Learning to Dodge the Comparison Trap, Again. . .

Ryan is my fourth child. He is my second son, and he is eight years younger than my next youngest child.

For some crazy reason, I thought these facts meant that I would have a “handle” on the parenting thing when Ryan arrived.

When he was born, I felt relaxed, even confident. During Ryan’s second year, my oldest daughter would ask things like, “Shouldn’t he be saying more words?” “Shouldn’t he be walking now?”

I laughed it off and told her that babies and kids arrive at milestones in their own time. Babies who walk early don’t turn into adults with “exceptional” walking skills, I would joke. Early doesn’t matter. And then, sagely, I would say something like, “Just enjoy where he is now. You’ll miss these baby days.”

At 15 months, Ryan still hadn’t spoken or even paid much attention to us yet. I shrugged it off and waited for my little boy to flourish in his own time.

But, he didn’t. He lost words and retreated farther into his private world. He stopped saying “momma.” He stopped saying the names of objects in books when you looked at the pictures with him. At almost three, he still doesn’t do those things again.

When Ryan was one, I knew myself to be a mom who didn’t operate on comparisons. I didn’t feel threatened if other children read more books, were better at sports, or performed better in school than my children.

After all, those things are just actions and the value of my children far outweighs their current prowess in academics or athletics. It even outweighs their tween attitudes.

It is their thoughts, feelings, experiences, and joys, that make them the valuable individuals they are.

After our autism diagnosis, I found I somehow misplaced all of the supposed “wisdom” I thought I had as a seasoned parent. I found out that I hadn’t compared my older children to other children, not because I knew so much better, but simply because life was easy for us.

There was no reason to compare.

After our diagnosis, I started comparing. I started judging myself when I heard parents talking about their “typical” children. I started feeling like everything they were saying was some sort of indirect judgment of Ryan. I felt defensive. I felt gross for feeling defensive.

If I saw a picture another mom took of two little siblings hugging each other with a caption like, “He is such a good brother,” my heart would sting, and I wouldn’t want to talk to other mothers for days.

I would hurt and then I would compare, “does that mean they think Ryan is a “bad” brother because he has never hugged Rae or even played with her once?”

Ryan was into giving kisses to his little sister one day, because he was practicing kissing for some reason . . . I think he saw it in one of his board books or something. . . Or, maybe it was “Kiss Day” and it is going to be more of an annual thing, you can never tell with Ryan. . . but, I knew it could end any second, so I rushed to take the one and only picture I have of Ryan kissing Rae.

It was my unnecessary proof to the world that Ryan was a “good brother.”

Usually, Ryan just covers his ears, yells “all done!” and runs away when Rae tries to go near him. Because “baby” is synonymous with noise to him. (“All done!” is one of his only phrases and he uses it to mean he doesn’t like whatever is happening).

This doesn’t mean he’s a bad brother though. He doesn’t understand play, or cuddling, with a tiny person who is more likely to bop him on the head and screech at him than she is to lie still and let him use his toes to pinch her skin (this has always been one of Ryan’s favorite ways to “cuddle”).

I started to realize that hearing other people’s toddlers referred to as “good older brothers/sisters” also hurt because it felt like it was a reflection on me. I wasn’t a good mom since my toddler wasn’t affectionate to my baby. I hadn’t been able to teach him to care appropriately.

I felt these same sorts of feelings when I heard other people describing children with phrases like, “He’s advanced.” Or, “He’s really smart . . . he says so many words already!” And even, “He’s so bright!”

It made me feel immediately like they were saying the opposite about Ryan and me.

After many months of having a pity party for us, for myself, about it, I realized that they weren’t actually saying those things, I was.

I was still stuck in a mindset that intertwined performance and value.

But, I know Ryan is “bright.” Very bright. Even though he doesn’t show it the same ways other kids might.

I know it when I see the sparkle in his eyes that means he’s just thought about something that excites him, even if he doesn’t know how to communicate to me what that is. I know it when I hear him laugh delightedly while running outside in the sunshine.

I know he is smart when he comes up with his own ways to communicate his needs. He finds the nearest person and will lead them to what he wants.

We know that if he takes our hand, leads us to the refrigerator and then gently throws our hand, that means he wants fruit. If he throws our hands up high, that means he wants his frozen treat to eat. I know he’s smart then, and a host of other times.

I know he’s kind when he cries because someone gets hurt in one of his movies. If something is too sad or violent he says “Alllll done!” and is desperate to leave the room.

Even if he didn’t do these things, it wouldn’t mean that he wasn’t bright or kind. It wouldn’t mean he wasn’t a good brother or son, and it wouldn’t mean I was a bad mom.

No one is getting out of here alive. Every person’s time here is equally valuable. Ryan’s life has immense value even if he never hugs his sister to show love, or learns to use words, or cooperates, or follows directions.

I can be a good parent even if my child can’t call for me or talk to me, even if he doesn’t hug, Even if he mostly throws sand at people some days.

Everyone gets a finite amount of days to live, the best way they are able, and that makes them precious.

I knew all of this in my head before Ryan was born but watching Ryan’s life has made me feel the truth of this in my bones.

Today, Ryan is acting out whole scenes of his new favorite movie. Peter Pan. He zooms around the room feeling like he’s flying while saying snippets like, “Tuna Pig!” His “pronunciation” of Peter Pan is more about rhythm and it sounds exactly like “Tuna Pig.” We adore it.

Today is a good day. Today we are laughing more than crying. Today we are enjoying ourselves

I guess you could even say that today we are terribly bright. I mean, bright for our ages.