Looking at Normal

I've been thinking about normal lately. I remember the standout kids when I was little, the ones who didn't give a care. I also remember looking at a sea of brown skin and dark eyes and wishing away my Irish/German/English mash-up heritage. I came home one day in Kindergarten/first grade/somewhere in there with a forced accent lacing every word. My mom put a stop to it. Adults cherish the unique and cringe at the thought of normal. Kids at some point strive for it. They fall in line with the group. They look down at themselves and back up with a plan to change. At some point the tide changes. Mine changed in third grade. I'd fallen in line (the back of the line) with a group of girls. I'm not sure I liked a single one of them, but 3rd grade was hell, so I figured the kids were supposed to be too. Then I had my accident. That was it. Not even the back of the line was open to me. I didn't have a single conversation at school with another kid with the exception of answering the "what happened to your face" question for the rest of third grade and fourth grade. Normal lost all my respect.

Now I live in the world of special needs kids and professionals in the field make it their benchmark. They throw the word around expecting smiles and nods, maybe cheers. Let's make these kids not stand apart, not stand out, not stand alone. When my oldest was in third grade, the occupational therapist told me I had to fix the way he held his pencil. This was truly dire. She'd pulled me aside in the hallway and told me his entire future would be affected by his finger grip. He'll look odd. He won't write fast. Kids will make fun of him. He won't fit in. That was the last time I spoke to her. 

Normal. I hate the word, but if my son could wish for things like that, if he could pinpoint exactly why he felt so out of place, would that be his wish? I should ask him what he wishes for and see what he has to say. Until then, I'll keep guard of his spirit and try my best not to tamp it down.