Updated: June 12, 2017
Originally Published: Aug. 14, 2014
I see your updates. You share your struggles with potty training your little one, who happens to be younger than my child. To be honest, potty training isn’t even on our radar right now. We might not get to that for at least another year or so… if we’re fortunate.
Honestly, I’m feeling envious of you.
I notice your posts about how exhausted you are, dashing from one sport to another and then off to birthday celebrations. My son can’t participate in team sports; he becomes overstimulated and doesn’t get invited to those parties.
I’m so envious of you.
I spot you in the store, and it’s evident that people don’t even glance at your children. You don’t see the looks of recognition—sometimes mixed with pity—that arise when they notice my child’s extra chromosome. I see you at the mall, casually strolling with your kids, not fretting about what sound might send them running away. I watch you cheering at my other son’s basketball games while I sit with my son, who is hiding in the back of our car. His autism creates a distance that feels insurmountable.
I’m honestly very envious of you.
You effortlessly capture every milestone as they come to your child. First steps, first words—those moments arrive naturally for you. I document them too, but mine are the result of countless therapy sessions, sleepless nights, and drained finances. You celebrate goals scored and trophies earned, while I discuss services accessed and legal battles avoided. You advocate for your child’s spot on a team; I advocate for my child to have a place in the classroom.
I despise myself for feeling envious of what is perceived as “normal.”
You shouldn’t feel guilty for not having kids with special needs, just as it isn’t my fault that I do. With my oldest, I loved every milestone and even boasted about them. I didn’t understand the significance back then. I had no perspective. I didn’t realize how monumental it was that he developed the right muscles to sit, crawl, and eventually walk. With my other typically developing child, I didn’t appreciate how incredible it was that speech came naturally, without us having to painstakingly piece together language, sign by sign, sound by sound.
And yet, I’m sure I sometimes overlook just 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 is a futile emotion. Even if it motivates you to strive for more, it’s not for the right reasons. I wrestle with this envy, and on days like today, I find myself losing the battle.
I’m truly envious of you.
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This article was originally published on Aug. 14, 2014.