Gen X Parenting: Are We Getting it Right?

It’s 1989. I’m a freshman in high school. The hair is big. The boys are fine. I’m invincible. I can smell independence in the air, and it smells like Aqua Net and Drakkar Noir.

It’s 2023. I’m a high school history teacher. The hair is colorful. The boys are immature. I’m exhausted. I can smell retirement in the air, and it smells like vape pens and body odor.

Remember when we were teenagers and the Real World was just a show on MTV? We careened through life without a care in the world for our future careers or kids or mortgages or colonoscopies. Our parents looked at us and shook their heads and sighed and thought we were destined to become basement dwellers. They pondered the downfall of our country in the hands of Generation X.

Eventually, the real world stopped being about who hooked up with who in the Real World house, and we had to put our big girl panties on. Gen X grew up. Since officially joining the real world, we’ve seen the fall of communism and the rise of terrorism. We’ve seen everything from computers to microwaves to dishwashers get smarter. We’ve transitioned telephones from rotary to push-button to cordless to cellular to handheld computers that we sometimes use to make phone calls. We’ve watched the internet grow up.

We’ve also birthed a couple of new generations who have their own unique ways of seeing the world. We love these weird little half-grown creatures that we created, but we also shake our heads and sigh and ponder the downfall of our country in the hands of Generation Z. I’m a momma of teens and a teacher of teens, and (as per my previous post) in the business of producing Not Ass Holes, but I’m also a realist who lives 24/7 on the front line. What I’m saying is I’m not here today to reassure you that we are gonna be just fine when the almost-adults in the world start paying into Social Security. I’m here to exercise my God-given right as a forty-something who’s seen some things to talk some shit.

On the off chance that a Gen-Zer somehow reads this post, I’m not putting you on blast. It’s just that your parents have questions. Your teachers have questions. We want to understand you. We really do.

Like, how in the world is it comfortable to have your pants sagging below your butt? No. Actually. What is that about? God made waists and designers made pants to fit those waists and when you strap in your pants south of their intended destination, you actually have to hold them up as you walk and you look ridiculous for so. many. reasons.

Why do you look at me like I’ve grown an extra head when I ask you to put your phone away in class? No, Zaaydyn, you cannot watch The Fast and the Furious and learn about the Spanish-American War at the same time. No, Zaaydyn, they are not basically the same thing.

Why do you actually moan when you see that the test has 30 questions on it? “Miss! Thirty questions?! Are you trying to kill us???” Yes, Zaaydyn. Inquiry and analysis are my weapons of choice. May the odds be ever in your favor.

Why are crocs and pajama pants and fuzzy blankets that you pulled off your bed and draped over your shoulders a fashion statement? I mean, laziness is your vibe so maybe you’re just dressing the part, but how’s this gonna work in the real world? Are you gonna walk into a job interview in your Mario Bros PJs wrapped in a Walmart throw and be like, “Sir! Eight-hour workdays?! Are you trying to kill us???”

Also, what is your obsession with the 80’s? I mean, let's be real. The 80's were actually as great as you think, but we did a lot of fending for ourselves, which required problem-solving skills that you inherently lack (i.e., if you buckle your pants at your waist, you won’t have to keep hiking them up and/or walk like a penguin with a giant stick shoved up its ass). We see you and how you copy our fashion trends and fanboy out over shows like Stranger Things but also can’t name a single Depeche Mode song even though you wear the merch, and we laugh. Oh, how we laugh.

No really. It’s cute.

The 80’s didn’t tolerate weenies, Z. We were tough. We were handling our shit like a boss by the time we were six.

Forget The Fast and the Furious. We didn’t own the TV, our parents did, and it was only in our control for three precious hours on Saturday mornings. We got ourselves up and made our own bowls of cereal and parked ourselves in front of all 32 inches and laughed like fools when that idiot Wile E. Coyote ran himself off the cliff for the 437th time. If we needed to change the channel, we had approximately six choices and we got off our asses and turned a knob and then went back to our Cap’n Crunch.

