Summer of 1974: I’m nine years old, and by 7:30 a.m., I’m already out the door. If it’s Saturday, I’m busy doing whatever my dad, Big Jerry, has instructed—raking leaves, mowing the lawn, digging holes, or washing cars.
Fast forward to this summer: I’m stealthily leaving the house for work, trying not to wake my kids, who will likely snooze until 11 a.m. They might tackle a few chores from the list I’ve left on the kitchen counter, or, more likely, they’ll munch on stale Cheez-Its they’ve hoarded in their rooms for three days, avoiding the kitchen and the dreaded list.
If you haven’t caught on, this parenting role seems to be a raw deal. When did adults start stressing over their kids’ safety, happiness, or popularity? I can assure you that Ginny and Big Jerry weren’t spending their time worrying about my brother and me being “fulfilled.” Big Jerry was busy building his retirement savings, and Ginny was double-bolting the door to keep us out while chatting on the phone and smoking a Kent.
Meanwhile, we were roaming three neighborhoods away, playing with kids we’d just met, having crossed two major highways on bikes with semi-flat tires. Odds are, one of us had fallen and was bleeding impressively. No one batted an eye. We were kids, meant to be out of the house and out of the way unless we were providing free labor.
I believe the same “well-intentioned parent” who thought it was necessary to give four-year-olds party favors is the one who decided we should cater to our kids instead of the other way around. Reflect on it: What was your Halloween costume as a kid? If you were fortunate, your mom might have snipped a couple of eye holes in an old sheet, and voilà, you were a ghost. If her friend showed up early to do her hair, you might end up with one eye hole and a makeshift second one made with a sharp stick. My cousin once ran straight into a parked car, still shouting “Trick or treat!” as he slid down the side of a Buick, mildly concussed. When my son was three, we had a professionally made clown costume, complete with a pointy hat and grease paint. His grandmother spent more on that costume than my mom did on my prom dress.
At some point over the last 25 years, the roles reversed. Parents now settle for the less desirable cars and cheap clothes while kids enjoy a lifestyle akin to rock stars. We splurge on private lessons and high-end sports gear, all while adhering to grueling competition schedules. I’m just as guilty. I’ve bought a $300 baseball bat that should’ve been put toward my retirement savings and traveled to countless AAU basketball or travel baseball games and dance competitions without even questioning why. Remember Hank Aaron? He didn’t need a $300 bat to excel. Your kid isn’t going pro, and neither is mine, but someday you’ll retire, and dumpster diving isn’t an option for older adults. My brother and I still chuckle about how, during his high school baseball days, there was only one good bat that the entire team shared.
Think back to your clothes in the ’70s or ’80s. Despite my best attempts to forget, I still recall my desperate desire for a pair of authentic Converse shoes. Did I get them? Nope. It was a punch in the gut when my mother handed me a pair of Archdale knockoffs found somewhere between my hometown and the next major city. Trust me, they were nowhere close. Did I complain? Of course not. I’m still here, aren’t I?
We now have a generation of kids wearing outfits that cost more than my monthly electric bill. Designer baby clothes weren’t a thing back in our day. Why? Because our parents weren’t crazy enough to shell out $60 for an outfit we’d inevitably stain with vomit or worse. They were focused on saving for retirement and paying off their homes. Ironically, none of these kids will land jobs out of college that will allow them to afford life’s necessities, brand new cars, and $150 jeans. So, guess who’s getting the call when they can’t make rent? Yep, us.
Remember who did the housework and yard work when you were a kid? You did. In fact, some people had kids for this very reason—we were free labor. My mother was the supervisor of indoor chores, and the house had to be spotless by the time my dad got home at 5:35. The battle cry went something like this: “Oh no! Your father will be home in 15 minutes! Get those toys put away now!” The rest of the evening was spent getting up to change the television channel to whatever Dad wanted to watch.
On weekends, Dad was in charge of outdoor work, and if you were thirsty, you drank from the hose. Two minutes of air conditioning plus a glass of water could make you “soft.” Who does the housework and yard work now? The cleaning lady who comes on Thursdays and the landscaping crew on alternate Tuesdays. Most teenage boys have never even touched a lawn mower, and if you asked my daughter to clean a toilet, she would return with a four-page paper detailing the various deadly bacteria on toilet seats. Everyone is too busy doing “stuff” to take care of their existing responsibilities. But don’t be mistaken—they aren’t working or anything crazy like that. Juggling school assignments, extracurricular activities, and spending our money could become stressful if they actually had to work.
