Bad Parent: Behind the Curve
My first daughter is a genius. My second, not so much.
by Madeline Holler
January 15, 2007
My daughter Beatrice beat the developmental milestone charts almost every time. "Newborns smile at six weeks of age," the baby books said. Beatrice smiled in five. "Picks up small objects at the half-year mark," noted a pamphlet in the pediatrician's waiting room. She practically flicked Cheerios in the air and caught them on her tongue at five months old. Beatrice walked well before she turned one.
Experts had us expecting words around her first birthday, so my husband and I were surprised when she spoke at nine months. "Boo!" she said during Peek-a-Boo. The next day she said, "Thank you." Soon thereafter, "Welcome." Polite too, our girl. Her contemporaries at playgroup just sat and drooled.
And why shouldn't Beatrice have been so advanced? I was doing everything right: breastfeeding exclusively, talking to her constantly. I carried her everywhere strapped to me in a sling, a crown of thorns balanced carefully on my head.
My husband and I marveled at her exceptional development and obvious intelligence. And I think we marveled a bit at ourselves: good parenting, great DNA.
Let's do this again, we decided.
Here comes Frances. Or, more aptly, there she sits. Our fifteen-month-old. Not walking. Barely standing on her own. Just perched on her haunches, clapping at a pair of strappy Weeboks still tagged and in the box.
Frances has one word: "hot!" It means "scalding coffee," sure, but it also means "touch," "look," "hey!" "can I have that?" "duck," "light," and "ceiling." Some babies have to be the average, or even below it. But why my daughter?
Friends' children, younger than Frances, say words and perform physical feats that might as well be sonnets and high-flying acrobatics compared to my girl. A boy in the neighborhood, born four months after her — which in baby time is like Gen Y to Frances's Gen X — runs circles around her. Literally. What does Frances do? She sits in the middle of the floor, pointing at him, saying, "hot, hot, hot!" She's a chubby-kneed Paris Hilton.
There's nothing clinically wrong with Frances. Her pediatrician is not concerned. But according to the charts, she's below average. My child? Below average?
"Is she walking yet?" one mother at the park asked me the other day while her younger daughter toddled toward the slides shrieking, "Up! Up!"
"She's thinking about it," I said defensively, bouncing my big girl on an aching hip. "Hot!" Frances yelled at a passing duck. Then she drooled.
I know the milestone charts are not there to compete against (unless your kid is winning). I know that each child develops in her own time. Realistically, some babies have to be the average, or even below it. But why my daughter?
Like everyone else who grew up watching Oprah, I talk a good game about personal best and individual achievements. As if being good enough is, well, good enough. The truth is: we don't celebrate the average Joe or Jane. We're bored by Average. We pity it. We're in a world of super stars, stunning beauty, unquestionable gift, real genius. Average is bland and difficult to market; it doesn't pop on a resume. Experts and coaches and teams of handlers are hired to kick Average up a notch, to give Average a makeover, to give it an edge. And we cringe for Below Average, which gets eliminated in the first round or swiftly voted off by its peers. Most of the time, Below Average doesn't even compete.
©2007 Madeline Holler and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Madeline Holler is a writer and mother of two. She lives in Long Beach, California. |
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