On Thursday, The Cute went to his four year checkup. It was horrible. He’s taken to playing around when anyone asks him questions and now the doctor thinks he can’t hear or see well due to him fucking around with his answers. It was infuriating. And then they told me exactly what I was hoping they wouldn’t say…that he needs an early intervention evaluation. Primarily for speech therapy. I hate that he’s needing any help. I feel like I failed him somehow. He sucks at r/th/sh/ch/m/l. That’s almost all the problems one can have. I guess it runs in the family, as my husband also needed speech therapy…but even knowing that, it still sucks. I am still grieving. And to that I say…WTF?
Why can’t I be like my friends? One has more on her plate than was ever fair and she shines with a grace I can only dream about emulating. The other has managed to make motherhood look fun and effortless. And here I am struggling over barely a bump in the road. I haven’t handled anything with grace. When life told me that I couldn’t breast feed, I ignored the neon signs & pumped for six months to the detriment of all around me….especially me. When l first felt the pain creep in, I was suddenly at war with myself, my husband, my doctors…fighting and flailing against the sudden inevitability of my condition. Grace was nowhere to be found. I have always been, am, and always will be a tempest. And I am always ashamed of it. Of me.
And that is the saddest thing of all. 38 years of wishing I could be the person I never was or will be. 38 years of trying and failing. And never once just being content with my lot in life. That’s not to say that I’ve never been happy. I feel joy all the time in the same excesses as my despair. I love my life as much as I rally against it. A terrible contradiction that I fear I will never escape. But I really know I should just shut up. There is so much worse that could happen. So much worse still that could. I should realize that speech therapy is absofuckinglutely nothing. I should stop whining.