What’s normal? I’m pondering the big questions this morning. It’s because Hippie Child’s art teacher finds her family “different”. I asked what had given her the idea we were different, and the child replied, “the stories I tell”, “what stories do you tell?”, “just like the ones you tell on THE BLOG”. Touche.
It probably started when the teacher told the students they may need to set up a little art spot for their painting in the garage at home.
“Why” asked a clearly bewildered Hippie Child.
“Because I don’t think your parents would like you getting paint over their floor”
“Oh I think I’m good there, we don’t have floors” (at which point all the girls who had been at the last birthday party which involved creating chalk murals on the floor, and spilling copious amounts of tie-dye liquid in the pursuit of the perfect tie-dyed shirt, started laughing).
“You know, carpets … ”
“Nahh”
“Tiles …”
“Nahh”
I’m not sure how we ended up wearing the “different” label. I notice I haven’t been allowed to vet the daughter’s stories before broadcast!
We may live in an unfinished house, with a dog who is losing his fur and going blind, the dinner table conversation may at times be inappropriate (that’s usually my mother’s fault). We may have a knack for disorganisation and disaster. They may have a mother who documents all of this on a blog that goes on the internet and STAYS THERE FOREVER. But does this make us abnormal?
Will my quest to get the house finished, embrace organisational principles (like god forbid spreadsheets) and achieve some personal goals help us on our quest to normality? Even if we weren’t normal I thought we did a pretty good job of hiding that to the world-at-large.
I argue I’m building resilience, it’s good for children to see you overcome challenges, that you can be adaptive when things don’t go to plan. Frankly, things never go to plan in this place so they should be the most resilient kids in the world by the time we’ve finished with them.
I always regarded myself as relatively normal, except for a slightly over-active imagination and an addiction to potato chips, but this is what happens when your children get old enough to develop opinions and viewpoints of their own. They waltz back to the home issuing labels you didn’t expect.
It’s not like we’ve got her living an alternative lifestyle in a commune on the hills (no offence to those of you living an alternative lifestyle in a commune on the hills I fully appreciate that’s your normal, and given my current state of angst it might be easier to just join you). We send her to a conservative school, dressed in the correct uniform (most of the time, we have trouble with the socks, they should have the school name embroidered on the edge, but if you don’t look at her feet on sports day we’re OK), we live in an ordinary suburb, you know one of those characterless new developments, in a house that almost made it to a McMansion until the money ran out. Just like millions of other “normal” people. Well OK most people got their McMansions finished, but if you ignore that little detail.
What is normality? Where do you get it? Was it handed out in the birth queue and I was distracted and forgot to line up?
Do you regard your family as normal?
Not quite normal! But maybe too normal… and that is why I do what I do… to change some things we accept as normal. I got myself into a speakers competition to talk about parenting. If you have time check out my video speech… http://www.nextgreatestspeaker.com/profile.cfm?aid=50 Enjoy
Thanks for stopping by.
We grew up in an unfinished house. Dad finished it just before they sold it, 30 years after he first built it. I don’t think it would have sold with the “rumpus room” the way it was. This large, dark, gloomy downstairs room, which never experienced any rumpusing (?), simply housed all our stuff, including: baby chickens when we had them, a pile of kangaroo hides from dad’s hunting, mushroom beds, a tuba, ancient chests, and…. a dirt floor. It was INSIDE our house. And it never got a floor. Dad just made a path through the mess with old pallets.
This is my most favorite comment from you ever, your Dad is Mr Shambles’ hero, and I can’t wait to share this with Hippie Child! But Dear lord I can’t wait another 26 years for this nightmare to end.
Ah, who wants to be normal? Boring! My eldest is an odd-bod and proud of it. She yawns at all the girls in her year who love fairies and ponies. It does my head in a bit, because it means she’s a loner, but I reckon Hippie Child and Sprog 1 will grow up into fascinating adults. It’s hardly surprising she turned out this way, considering what I was like at high school – http://housegoeshome.com/2012/02/05/who-were-you-in-high-school/
Go the different ones.
It’s funny, because I weigh this a bit. When I was growing up my family was pretty normal really, but for where we lived (deep in the southern US…bible belt country), we were not. My mom worked outside the home, I had no siblings, and my dad was (gasp) an artist. I struggled a lot with this. But what I struggled more with was feeling like I didn’t belong. Now, there are parts of our family that aren’t normal, and I don’t want them to be. But I feel like my son “belongs” in his community and in ours and that’s very important to me. What’s the difference? I’m not really sure. Interesting question, though.
It is that sense of belonging that is integral to being “normal” isn’t it?
We’re happy and healthy, (except for a few aches and pains) have a roof over our head, books to read, a relatively reliable internet connection, and nutritious food to eat. Who cares if we’re if we’re normal?
Love this! My entire blog is built around the perception of normalcy, so am fascinated by your post. I wonder if teachers consider the effects of verbal labels they attach to kids (“different”)? Your little Hippie Child sounds delightfully sweet. 🙂
I think Hippie Child was probably telling a funny story and the teacher probably made the remark in jest, but it did get me thinking.