My emotions feel so tumultuous. Just yesterday I was reviewing Cora's progress with her therapists, proud of what she's accomplishing and feeling patient about my expectation that she'll probably start to walk closer to her third birthday than her second. And then I hear of some of her little chromosomally enhanced friends taking their first steps and my heart lurches for a second. As proud of as I am of those little ones that are working so very hard, I feel that familiar pang nonetheless.
Today while out at a music show I watched the kids, the ones her age climbing and talking, looking grown up, while the littlest of babies were crawling circles around Cora. Before I knew it, surprised and a little embarrassed, I was wiping away a tear.
Some of the other mothers smiled at my pretty girl, asking me her age and commenting on her eyes or her pigtails, while others looked at her and avoided meeting my eyes. Are they just mommy cliques or is there something else there? Pity? Fear?
Or is it all me projecting my own insecurities and my own worries, amplified by my sadness, onto the people around me?
So much of the time I am so proud of her, so happy with her, wanting nothing to be different. And at other times, the differences seem to isolate me.
But lucky for me, I have an excellent antidote to my sadness and my fears. I just have to look into Cora's eyes and witness her glee, and she somehow washes it all away. For a while, anyway. It's those moments in between, when I look away and start to see her from the outside that the waves occasionally roll back in.