I hung out with a normal 7-year old boy today.
He didn’t make weird sounds, go off on random tangents about Greek mythology, make obscure references, gnaw on his lower lip, or wander aimlessly. He was just perfectly…normal. And I was so jealous.
We played catch for a long time. He didn’t stomp away in frustration if he missed the ball. He didn’t get angry when I accidentally lobbed it over his head. He didn’t cry in horror when an errant kick of the ball smashed a porcelain snowman (we were at a garage sale). Instead, he looked at me, eyes wide, and we both burst into giggles. And again, I was so very jealous.
“Hey, Kellie! Wanna play more catch?” He was excited. Happy, giggly, coordinated…perfectly normal. And I was so very, very jealous.
I haven’t had a moment of carefree fun with JP since he was a toddler. It’s not something I realize very often (how terribly not normal he is), but when I do, my god, it’s devastating. I realize that there’s so much he’s missed, so much I’ve missed, so much our family has missed.
I wish JP were normal.
I want JP to be normal.
But he’s not.
And that sucks.