The British royal baby came into the world this week. He
will live a life unlike any child, ever. From the moment he was conceived – not
born, but conceived – little George has been a celebrity. And while most of us
dream of fame and might fantasize about being royalty, the lesson for us is
actually the opposite: as you watch this child’s life unfold, rejoice in your
ordinariness.
On Tuesday morning, as the world waited for him to emerge
from the hospital, one commentator noted that when the baby’s father, Prince
William, left the hospital, there were exactly two television cameras outside.
This baby came out to a crowd full of would-be Internet journalists, each armed
with an iPhone. Poor kid. We can only hope and expect that every royal baby
burp and diaper change will soon become mundane, and the little prince will be
given at least a couple years of non-attention in the public eye.
But that’s not likely. And why? Why such intense interest in this particular child, when millions of
babies are born every day? William and Kate made some perfunctory remarks about
the baby’s looks and hair and their own excitement, but as Kate said, “any
family” would know what they were feeling.
On CNN, one commentator suggested that this birth – and this
life – was special because it stands in opposition to so much going on in the
world right now: child disease, abuse, genocide, crime. But that assumes two
things. One is that this child will lead a model life – in fact, an
extraordinary life – exempted from personal heartache, tragedy, and dysfunction
and untouched by the brokenness of others. In other words, that he’ll live a
truly fantasy life.
The other assumption is that all of the rest of us live in a
world pretty close to the dismal one described by that CNN commentator. And
that isn’t quite right, either. New births, first steps, first words, and a
child’s discovery of the world around them is part of our everyday world – and
these things are every bit as miraculous and wonder-filled as when they happen
to someone whose name begins with “Prince”.
The disadvantage this prince will suffer is that the idyllic
expectations of the whole world for childhood will be upon him. The
perfectibility myth that our kids labor under (the one that never quite pans
out) will be magnified in him. Consider that, years from now, when stories hit
the Internet about the little prince failing a spelling test, or getting a
black eye, or arguing with his siblings, or not taking his college studies
seriously – events so common to our shared broken experience it’s amazing that
they can ever be considered “news”.
Meanwhile, you and your kids live comparatively ordinary
lives. And you can be thankful for that. No photographers will be waiting in
your driveway when you leave tomorrow. No one will be holding your kid under a
microscope, examining every move. Kids are not royalty: not princes, not
princesses. Why anyone would wish that on a kid is beyond me.
Today, be thankful for your very ordinary kid. Celebrate the
ordinary but profound things they do. Take heart in the fact that not everything is hopeless – and you
didn’t need a royal baby’s birth to prove it. At the same time, make every
effort to take them down off the pedestal reserved for royalty. Kids need room
to live and to grow, to make mistakes and to learn life lessons. They don’t
need us to be anxiously fixated on their growth, as the popular press will
surely be fixated on George. They just need us to be faithful.
