So what if I'm stuck?

Note:  While working on the book project, I've been going through some old columns I wrote while I did the ten year column writing gig.  This was written when my kids were a good bit younger, but they definitely still subscribe to that "don't get her started" philosophy if they think I might step into the wayback machine and start telling stories. 

 

My kids, in no effort to help bridge any generation gap, continually tell me that I am stuck in the 70s.  I suppose there are worse decades I could be accused of being stuck in and, for some reason, the 80s come to mind.  Thinking back on big hair and neon colors, I really don’t think that 70s were so bad.  I am not saying I would trade in my off-white appliances for ones in a lovely shade of avocado green, but they were good times.   

The offspring were certain I had completely lost my mind when I spent a day watching VH-1’s “I Love the 70s.”  I think the children subscribe to a “don’t get them started” philosophy.  If there is the slightest chance my husband and I will start reminiscing about our childhoods, they volunteer to clean their bedrooms.  

Some things remain unexplainable to our boys when we start talking about the things we used to watch on TV or toys we had.  If my husband or I quote commercials like, “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down,” or “Two all beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onion on a sesame seed bun…Big Mac,” our kids look at us like we have just landed from a different planet sporting three heads with purple tentacles.  “Ancient Chinese secret” not only incites eye rolling, but threats to check us into the nearest mental facility.  

An impression of Mork from Ork goes completely over their heads.  The fact that I had a crush on Henry Winkler as the Fonz makes them laugh so hard they nearly wet their pants.  “What you talking ‘bout, Willis?” does not amuse them.  They don’t care that I may have never learned about adjectives, conjunctions, interjections, and gravity without “Schoolhouse Rock.”  

“Let me get this straight,” they laugh.  “Wonder Woman had an invisible plane, a lasso that could make people tell the truth, and she was cool?”  I haven’t even bothered telling them about Shazam and Isis from two of my favorite Saturday morning shows.  I doubt they would be impressed that wristbands could deflect bullets, or that we didn’t question seeing strings when the scenes required the characters to fly.   

They don’t revel in my stories, let out a sigh, and reflect on the good old days when I talk about my riding Inch Worm, my favorite mode of transportation when I was four years old.  In fact, when I talk about its yellow seat and wheels, my kids roll their eyes and wonder how I could ride a plastic worm of all things.  It embarrasses them, and they weren’t even born.   

They don’t know a thing about a leaking Stretch Armstrong, or who Evel Knievel is.  I can ramble on and on about the Baby Alive that ate food and soiled diapers.  They really couldn’t care less that I loved my Growin’ Up Skipper doll because with a crank of the arm, she grew taller and more womanly.  My dolls are the last thing they want to hear about, even the Suntan Jodi that tanned under a living room lamp, and went from blonde to brunette with a twist of the scalp.   

That isn’t to say that some things haven’t transcended the generations.  They had a Sit n Spin.  By the time my younger sibling got a Slip n Slide, I was too big to use it, but my children had one.  Bicycles remain standard issue for kids despite that ours sported banana seats, orange flags, baskets, and huge handlebars.   

There are events and things my kids experience that bear similarity to their parents’ childhoods.  I am afraid there are things my kids will never get, though:  telephones with cords, pen pals from Big Blue Marble, “fill ‘er up with regular,” Captain Kangaroo, a K-tel played on a turntable,  after school specials, Judy Blume, Colorforms, black and white television, 8 tracks, and why it was shocking that Mikey liked it.   

Aside from polyester and harvest gold, I have to say if they are right, and that I am trapped in times past, the 70s isn’t a bad decade in which to be stuck.   

 

 

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