Brett was born with hydrocephalus, or water on the brain. He was born five weeks early, yet his head was already larger than the average newborn’s. But he looked perfect to me. His head continued to grow in such tiny increments, that if I hadn’t been daily measuring it, I wouldn’t have noticed. I got so used to the size of his head, that I remember looking around and thinking that one pin-headed baby was being born after another.

At five weeks old, he underwent brain surgery to put a shunt in to drain the water from his brain. By then, I would guess his head was about the size of an average three or four-year old’s. Yet still, in my eyes, he looked normal. When I’d take him out, I’d think, why, if it weren’t for his blindness, people wouldn’t think there was a thing wrong with him. He’s beautiful.

We didn’t take any pictures of him during those first months after his surgery, so when I recently looked at a picture that my sister-in-law had taken, my heart hurt for him. My sweet baby, with that enormous head. How could I have ever thought he looked normal?

Not long ago, I watched a movie about Barnum & Bailey’s Circus. It featured the side shows, the ‘freaks of nature” who were roped into joining the circus to get paid to get laughed at and mocked. 

Grown adults and children flocked to buy tickets to gawk at the bearded lady, the fattest woman on earth, the tiniest man, the tallest man, the werewolf man and the like. 

With a heavy heart I thought of the parents of those side show people, wondering if, like me, they’d gotten so used to how their child looked that they didn’t see them as any different than any other child. I thought of how heartbreaking it would be to see your child being made fun of. It occurred to me that my little Brett could have been a side show.

I, quite accidentally, discovered that a sense of what is “normal” is learned as early as the first few weeks of a baby’s life.

After Caitlin was born we were given a booklet that detailed her expected development. At one week she should be able to do such and such, at two weeks this, and so on. I became obsessed with that booklet, testing her, making sure she was reaching all the milestones. 

Putting away laundry one day, I happened to notice an old Mr. T mask that Bob had worn to a Halloween party. Curious to see how Caitlin would react, I put it on and knelt down to talk to her. I got my face about the distance the booklet estimated she could bring into focus, “Hey precious,” I said softly through the mask.

She let out a scream different from anything I'd heard before or since. I immediately ripped the rubber mask off my head (practically scalping myself in the process).

Bob heard the scream and came tearing in from the other room. Knowing he wouldn't understand my "experiment," I stuffed the mask underneath me and sat on it. 

“What made her scream like that?”

I looked stumped, “I have no idea,” I lied. 

I must have looked awkward holding Caitlin, trying to comfort her while keeping my bottom firmly planted on Mr. T. Unfortunately, Bob spotted a little tuft of his mohawk and demanded to know what it was. I held it up, acting baffled. What in the world?

"I can't believe you would actually want to scare a newborn baby! What is wrong with you?"

"It was an experiment…and, it turns out she’s exceptional!” Then I tried for humor, “But she may be a little racist.”

Bob was not amused—he was furious. He took Caitlin from me and left me sitting there. Whatever. An innocent experiment ruined our day.

Before children learn to disguise their faces to hide what they’re thinking or feeling, their  reactions to people like Brett run the gamut—from giggling, to pity, to fear. 

When Brett was in the hospital, my father-in-law taped these words on his bassinet, “...I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Psalm:139:14

I don’t know why God knit Brett together in my womb the way He did, but I know he will be receiving a glorious, new body in Heaven, where nobody will look at him with anything but admiration and love. What a glorious day that will be!