Stronger

There are times in every gal's life that make her wish she was just a little bit stronger. Here are a few of mine:

I'm four years old. My big brother, who is infinitely cool in my eyes at the ripe old age of five (yes, we're only a year apart...built-in best friends for life), has just swung himself up into one of the gigantic maples in our back yard. I can barely reach the lowest branch, and I wish with all my might for my arms to be strong enough to hoist my little body up there so I can follow him.

I'm nine years old. Big Bro and I are riding our bikes, and he pulls off a massive wheelie. Try as I might, I just can't get the front wheel of my pink Schwinn Fairlady off the ground.

I'm thirteen years old. We're at the roller rink, and I'm racing the boys again. The girls aren't fast enough to present any kind of challenge anymore. In the last twenty feet or so of the race, Chad whips past me and cackles. I shouldn't have been so cocky.

I'm seventeen years old. I've been in a relationship with a boy who is no good for me since I was fifteen. We've been through hell and back already, and things are hard. I don't have the strength to leave. But I will one day.

I'm twenty-two years old. My best friend and I stand in her daddy's hospital room. She holds his hand, I hug her tight, and he takes his last breath.

Still twenty-two. It's two o'clock in the morning, and I wake with a start. Pop is sitting on the bathroom floor in the throes of a violent heart attack. A couple of intense hours later, I walk into the cardiac care unit and freeze. One of the nurses recognizes me and has him moved immediately from the room where my best friend's dad recently passed away. I don't know that nurse's name, but I will be eternally grateful to her. I spend every waking moment in that hospital with him for weeks, leaving reluctantly for work and returning immediately when my shifts are over.

I'm twenty-four years old. I've just returned home from our rehearsal dinner to get some rest for the big day tomorrow, and all of a sudden I am sobbing uncontrollably. I miss my maternal grandparents with a ferocity I never thought possible. They've never met my fiance, and they won't be sitting with my family at the wedding. Feeling foolish, I call my mom and she comes right over. We wrap one of Gran's holy medals into my bouquet and stay up late, telling stories, laughing, crying.

I'm twenty-eight years old. The Hubbs and I are sitting in an observation room in the Big Bad City. A team of doctors, therapists and social workers has been observing our sweet little Princess for the last hour. A nondescript pediatrician comes in with a war-and-peace stack of forms and tells us in an offhand manner that our daughter is mentally retarded. His words. Not mine. She has just been formally diagnosed with autism.

I'm thirty years old. I think I'm okay with everything, and I'm pretty happy with my lot in life. My girl is thriving compared to where she was last year. The Hubbs and I are fabulous. I love my job.

So why the hell does it hurt so much when I hear about the progress other "typical" kids are making? Don't get me wrong: I am happy for these kiddos and their parents, and I truly want to know these things. But there's a part of me that just wants to scream, "IT'S NOT FAIR" when I hear about kids who are younger than The Princess doing things that she can't do. That she may never be able to do.

I wish I was just a little bit stronger.