It’s my 14-year-old son’s debut on YouTube. He’s sporting a plaid bow tie clipped to his favorite band’s t-shirt, and his hair is sticking to his forehead, reminiscent of a young Paul McCartney (think late ’60s, not the Wings era). With one hand, he starts the camera, then steps back for a better angle.
“Ahem.” He clears his throat dramatically, bows like royalty, and moistens the tip of his recorder. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he launches into his performance.
For the next two minutes, as I watch my son blast out Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” on a penny whistle he borrowed from his sister, I cringe and cover my eyes. He’s convinced he’s hilarious. Maybe he is, but it’s causing me genuine discomfort.
While I admire his enthusiasm, an anxious knot forms in my stomach—a fear about whether he’ll ever have a girlfriend. Or at least a friend. A boy with a penchant for retro pop songs and mismatched attire isn’t exactly the most popular kid in school.
But once he finishes, left with my mouth agape and the echoes of that penny whistle resonating in my ears, I find myself feeling rather awed.
I’m impressed because he’s a kid who is unapologetically himself, a soul dancing to the rhythm of his own quirky tune. He might be a goofball, but he’s my goofball. My own creation.
I also can’t help but see reflections of myself in him.
My teenage years were filled with quirks: the drum major of the marching band, occasional section leader of the saxophones, and a former poetry enthusiast. I rocked a fluffy hairstyle that was the epitome of ’80s glam, and for heaven’s sake, I spent most of middle school with a lip bumper in place. (Trust me, don’t google that; it was a disaster.)
My first kiss? A comedy of errors: “Uh, hang on. Let me just—SLUUURRRP—clear my mouth a bit. Now where do we go from here?”
I had a certain je ne sais quoi, and like the dork I was, I couldn’t resist speaking French at the most inappropriate moments.
Watching my son perform his rendition of Rick Astley filled me with concern, yes, but also an unexpected sense of pride.
Here’s to the Eccentric Ones
So, in light of these memories, I’d like to take a moment to celebrate the odd kids.
Here’s to the eccentric ones, the oddballs, the nerds, the dorks, and the classroom outcasts.
Cheers to the kids who always raise their hands because they know the answers. Who pump their fists in triumph when receiving math test scores, who linger after school for Book Club.
Here’s to the 15-year-old boys doodling Pokémon in their notebooks and crafting secret handshakes with their younger neighbors in makeshift forts.
Let’s not forget the emo girl in the back with her black fishnets and spiky hair—no one dares ask her anything.
Here’s to the entire percussion section of the marching band; you all hold a special place in my heart. (Under the bleachers, post-game, no judgment here.)
Cheers to the kids in Debate and Forensics, and even the newly formed Hello Kitty Fan Club.
Here’s to the boy in the all-girls choir belting out show tunes after social studies.
And to the kid who built a detailed model of Jamestown last summer, presenting it for extra credit on the first day of school.
Here’s to the Moms
Now, as a parent, here’s to the moms.
To the mom who stands tall while her son carries his naked Barbie doll to school every day because he believes she resembles Grandma.
To the mom who patiently waits in the bleachers long after the crowd has left, because her daughter is still running laps.
To the mom who silently accepts her daughter’s decision to dye her hair jet black or wear purple eyeliner.
To the mom whose garage is a chaotic mix of skateboards, failed science projects, and punk rock aspirations.
To the mom who wonders “Why me?” as her son hauls a bass drum upstairs, yet quietly reminds him of the polished floors while holding the door open before pouring herself a martini.
To the mom who drives hours to chess camp, only to watch her daughter lose to a Bobby Fischer wannabe in a “I Make All The Right Moves” t-shirt.
To the mom who encourages her son to be himself, who picks him up for ice cream therapy when he’s feeling down. The mom who recognized her son was unique from the moment she laid eyes on him and loves him fiercely for it.
Three cheers for all of us—for me, for my son.
Let’s raise a glass to those who dance to their own beat, who play by their own rules. Sure, life would be easier without a quirky child, but I assure you, it would never be as much fun.
If you’re interested in more insights, check out our other blog on at-home family-building options, which can be found at Make a Mom’s Artificial Insemination Kit for a deeper dive into parenting alternatives. Additionally, Resolve.org is a fantastic resource for exploring family-building options.
In summary, embrace the unique qualities of your children and celebrate the eccentricities that make life vibrant and entertaining.
Keyphrase: unique kids and parenting
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