or, “Normal” Is Just a Statistical Term

“We ACT normal, Mom!  I wanna BE normal!  The only NORMAL one is Jack-Jack, and HE’S not even potty trained!” - Violet Parr in “The Incredibles”, 2004

One of my early-career mentors was a crustily jovial 70-something gentleman who had, back in the days before neonatology was really even a “thing, made the transition from World War II fighter pilot to pediatrician to neonatologist.   Now, going on thirty years later, I kick myself for not having dared ask him for more stories.  But at the time, I was in self-focused survival mode, and  I just wanted to learn what to do.  And, even better, what to say.  So I listened.

Dr C would caution us that “parents always want to know ‘is my baby normal, Doc?’  And I could tell them we have no idea.”  (Most of his years of practice had been in the days before the routine“fetal survey” prenatal ultrasound.  He could tell stories of well-appearing babies whose skulls would light up when a flashlight was applied to the fontanelle:  more fluid than brain tissue.  And still - even nowadays we have no certainty of what will happen with a baby between birth and 18, let alone in the first hours and days of life. But nobody wants to list all the things that could possibly go wrong, the things we don’t know for sure.)   

His preferred answer to the “normal” question was to say “Well.. you know, ‘normal’ is just a statistical term.”  This is brilliant, because once you’ve gotten that out of the way, you can move on to talking about this individual baby.  The job we really want to do for new parents is not that of factory inspector but as tour guide, — or, better yet, matchmaker.  This family is going to grow together in relationship to one another.  A baby isn’t a machine — or a statistical distribution.  A baby is a person with resources and abilities, as well as needs, for connection, care and community.  

What do we mean by “normal”, anyway?

As a kid, I felt much like Violet - as though everyone but me was “normal”. I wanted to fit in, to belong

Lately there has been much talk of “getting back to normal” or at least of “finding a new normal.”  It sounds as though what people really want is to be done with uncertainty -  the same uncertainty that parenthood makes us confront. We want to return to blissful oblivion — maybe, even, to be unseeing, unhearing, unnoticing.   “Normal” might mean our expected American way of life, the dream, the rushing and spending and surface relationships.

Paradoxically, perhaps, I think the gift we’ve been given by the pandemic is similar to the gift of a new baby: a messy, inconvenient, unpredictable opportunity to slow down, to cut back to reconnect with our dreams and with each other.  

At least, those of us who are privileged have had that gift.  How can we share with those who are less privileged? Let’s start by noticing, listening and seeing. By welcoming - and by attending. 

(I drafted this post back in May; today I dug it back up and am offering it “as is” - in recognition that I will never have all the right words. Grace, not perfection.)