The author at a local park with her older son, then age 3.When I see mothers with their toddlers, jealousy often consumes me. I pass them in the food store, giggling with a container of Puffs in hand. Sometimes a tantrum is unraveling in a battle for a small toy from the collection beside the school supplies. Stressful or not, I long for the moments they’re living.When my kids were little, I was envious of every mother I saw. Both strangers at the playground and friends from our Mommy and Me class had something I didn’t. I’d watch as they chased their toddler from the slide to the rock wall to the swings. It was as if physically existing was effortless to them.Most other moms had a body that functioned. Mine was impaired by a mysterious disease.When my older son was born in 2011, I’d been living with symptoms like fatigue, weakness and pain for six years. The more I walked or stood, the weaker I became, so our activities were limited to short bursts of standing time. Still, I forced myself to meet friends at the playground and attend story time at the library because I wanted him to experience the world and for us to savour these fleeting years together. I used t