Being the oldest in my family was no picnic, with the endless responsibilities and chores of helping out my younger siblings.

On the eve of Chanukah, instead of looking forward to the first lighting, I dreaded having to stand in the kitchen to fry endless latkes, set the table for all the guests, wipe the china, and wash all the dishes afterwards. Just thinking of it all made me tired.

So I skipped out of the house, and left to a nearby park. Gazing at the still, calm pond in the center, I yearned for a peaceful oasis where life was quiet, still and calm and I wouldn’t be on call all day.

I wasn’t in the mood for company, but another girl sat down cowering, her words just boiling out of her.

"Life’s miserable! How unfair life is!"

Wryly, I said, "Now and then."

"All the time, especially when you're the youngest!"

"You're the youngest?"

"You bet. The sister before me is seven years older,” she rushed on. "My other sister is married, and my brothers are away at school, leaving me —baby of the family! I'm overlooked!” She spread her arms. Do you have any idea what's it's like to be the youngest in the family?"

"No," I grinned sourly. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be the oldest?"

"Are you the oldest?"

"You bet," I answered. The grin faded from my face and self-pitying feeling settled over me again, like a heavy, itchy, well-worn blanket.

"Lucky thing," she said enviously. "If I were the oldest, I'd be in the thick of things!"

"That's the trouble," I sighed. "I wish I wasn’t in the thick of everything. Whether it's your parents or siblings, someone always needs you for something!"

"Excuse me for interrupting," said a new voice, comind from another bench, where an old woman was sitting.

"I couldn't help overhear your conversation, so if you don't mind, I'd like to join in. I hated being the middle child! I longed to be the oldest" (she nodded at me). "Or the youngest" (another nod for the girl beside me).

"Being the middle child deprived me of the privileges of being the oldest, and the freedom of being the youngest. I got saddled with responsibility — but not enough to make me feel important. And I had some freedom from responsibility — but not enough to make me really free. Stuck in the middle, I hated every minute of it.

"Nobody consulted with or confided in me, as with my oldest sister. And nobody pinched my cheek and said how cute or clever I was, as they did to my youngest brother. Life was a gray, unexciting blob of nothing."

I'd never considered being a middle child, or the youngest. I'd always been wrapped up in my own experience.

"Interestingly enough, it was on a Chanukah that I began to see things differently.” She twinkled, deepening the soft creases around her eyes and mouth. "I was a ten-year-old, filled with anger for being a middle child. Father asked me to sit down and watch the menorah’s single flickering light.

“'Tell me,' he asked. 'Which do you think is the most beautiful night of Chanukah?'

"I considered the question. The first night has only one candle. The rest of the menorah remains bare and dark. On the second night, there’s one more, and so on. I told my father, 'The last night, because that’s when all the candles are lit.'

"He nodded, 'But it's not the first or the last candle that makes the difference. It's the candles in between that make the beautiful row of lights. Imagine one light plucked out of the middle! How would that gap look?'

"'Not good,' he agreed. 'And what would our family look like without our precious middle children?' 'Not good at all, in my opinion.'

"I felt happier. The next year, I overheard my father telling the same idea to my youngest brother, who had grown old enough to be upset at being the youngest. 'The last candle completes the whole,' he told him."

The woman smiled. “I'll bet he told my oldest sister something similar about the first candle! They're all necessary, and all precious."

I was needed at home. I was wanted and confided in. I was in the thick of things. And really, wasn't that where I wanted to be? My siblings were not a bunch of annoying flies, to be wished away for being too noisy or demanding.

“Thank you!” we both said.

"You're very welcome," the woman replied, "and a very happy Chanukah."