Raised by Lunatics

       Sibling #3 and I frequently remind each other in the course of our conversations, that we aren’t normal. For example, we were discussing today whether or not we could deal with a family gathering at Easter. Our parents will arrive in their gang banger mobile (a 1970s Ford Granada, with plush, maroon velour interior, low riding seats, and a pimpin’ glass knob on the steering wheel that you can use to steer that bad boy like a boat), park at the end of her block, and ‘parade down her street’ like the Muensters. We have this conversation every holiday. In the end, we feel guilty, have a gathering, and our parents park at the end of her block and parade down it like the Muensters. I always like to point out that I have a lot more in common with Marilyn Muenster than just my first name.

       Well, we don’t have to do anything for Easter, I say. After all, we never did anything when we were kids. Yes, she’ll point out, but we weren’t normal. And then we grow silent, reflecting on just what that means. This is new for us. We always sensed the lunacy, but we never actually verbalized it. Not until I was in the hospital, after having given birth to the daughter, that is. My sister came to visit and we talked about things normal people likely don’t talk about after having given birth. Like, should we have a family gathering for whatever the next holiday was. And, do you think the poor baby’s head really looks like the statue someone made in homage of our father’s bald, lumpy, slightly alienesque head?

       A very nice nurse came in and tried to talk me out of going home after only one day. Somehow, not surprisingly, the conversation turned to family. She was raised in a traditional Muslim family. We, I said in a moment of post-childbirth clarity, were raised by lunatics. And it was, in truth, almost a moment of Zen. Suddenly, the order of the universe seemed to make a whole lot more sense.
Now I understood. A normal mother would never say to her youngest child as they drove past the woods, “that’s where your real mother lives.” Or say in a sing-song, lullaby voice, “poor (name of the child here), lost in the woods, all alone, and the birds will come and cover you up with leaves” and then laugh when the child would express fear at the darkness of the woods. A fear, might I add, she never quite outgrew.

       Normal families, I’m learning, ate canned vegetables, took family trips to places like Disneyworld or Six Flaggs Great America, and had a microwave. They shopped for new clothes, drank Pepsi, and made a big deal out of each other’s accomplishments (even something as arcane as a birthday - - I mean, who cares if it’s your birthday? Right, that’s not how a normal person thinks. Sorry, it’s hard to retrain oneself to think like a non-lunatic.)

       I’ve realized it was not normal to take Sunday drives through the most dangerous parts of town. Nor was it normal to drink Hydrox pop, eat flavor of the week generic ice cream specials with names like cherry cheesecake that looked like the spinal surgery that happened to be on non-cable TV when you were eating it. I’m guessing normal families also didn’t have a sibling that needed extra credit in the cadaver lab so she stayed after class to help cut the cadaver into more manageable pieces. Then she came home and sat down to a spaghetti dinner without first changing her sweatshirt that had cadaver juice on it that looked a little too much like spaghetti dinner stains.

       Normal families didn’t have a child get mumps during the infamous mumps outbreak of 1986 when, count ‘em, a total of 46 people in the state of Illinois, myself included, got them. A normal, caring sister wouldn’t come home to find her mumps stricken sibling, glands so swollen she couldn’t swallow anything despite the fact that she was starving, and say to her, “What’s the fucking incubation period? I’ve got finals next week!” I envision instead, a normal sister perhaps painting the fingernails of the mumps victim, while they shared a juicy Tigerbeat magazine.

       I’m guessing normal families have normal friends, that dress stylishly, are skilled in basic social graces, boast about the accomplishments of their family members, carry around a huge cache of photos in their wallets or now on their cell phones, and when the difficult subject of funeral planning comes up, never utter the phrase, “just burn my dead ass”. A normal family probably never had a hand out of food delivered at the holidays, not because you were actually in financial need, but because you looked like you were one step away from homeless. Of course, my siblings and I then attacked the bag like savages to see if there was anything good in it. We were too young to realize someone might actually be going hungry because luck had landed a sack of donated food on our front porch.

       To be fair, we would always stop at the bank on the way to the zoo to get a roll of quarters. These were then passed out to the homeless that congregated there so they could get a cup of coffee out of the machines. This was back when the zoo still had coffee machines and the homeless still hung out in Lincoln Park. We also took in countless strays, so that one of any number of cats was likely to jump on you if you were one of the few people crazy enough to visit the family homestead. And you couldn’t leave without sampling the cheese, cookies, and really thick coffee my father insisted you have. “Don’t ask, just give it to him!” He would repeat this over and over until you broke down and ate.

       Being raised by lunatics does have its benefits. Running becomes an integral part of your life - - all the endorphins helps combat insanity. Instead of visiting Mickey Mouse, you have the opportunity to curse and spray holy water on your sibling while visiting a sacred shrine in Ireland. (Fortunately, your mother is too busy praying her downs syndrome daughter will somehow no longer be downs to notice your sacrilege.) You develop a worldview very different from that of your normal American. You get to take the Granada for a coveted spin around the block. And your children are taught to take pizza phone orders from their dead great, great uncle. The exercise they get as their grandfather demonstrates how they have to spin their arms really fast to lower the pizza down to hell is an added bonus.