Even when there are days that the whole world seems to be on your side, when people come out of the woodwork to help – there are still devastating battles.

Today’s battle, fueled by lack of sleep and structure after the most wonderful family vacation comes in the form of the typical child. This typical sibling, who observes first hand the precautions and special treatment of the rare disease sibling, feels unimportant and forgotten. Unimportant and forgotten although two separate teachers have gone out of their way to pluck typical child from her environment, spend time with her and make her feel special. Unimportant and forgotten and in physical pain because she had two teeth extracted yesterday, and (according to her) no one threw her a party or had “get well soon” cards for her. (Although she did get a card and gift.) Unimportant and forgotten and now jealous, because rare disease sibling just got hearing aids – that are Bluetooth enabled, and can listen to music and You Tube without headphones. Jealous because we had a meeting with rare disease sibling’s new teachers, occupational therapist and physical therapist, to inform them of the rare disease and it’s implications that so often define his life. The meeting this morning warmed my heart and reminded me that we are so very blessed to have such incredible support from the school. We figured out all sorts of accommodations for rare disease sibling, shared resources and ideas and are off to a great start for the new school year. But, this afternoon the typical sibling cried with body shaking sobs in my lap because she was not the recipient of all the attention this morning.

My heart breaks to see either of my kids suffer – mentally and physically. And apparently I had no idea how much this journey would affect our typical child. I have so much trouble wrapping my head around it. I flat out told her, “rare disease brother gets all the attention for these particular instances because he’s got a condition where if we do the wrong thing, he could die.” Maybe I’ve used that line too much, because it didn’t seem to change her mind. She’s still upset he gets so much attention and gifts.

So I rant. And I write. Because I’m at my wits end and I feel pulled in so many different directions. For example – typical sibling’s teeth extraction. It was an urgent, last minute appointment. But the only time the doctor had available was when I was scheduled to meet with my House Representative’s office about legislation affecting us – the rare disease community. So I asked understanding and flexible husband to take typical sibling to the appointment, and I’d do my meeting and we’d all be happy and accomplished and reunite later in the afternoon. But as I parked my car in the business park’s parking lot, I had a bad feeling I had made the wrong choice. What if something went wrong with the anesthesia and I wasn’t there? Here I am again, barking about rare disease and not attending to typical sibling’s needs. And of course, it all come with a tinge of guilt that I’m not sitting at my desk midday Tuesday, attending to work emails and customer’s questions.

This is going to sound crazy, but the only place I feel confident and at ease is while I am working. My work is black and white, it’s a challenge, and I work with nice people. They don’t provide me with any more drama, and I appreciate that. Some of my coworkers know my story as a rare disease mom. Some don’t. The customers I work with certainly don’t know about our rare disease journey. I love slipping into that world. I like to stay there and feel appreciated and know the answers – very different from life outside my home office.

Another pull on my time and heartstrings is my volunteer work. It’s always sitting in the back of my mind; I need to finish the meeting minutes, I need to reach out to x, y and z, I need to schedule the next committee call. The work is very important to me, but it doesn’t scream as loud as the paid (work) emails and the children, so it sits for a bit longer, and I rarely feel adequate with my time spent there.

Let’s not talk about the list of doctor appointments and follow ups I need to schedule for rare disease management. I’m just going to put it on my to-do list, and the ones that get done first are the ones that concern me the most – I’m looking at YOU eye doctor! I’ll listen to your fine hold music tomorrow.

I certainly suffer from decision fatigue. “Can I watch YouTube?” “Will you play with me?” “My teeth hurt.” “My legs hurt.” “He was mean to me.” “She stuck her tongue out at me.” “I’m hungry.” “Text message from the hospital: press 1 to confirm your appointment” I feel like I can’t think a single thought or accomplish a single task without interruption.

Although the last statements aren’t questions, there are things I need to do about them. “Enough screen time.” “Do you need medicine?” “Time to rest.” “Leave your brother alone.” “Ignore her when she does that.” “Would you like an apple? A banana? Carrots?” “1 – Yes, we’ll be there, like every other week!”

All this leads to me saying things like “If you ask me about screen time one more time, I’m going to run the phone over with the car. Then I’m going to back up and run it over again. Hear me!!?!” And that’s irrational crazy mom talking, and I don’t want to be her.

So I need a breath. Some space. Some quiet. Some rest. That usually comes late at night, when everyone is asleep. I rob myself of some shut-eye and let my thoughts ramble and my mind decompress.

I obviously need to cater more toward typical sibling. This will materialize in a mommy/daughter time once a week, where we concentrate on what she wants to do. Go to a park? Play cards? Read? Sweetheart, I promise to help you feel included and special, because you are – even though you don’t see it through your filter right now.

p.s. – I don’t want anyone to think typical sibling is a jerk because she’s not doting on rare disease sibling. She’s a kid, with feelings, and I’m so very happy and proud she can express those feelings to me. She’s her brother’s biggest fan, protector and a wonderful playmate.

And as for me, I know I’m not the first to feel this way – to be ready for the kids to GO BACK TO SCHOOL ALREADY. I know moms can go through this heartbreak and frustration whether you have a rare disease kid or not. I’m just putting it out there with my spin on it, because keeping it inside takes up too much space.