My boy. He’s 4. He so desperately wants to be 5. (Just a few more weeks, buddy!)
He can read.
Far better than I’m sure I could in preschool. Almost better than his 8-year old sister can.
* * *
My girl. She’s 8. She has an extra chromosome.
She recently went on a field trip to see her new school.
Two days went by before I realized it even happened. She didn’t mention it.
Not because she didn’t enjoy it.
But because she doesn’t have the wherewithal to know that she should mention it, even if it’s something completely out of the ordinary.
Something in her brain doesn’t fire like it should.
Instead she’ll talk about things she knows how to talk about like what she had for lunch or who on the bus is her friend…
Meaningful conversations – the kind where I ask a question, she answers and continues on with some sort of detail about it – don’t really happen with her.
But, at 3 years younger, they already happen with him.
Little brother is becoming big brother.
I ask about his day at school and he goes on about how he learned about Jupiter but Earth is his favorite – and he likes to sing the planet song at school – mom, do you sing the planet song at work? – and we played gaga ball today, mom! – and we had chicken salad for lunch – and I played on the tricycles – and did I tell you my friend Aiden said a bad word at school today? – mom – it was “bum.”
* * *
Do you think bad things happen to her that I don’t even know about?
* * *
He’s catching up.
On the other hand, she taught him how to eat Pixy Stix today. He’s still not very good at it.