You know the saying "the forgotten child"? Well, my position in my family takes that phrase to a whole new level.

I literally am the forgotten child, meaning that my family leaves me places. A lot. And they don't even realize they do it. They just kind of do, and if they come back for me, great. If they don't... Well, I've learned to figure it out.

The first time I was forgotten was when I was probably five. My mom was out doing something (the details of which I don't remember being that it was eleven years ago), so it was just my dad, my brothers, and me.

It was around Christmas time, so my house had lights on the trees. It was my favorite thing in the world back then to be the one who got to turn the lights on. I did it every night, and God help anyone who tried to take that job from me.

The plug for the lights was by the front door, and my family always went inside the house through the garage.

So my family minus my mom got home from dinner and when the boys went to the garage, I went to the lights.

When I went to the garage, I found that they had closed the door, leaving me unable to get back inside my house.

I figured I could just knock on the front door and there wouldn't be an issue.

I was wrong.

If my memory serves me right, I knocked on that door for at least an hour and nobody opened it for me. I was too short to peak in through the window, so I cried and banged my tiny fists against that door like my life depended on it.

My mom finally got home, and only then was I saved.

My dad said he thought I was in the house the whole time.

The whole damn time little five-year-old me was locked out of my house, 3/4 of my family didn't realize I wasn't there.

Forgotten child?

I think yes.