I notice your updates. You share how challenging it is to potty train your daughter, who’s younger than mine. To be honest, potty training isn’t even on our horizon right now. We might not get to it for another year or more… if we’re lucky.
I can’t help but feel envious of you.
I read your posts about the exhaustion from rushing between sports practices and birthday celebrations. My son can’t join in team sports; he gets overwhelmed easily and doesn’t receive invitations to birthday parties.
I’m so envious of you.
I see you in public, effortlessly moving through the store with your kids, while I can’t help but notice the looks of recognition and sometimes sympathy when people see my child’s extra chromosome. I watch you at the mall, strolling without a care, while I’m constantly on edge, worried about the next sound that might send my child bolting in the opposite direction. I observe you cheering at my other son’s basketball games, walking in confidently from the parking lot, while I’m tucked away in my car with my son, who’s retreated to the backseat. His autism creates an unbridgeable distance.
I can’t shake this jealousy.
You document every milestone that comes so naturally for your children—first steps, first words. I capture those moments too, but they come after countless hours of therapy, sleepless nights, and emptying our bank account. You celebrate goals scored and awards earned, while I talk about services acquired and avoiding legal battles. You fought for your child’s spot on the team; I’m in a constant battle for my child’s place in the classroom.
I loathe myself for feeling envious of what seems like “normal.”
It’s not your fault that you don’t have kids with special needs, just as it’s not mine that I do. With my oldest, I reveled in those milestones and even bragged a bit. I lacked perspective. I didn’t fully appreciate how remarkable it was that he developed the muscles necessary to sit, crawl, and walk. I didn’t grasp how significant it was for my other typically developing child to acquire speech without the painstaking effort of drawing out language, bit by bit, sign by sign, word by word.
And yet, I’m sure I don’t recognize how fortunate I am to have an autistic son who can communicate and a daughter with Down syndrome who is as healthy as she is.
Jealousy serves no purpose. Even if it drives you to improve, it’s not for the right reasons. I struggle against this jealousy, and on days like today, I find myself succumbing to it.
I’m so envious of you.
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In summary, this reflection on envy reveals the struggles and bittersweet moments of parenting children with special needs, highlighting the contrast with the experiences of parents of typically developing children.
Keyphrase: Envy in Parenting
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