Why, back in my day … oh, who cares
My kids are so sick of hearing about what things were like in the days of my childhood. I didn’t have to walk three miles to school in deep snow, it’s true. I grew up in Portland and school was canceled if there were 2 inches of snow. World War II and the Great Depression were also history to me.
However, we got our first color TV when I was in junior high and I did college physics with a slide rule. I started working on computers in grad school when “the computer” was housed in a large room and you interacted with it via IBM cards and reams of wide green paper, with sheets that had to be torn apart or accordion-folded just so. Now, that was all quite primitive.
The kids have no appreciation, though. I’ve checked their birth certificates and I don’t find where it says that they are entitled to a TV in each bedroom, laptop computers in eighth grade or a new sports car at 16. I rode the bus all through high school – but there I go again. Their eyes would be starting to roll back in their heads and the kids would have stopped listening with the realization, again, that I actually believed that I had had a life.
Back then, guys my age didn’t have second families either. They were grandfathers. I have two teens, 17 and 14, and a first-grader. What have I done? I’m not up to this. Today was a typical example.
Sydney turned 7 last month, but with spring break and all, a party then just didn’t work. So we had it today. OK, here it comes – when I was a kid, a birthday party was a rowdy get-together in your own home with some neighbor kids, a few games, a homemade cake, and some cheap presents. Today was nothing like that.
Today was actually 17 days after Syd’s birthday, which was the day that the family had dinner and presents for her. I asked her if she was turning 8 now – it had been so long. All I got was that patronizing look a kid gives when they are again reminded about how out of touch dad is.
This party started two weeks ago with invitations and an RSVP requirement. There was a flurry of missed cell phone calls, made on the run, from harried parents trying to work this into their already overdone weekend. An easy “no” was impossible in the face of the pressure from the invitees, prompted by the daily reminders from Syd that they had to come to her party.
The party was to start at 10 a.m., but some couldn’t make it until 11. Did the parents need to stay, or could they dump and run? Was anyone else actually coming? What is Syd “into?” The voice-mail messages went on and on. The missed callbacks went on and on, too, but I guess that communication via voice mail, back and forth, and back again, works.
I do have to admit that the party ideas – for a large price – are ingenious these days. On a rainy day in April we joined several hundred other people for a few hours of “swimming.” The indoor pools – not for actual swimming, hot tubs, slides, chutes and fountains – were impressive. The wave pool was crowded, but everyone except the lifeguards looked happy. I stayed on shore, where I enjoyed the din of echoing indoor play and the humidity of June in Florida.
A few dads, all younger, and lots of moms were in the water, but they had lots more energy than I have. I have also looked in a mirror lately when getting out of the shower. They, obviously, had not. So, I wilted on the sidelines and watched the fun from a safe distance. And it was fun for the kids, that much was obvious.
Then to the party room for an hour of pizza, sugary drinks and cake – followed by presents. I felt for the parents. I’ve been on that end several times recently. Thankfully the parties I dropped and ran from were later in the day so that I could stop for presents on the way.
Give a big award to whoever came up with the decorative bag and tissue paper idea. Also, add the inventor of “Littlest Pet Shop” to Fortune’s next billionaire list. However, I could tar and feather whoever placed the party rooms at the end of a path through the arcade. “Tokens aren’t real money, Dad.”
A few hundred dollars later, my eyes are still burning from the chlorine in the air. That’s not the way it was done when I was a kid, but then again, the house doesn’t have any permanent party scars either. When I got home I only had to fight with my son for my computer. He’s misplaced his laptop.