George Bernard Shaw once opined that “youth is wasted on the young.” (He also once mused that “youth should remove themselves henceforth from my peonies,” but that’s not quite as poetic.) Jason Daniel Fox currently opines that “youth knows exactly what to do while young and can still program their grandparents’ VCRs even though they have no idea what videotape is.” The young ’uns may be naïve to the point of arrogance at times, but they don’t need a dusty old coot from a long-forgotten century, let alone Shaw, instructing them on the finer points of childlike wonder.
Take my kids, for example. Take them for a night or three and experience the unbridled joy of discovering new ecosystems thriving under a chewy granola bar that may not have started out chewy but now is after an undisclosed period of time beneath the couch. Then sympathize with the agony that is silky (or blankie, if you’re from my side of the family) misplacement. Then try to catch your breath. Because the twins, Gideon and Charlotte, are currently 3 ½ and somehow manage to create cold fusion in their bellies with an eclectic mixture of PB&J, plain pasta and string cheese fuel rods. Their brother Simon, 20 months, appears to be powered by smiles. Although smiles produce a much more noxious exhaust than you might surmise.
But none of our children needs help being a kid. They know how to play. They know how to be silly. They know how to laugh and run and imagine their toy bins are spaceships made of Duplo blocks and rug lint. The Dynamic Duo recently traded in their cribs (not cribz) for real beds. Did they need to be told that springy mattresses are good for transforming themselves into human Tiggers? Certainly not. They needed to be reminded of the moral behind “No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed.” Which is something about how Charlton Heston and the Statue of Liberty being buried on a beach lead to easy bruising. I think.
What kids need help with is growing up. And there’s the rub (not the steak kind). How do you raise kids to be battle-hardened for the Lord without just making them hardened? How do I, as the official Daddy Man, inspire their imaginations and not squash them in the name of good table manners? If you’re a parent, you know how difficult the challenge is. If you’re not a parent, you’re probably wondering why that meltdown in aisle three did immediately result in the purchase of Baby’s First Straitjacket (answer: because they were in aisle four). But frankly, the challenge lies with adults appreciating what it means to be kid more than it does with kids appreciating the need to “act your age.” Hey, guess what, they’re three – The Great Poo Fling of February 2011 was an inevitability. Though sadly, Fate is poor janitor.
I realize Shaw was more likely referring to the rapscallions of tweenerdom and beyond. Those Acutane adolescents who tend to turn a touch more sullen, rebellious and lanky during those precious, precious years while believing they’ve cracked the nut on Life’s Biggest Mysteries via copious amounts of Xbox and Facebook time. But while uppity youth do tend to annoy those of us who have finally figured out the answers to Life, the Universe and Everything (namely, “You got me, kid. Ask God.”), they still aren’t wasting their time. Even if they play too much World of Warcraft. Maybe.
But seriously, what exactly would folks of my generation and beyond do if we could rewind the biological clock and suddenly be thinner, pimplier and able to eat an entire deep-fried Monte Cristo sandwich and Death by Chocolate dessert from Bennigan’s (assuming turning back the clock also resurrected that now-defunct chain) without gaining an ounce? Would we start LOLing all the over the place and cranking up the Selena Bieber Auto-Tuned tunes? Or would we just be able to worry about the pressures of life without having to up our dosages of Crestor and Cardizem?
I think you know the answer.
Because as much as we’d like to think that we’d be better kids than kids these days, we wouldn’t be. We might commit fewer acts of grand stupidity, but then we’d also never build that awesome potato gun that launched tubers over the neighbor’s house across the street and into their pool. Or so I’ve heard. So instead of wishing a heaping helping of middle-aged perspective on our progeny, let’s incorporate a bit of their worldviews into our own. Look at the world as a place of endless promise and not unending struggles. See things as they could be and not how we fear they will be. Chill out, have a cookie. And if you have high enough ceilings, find out what sleep number gives you the biggest bounce.
Then then next time a fit gets thrown across the entire store, you can rub the bump on your head and smile. Just don’t forget to stop by aisle four on your way out.
Bed Jumpin’ Monkey Nuts
