Rarely mentioned, usually ignored, but always in my heart: Austin.

Austin is our middle child. He is 6 years old and just graduated from kindergarten last week. I have saved every one of my blog posts published on this Web site since mid-December and, just for kicks, I searched for each of my children's names to see how often I have referred to them in my writing.

The score revealed the following: 8-year old Owen (17 times), 19-month old Jaycee (13 times), and finally poor Austin (9 times). This little case study further proved what I have felt all along – Austin, and middle children in general, far too often get the shaft.

I like to think of Austin as the soft, creamy filling in between the hard cookies that are his older brother and younger sister. Austin is the sweetest of the three by a long shot. And I don't feel mean or guilty for admitting that. Don't get me wrong…all three parts of the cookie are needed to make something absolutely wonderful. But I cannot deny that there is something extra special about that filling.

Austin was my happiest baby. And lightest for that matter. He has always tried to please his mama. I remember a time when my husband and I were arguing about something dumb and I was visibly upset. As I sat on our living room floor, Austin came up behind me, sat down on the couch and started rubbing my shoulders. “I will give you a massage,” he said. And with those six words, all of my worries instantly melted into his small hands.

He is so overly concerned with the happiness of everyone in his life. When my mom went through her liver transplant in August of 2009, Austin prayed “Dear God, Thank you for grandma's new liver. Please make it clean and make sure no dirt gets on it. Amen.”

When her mom, my maternal grandmother, passed away a few years earlier, Austin was gazing at her in her open casket with a somewhat concerned look on his face. I was questioning my decision to have him come up with me to say his goodbyes, but I realized later that he wasn't freaked out by Great Grandma Peterson's passing at all. Instead, he kept telling me she looked like “a baby.” Only after some follow-up questions from me did I realize that he thought her legs had been removed (because they were hidden under the lower half of the casket). I can't make this stuff up if I tried!

He is quick to tattle-tale when someone says or does something wrong. It is as if he feels it is his mission in life to rid the world of all things not nice. He asked me the other day, “Mom…is holding up your middle toe bad, too?” I don't know whether to burst out laughing or squeeze his body until it bursts in my arms. I love him so much that it hurts sometimes.

As I watched him last week during his kindergarten graduation ceremony, three things kept running through my mind. 1. Why is my son the only one who feels it is necessary to break out interpretive dance moves while singing all of the songs? 2. Why did I forget to bring the video camera (again)? 3. How on earth am I blessed enough to have this little man in my life?

I know the time will come…20 years or so from now…when I am forced to share my Oreo cream filling with another woman who is deserving of this rare treat. You better believe it will be hard for me to let him go.

Heidi Woodard, who works full-time, is married with three children. Read more from her here.

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