You may recall that for the last ten days, my wife and I were on grandparent duty: four bundles of joy and energy, ages five to twelve, each with different personalities, different appetites, different schedules, and different bedtimes. Their parents were away on a delayed anniversary trip to Greece thanks to COVID, so we got the call to come in from the bullpen and supervise Camp Runamok. Then yesterday, the kids’ parents returned home refreshed, and now our lives are getting back to normal, whatever that means.
And just when I was beginning to get the hang of it. By Day 10, I could unload one of the two dishwashers and know where to put away all the plates, cups, glasses, and cutlery. I had finally figured out where all the various pots and pans lived, how to navigate each of three televisions, how to turn on and off the lights that were on out-of-the-way switches, how to master the coffee pot and the gas grill on the porch, how to manipulate the pool’s feisty cover (although the “waterfall’ setting on the wireless remote still puzzles me), even how to load and turn on the washing machines and dryers which have more control settings than a SpaceX rocket. The entire experience was somewhere between overwhelming and exhilarating, but never dull or boring. I admit that last night, after we were relieved of duty, my wife and I did go out to enjoy a just-the-two-of-us-dinner, during which we relived each and every moment of our time with the kids. And now, this morning, we’re back in our own relatively quiet routines, back to normal, whatever that is.
I’m sure you’ll agree that not much is normal these days. Life seems more and more like an out-of-control rollercoaster hurtling toward disaster. Every day brings a new conundrum, another shock-to-the-system headline, some new animus. Once, I might have chafed at being “back to normal,” but now I’d take normal in a heartbeat. I’d especially take it for the grandkids: I worry about the mess we’re leaving them, the one that can’t be cleaned up with dishwashers and washing machines.
Normal means conforming to a standard; usual, expected, typical, routine. You tell me: what is usual, expected, typical, or routine about these days? Where once we might have equated “normal” with bland or unexciting, now I long for it like I long for a good chocolate milkshake. OK; maybe occasional excitement is good for the soul, but constant chaos isn’t. It’s exhausting, debilitating. Normal is natural, predictable, and orderly, not random, mean, or deviant.
Psychologists cite four general criteria for abnormal behavior: violation of social norms (kindness and empathy, for example), statistical rarity, personal distress, and maladaptive behavior. Sound familiar? What lessons will those four little monkeys we tended last week derive from all the lunacy surrounding them now? Who will inspire them to lead worthy lives?
Thank goodness they don’t pay much overt attention to the nightly news yet, but some of this abnormality surely creeps in under the door. And someday, as their innocent childhoods slip away, they will have to chart their own respective courses through these roiling seas. I may not be around by then, but I hope I will still be with them.
Normal has gotten a bad rap; people equate it with boring. Even the great philosopher Marilyn Monroe once said, “Being normal is boring!” Well, maybe it is to a Hollywood starlet, but not to me. I miss the kids, but I’m glad my life is back to normal.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.