As neither the oldest nor the youngest of three children, I’ve discovered being the middle child is the best place to be. I’m the lettuce of a BLT sandwich, the letter “M” of the alphabet, Khloe of the Kardashian/Jenner sisters, strong-willed, competitive, and independent.

I’ve learned to negotiate for what I want, like the last Oreo in the package, and I stand up for what I believe in, like a redo when I lose an arm wrestling match.

I’ve perfected the art of peacekeeping. For example, I avoid fighting by choosing not to tell my little brother, Ian, that I spit in most of the Sonic shakes I buy him.

I’ve also grown independent after being forgotten a few too many times, like that one time I was left at a garage sale. Still not sure if I believe it was “by accident”.

I never felt neglected growing up, but my parents’ focus has always been different for my two brothers. My parents had enough to worry about, from 16-year-old Alex wiping out mailboxes with his Chevy to 6-year-old Ian choking on his Cheerios, that 8-year-old me was usually left standing in the middle.

It may be the fact that I’m the only girl of the family, but I’ve always been treated differently than my brothers.

My mom tells me that because there’s an eight year di erence between my older brother, Alex, and I, I display more oldest child traits, including the fact that I always think I’m right. I told her she was wrong.

As the middle child, I’ve learned that $5 will convince your little brother to do just about anything. I’ve learned

that embarrassing stories and prepubescent home videos will be unearthed at the most unfortunate times. I’ve learned that I’m never going to beat Alex or Ian at Disney Scene-It. Most of all, I’ve learned how blessed I am to have two amazing brothers.

I may want to kill them from time to time, but I couldn’t live without them. I have a big brother looking out for me and a little one I’ll always look out for. I’m stuck in the middle, the middle of two brothers I love to death.