She and I definitely had different taste in music—she was captivated by Dan Hill (admit it, you can hear it: “Sometimes when we touch / The honesty’s too much / And I have to close my eyes aaaaand cry…”) and wore out the “If” 45 (or was it an 8-track?) by Bread. When she was young, she deemed the Beatles too intense. THE BEATLES. When I was 12 and 13, my mother wasn’t there beside me, adjusting the dials on the old Marantz, enthusiastically discussing U2’s War and saying things like, “I am so excited about that Edge solo.”
Flash forward to 2014, and parents everywhere are caught in discussions with their elementary-aged children:
Us: Can you pull up Spotify and add “Shake It Off” to the Sunday Afternoons at Home playlist?
Them: Sure, just give me a sec to finish this level.
Us: Thanks. (Five minutes pass.) Okay, you’re done with that level. It’s time to put the iPad away.
Them: But I’m not done with my game!
Us: Time to turn it off.
Them: But I’m just about to earn my stripey next to my wrapped candy!
Us (voice rising in alarm): What level are you on? Are you messing with my level 127?! GIVE ME BACK THE iPAD.
Them: MommmmmUH! Stop! It’s MY turn!
My mother plays Candy Crush. I play Candy Crush. My 8- and 5-year-olds play Candy Crush. Have you tried Tiny Thief? That game is super fun! Phineas & Ferb is amazing television, and I’d totally hang out with the little Ninjago guys. I won’t lie—I genuinely like Taylor Swift, and I know all the songs from Frozen and Matilda because I want to, not because I was coerced by a singing snowman. My kids even have their own dance routine to Miley Cyrus’ “Wrecking Ball,” because we all love that track. They also enjoy Beck, Arcade Fire, Dolly Parton, Bob Dylan, Radiohead, and Beyoncé… I could go on.
I understand that 8 is the new 15, and 40 is the new 13. It’s pretty cool that my kids and I share so many interests and cultural references. But here’s my question: If grandparents, parents, and children worldwide are into the same things at the same time, are parents just getting younger, or are children maturing faster?
Sometimes, as I download a new app, I worry that we adults are engaged in a futile battle against accepting our own mortality and fading relevance. My peers and I have become the proverbial elderly woman in a miniskirt, clutching her iPhone tightly, elbowing the younger generation off the stage. In doing so, we might be raising a generation of kids who speak like Stewie from Family Guy and wear skinny jeans over their diapers.
If kids and parents are all reading the same post-apocalyptic vampire YA novels and exchanging playlists, what will our tweens and teens have to keep from us? What will they claim as their own to reflect their experiences? We’re limiting their chances for rebellion: it’s a rite of passage to despise your parents for being clueless dorks. Can they do that if we snag the whole family great seats to a Katy Perry concert?
It’s like if flower children were grooving to Perry Como, or Judith Light was jamming to Pearl Jam on Who’s the Boss: everything feels out of order. What will they discuss in therapy in 25 years? That Mom excelled at Minecraft? That Dad embarrassed them by insisting that Kanye was better after Kim than before?
I’m not sure what this means for our kids, but I can tell you what it means for me. By the time my mother reached my age, she was free. She could enjoy Loggins & Messina all she wanted. She could wear sweatpants to any event because she had earned the right to rock an elastic waistband anywhere. Society had deemed her responsible and mature, dedicating her energy to ensuring the survival of the species rather than swooning over pre-Synchronicity Sting. In other words, she was old, invisible, and unappealing to the fun and cool demographics; she was part of the margarine and General Foods International Coffee crowd.
Now, we’re expected not only to be decent parents but also to be “cool” ones. I have to appear like I’m trying, but not too much—that means comfortable shoes, but not those trendy wedges meant for college kids. Comfort can no longer prevail over style, so even if I could afford Eileen Fisher, I’m not allowed to wear it (but, honestly, Eileen Fisher is JUST. SO. FORGIVING.). I’m supposed to understand that Jack White is totally lame, but ironically enjoying the White Stripes is acceptable. I can’t admit to liking that “Why You Gotta Be So Cruel” song, even though it’s as catchy as a cold in December, so we have to roll up the windows if it plays while we cruise through our neighborhood. I have friends who are surgeons—surgeons—who use Emojis.
The pressure is immense. In the ‘80s, any adult who played a lot of Frogger and watched cartoons was your stoner Uncle Jim living in your basement. Now, that’s just Dad.
Children and adults have blended into a hybrid—kids are savvy and witty, reminding us to update the operating system on our devices. We are responsible, bill-paying adults with juvenile tastes and a wink at youth culture. We adults are part of their world, but not too much—just enough to enhance our credibility. Kids are effortlessly cool nowadays (geek chic, where were you when I needed you?), but we’re still giving them the same “just be yourselves” message—only now we’re also trying to be like them. Are 40-somethings really that insecure about our place in the zeitgeist, or is it just a fantastic time to be young?
I know you might think this is a problem of my own creation. My kids shouldn’t be on the iPad. I don’t have to care about the jeans I wear or the music I listen to. But I enjoy feeling connected and aware. I like sharing interests with my kids. Pop culture today is smarter, funnier, and more clever than it has ever been, and we have unprecedented access to it. Why should I let the kids have all the fun? And besides, if I’m on level 400 and they’re stuck on 296, they have no excuse for that tone of disdain and blatant mockery. And if they do, I can simply teach them the proper use of the explosive candy with sprinkles and send them to their rooms.
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Summary:
The article humorously explores the blurred lines between generations as parents and children share cultural interests. It raises questions about what it means for kids when parents engage deeply in their worlds and whether this shared experience limits the kids’ ability to rebel. The author reflects on the pressures faced by modern parents to maintain a youthful image while navigating their roles.