Why Your Kid Might Ask “Is My Mom Doing Something Normal?” (And How To Respond)
The last bell had just rung, and I was shoving stacked third-grade worksheets into my teacher bag when I looked up and saw Lila still hovering by my desk, twisting the rainbow scrunchie on her wrist over and over. Most kids had bolted for the bus line, but she’d hung back, her backpack already slung over one shoulder. “Ms. Han?” she said, voice so quiet I had to lean in. “Can I ask you something? Is my mom doing something normal?”
I pulled out the extra oat granola bar I keep in my desk for kids who forget their snack, pushed it across the desk, and asked her what made her wonder that. She picked at the crinkly wrapper and told me about her Saturday soccer game. Her mom has always waited in the car during matches, because yelling from the stands gives her a migraine that lasts all night. Last week, another girl on the team asked why Lila’s mom never sits with the other parents, said it was weird. “Weird isn’t normal, right?” Lila said, staring at her scuffed sneakers.
I remembered meeting Lila’s mom at back-to-school night. She’d come in wearing soft gray sweatpants, noise-canceling headphones around her neck, and asked if she could stand by the open door instead of squeezing into a tiny plastic student chair with the rest of the parents. We talked for 15 minutes, and she told me she has sensory processing differences, works from home as a graphic designer, and can’t manage big crowds or loud noise. She’d brought a whole folder of notes about what helps Lila when she’s overwhelmed at school, and I remember thinking how prepared she was. Even then, she said she worries all the time that her differences make Lila’s life harder.
I’ve gotten this question a lot over 12 years of teaching. It’s not just about neurodivergent parents, either. I’ve had kids ask it about moms who work night shifts and sleep all day, moms who use wheelchairs, moms navigating cancer treatment, even moms who just don’t like baking and get takeout for school events when everyone else brings homemade cookies. It always comes after someone else points out that their family doesn’t look like the “standard” one kids see on TV or at weekend soccer games.
Early in my career, I used to respond with something vague like “Of course your mom is normal, all moms are different!” But I’ve learned that doesn’t help. It just makes the kid feel like their question is silly, like they can’t ask again if they’re still confused. Instead, I started with what I now do with all these questions: I validated the question first. “That’s such a good question,” I told Lila. “When someone says something that feels bad about your mom, of course you’d wonder that. That makes total sense.” That short sentence doesn’t fix anything right away, but it lets the kid know their worry is okay, not something to hide.
Next, instead of jumping into a big speech about acceptance, I asked Lila to help me make a quick list. “Let’s write down all the things your mom does that you love, that work for you two,” I said. We scribbled on the back of a leftover permission slip: 1) Writes bad joke sticky notes in my lunch every day. 2) Stays up helping me build my Lego Millennium Falcon even when it’s past her bedtime. 3) Always knows when I’m stressed about a test and lets me walk around the block with her before I start studying. 4) Keeps the pantry full of my favorite chocolate chip cookies, always, because she orders groceries online every Sunday. When we finished, I asked her, “Does any of that feel bad or wrong to you?” She shook her head. “Then what we know is, even if it’s not what other moms do, it’s normal for your family. And that’s the normal that matters most, right?”
I talked to Lila’s mom a few days later, with Lila’s permission to share what she’d asked. Her mom told me she’d been avoiding talking about her sensory differences with Lila, thinking if she didn’t mention it, Lila wouldn’t notice. We walked through a couple small, concrete changes she could try, no big overhauls. Instead of just saying “I can’t stay for the game,” she started saying “I can’t sit in the stands because loud noise hurts my head, but I’ll watch the first ten minutes from the far fence, and I’ll have your favorite pepperoni pizza waiting in the car right after.” She let Lila explain that to her friends, instead of making Lila come up with an excuse for her. That gave Lila words to use when someone asks, instead of her feeling like she has to hide something.
For other parents or teachers who get this question, those small shifts work far better than big speeches. If you’re a parent, name the difference simply, don’t hide it in euphemisms. “My brain processes noise differently than other people’s” is way better than “Mom’s just tired” because it’s honest, and it gives your kid something to say when people ask. If you’re a teacher, stop requiring all parents to attend in-person events to participate. Offer a live stream for parents who can’t be in the gym, let them drop off treats ahead of time instead of staying for the party, it takes two extra minutes of planning and it makes a huge difference.
Last month, I saw Lila and her mom at the school fall fair. Her mom was standing by the exit, headphones on, holding a pink cotton candy for Lila. When Lila ran over from the face painting booth, she grabbed her mom’s hand for a minute, introduced her to her friend, then ran back to the bounce house. No hiding, no awkwardness. Lila still asks questions sometimes. Just last week, she stopped me after class and asked if it’s normal that her mom never comes to in-person parent-teacher conferences, does them over zoom instead. I told her “That’s normal for your mom, and it works for everyone, right?” She shrugged, said “Yeah, she can pause if she gets overwhelmed, it’s fine.” Then she ran off to catch the bus.
There are still days Lila feels awkward when people comment. We don’t have everything figured out. But that’s okay. Normal was never one size fits all anyway.
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