Parental Guidance, Then and Now

Earl Fowler

I was maybe 10. He was 15 and would soon be growing his hair long and greasy as a peace-and-love hippie, travelling to Afghanistan and trafficking in hash, returning jaundiced with hepatitis and plucking the strings of the old family Gibson to create Dylan-inspired but utterly abominable songs with titles like “Chocolates for Christmas on a Sunday Afternoon.”

Lived across our suburban street. And when he was 15, he was still in the “Bungalow Bill” phase to which he would later return — post phony hippie interregnum — meaning he took enormous enjoyment in shooting gophers and magpies and white-tailed deer and coyotes and pretty much anything that moved.

Even put some BBs into the calf of my best friend when he spotted us out on the prairie one day beyond the edge of town. The neighbourhood kid omertà remained intact and he was never reported or rebuked.

So I’m 10 and he’s 15. He’s on top of me in our front yard, holding my skinny arms down with his fists wrapped around my wrists and dangling a living snake’s face (I am not making this up) into my face by loosely biting the snake’s tail and relying on gravity to do the rest. I squirm. The snake squirms.

My mom notices from the front window and comes out to see what’s going on. She’s relieved to see that it’s just a garter snake rather than, say, a rattler. She gently mentions to the Great White Hunter that OK, that’s enough.

The bully, not yet influenced by the Joan Baez and Bob Dylan LPs that were just about to make the scene, lets me up but bitterly accuses my mom, after she has gone back into the house, of being “overprotective.”

I didn’t know the meaning of the word. But I think I do now. For the incident I just described is from a time long ago in a galaxy far, far away called the mid-20th century, when men were men and women drank Coke with ice cubes and children were allowed to roam free like feral cats with bicycles.

If you, too, have roots in that lost civilization, you’ll remember a time when helmets were for astronauts, sunscreen (sorry, make that suntan lotion) was an optional suggestion for only the hottest, sunniest days at the beach (remember the Coppertone dog pulling down the little girl’s shorts?), and seatbelts were as mythical as unicorns or mermaids.

Welcome to parenting in the 1950s and ’60s — an era when the only parental GPS system was yelling your kid’s name out the front door at dusk.

Fast-forward to today, and you’ll find parents with baby monitors, nanny cams, GPS trackers and more anxiety than Trump administration officials during TV interviews in which they obviously have no idea what that erratic nincompoop will do in the next 15 minutes. We’ve gone from “Be home when the streetlights come on” to “Please share your location every 15 minutes, honey, and text me when you blink.”

Meet the parents, from free-range to flight control.

Outdoor Play: Then vs. Now

1950s Mom: “Go outside and don’t come back until you’ve either broken a limb or learned a life lesson.”

Modern Mom: “Let me just apply SPF 70, pack a nut-free organic snack, strap on your knee pads, elbow pads and helmet. Wait — did you download the mindfulness app?”

Back in the day, kids played in abandoned lots filled with broken glass, rusty nails and tetanus opportunities galore. Today’s kids have curated “playdates” scheduled via Google Calendar, complete with themed activities, hand sanitizer stations and adult supervision so intense it could qualify for FBI training under the crazed gaze of Kash Patel.

It’s not like we walked two miles to school everyday in minus 30 or 40 because we enjoyed it. It’s just what we did. Our scarves would eventually thaw and the feeling would return to our fingers. And we were 20 or 30 pounds lighter than today’s chaperoned marshmallows because of those journeys, even though our luncheons consisted of boiled wieners and Lipton Cup-a-Soup.

And for the record part I: Sports and all forms of play were way more fun when we made up our own rules and adults didn’t interfere. Thinking creatively and negotiating compromises, without being told what to do, helped us grow up into the fine specimens we are today. Unless, of course, you wound up on your back with some jackass dangling a snake over your face.

Meals and Snacks:

1950s Lunchbox: Bologna sandwich on Wonder Bread, a Twinkie and a can of Tab.

2020s Lunchbox: Free-range turkey pinwheels on gluten-free wraps, organic baby carrots, hummus, a note that says “You are special,” and a quinoa-powered juice box infused with electrolytes and possibly unicorn tears.

The only thing the 1950s parent asked about food allergies was, “You allergic to hard work?”

Today’s parents read ingredient lists like they’re decoding nuclear launch codes.

Discipline:

1950s Discipline: A stern look, a paddle or being chased with a wooden spoon wielded like it was a medieval weapon of justice in the Tower of London. I remember my mom breaking the spoon over my hip by the time I was 12 or so and both of us dissolving into laughter at how ridiculous it was. Now, that was parenting.

Modern Discipline: “We don’t say ‘no,’ we redirect their emotional energy toward more affirming behaviour by using a talking stick and a feelings chart.”

In the past, “because I said so” was the end of a discussion. Today, parenting books suggest turning every misbehaviour into a TED Talk on emotional intelligence.

School Involvement:

1950s Parent: “You got a C? Where’s that stick?”

Today’s Parent: “I’ve written a three-page email to the teacher, met with the principal, and started a Change.org petition to have the curriculum modified. Also, I’m now PTA president.”

Back then, your parents only went to school if you were bleeding,  graduating or going to jail. Now, they’re on first-name terms with the math teacher, the janitor, the nurse and three assistant principals.

Technology and Safety:

1950s parents had two child-monitoring tools: the family dog and vague intuition. If they didn’t hear blood-curdling screams, everything was probably fine. Care for another Rob Roy or a Brandy Alexander?

Today’s parents have baby monitors with night vision, carbon monoxide detectors that sync to their Apple Watches, and a Roomba with toddler-tracking software.

Even playgrounds have changed. The old metal jungle gyms were forged from steel and the dreams of orthopaedic surgeons. If you survived a fall, all the other kids would be signing your cast the next day. Now we have rubberized surfaces, safety rails, and legal waivers to sign before your kids can even climb the slide.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more embarrassed than the time we went to see our six-year-old grandson play baseball and our daughter decided to stand behind him at shortstop to help out in case a hit got past him. The umpire and the coaches were too distraught to say anything, but for the love of Pete Rose: There’s no pacifying in baseball.

And for the record part II: The kid didn’t have a hit or make a play all season, but there’s a bespoke baseball card of him on the fridge nicer than anything Babe Ruth or Satchel Paige ever received in their lifetimes. I love my grandson with all my heart, but what kind of monster are we creating here?

In Conclusion:

While the 1950s parenting model might appear laid-back to the point of parental negligence (and maybe a tad smoke-filled, since smoking near a child wasn’t a crime — it was parenting ambience), the current style borders on full-blown mind control, indoctrination, inculcation.

We’ve traded scraped knees and life skills for bubble wrap and anxiety apps. No wonder so many young men, upon graduation, are afraid to leave their rooms and the warm embrace of online porn, video games and TikTok fascism. Perhaps that’s better, though, than creating another generation of arrogant baby boomer types who considered the world their oyster and proceeded to grill the crap out of it.

So is one parenting style better than the other? Maybe it’s not about choosing between feral independence and full-scale surveillance. Maybe the key lies somewhere in the middle: give them freedom, but with a helmet. Let them explore, but maybe don’t let them eat glue.

And if all else fails, hide the drone and go yell their name out the front door — just for old times’ sake. As the sort of micro-aggression in which parents are allowed to indulge even in these enlightened times, include their middle name. Kids still hate that.