The Replacement Model—
"Daddy, 'm I deefectuve?"
Alan stared at his 6-year-old son. "No, Donnie! Why would you think that?" Donnie was coloring on the floor by Charlie's playpen. The 18-month-old inside was happily sorting complex shapes by pattern and number of sides.
Donnie set down his crayon. "The fidge-rator waz deefectuve, so we'z gots a new one 'n the old one iz goin' in duh garage."
"That's right," Alan said, frowning. "The freezer part still works. But what does that have to do with you?"
"Well," Donnie said solemnly. "You gots a new boy 'n everyone sayz how smart he iz, evun though he'z a baby. So, now you and mom gots a better one."
"Oh, Donnie," Alan said, sitting on the floor and pulling Donnie into his arms. "Charlie isn't a replacement for you! You and Charlie are two different, both very special boys."
Alan hugged his young son tight. What if Charlie turned out to be as extraordinary as that doctor predicted? Was Donnie going to feel like 'a defective model' all his life?
"So I don' havta move to thuh garage?" Donnie asked, his voice muffled against Alan's shoulder.
Alan grimaced. "No way. No matter what Charlie does, your mom and I will never love you any less."
"I'z 'lready moved my blank't 'n cars 'n candy out dere," Donnie said. "But duh floor iz kinda hard."
Alan shook his head, horrified at how matter-of-factly Donnie had relegated himself to 'no longer needed.' Had they been making that much of Charlie's obvious gifts?
"C'mon," Alan said, putting Donnie on his feet. "Let's take it back to your room. Then how about you and me play some ball?"
"'Kay," Donnie said and ran off.
Sighing, Alan got to his feet. Parenting these two was going to be a real challenge.