I have decided that my child is ordinary. Gloriously ordinary. And that’s worth celebrating.
Like most parents, when my child was born, I was keen to observe and boast about all his “special” traits. How was he exceptional? What awesome genes did he win in the great Chuck Darwin sweepstakes? And, above all, how was my exceptional parenting bringing out the best in him?
Not that I had much confidence in my parenting. Quite the opposite, as is often the case when someone has something to prove. I just knew that I didn’t want to do what my parents had done, leaving me at the mercy of parenting advice books and the judgmental looks of women in the grocery store.
Parenting is hard. But we’d chosen what could be the most exhausting and masochistic approach to it possible. It nearly destroyed my health and marriage. My baby crying for a nanosecond was proof of my failure as a mother. Any infant stimulation that wasn’t one-on-one (such as an ExerSaucer, glorious thing that it is) was substandard. At six months, I was still holding myself in the same position for an hour to avoid the risk of disturbing his nap, lest his brain development be slowed. And I didn’t dare leave our son with a sitter, which meant my husband and I did not have a real evening out until our child was more than a year old.
Eventually we put our kid in a private daycare that we couldn’t actually afford. Institutions like that extract a lot of money from parents who want something “special” for their special kids.