At one point during a friend’s recent wedding, she rose to the podium and delivered a speech that included plenty of praise for her parents for raising her the ‘right’ way. So like all things, I thought about it and then brought it back to myself – would I say the same thing about my folks?
When I was younger I was desperately envious of her parents. Normal, loving and undramatic, they were the kind of people who gave their children middle names like Jane or Anne, wore non-descript clothing, actually read books and could hold a conversation without saying something dreadfully out of place and in a weird accent.
My small Christian primary school was full of them. None of the mothers wore Dirty Dancing midrift tops, crimped hair or false eyelashes. Their fathers didn’t play the banjo, smuggle knuckle dusters in from Asia to join his collection of swords, have a weakness for Guinness and go to church. And the normal mothers didn’t coerce their children into dying their hair… in kindergarten, or make them wear mini skirts and over-the-knee suede boots… to church. Continue reading