Parenting
Do you recall your childhood?
We used to wear our house keys like medals, making our way home from school solo, letting ourselves in while our parents were still at work. We navigated busy streets to buy bubble gum cigarettes with the change we scavenged from empty soda cans. Our playgrounds were piles of dirt, construction sites, and creeks filled with snakes and turtles that we would capture as pets. Climbing trees and getting our Garanimals muddy was just part of the fun. We spent the summer barefoot, our soles darkened and caked with dirt, while our Baby Boomer parents could be found engrossed in newspapers, soap operas, or enjoying beers on the stoop with neighbors.
We were told to come home when the streetlights flickered on, not a moment sooner. The idea of being coddled? It was nonexistent.
Now, as cranky, sleep-deprived adults in our 40s, we are raising our kids later than planned. We change eco-friendly diapers while our sweet little ones morph into hormonal teens almost overnight. We tell ourselves that we don’t regret the delay because we “needed to establish our careers” and “save enough money,” even if we know we don’t have either.
Our schedules revolve around our children’s activities: chess, robotics, ballet, baseball, and swimming lessons. Despite their chaotic demands, we believe these pursuits will make them well-rounded, social, and creative. They rarely leave our sight, as if they are our very own appendages. We carry them in slings as babies, stuff them into backpacks as toddlers, and even use leashes in their preschool years. As teens, we rely on GPS and apps to track their every move.
They often share our beds until they hit middle school. While we babysat at the age of 9 (merely ensuring our charges survived), we now hire college graduates with CPR certifications and Pinterest-worthy ideas. They don’t just watch our kids; they craft origami masterpieces, perform Shakespearean scenes, and tutor them in Mandarin and philosophy.
We were the ones picked last in Dodgeball, taught to toughen up and move on. Coddling? A foreign concept. Awards were reserved for the one kid out of hundreds who actually triumphed—the rest of us learned to embrace our losses.
Now, our children’s rooms are adorned with medals and certificates for simply participating. Every effort is celebrated, transforming their spaces into shrines of achievement for showing up.
Our meals as children came from cans, boxes, or the freezer. We consumed Chef Boyardee, Stouffer’s French bread pizzas, and Swanson’s TV dinners while glued to a television that offered four channels—three if it was raining. We had no say in our meals; cleaning our plates was mandatory, or we were reminded of starving children miles away. Leftovers from dinner often turned into breakfast, served cold and rubbery.
As parents, we slave away crafting gluten-free, organic, artisanal meals. As long as our kids take a few bites, they can toss the rest into the compost bin.
In our youth, chores were a given. We scrubbed floors, folded laundry, and polished silver because our parents said so. There were no chore charts with glittery stars or monetary rewards—money was earned through delivering newspapers or mowing lawns.
Today, our kids receive allowances for mere existence. They’re too “busy” to work and have endless choices, resembling an all-you-can-eat buffet. Even discipline is a la carte; they can choose time-outs or restrictions, as if “no” is just a suggestion.
We had to learn cursive and diagram sentences. Our grades didn’t get curved, and our parents respected the authority of our teachers.
While we were not deemed gifted, all our children are considered so.
Years down the line, our kids may lament that we loved them too intensely, that we didn’t equip them for real-world challenges, or that they needed more independence and fewer boundaries. They might wish for more real-life experiences, less screen time, and a bit more structure.
Eventually, we’ll realize our children might be just as messed up as we are. Despite the plethora of parenting books, blogs, and online communities bombarding us with advice and guilt, the fundamental challenge of raising a child has not changed. It remains incredibly tough, and like every generation before us, we’re all just figuring it out as we go—Kool-Aid stains and all.
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