired Friend, who I have known for longer than my adorable and infinitely loveable little sister. This friend knows a heckload about me, so she knows that I am somewhat allergic to bees.  

Now, the phrase “allergic to bees” sounds pretty serious. We’ve all either been emotionally scarred by or at least heard of those gut-wrenching scenes in My Girl with Macaulay Culkin, the bees and, oh geez, that whole thing not being about to see without his glasses. Bee allergies can create life or death situations for some people.

But my bee allergy – at least, based the last time I was stung – is nothing like that. 

I just experience mildly more swelling around the site of sting than most people do. My tongue doesn’t swell, I don’t get dizzy and I don’t even get hives. I just have a little localised puffing. 

But because my reactions were slightly more intense than those of my sisters, I clung to it like a toy I didn’t want to share. 

A young Dannielle made it clear to everyone she knew that she was allergic to bees. She made sure to wear a thong on her mildly swollen foot because it couldn’t possibly fit in her regular school shoe. She always put down “bees” in the allergy section of medical forms. 

Once stung, young Dannielle gorged herself on the sympathy and bathed in the special attention.

And, look, I don’t think I’ve been stung by a bee for a while so I don’t know the extent of my “allergy” as an adult, but I have a feeling that it might not be as serious as a young Dannielle made it out to be. It’s got to the point that I don’t even think of it anymore, because I’m one of them well-adjusted, emotionally stable grown ups now (hahahhahaha so stable, so adjusted).

I was only reminded of my allergy by my curly-haired friend who dryly quipped words to the effect of “oh no, but your ‘bee allergy’!” in a way that expressed no concern whatsoever. 

The grown up me laughed, but the young middle child who still lives inside me was not at all impressed. Hopefully writing a column about it will make her feel sufficiently seen.