At bedtime tonight, I gave Jack a new toothbrush.
He didn’t like the toothbrush and asked for a different one. I refused the request.
“But, mom, I don’t want this toothbrush!” he whined.
“You get what you get, and you don’t get upset,” I reminded him.
It was the end of a long, full day, and Jack was tired. He melted down into an “Oh, woe is me” moment.
“How come all the bad stuff happens to me?” he groaned. “Madeline and Max got better toothbrushes than I did. This summer, I got embarrassed at the water park. One time, a kid at school got mud all over me, and remember that time I got kicked really hard with a soccer ball? All the bad stuff happens to me.”
He mentioned not one word about his diabetes. I was astounded. To me, his diabetes is “the bad stuff.” Neither his sister nor his brother has the disease. How is it possible that when he thinks of "the bad stuff," he forgets about his diabetes?
It's a good thing that "the bad stuff" for him is just normal kid stuff.
He’s been in bed now for two hours now, and I'm still shaking my head, still trying to understand. Perhaps he's better adjusted than I.