Sure, some might say we grew up roughing it by today’s standards…but maybe we were the ones who actually gained in the end. Is it possible, as the author says, that “we just don’t have the cojones our parents had”?
“If you haven’t noticed, we’re getting a raw deal where this parenting gig is concerned. When did adults start caring whether or not their kids were safe, happy or popular? I can assure you that Ginny and Big Jerry were not wiling away the hours wondering if my brother and I were fulfilled.
Big Jerry was stoking the fires of his retirement savings and working, and working some more. Ginny was double bolting the door in order to keep us out of the house, and talking on the phone while she smoked a Kent. Meanwhile, we were three neighborhoods away, playing with some kids we’d never met, and we had crossed two major highways on bicycles with semi-flat tires to get there. Odds are, one of us had crashed at some point and was bleeding pretty impressively. No one cared. We were kids and if we weren’t acting as free labor, we were supposed to be out of the house and out of the way.”
Are Today’s Parents Getting a Raw Deal? | The Huffington Post
Our pretty, peculiar, puzzling, and perpetually attention seeking Phoebe…
If ever there were an example of a dog who doesn’t fit the mold, our Phoebe is it.
I’ve reached a peculiar stage in life. One where I know the famous people who die instead of simply being familiar with names in the headlines. Almost all of my friends are either married or divorced, and many have kids who are middle school aged or older. More girlfriends than not are dealing with gray hair, and discussing aches and pains isn’t exactly an unusual topic of conversation.
I find as I tilt toward the second half of my life that there are certain experiences I most decidedly want to miss.
We’ve got spirit
yes we do,
we’ve got spirit
how ’bout you?
Oh, these long, long days of elementary school…reading logs and flash cards. Homework folders, #2 pencils, and letter grades. Field days and cafeteria drama. Good times.
After enrolling as runny nosed midgets who can’t walk in a line, kids slowly adapt to school culture. They learn to take turns in the bathroom and use up all the paper towels. They figure out which kickballs are the good ones and how to get an extra turn on the tire swing at recess. They even gain an appreciation for certain cafeteria foods.
By the time kids move on to middle school they’ve morphed into nearly functioning humans.
Let’s just say finding out I’m the neighborhood freak around here wouldn’t exactly be the shock of the decade.
“Once in a while, a thought occurs to me. It’s not always a good one, but at least it is a thought.
I once saw an episode of ‘The King of Queens’ where Carrie turns to Doug with the revelation, ‘WE’RE he neighborhood freaks!!’ Of course, they were outside their house, having a shouting match regarding some outlandish predicament while the neighbors were hiding behind their curtains.
It hasn’t quite come to that, but I fear it’s only a matter of time.”
We’re The Neighborhood Freaks! | The Snark And I
Okay, so who else has been totally bummed out by the last two days at RFTM? Trust me, my name’s at the top of that list. Thank you for sticking with me – for reading, for adding your thoughts, for the words of encouragement – it’s helped. Not made-it-all-magically-delicious helped, but helped nonetheless.
So can we please, for the love of all things holy, shift gears into something less doom and gloom? (“Sure! Why not!” says the quietly chirpy voice in my head.)
I was born on a crisp January day in 1971. Well, it wasn’t exactly crisp out since my dad was stationed in the Philippines at the time, but you get my point. I am, without a doubt, a child of the ’70s.
Flared pants and the Brady Bunch. Fish fingers, banana seat bikes, and heading home by dark. Bologna sandwiches on white bread and Kool-Aid, with Twinkies as a treat.
The ’70s weren’t just another decade; it was more like another world.
That’s me, on the left. I hardly have the words.
I’m grown, I’m responsible, I’m in charge of important stuff. And yet, it seems, the list of things I Just Can’t Handle continues to grow.
» Dusting my house top to bottom. Why do I hate this? Let me count the ways. The dust makes me sneeze. It returns mere hours after I’ve removed it. God did not give me the patience necessary to dust around knick knacks, picture frames, and books. It involves far too much reaching and bending. Plus no matter how throughly I think I’ve done it, there are always (always!) spots I’ve missed.