The quiet joy of raising ordinary kids

I find myself in a slightly more relaxed phase of motherhood. Both my children are now adults, with one stepping into the job market. It is, of course, not 'all done.' But it feels like the perfect moment to reflect, reassess, and indulge in a little retrospective wisdom.

Years ago, surrounded by high-achieving parents, the bar felt permanently set somewhere between the Olympics and Stockholm. I remember my husband remarking, after reading social media posts about unusually advanced toddlers, that our friends' children would collectively produce the following: an Indian cricketer, an Olympian, a Fields Medal winner, and a Nobel laureate. Such was the perceived talent pool. Or perhaps, the optimism.

I, too, quietly harboured dreams of raising exceptional children. Maybe not Nobel Prize-exceptional, but at least 'someone mentions them at a dinner party' exceptional.


Life, however, has a gentle way of editing our scripts. My children are exceptional, just not in the way I once imagined. They are kind. They are the sort of people who say thank you to waiters and call home without being reminded. Those are not minor achievements.

They have been to good schools, played sports, learned music, and done reasonably well at all of it. Not quite Royal Albert Hall or Lord's level, but solid, respectable, clap-from-the-second-row performances. And that, as it turns out, is where most of life happens.

We often forget just how small the percentage is that reaches global fame, or prize-winning brilliance. Just below that sits a vast and comfortable band of good, capable, and quietly successful people. The world, inconveniently, is largely run by them.

Yet, many of us prefer to believe our child is simply one coaching class away from greatness. So, we stretch ourselves financially, emotionally, and logistically, all in pursuit of that extra edge. One of the most striking examples of this collective ambition is the rush to send children abroad for education, often without financial aid, and sometimes beyond a family's means.

The intention is pure: to give them the best. But the reality is more complicated. Alongside opportunity comes pressure. Alongside pride comes a quiet, persistent guilt. The unspoken weight of sacrifice.

With ever-changing immigration rules, staying on in many Western countries is uncertain. This is not always easy to explain to parents back home, for whom a foreign degree still sounds like a guaranteed life upgrade.

Meanwhile, these young adults study intensely and work equally hard. I see them in cafes and supermarkets, stacking shelves and serving customers. Their faces brighten instantly when someone is kind to them. It's a small reminder of how much they are carrying.

I do, however, occasionally feel a flicker of irritation. My daughter, after years of piano lessons, now barely plays. My son, after years of cricket coaching, wants a break. There is, I admit, a small voice that says, 'After all those early mornings?'

But perhaps that is the wrong lens. Not everything our children do needs to translate into a lifelong passion or professional achievement. Sometimes it builds discipline, exposure, and perspective. As someone wisely said, 'Your children are not your resume.'

Be ambitious for them, certainly. Give them opportunities. Encourage effort. But don't begin with the assumption that every 5-year-old with a bat is a future national player, or, at least, IPL material.

There will always be a few extraordinary outliers. The rest will find their way into that wide, stable, and entirely respectable middle. And there is dignity in that space. In fact, there is happiness there too.

Better to raise children who are emotionally secure, resilient, and kind than to raise ones burdened by quiet inadequacy or constant comparison. The world is already demanding enough. What we can offer is a home that does not measure them relentlessly. A safe space they can return to, regardless of how things unfold. A place that celebrates their joys and absorbs their disappointments.

A place where they are allowed to become themselves. Not impressive versions. Not performative versions. Just whole ones.