Where Is “Normal?”

“Where is my normal?” I ask myself on a near-daily basis these days.  Though I tend to muster a chagrined smirk at the thought of what exactly normal is, anyway, I still wonder what it would be like to have a sense of security and uniformity instead of bizarre outbursts from my preschooler or a plethora of therapy sessions and new “surprises” in Sarah’s development (e.g., her hearing).  It’s difficult for me to write about this subject without the risk of sounding whiny or full of self-pity and unresolved angst, but it is a question, I am certain, that many mothers of children with special needs may ask themselves from time to time, too – perhaps even as often or more often than I am posing the question.

It doesn’t dawn on me that our life is different until I enter the world, which is why I often have to force myself with every ounce of effort to resume my place in society and our community; I confess it is much more comfortable to hide in the cocoon of my house, in which I don’t have to explain repetitiously to everyone who asks, “How are you doing?” that I’m not really doing well – at all.  Yes, to remain in the security of home is a temptation I battle, because it is my refuge, a place that has become sacrosanct to me, a near-sanctuary or haven of rest and assurance.  You see, I know our home; its walls and contents are familiar and reminiscent of a time when life was only budding, a time when Ben and I blissfully and blithely began our life together and were eager to welcome children into it.  It is a forgiving abode, encompassing the elements of a nostalgic past as well as the fragments of my present existence.

So to remain here is, in a sense, to remain safe from the frightening ventures that await in the world, a world that does not understand my life or my children, especially from the perspective of the gift of their differences.  I, too, neglect to recall that their challenges can, indeed, be re-framed into goodness, especially when I contend with the emotional intensity in our home on a daily basis.  When I have nothing left to offer or give to my children, my husband or the world, my heart is rendered empty and hollow at times.  I hit the pillow at the end of the day with not a word to utter to my Lord and God, not even a tear, which I try so desperately to allow to shed unreservedly.  Yet nothing happens.

It’s the nothing that causes me alarm – no emotion, no reaction, but rather a dull numbness that permeates every fiber of my being.  Where is my normal?  It has become a personal lamentation akin to the Psalmists’ desperate pleas to a God who has seemingly forsaken them in their anguish.

When I do attempt to plan an outing with the girls, the result is often either disastrous or at the very least disheartening to me.  A few weeks ago while Ben was on a business trip, I was itching for an uplifting perk from the sunshine and breeze, so I spontaneously decided that I was taking the girls on a short walk to the post office.  Strapping Sarah into the double stroller, she shrieked in frustration as her toy fell out of her mitten hands.  Equally discouraged, I offered her two additional toys until something would semi-permanently remain in her little grasp.  By the time that was accomplished, Felicity was screaming that she didn’t want to sit in the opposite end of the stroller, because she was scared of the “bumps on the sidewalk.”

Most mothers might chuckle or nod knowingly to themselves at this point.  All three-year-olds act like this from time to time, right?  Yes, from time to time, but not all or most of the time like Felicity does.  What people do not witness is her daily distress at very ordinary tasks: getting dressed in the morning, brushing her hair, washing her hands, using the toilet, putting on shoes or a jacket, feeling her feet off the ground when walking downstairs.  She does not simply obdurately resist the task at hand, but rather she screams mercilessly as if she were cast in a cheesy, classic horror film; in fact, most days I think she would successfully manage to land a role as “horror screamer,” anyway.

Even a fifteen-minute saunter to the post office on a day that beckons us to enjoy what the world beholds outside of the confines of our home turns into a nightmare, and, once again, I am left internally screaming in anger or crying with dry tears.  It is what I will describe as a cry of the heart, one in which sadness sweeps over me slowly-but-deliberately when I walk past the backyard of a neighboring home on our walk and notice two little children about Felicity’s and Sarah’s ages who are playing delightfully; I walk by with my own children, and tune out the painful scream that splits my head in two but still notice the joy of most other children through my periphery.

I don’t see a lot of joy in my own children.  In turn, I am missing out on the joy I know God offers me each day.  I suppose my “normal” is not in guiding our girls toward the typical path of their developmental peers, but rather it is in the fleeting moments that flicker and fade so quickly I often miss them altogether.  Joy is a foreign word to me, yet it is a virtue for which I long and pray interminably will be gifted to me so that I can somehow survive the different life I have been given.

I realize the arguments that no one is truly normal, and normal is subjective and relative by definition; even so, I do see patterns of behavior indicative of what seems characteristic of all people at various levels of their development.  I see it all the time during play dates with other moms and their children of similar ages to Felicity and Sarah.  I hear it in conversations with them, in which I do most of the listening and internalize my own feelings of isolation and loneliness, because I simply cannot relate to what most of them struggle with.  They are frustrated that their child argues about what clothes to wear, and I just wish Felicity would get dressed without screaming for one day.  They aren’t sure how to approach transitioning from the small training potty to the regular toilet, and I pray every day that Felicity will just use the toilet consistently.  

But I remain silent most of the time.  I don’t want to trivialize the very real concerns that other parents have, knowing that everyone possesses different thresholds of tolerance, and each family is as unique as a fingerprint.  Still, a sadness and grief washes over me, and I cannot contain it.  It remains hidden in the recesses of my thoughts, and I lock it there for two reasons: one, I don’t want to further isolate myself from other moms, and two, I have no one to talk to that can fully understand and appreciate these same issues that afflict our family.

I suppose the truth is that no one has a completely “normal” life; even those children who are laughing so carefree and have no troubles kicking a soccer ball or swinging and sliding at the park probably have other hurdles to overcome.  And certainly almost every home is afflicted with pain, for truly no human is exempt from inevitable sufferings in this life.  So perhaps the key is not for me to seek the “normal” I notice in the world around me, but to find my new “normal,” the one that engulfs me within my home and yet still gesticulates me to join the rest of society so that I can be a witness to others that hope and joy can, indeed, transcend the sorrows of life.

Editor’s note: This article first appeared on the author’s blog, Love Alone Createsand is reprinted here with kind permission. 

image: Elena Dijour / Shutterstock.com

By

JEANNIE EWING is a Catholic spirituality writer and national inspirational speaker. Among her eight books, From Grief to Grace: The Journey from Tragedy to Triumph, is her most popular. She is a frequent guest on podcasts, radio shows, and has appeared on EWTN, CatholicTV, and ShalomWorld. Her deepest desire is to accompany those who suffer and are lonely. Visit her website at jeannieewing.com for more information.

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