Normalcy, Schmormalcy!

The countdown to normalcy has begun. By Wednesday, I should be driving short distances. By August 3rd, I'll be back to work. By Labor Day, back to full duty, including airplanes and hotels, although hopefully in more manageable doses. So, that's what "normal" has begun to look like through my particular set of filters.

All this has got me thinking about the whole concept of "normalcy," and I have decided there just "ain't no such a thing," as Dad would have said.

Maybe normal is what we get used to. The Three all say I "look different" without the cervical collar I've worn since breaking my neck three months ago. The Three say that it will "be different" when I can play catch with them or do more than walk stiffly along the street with them while they dart this way and that. My wife, God bless her, has likely begun to think that me being no help at all around the house is "normal," and I can't wait to disprove that theory, now that my lifting limit is a whopping 20 pounds, and now that I might be able to drive myself a bit by later this week, after 13 weeks of the "Smokin' Hot Wife Taxi Cab Service" being my only means of being any where other than right here in The 'Burg.

Maybe normal is what others expect. Actually, since this is me, let's not even consider that, since the thought has simply never, in my memory, crossed my mind. I really couldn't care less what someone else thinks, so we'll blow right past that one...

Maybe normal is what society imposes. I hope not, especially in light of where society is headed. Explaining to The Three that college is going to be really hard 'cause Daddy and all of Daddy's generation are in the process of being taxed to hell and back isn't, and shouldn't be, normal. Or should it be? No where is it written that life will be without trials, or that those trials might not be inflicted by those to whom power has been entrusted. (Hmmmmm, perhaps a post on "power" lies in the future...?)

Maybe normal isn't really normal at all. Remember Pleasantville or The Truman Show?

So, with our six-year-old defending his club championship this week, our 9-year-old auditioning for one of America's top children's theatre programs and our 3-year-old convinced that The Potty still deserves Jelly Beans and that every day calls for her prettiest dress -- maybe my job as a dad....as their dad, is to listen, and to let them know that all they can do is all they can do. Maybe "normal," as The Three will define it, should come to be defined as doing their best, every time, and being completely at peace with the outcome -- as long as they did their best. Maybe my job is to create a "normal" where Daddy's more tolerant than he usually is, and to make sure that they are comfortable in their own skins, doing their own things.

Maybe normal lies within the confines of each family's interaction with each other, and with their God. And maybe that's more than ok -- more than "normal."

Maybe that really is the best that we can do.

Anticipation

My wife calls me the "King of Anticipation." She does not intend it to be a compliment.

Now, look, not only is it hard for me to title a post after a freakin' Carly Simon song, let alone one that conjures up memories of an ad for ketchup, but to publicly acknowledge that my wife is correct in this critique, well...

I'm pretty sure it was Thomas Jefferson who said, "Our disappointments in life are almost always tied to our expectations, and almost never to our circumstances." (It was either him or one of my early dates, but I digress...)

Checking the list of circumstances: I know the surgery was "successful." I know the incision isn't infected. I know that I can't work yet, but that I can't play with the kids or swing a golf club either. My circumstances, candidly, aren't all that bad, despite all the incredible friends and family who keep sending their support, their well wishes and saying, "I am really sorry this happened to you..."

Perhaps, if my circumstances ain't that dire, some of the expectations ought to come under the microscope. My own expectations -- for a full, fast, complete recovery -- one that allows me to salvage not only some of the summer with the kids, but to give my wife back enough of her summer (they are danged short here, let me tell you) that she gets to enjoy some sunshine before the hectic school year starts back up. My kids -- "Daddy, when will / can you pick me up again?" "Daddy, when can we play golf together?" Daddy, when can we go to see Grandmas and Aunts and Uncles...?"

Other expectations, and some of the questions they beg, creep in to the anticipatory mind, too.

How aggressive can I be in addressing the changes that have occurred in the three months I've been away from work? How much of what I've envisioned as the industry has continued to change radically will I be able to implement, and how quickly? In general, both physically, culturally and mentally, how much will I have to pace myself? When can I travel again, and how much am I willing to be gone?

As my wife tells me, "you just don't know the answers, so let it happen." As my Faith tells me, it's all part of a plan, and the hard part for dopes like me is balancing the use of our gifts and talents within the plans of He who gave them to us in the first place. (I joke that I quit praying for patience, because I didn't like the way God answered those prayers...)

All joking aside, I am comfortable with my circumstances. I broke my neck. Big deal. I could have died or been paralyzed. I could be in a dramatically more difficult place than I am, physically and in all other aspects. In short, I have it better than 99.9765% of the people on the planet so if I'm disappointed, them shame on me.

If our disappointments stem more from what we expect than from what we encounter, and I believe they do, here's to working harder to remember what blessings I have, and to applying the wisdom, ability and resources available to me to make the most of what comes next -- whatever it might be.