It’s my 14-year-old son’s YouTube debut. He’s rocking a plaid bow tie over a vintage Green Day t-shirt, and his hair is styled in a way that screams “I’m unique!” He grabs the camera with one hand, steps back, and strikes a pose that would make any royal proud.
“Ahem.” He clears his throat dramatically and gives a little bow before wetting the tip of his recorder, a shiny little gadget he swiped from his sister. And without any further ado, he starts to play.
For the next two minutes, I find myself cringing as he belts out Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” on that recorder. I can’t help but cover my eyes. He thinks he’s hilarious, and maybe he is, but it’s inducing a physical wince from me. While I admire his enthusiasm, a nagging worry creeps in: Will he ever get a girlfriend? Or even a friend? A boy who wears mismatched socks and has a penchant for 80s pop songs might not exactly be the most popular kid in school.
But once his performance ends, and I’m left with my mouth slightly agape and the notes of the recorder lingering in my ears, I realize something—I’m genuinely impressed.
He’s a kid who is unapologetically himself, a true individual who dances to the rhythm of his own quirky beat. Sure, he might be a dork, but he’s my dork. And in that moment, he reminds me of my own teenage years.
My high school experience was a tapestry of eccentricities: “Drum major of the marching band, occasional leader of the saxophone section. Expert in awkward teenage crushes. Poetry enthusiast.” I sported a voluminous afro that could rival a poodle’s fluff, and let’s not even talk about the lip bumper I wore through middle school. (Seriously, don’t Google it; it was a tragedy.)
My first kiss? Oh boy. It went something like, “Uh, wait. Let me just—here. SLUUURRRP. Okay, now I’m ready. Where do our tongues go?” I had a certain je ne sais quoi, as the French would say, and I confidently spoke French at all the wrong times.
Watching my son spin his Rick Astley cover made me worry, yes, but it also filled me with a sense of pride. So, in honor of all the quirky kids out there, I think it’s time we raise a toast.
Here’s to the Quirky Kids
Here’s to the oddballs, the nerds, the dorks, and the classroom geeks.
Here’s to the kids who eagerly raise their hands because they know every answer. Who fist pump when the teacher returns their math tests. Who linger after class for Reading Club.
Here’s to the 15-year-old boys doodling Pokémon in their notebooks and crafting secret handshakes with their younger siblings in backyard forts.
Here’s to the emo girl in the back row sporting black fishnets and spiky hair. At least I’m pretty sure she’s a girl—no one dares to ask.
Here’s to the entire percussion section of the marching band. You boys hold a special spot in my heart. (Under the bleachers after games? Oh, you know what I mean!)
Here’s to the kids on the Debate Team and the Forensics Team, plus the newly formed Hello Kitty and Brad Pitt Fan Club that seems to have popped up overnight.
Here’s to the boy in the all-girls choir belting out show tunes in the hallway post-social studies.
Here’s to that kid who built a scale model of Jamestown in his basement last summer and presented a PowerPoint for extra credit on the first day of school.
Here’s to the Moms
But now that I’ve transitioned to the role of a parent, I want to take a moment to celebrate the moms.
Here’s to the mom who walks tall while her son carries his beloved naked Barbie doll to school every day, claiming she looks just like Grandma.
Here’s to the mom in the bleachers long after the crowd has dispersed, cheering on her daughter who’s only on lap three of the track meet.
Here’s to the mom who bites her lip as her sixteen-year-old daughter dyes her hair jet black and lines her eyes in vibrant purple.
Here’s to the mom whose garage is cluttered with skateboards, failed science projects, or even a punk rock band in the making.
Here’s to the mom who wonders, “Why me?” as her son lugs a bass drum up the stairs—only to remind him of her freshly polished hardwood floors while holding the door open, then pours herself a much-needed martini.
Here’s to the mom who drives two hours to chess camp to watch her daughter face off against a Bobby Fischer wannabe in an “I Make All The Right Moves” t-shirt.
Here’s to the mom who encourages her son to just be himself, picking him up early from school for ice cream therapy when he calls her in tears. The mom who knew he was different from the moment she laid eyes on him and loves him all the more for it.
Three cheers for all of us—for me, for my son, for everyone embracing their quirks! Cheers to those of us who march to our own beat, who play by our own rules. Life without a “quirky” child might be easier. But I promise you this: it would never be as much fun.
If you’re interested in more about parenting and quirky kids, check out this post on home insemination, where we explore unique family journeys. And for those looking into the nitty-gritty of pregnancy, the CDC offers some excellent resources to guide you through.
So here’s to the kids who make us laugh, and here’s to the moms who support them every step of the way.