I see your posts and read about the struggles you face while potty training your daughter, who is younger than my own. Honestly, potty training isn’t even on our horizon right now; we’re looking at another year, maybe more, before it becomes a reality.
I can’t help but feel envious.
I notice your updates about how exhausted you are from juggling sports practices and birthday parties. My son can’t engage in team sports; he becomes overwhelmed. Plus, he rarely gets invited to those birthday celebrations.
I’m envious of you.
When I spot you at the store, your kids behave so well that no one even glances your way. I, on the other hand, often see that familiar look of recognition—and sometimes pity—as people notice my child’s extra chromosome. I see you strolling through the mall, blissfully unaware of the next unexpected sound that could send my child bolting in the opposite direction. At my other son’s basketball games, I watch you cheer for your child while I sit with my son, who is curled up in the back of my car, his autism creating an invisible barrier between us.
I’m really envious.
You seem to capture every milestone effortlessly: first steps, first words. I capture them too, but they come only after countless therapy sessions, sleepless nights, and an empty bank account. While you celebrate goals and awards, my conversations revolve around securing services and dodging legal issues. You advocate for your child’s spot on the team; I fight to ensure my child has a place in the classroom.
I despise the jealousy that creeps in when I think of what “normal” looks like.
It isn’t your fault that your kids don’t have special needs, just as it isn’t mine that mine do. With my eldest, I cherished those milestones and even bragged a bit. I had no understanding of the significance of developing the right muscles to sit, crawl, and walk. I didn’t grasp how incredible it was that my other typically developing child found speech without us having to painstakingly draw out every word, sign, and sound.
Yet, I must remind myself of my own blessings: an autistic son who can communicate and a daughter with Down syndrome who is as healthy as she is.
Jealousy is a futile emotion. Even if it drives you to achieve more, it’s not for the right reasons. I wrestle with this jealousy, and on days like today, it wins.
I’m truly envious of you.
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Summary
In a candid reflection on feelings of jealousy toward other parents, the author discusses the challenges of raising children with special needs, contrasting their experiences with those of parents whose children develop typically. The narrative underscores the emotional turmoil that accompanies such comparisons, revealing the complexity of parenting in varied circumstances.
Keyphrase: parenting with special needs
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