The Good Old Days

The kids are grown with families of their own now and the granddaughters are teenagers who would rather do anything else besides hanging out with us "old" folks. It's a good thing our small grandsons don't mind being seen with us. Thinking of the "good old days" when our kids were still at home got me to feeling a little nostalgic until I remembered how it was when they were teenagers.

One year we decided to be brave and take a vacation. It didn't take long for me to remember why we hadn't taken one since they were toddlers.

Before we had backed out of the driveway the kids started with 'Are we there yet?' 'How much longer?' 'This is so lame.' 'He's looking at me.' 'She's touching me.' 'I'm hungry.' Ad nauseam.

Both kids spent the entire trip glued to their hand-held video games, when they weren't tormenting each other and arguing who got to play what game and for how long

İ tried making conversation with the kids. The ensuing cacophony was enough for David to threaten to drive off the next bridge if the kids didn't stop complaining.

A typical conversation went like this:

Me: "Does anyone need to make a bathroom stop?"

Our daughter rolled her eyes as if to say, "How dare you imply I have bodily functions."

David's knuckles were turning white from gripping the steering wheel and he was starting to mutter. That's never a good sign.

Our son communicated the whole trip in a series of grunts I translated for his dad.

I'd finally had it. "Grunt once if you agree and twice if you don't," I told him. This elicited three grunts. "What's that signify?" I asked. "Does that mean you're hungry?"

He shook his head but I couldn't really tell what he was saying since his hair had fallen and was covering his whole face.

Maybe the 1950s housewife had the right idea. She didn't have to go out in the world and deal with lunatics. When the kids acted up or got in trouble at school all she had to say was 'Wait until your father gets home!' and they'd be little angels for the rest of the day.

Dads on television were always the wise peacekeepers while mothers spent their days cooking and doing housework in high heels and pearls. Heaven forbid they should wear a pair of slacks. Were they afraid the washer repairman would think badly of them if they dressed like normal people?

And the kids on those television shows! They just weren't normal. When they got caught doing something bad they confessed and sometimes even came up with their own punishment. If I left that up to my kids, their punishment would be confinement to their rooms. Of course, their rooms were decked out with a color TV, video games, telephone, and stereo. I'd want to be banished to their rooms.

Have you ever noticed how, when your children are very small, you're the best, you're the one who knows how to fix a boo-boo with just a kiss. They're convinced I could sew a limb back on with a piece of string and a straightened-out fish hook if need be

Ṫhey hit the pre-teen years and began to wonder about us when they discovered we couldn't help them with their homework anymore. When did math get so hard?

Then came the dreaded teen years. Since teens know it all, why shouldn't they share that knowledge with the world? There is nothing you can tell a teen that he or she won't disagree with and go to great lengths to prove you wrong.

To take my mind off surly teens, I tried a few of the tips from the book my friend Erma lent me called "Joining the Sexual Revolution, It's Not for Sissies" by Ima Fox.

When David walked through the door after work, I had supper on the table, and his pipe and slippers next to his favorite chair. I would have tried bribing the children to disappear to their rooms if they hadn't beat it there before we finished eating.

Alone, at last, I attempted to put his slippers on his feet.

"What are you doing?" he eyed me suspiciously.

"I'm bringing you your pipe, and slippers. And see, I have your newspaper folded to the sports section." I tried again to get his slippers on.

"What did you do?" David asked, still suspicious. "What do you mean?" I asked innocently. "What's with the Donna Reed routine?"

"Nothing. I'm just trying to be a good wife," I smiled.

"Have you been nipping the vanilla again?"

Can we go back to the carefree, pre-kids, good old days of the Stones, the Nelsons, or the Cleavers?