We played outside, and when we got thirsty, we didn’t have insulated water bottles with our names laser-etched on them. We had hoses, and we knew to let that shit run before taking a drink or we’d be pouring liquid fire down our throats. And forget the Bento box. If we stopped to eat, it was spray cheese and Jello powder lifted from someone's house and passed around the pool during the lifeguard's break.

Our birthday parties were at McDonald’s and if we didn’t suffocate to death in the Officer Big Mac prison cell, we got a Happy Meal and a ride home in the birthday kid’s station wagon, crammed into the back with 17 other kids and no seatbelts.

I'm the little girl giving the adult with the camera the wicked side-eye. I was five and knew that piling kids into the belly of a burger was some shady shit.

We never wore bike helmets and taught ourselves to drive a stick shift and slathered on baby oil and iodine to up our tanning game. By the time we were 10, we’d inhaled enough second-hand smoke to qualify as a pack-a-day smoker. We cruised down the highway at 55 miles per hour in the back of a pickup truck and our parents taught us to swim by throwing us in the pool without floaties. We were using power tools by the time we were in 3rd grade. Somebody had to build the fort in the woods.

First time riding without training wheels. No helmet. No problem.

Swimming lessons in the 80's: Let the 2-year-old jump off the diving board while the adult documents this horrible idea for posterity.

I mean, come on. Those are our dads on the bottom of the tower and Mom is taking the picture. This is how we rolled.

What I’m saying is it was do or die in the 80’s and I’m sorry, Gen Z, but ain’t no way some of y’all would’ve made it past the age of five. Take the L. You are a generation that expects maximum results with minimum effort, and the 80's weren't about all that.

Faithful Readers.

I have to think that we Gen-X parents are somewhat to blame for this. I mean, they’re our kids! We raised them. In twenty years when they’re in therapy, they’ll be talking about us! We try to discipline the Ass Hole out of them, but I’m not gonna sit here and tell you that my kids didn’t get the trophies even when they came in dead last. I don’t pay them for their grades, but I will fork over money if they’ll help keep the house clean with minimal complaints. I’ve signed NHS hours when I’m not supposed to and *helped* with school projects and spent actual car payments on extracurricular activities, knowing full well that the return on my investment was about as likely as me getting a full-ride scholarship to college. I am guilty of stuff that no self-respecting 80's parent would've ever considered, and I have to wonder:

Is it us? Did the generation who survived childhood with only Band-Aids and mercurochrome really raise a generation of entitled wussies?

Can't we just blame it all on the Boomers and make an appointment with our therapist? After all, our parents had a life-isn’t-always-fair attitude about damn near everything. When the world came at us sideways, we had no choice but to pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off and get right back to work. Our parents didn’t jump in and save us. They didn’t have time for that shit. They were working in actual offices with landline telephones and 30-minute lunch breaks. “Guess you won’t do that again” was the mistake-mantra of our lives, no matter how many stitches, broken bones, broken hearts, or third-degree burns we suffered.

But maybe sometimes we needed saving. Maybe sometimes we needed sympathy instead of tough love. Maybe we needed a little less nature and a little more nurture. Sure, tough love made us resourceful. But what if it also made us feel unsafe and vulnerable? What if sometimes it hurt more than it helped? What if our helicopter tendencies are just overcompensation for the scars left behind by our parents’ boot-straps mentality?

Is there a balance between growing our children into independent adults who can handle their shit and coddling them into thinking that everyone deserves a trophy?

Of course there is. No one ever said parenting was easy. Sometimes we nail it and sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we’re certain our offspring are headed for greatness and then they do something like shave their head or put another hole in their face or wreck our brand-new car, and we’re like, alrighty then, basement-dwelling it is.

Nobody has this parenting thing nailed. Nobody. Not us. Not our parents. Imagine our entitled little darlings raising their own babies. Scary, isn't it? The truth is, we’re all just doing the best we can with what we have. Some days our best is a far cry from what it was the day before. But it's still our best. Every generation is a work in progress, and let's just let that be enough.

After all, life is the best teacher, and the only thing we can really do perfectly is what we've been doing since the day they were born.

Love them through it.