Watching my two daughters playing on the playground, it strikes me how different they are. In the early days of my youngest, I would compare her to her older sister. When she wouldn’t hit the milestones like her sister, I worried. I thought there was something wrong.
My oldest daughter didn’t crawl. At one, she began running and talking in sentences. Today she acts years older than her five years of age. My youngest crawled at thirteen months and walked at fifteen months. My youngest at almost three years old doesn’t speak much. And when she does speak, it is baby babble. She is like a child of the age of 18 months. I see my oldest racing around with other kids at the park, squealing with delight. I look over to spy my youngest playing by herself in the sand. She is happy as well doing her own thing. I need to remember this moment.
As we go through the painfully slow process to see if our youngest may be autistic or if she is just globally delayed, I feel that I can’t complain. I have two beautiful daughters. It began to feel like by comparing them, I was judging them. They are precious in their own unique ways.
Taking a side-step and just enjoying my girls is freeing. I ask them both if they are hungry. They race to me. As I dish out the goldfish crackers, I look at them standing side-by-side. I embrace their uniqueness. They’re amazing in their own path.
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