On Milestones: Why Comparison Isn't (All) Bad.

Milestones are the worst when your kid’s not meeting them.  Plain and simple.  I can’t begin to express the pain and discouragement of hearing that your child—your world, the thing you invest most in-- is not measuring up again and again and again.  You can read the books and follow the advice, and sometimes, the neighbor kid or that friend from t-ball or seemingly all the kids everywhere might still do it first. Effortlessly. Without the blood, sweat, tears, and sleepless nights you’ve endured doing everything possible to help your child progress.

Ironically, we live in a world where beautiful, wonderful, kindhearted people are unintentionally reinforcing this on a daily basis. Month after month we post the stats of our babies – height, weight, skill set. They almost read like the back of a football card.  We rush to post photos and videos of our kids’ first words, first steps, first home runs, first trips down water slides and off high dives.  I think, for the parent of a typical child, it’s cute to read what other kids are doing.  We’re proud of our kids, and we love to see them succeed.  I get it—I’m not bashing the updates we as a society have now come to expect.  I’m just being honest—when your kid doesn’t measure up, they sting a little.  Or a lot. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  Just walk away from social media, right?  Maybe.  But does that change the reality?  Do you walk away from the cookouts and block parties and friendships, too?  Whether the comparison happens in person or via the internet, the reality and the sting are the same.  As painful as it was to watch child after child do the things my Marshall wasn’t doing yet, it was part of what led me to the realization that my suspicions might be true.  That something bigger was brewing.  That we might need help.  And that maybe, just maybe, who Marshall was wasn’t a direct failure of my first time parenting.

I’m going to say something that might be wildly unpopular: comparison is not the worst.  In the right context, as parents, comparison may actually alter the course of our children’s development.  Without the sting of knowing your child isn’t where they should be, how would we know they need help?  As much as I wanted to hide from outings with other kids, as much as it was embarrassing to take my giant baby who still couldn’t sit up on his own to play with the kids who were months younger than him and crawling around the room, the reality was the same whether I faced it or not.  My kid was not like other kids.  And you know what? That was okay.  When I bore down and did the hard things and kept going to the play dates, it got easier and easier each time.  My friends still loved me.  My friends still loved my kid.  My friend’s kids still loved my kid.  And the more I immersed us with our people, the easier it became to face the reality of who my kid is.

You see, reading the developmental milestones and watching them in action around you are two separate things.  Yes, our pediatricians ask screening questions at well checks.  Yes, there are general ranges for certain milestones that you should expect from your child.  But your pediatrician only sees your child for 15 minutes at a time—they can really only know what you share with them.  And if I’m being honest, every time Marshall didn’t meet a milestone, I was faced with three options: denial, excuses, or facing reality. Denial and excuses were the easiest— in fact, they were as natural as taking my next breath of air— because they allowed some self-preservation.  If I made excuses for why Marshall wasn’t meeting milestones, the tears were kept at bay.  The fears and worries and doubts were quieted, if only for a moment.  I could keep talking, keep working, keep moving if I pushed those feelings down and ignored my gut.   But to be honest, there wasn’t any peace in making excuses for Marshall’s behaviors or turning a blind eye.  It wasn’t until I opened the door and faced the reality head on (with the help of my village) that I could truly breathe.  Often they were shaky breaths through lots of tears, but they were deep and true and full. 

The longer I allowed myself to hide in denial or shield myself with excuses, the further I was distancing Marshall from the help he needed.  And you know what? Every minute of early intervention counts.  As I teacher, I heard it preached for years.  I read studies.  I watched it in front of my own eyes.  But man alive, it was something else entirely to experience it first hand.  I firmly believe that by the grace of God and the gift of early intervention, my Marshall has been placed on a path much different than the one he would have been on had I hidden in fear.  Yes, he still struggles.  No, it still isn’t easy, or light.  But day-by-day, milestone-by-milestone, we’ve inched our way to where we are today.

If I were to hide behind Marshall’s disability and don’t set high expectations for him, where does that leave us in the long run?  It’s painful and grueling and oh-so-humbling, but there’s no one else to roll up their sleeves and do the hard work of parenting besides us.  Yes, Marshall has had phenomenal therapists and teachers and doctors along the way—a village of people we will forever be indebted to. But they are members of the advisory board, not owners of the process.  The people upon whom we depend for advice, research, and resources are wonderful: but they were not put on this planet to guide Marshall through life.  We were. 

Yesterday, a friend’s son learned to ride his bike without training wheels.  He’s younger than Marshall, and not the first friend who has mastered this feat.  He won’t be the last.  As he shared his big news with us, I braced myself for the usual disappointment.  I was hyper aware of my face, being sure the reaction I gave showed no evidence of the missed-milestone-sting.  And you know what?  I was a little surprised with myself.  Turns out, I didn’t need to worry so much.  I wish I could tell you that my reaction was 100% joy and excitement for this sweet boy.  I would say it was 90/10.  Each time there’s a milestone we miss or one that sits out on the horizon, it gets a little easier, thanks to the ones we’ve conquered in our own timing.  I didn’t want to cry when my friend’s son learned to ride his bike.  It didn’t ruin my day.  The longer I’m a parent and the more I get to know Marshall, the more genuine joy I can have for my friends when their kids do great (or even average) things that we haven’t achieved yet. 

Just after we ran into our friends and they shared their exciting two-wheeled bike news, I noticed the first red leaf of fall.  Honestly, it was beautiful.  I quickly pointed it out to the boys and we oohed and ahhed over it together.  Isn’t it funny how the first of something so small can feel so significant? There will be thousands upon thousands of other leaves that will turn this fall.  In the coming weeks, I’ll smile and enjoy them in mass, and by the end of November, it won’t matter to me which leaf turned first—I’ll be too busy enjoying the beauty of what they look like together.  How the colors play off one another.  How some still cling to the tree while others have long since moved onto the pile of confetti on lawn after lawn after lawn. 

It’s easy to desire that first red leaf.  To want our kids to check off the next milestone, or maybe even be first at something.  An early walker.  Potty trained by age 2.  Riding a bike or throwing a football or climbing Mt. Everest at age 3.  But by the end of each childhood season, the beauty of who our kids are and what they are able to do is a delicate dance that works so beautifully together.  The reality is, when your eyes scan the faces of Marshall’s kindergarten class, it’s unlikely that you could point out who walked at 8 months or at 18, or who potty trained by age 2, or which child spoke in complete sentences first.  You probably can’t tell whose parents cried over their cribs in fear or worry, or whose kids danced by each milestone with ease. In fact, I’d venture to say that your eyes would see nothing but beauty in those warm smiles and sweet voices. 

I doubt you could spot the first red leaf, now that they’re all in season. They’ve made it.  They’re turning.  And what a gorgeous picture they make together.