Let’s start at the
very beginning…
I was not your average kid.
 |
| PROOF #1 |
There are plenty of people who read this blog who knew me
back in my school days who can attest to the fact that I was absolutely NOT
popular, or cool, or even what most would consider normal much of the time. I
was one of those “marches to the beat of her own drummer” sorts.
For example, rather than chase boys and attend dances and
parties, I spent my time doing things like convincing people to all come to
school dressed as made-up superheroes or with their clothes as mismatched as
possible. And while all the pretty, popular girls’ Halloween costumes were
things like sexy nurses, or sexy, spandex-y cats, or sexy fill-in-the-blank,
mine were things like a Christmas tree or a bag of jelly beans. For these
reasons—and oh, so many others—people thought I was a little weird.
 |
| PROOF #2 |
 |
| PROOF #3 |
Shocking, I know.
But along came adulthood, and surprisingly, the tide started
to turn. Apparently, being a little different is a good thing when you’re a
grown-up. So all the things that labeled me as weird when I was a
kid/teen suddenly just became quirky, or refreshing, or a host of
other positive adjectives.
For example, screeching out the Birthday Song at full-volume
to a roomful of 6th graders didn’t make me WEIRD, it made me DEDICATED,
and FUN, and “BOY, DOESN’T SHE JUST LOVE THOSE KIDS!” Ditto for wearing a Ghost
Buster costume on Halloween or participating in every Red Ribbon theme day.
So for nearly a decade, I’ve been bee-bopping along to the
beat of my own drummer AND being cool/popular/normal ALL AT THE SAME TIME. It’s
been pretty great. I see now what all the hype about popularity was.
But apparently, there is a line. And that line is made out
of children.
Before kids, my weirdness consisted of being unique, living
life with loud, reckless abandon, and not giving a rip what other people
thought about me. Child-induced weirdness is different; it’s a total loss of
all social skills. Think: that kid in school who was so weird
that even the weird kids wouldn’t sit with him/her in the cafeteria.
Sadly, I did not see this social incompetence coming. I was
caught totally off-guard by THE LOOK. I know that you know THE LOOK—cocked eyebrow,
wide eyes, frozen smile from a fake chuckle... All tell-tale signs that someone
finds you more than just a little odd.
Afterwards, I tried to evaluate what went wrong. WHY would
someone think I’m odd? How did this happen? WHEN did this happen?
The more I thought about it, the more I started remembering
other cocked eyebrows and wide eyes and frozen smiles, especially lately. And I
thought back to the things I had done or said right before receiving those
LOOKS. And suddenly, I realized--
OMG.
I AM THE KID WHO EATS GLUE.
I AM THE KID WHO ROCKS IN CLASS.
I AM THE KID WHO SPEAKS FLUENT KLINGON.
I AM A WEIRDO.
I almost wanted to go back and apologize for my lack of
social skills, but I decided that would make me come across as even weirder. So
instead, I will make some general, public apologies. Because that would be
totally normal.
To Whom It May Concern:
I am sorry that I talk incredibly fast and non-stop so that
you can’t get a word in edge-wise. I never get to speak to actual adults, so I
have to cover lots of topics in the short amount of time you’re here.
I am sorry if everything I say is really, really loud. When
I’m home with three screaming children, if I’m not at top volume, I might as well
not bother speaking. I’m also sorry for my really large, dramatic hand
gestures. At least half of what I tell my kids has to also be enacted. Over the
last few years, I’ve basically morphed into a really loud mime.
I apologize for the inane laughter (also loud), even after
things that aren’t very funny. I’ve had to fake laugh A LOT for the sake of my
kids’ tiny little self-esteems, so pretty much no matter what you say, it’s
HILARIOUS compared to the preschool comedy I’ve been subjected to for the last
3 years.
I’m really sorry that I do voices. That probably freaks you
out since I’m the only one speaking, so in theory, there should only be the one
voice—MINE. I promise I do not suffer from mental illness. I’ve just found that
changing up my voice sometimes helps hold my kids’ attention better. I see that
it kept your attention as well, just not in a good way.
Please forgive me if I alternate between total distraction
and intense, Superman-X-ray-vision eye contact. I’m trying to watch my kids
while we’re chatting so that they don’t destroy something or get themselves
kill’t, but the guilt of not giving you my full attention (rude!) forces me to
overcompensate when I do look your way. It’s a hard line to toe.
I’m sorry if I yawn the entire time you’re speaking. I haven’t
slept soundly in 1,311 days. I assure you that, despite all appearances, I am
hanging onto your every word. Because I can understand them. And they’re not
about poop.
I sincerely apologize if I come across as WAY too intense
and pushy while trying to schedule another play date, or girls night out, or what-the-heck-ever.
I’m just really, really desperate to get out of my house, and I’ve had about
enough of taking Wal-Mart and Kroger trips just for a change of scenery. And the
people who work there have had just about enough, too.
I’m sorry that every time you see me, my hair is wild, I
stink, and I’m wearing the same clothes I’ve had on the last 15 times you saw
me. I used to try. Really, I did. But when I know I am going to inevitably be
doused in some sort of human goo and sweat down while chasing after 2 hyper
children in triple-digit temperatures with 100% humidity, trying to appear
presentable loses its appeal, short-lived that it would be. I assure you that
my clothes have been washed and I have bathed, even if you can’t tell.
I promise that I will try harder! I will do better! I will
re-learn volume control, and eye contact, and appropriate v inappropriate
conversation topics! I will even throw a few new shirts into the rotation so
you’ll have something new to smell—um, SEE! Just please don’t give up on me.
You see how bad it’s gotten already. Imagine if I got even LESS social
interaction! Oh, the horror!
Sincerely,
Catie
