Things Were A Whole Lot Different When We Were Kids

You remember childhood, don't you?

We wore our house keys around our necks like dog tags, walked home from school alone and let ourselves inside while our parents were still at work. We crossed busy intersections during rush hour to purchase bubble gum cigarettes with change from empty soda cans.

Our playgrounds were construction sites, heaps of dirt, creeks filled with snakes and turtles we collected as pets. We climbed trees, muddied our Garanimals, scaled fences between neighbors' backyards. We spent Memorial Day to Labor Day barefoot, the soles of our feet blackened like coal, dirt clumping underneath our toenails. Skateboards, roller skates and bikes defined our boundaries — our Baby Boomer parents would scoff if we asked for a ride somewhere. They were too busy reading the newspaper, watching soaps or drinking beer on the stoop with the neighbors.

We were told to come in at dark, not a second earlier.

We had our kids late. Probably too late. Now we're cranky, sleep-deprived 40-somethings changing chlorine-free, biodegradable diapers while Dora the Explorer morphs into a hormonal teen right before our very eyes. We claim we don't regret waiting because we “needed to get established in our careers first” and “wanted to save enough money,” even though we know damn well we have neither viable careers nor anything resembling a nest egg.

We cart our children to chess, robotics, baseball practice, ballet, cello, swimming lessons and birthday parties. Though they run our lives like lunatic ringmasters, we insist such activities make them well-rounded / social / intellectual / competitive / creative.

They are rarely out of our sights. They're our extensions, buds hanging off our stems, the quality, durability, and character of their bloom wholly dependent on our careful, measured, intentional nurturing. We stuff them into slings as babies, backpacks and strollers as toddlers, tie them with leashes as preschoolers and use GPS and apps to monitor their whereabouts as teens.

They sleep in our beds until middle school.

Though we started babysitting at age 9 (and were responsible only for keeping our charges alive), as parents, we hire college-educated, CPR-certified, well-referenced, background-checked Pinterest enthusiasts who don't just babysit our kids — they construct elaborate origami, re-enact Shakespeare and tutor our children in philosophy and Mandarin.

We got picked last in dodgeball and weren't allowed to cry about it. We were told to toughen up, grow up, shake it off. Coddling? It didn't exist.

You can read the rest of this article on Huff Post Parents. When you're finished, leave a comment and share your take on Generation X's parenting problem.