What I’m talking about

15 Apr

Their kids’ names are Felix, and Bella, and Otto, and Arturo. The mothers come into the coffee shop where I am working, complaining about how their kid scored so high on the SHSAT they are worried that they will not adjust to being treated as a star (“what happens when he gets to Harvard and finds out he isn’t the smartest one there!”). Never any fathers. Always complaints about who didn’t show up to Grandparent night, or who did. That they are being judged for making the ethical choice to not circumcise their child. Always loud enough for everyone else to hear them. Boastful, indignant, indulgent, and entitled.

When I talk about raising a ‘normal’ kid, I do so with the sociological knowledge that normal is a dangerous social construction. And yet. I am deeply ambivalent about the fact that I don’t fit into this world and find it creepy. Or worse, that I will fit in rather nicely. Or already do.

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