Why ‘normal parenting’ is relative

When I was 8 I got the single worst haircut in the history of time. The “permullet” is what happens after the two worst hairstyles of the ’80s, the perm and the mullet, have too many drinks and go home together. As soon as I saw the monstrosity that was growing out of my head, I shouted, “This is not normal. Not normal at all.”

I knew normal. I learned all about normalcy on the ’80s sit-coms I watched obsessively.

I even made up a game about being normal. During the “permullet era” I spent a good deal of time in the backseat of whatever junker car my beautifully flawed and painfully drug-addicted parents had gotten their hands on at that time. They sped along the winding roads of my Appalachian home hustling for pills and quick cash. When their hustle ended in their desired outcome they would share a joint, sing along to The Eagles and Willie Nelson, and give each other loud, wet kisses that made me blush. However, if their plan was a bust and came up short their bodies and voices would seethe with bitter disappointment and tense anger as their sickness wracked them with pain and longing.

It was during these times that I invented a game called, “If I lived there.” I would focus on a house, ones with warm lights shining from inside and colorful flowers in the yard, and make up all the “normal” activities that I would be doing if I lived there.

If I lived there:

— I would be eating my favorite dinner — spaghetti and garlic bread with chocolate cake for dessert.

— I would be met with the smell of chocolate chip cookies wafting in the air when I came home from school.

—I would shoot hoops with my dad and he would call me “Champ” when I hit a tough shot.

I hadn’t thought about that game for years until a few weeks ago when I asked my daughter, Conley, what she wanted for dinner and she said, “Can we have my favorite dinner? Spaghetti and garlic bread?” I told her that we could and when she asked why I was crying I blamed onion chopping.

Until I actually held Conley for the first time, I was terrified of having a kid. I was certain that my damaged DNA would ruin him or her or worse, that despite my college degree, good job and solid marriage, that I was actually much more like my parents than I could admit. That after what I had lived through, I could never be the normal parent of my beloved ’80s sit-coms.

However, the night that she asked for spaghetti for dinner, I surreally acknowledged that my daughter was living in my childhood fantasy land. I also realized that I was definitely far from a normal parent.

Thankfully, I’m more than okay with that. I may not be normal but what I am is big and open and loud with my love. I am the maker of the spaghetti and the provider of Band-Aids. I am the singer of a nightly off-key version of “You Are My Sunshine.” I am the glad sufferer of field trips and class parties.

I am Sosha Yokosuk Lewis, a white-trash girl from the hills of Appalachia who loves puns and vacuuming and dirty jokes; the daughter of two felonious drug addicts who would be so happy if she could eat Cocoa Pebbles and Cinnamon Toast Crunch for dinner every night; the granddaughter of the town bookie and Lucky-Strike-loving on-again-off-again Jehovah’s Witness who curses like an old fashioned wise guy. I am the wife of Tony who occasionally drinks too much Tito’s and swills coffee like it is my lifeblood.

Most importantly, I am the mama of Conley who is so happy that her fear of not being normal didn’t keep her from experiencing a most magical life.

This story was originally published March 5, 2017 at 8:00 PM with the headline "Why ‘normal parenting’ is relative."