Today I had my yearly 'womanly' exam. Ahem. You ladies know just how exciting those are when they roll around each year. Anyhow, I really like the female doctor I have seen for the past three years, but having not gone through a pregnancy with her, she doesn't really remember much about me from June to June each year. We've talked the past couple of years about M and his disability and she has shown remarkable empathy and care toward me in return; offering up lots of encouragement and telling me that I was doing a great job. It never felt like b.s. She's a no-shit, genuine kinda gal from what I can read. But this year the kids didn't come up in the conversation, so the joggling of the ol' memory to remind her I had a child with special needs didn't naturally happen. And so, at the very end of my exam she asked me how old my kids were now. I replied that they are seven and four to which she responded, 'I feel like that's when life really starts getting a bit easier, don't you? At seven, they're becoming so much more self sufficient and easy to care for.'
I don't hold these types of comments from people against them. No, I simply try to tuck away that urge to let that little sound escape my mouth...the one that is mixed of sadness and a tinge of envy...and I chalk it up to another one of those things that make my new normal a little bit different from the rest of the world's. It really is okay. It just sometimes hurts a little more than I'd like to admit.