Dear friends,
I hate to be the one to tell you, but all that stuff last month
about "Oh, come let us adore 
Him,"
wasn’t about your kid.
It may not be my
place to comment on how other people rear their children, but in my head
I keep hearing the phrase "future leaders of America" and
figure that gives me standing. Besides, opinion columnists are supposed
to irk a few people now and then.
Ordinarily, I
don’t look too closely at the Christmas card photos our friends send
us because the miniature people in them look less like children and more
like those mannequins that Ralph Lauren is always pushing on us. But
this year all those shots stood out in stark contrast to the picture we
got from my friends Fran and Natalie, who have five little (and
medium-sized) ones.
Maybe because five
kids keep them a-hoppin, or maybe because they’re just genuine people,
their Christmas card showed kids who actually look like kids: Messy
hair, sweat pants, grass-stained jeans, floppy hats. I liked it.
Other than that
one and the few family shots which included parents, none of the other
pictures we got made it to our refrigerator door Louvre. First not to
make the cut were the photos were those of kids I haven’t met and, of
course, the baby pictures. I know parents of these infants think their
offspring look just like Mommy or Daddy, but for all I can tell, they
might have been switched at birth.
The next to be
tossed are the poses of an older brother gazing adorably upon his little
sibling. I wonder how many rolls of film and how big the bribe of
Nintendo cartridges it took to capture that one.
Right behind them,
out go the photos of children gazing out over an ocean or some such
place, as if they have some deep thoughts in their heads. If one of
those kids is a healthy red-blooded seven-year-old boy, what’s most
likely on his mind is either picking his nose or playing Nintendo. And
the heavy thought weighing on his sister is how much she hates her
brother for either picking his nose or hogging the Nintendo.
Most of my friends
say they want their kids to have a similar childhood to their own. And
yet they orchestrate the environment of their children in ways that
couldn’t be more different.
I was in
Starbuck’s the other day sitting next to a mother and her daughter,
who was about three. Mommy took the last sip of her grande mochaccino
soy decaf latte and said "Hurry up Ashley, or we’ll be late for
jumping class."
People are out
there being paid to teach children how to jump. Well, I suppose I had
jumping class when I was a kid , too. "Jump up and do the
dishes," or "Jump up and do your homework."
The bar for
parental bragging is a lot lower than it used to be. I was at a party a
while back and someone was going on about his kid getting 1400 on his
SAT’s. I had to bite my tongue. I had over 1400 on my SAT’s which,
in my family, qualifies just above being slow-witted. These things are
all relative and, in the end, largely irrelevant.
My sister and her
husband are academic types and deprived their children of both video
games and cable television. Their oldest graduates Dartmouth in the
spring and the next one starts Harvard in the fall. They've never put
any stickers on the car window. I don’t think I’ll mention where I
spent my five years of college.
Parental boasting
may come cheaper, but that’s about the only thing. We are far more
indulging and self-indulgent than our parents ever were, though not
necessarily more than our parents are as grandparents. A survey out this
week showed that Connecticut ranks first in per capita income but 26th
in charitable giving. Among people earning $100,000 - $200,000, this
state ranks 49th.
True, the numbers
are not adjusted for the higher costs here of housing and other
necessities, but it still is one indicator of how we Nutmeggers spend
our dough.
Another was the
story over Christmas of the family who paid to have snow manufactured on
their lawn so their kids would have a White Christmas. Or the numerous
anecdotes of parents blowing what is for some a week’s pay on the
hottest Beanie Babies or Pokemon paraphernalia.
And of course
there were a few greenbacks going to photographers for professional
Christmas card pictures. It doesn’t send a great message to the kids
themselves, but the shame of it is that the real charm of children lies
in a genuineness which can’t be captured in these photos. It’s just
posing, and these kids will have plenty of opportunity for that as
adults.
-end-
January 3, 2000