I don’t recall anyone worrying about how stressful my workload was. I doubt my father even remembered my birthday until a decade ago. Jerry and Ginny had grown-up matters to think about. As teenagers, we managed our own social lives and school affairs. If Karen, while executing a hair flip, told me my new perm looked ridiculous and that Kevin would never date me, my mother wouldn’t have known about it, let alone call Karen’s mom to arrange a meeting to settle our differences.
Additionally, no phone calls were ever made to my teachers or coaches. If we sat on the bench, we sat on the bench. Our dads were busy working anyway. They knew only what we chose to tell them. I can’t even imagine my dad leaving work to watch a game. If I scored a 92.999 and ended up with a B, that was it—no threats or bribes to change it. Admittedly, I might have been a poster child for underachievement.
Back then, high school was a trial run for adulthood. We had jobs because we wanted cars and gas money to wear Jordache jeans and Candies. Without jobs, we wore Archdale sneakers and borrowed our mom’s car, affectionately dubbed the “land yacht,” for Friday night outings. No one, I mean no one, got a brand-new car. I was considered lucky because my parents bought me a car at all. If I say it was a red convertible, you might think I was special. I wasn’t. My car was a red MG Midget, possibly from ’74, and undoubtedly a death trap.
Imagine your coffee table having a steering wheel. It’s bigger than my car was. The starter was faulty, so after school, I’d pop the hood and cross two screwdrivers across the solenoids or wait for the football players to exit the locker room headed to practice. Those guys pushing my car while I popped the clutch is a memory no 16-year-old girl today will ever have, and it’s a great one. Had I driven that car in high winds, I might have gone airborne. There were probably serious safety violations the night I took six friends in togas to a convenience store, but I wouldn’t exchange those memories for a new 280Z even if given the chance.
I was a challenging teenager, and in hindsight, the fact that I made it home alive each time may not have been purely accidental on my parents’ part. Look at today’s high schoolers. They’re driving cars that grown men working 55 hours a week can’t afford, and they’re not paying for them with their own earnings.
Those shiny new cars don’t contribute to any good stories. I tell my kids frequently that the best memories from my teenage and college years revolve around Ann’s yellow Plymouth Duster, Randy’s Valiant with a broken gas gauge, and Carla’s burgundy Nissan that might or might not have had a complete floorboard. A tale that starts with “Remember that time we were heading to the beach in Carla’s Nissan, and your wallet fell through the floorboard onto the highway?” is so much more captivating than “Remember that time we drove to the beach in your brand-new SUV, filled with gas your parents paid for? Well, nothing happened; we just drove there.”
To make matters worse, most of them head off to college without any clue about job searching, applying, interviewing, or showing up on time. If they have a job, it’s because someone owed their dad a favor, and they work when it “fits their schedule.”
We all love our children and want them happy and fulfilled, but I worry we’re robbing them of the experiences that create memorable lives and foster capable, responsible, and confident adults. For most of us, the nice things we had as teenagers were earned with money we saved over a long time.
Our kids receive nearly everything without understanding if it’s for them or just to make us feel like good parents. The reality is that we never value something we were handed as much as something we earned ourselves. Our experiences held lessons, though we didn’t realize it at the time. All those high school squabbles and conflicts with teachers were chances to learn negotiation and compromise. They taught us that life isn’t fair. Sometimes people simply don’t like you, and sometimes you can work your tail off and still come up short. We graduated high school as problem solvers; I fear our kids are finishing with their parents on speed dial.
We lack the courage our parents had. We’re not prepared to tell our children that they won’t have things unless they work for them because we can’t stand to see them go without or fail. We’ve provided them with so much material stuff—things that will break, wear out, get lost, go out of style, and lose value. Some of us might feel proud of how we’ve contributed materially to our children’s popularity and paved an easy road for them. But I don’t feel that way, and many of you probably share my frustration. I worry about what we’ve taken from them in our quest to give them everything.
— Delayed gratification is essential. It teaches perseverance and the true value of things. Our kids have no understanding of this concept. For them, it’s all about instant gratification.
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Summary
Contemporary parenting has shifted significantly over generations, with today’s kids enjoying luxuries that their parents once did not have. This change has led to a lack of understanding of delayed gratification and responsibility, as parents often strive to provide a life of ease for their children. The balance between nurturing and allowing kids to learn valuable life lessons is crucial for their development into capable adults.
Keyphrase: modern parenting challenges
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