. . . Twenty Miles in the Snow, Uphill Both Ways

Remember those stories your parents always told you about how hard they had it as kids? How they had to walk miles to school, and didn't have a TV, and worked two jobs in the summer to save up for college? You know, those wonderful stories of invention, perseverance, and triumph over adversity? All those stories that, if you were anything like me, you thought were sooo boring?

I have this mental picture of me as a stringy-haired, gawky pre-teen, rolling my eyes behind my huge 80's owl glasses – the ones with the three-inch-thick lenses, due to my terrible nearsightedness – trying (but not trying too hard) to stifle a yawn at the commencement of another such story by one or the other of my parental units. Of all the ways to make me work, I thought, boasting about how hard they had it was not very effective. I didn't understand why they felt the need to keep bringing up their woe stories when my eyes clearly glazed over each time it happened.

And now I live with a sub-adult . . . and now I understand. Every time S.B. wimpers about having to do the dishes, I launch into a catalog of the nightly jobs I had when I was his age, which were on top of the weekly housecleaning chores and the awesome monthly “honey-do” bonus jobs. When S.B. asks his dad to fix him a sandwich for his (second) snack, I dive into a speech on how I had to make my own snacks as a teenager, plus I was responsible for cooking the family's dinner one night a week (a bold attempt by my parents to teach me a valuable life skill. It did not work). If S.B. frets over having enough time for fun every evening when he still has homework and dishes, I take that as my cue to educate him on my ability as a high school student to juggle varsity cross country, a babysitting job, and a nearly 4.0 GPA while still having fun. Of course, I was a nerd with no social life, so my idea of 'fun' was a book and bag of mini Reese's peanut butter cups, followed, perhaps, by a rousing game of Hide-And-Seek with my dog. But S.B. doesn't need to know that part.

I just can't help myself: at the slightest opening, I plunge into these long-winded orations on how easy S.B. has it. Even though I can see his eyes glaze over; even though I can tell he's about to tune me out; even though I'm mentally cringing that the phrase “When I was your age” is coming out of my mouth . . . I can't stop.

I've realized something, though, that gives me insight into the thought-process of a parent. When I start comparing my childhood to that of the children in my life, I'm not doing it so much to show off. I'm mostly doing it out of guilt. Guilt because times are different, and I don't always understand those differences. Guilt because, while kids may have it easier than in my day, I suspect that there's a lot that's harder, too. Guilt because I don't know if what I request of a child in this day and age is too much for them to handle. So when I dive into comparisons between how we're brought up, I'm really assuring myself that S.B. can handle what I throw at him: after all, I was asked to do more, and I turned out alright.

Even though I still can't cook.