“Normal” changes forever when you arrive at the burnt shell of your home, crime tape surrounding its lovingly landscaped perimeter, and the fire marshal grasps the arm of your shirt, not noticing the breast milk leaking across your chest because his eyes are locked on yours as he says, “It was an arson fire. There would have been no rescue here!”

Normal changes again the day your 13-year-old son leaves to fly across the country because it’s achingly clear that he will not stay safe in our home any longer and the pain and incapacity have exceeded the limits of our skills but not the depth of our love.

One last time, normal changes in the panicked hour between the time that we know a freak and fierce storm has toppled trees onto the wilderness island site in which our 15 year-old youngest child is camping, killing his mentor, soulmate and cousin, and fracturing the spine of the only other semi-adult, and we do not yet know that our son is physically unhurt. After this, there is no longer “normal”