It all started with a curb. Just a little curb when leaving the parking lot and turning left onto the main street of our neighborhood. A curb so small I could’ve cleared it on my Razor scooter no problem.

Well, I learned the hard way that it doesn’t matter how small the curb when the only thing protecting you from the ground is an unlatched door.

It was the summer before kindergarten; I’d just turned 6. Like any other summer day, my family spent the afternoon at the pool with a bag full of pool toys and a cooler full of snacks.

It was time to load up our small army of blow up dolphins, whales and a single alligator and head the block home.

In an attempt for attention, I’m sure, I climbed in the back with the rubbery animals. No, not the back seat — I climbed in the trunk. This was pre-automated closing doors and pre-my-mom-will-go-to-jail-if-her-kid-rides-in-the-trunk-without-a-seatbelt.

So, in I clambered.

And then it happened. That miniscule curb got the best of our ’94 purple Plymouth mini-van. The trunk door flew open and out I fell onto the asphalt of Walden Drive.

My knees and hands hit first.

As if the bleeding scrapes weren’t bad enough, I had to chase (yes, actually chase) the moving van so my mom would notice that I was no longer in the vehicle.*

There were so many tears. And so many screams. And so many questions.

This was a monumental moment in my life. Maybe not for the reasons you’re thinking. It was the first time that I realized birth order truly matters. You see, I’m the middle child.

This was also the first time I realized I was, in fact, not my mother’s favorite child. Not even close.

*In my mom’s defense, she had four kids between the ages of 6 and 8. She had her hands full.