Define "Lucky"

A few nights ago, my dad stopped by our house at 7:30, probably for no other reason than to annoy the shit out of me. And I was extra annoyed on this evening because he’d already made two such visits earlier in the week. He was on my last nerve at this point.

But anyway, stop he did. He brought mini candy bars for the girls as he always does. I think he may have also had some junk mail to give me. I still sometimes get mail at his house, which just gives him one more excuse to stop when it’s late and he knows I’d prefer he wait until another day if he can’t be bothered to show up before 7:45.

We were in the kitchen where I was attempting to bake cookies for Julie’s Christmas party. Olivia came running in and slipped as she rounded the corner. Down she went! She popped right back up with a grin and said, “I’m alright.”

I pulled her close and hugged her, reminding her to be more careful because the kitchen floor can be slippery when you’re wearing socks but no shoes.

She hugged me back and then wrestled her way out of my arms to chase her sister down.

My dad said something like, “She’s a lucky kid to have you and your mom.”

And I said, “Well, we’re lucky to have her and her sister too.”

But then it occurred to me that he means that O is lucky to have us because of her syndrome. As in, perhaps she’s lucky because she doesn’t actually deserve to be treated like any other child in our household would be but she is because, well, in my dad’s eyes, my mom and I are exceptional human beings. Of course, this comment of his also occurred two nights after he stood in the flipping doorway to the bathroom while I cleaned poop off O’s butt, him standing there talking about his school days as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a woman to be cleaning a five-year-old’s poopy butt. And honestly, it is perfectly natural, but not when you have a damned audience!

And anyone who reads this knows I’m not exceptional. Not at all. I’m so very human, very flawed and less than kind more often than not. To be honest, I wasn’t all that patient the night I was cleaning up the poop. O kept whining and moving around and I kept telling her that I wasn’t enjoying the situation any more than she was. Poor kid.

So I disagree that she’s lucky to have me. I think I’m lucky to have her. I’m lucky to have both of my girls. O’s syndrome makes no difference to me when I consider how much they both have enriched my life. They’re both amazing, they can both drive me insane (as can my dad, obviously) but I wouldn’t trade either of them for anything in the world.

And I don’t think my dad gets that. He sees Olivia’s muscle weakness, her delayed gross motor skills and speech. He sees her DNA.

And that makes me sad for him. Because he’s missing her smile, her laugh, her imagination. He doesn’t see that she’s the best little sister Alyssa could have just like Alyssa is the best big sister O could have. He doesn’t see how they’ve both tested my patience and made me a better person.

He’s the one who is missing out on the luck. He doesn’t see how amazing it is that I get to be Mommy to these children. He only sees that they’re lucky to have me. He is missing the big picture, the one that shows how precious they are, how special.

I know he means well. I know that he thinks I’m as special as I think my girls are. I just wish he could extend his view out a little and see the blizzard of blessings we have instead of just one or two of the snowflakes.