At the park the other day, I happened to glance up just as a dad and daughter walked past clutching walkie-talkies. Not the toy kind, but grownup walkie-talkies so neatly engineered that the child's fit cozily in her palm. The girl, who appeared to be about six, was dressed in a red twin set with oversized cat's-head buttons and her blond hair was drawn into a red scrunchy. Her dad wore a pinched expression and a suede baseball cap.
(snip)
Behold the most controlling, anxiety-ridden, over-involved generation of parents ever.
After the walkie-talkie episode, I took an informal poll of parents I know. At what age or stage of development can Mom or Dad go ahead and sit down, reasonably assured their little darlings will survive a solo whirl on the jungle gym? Instead of a hard-and-fast answer, what I got was the sense that we hover for numerous and complicated reasons. We fear school buses, babysitters, and sometimes even Grandma and Grandpa, who may not know any better than to let the baby cry a little on her way to sleep. We're scared adversity will scar our kids or, conversely, that they'll be bored--a condition that, left untreated, might turn them into school shooters.
But we also fear their independence. We're up there in the climber because we can't afford to miss a minute of face time, you see. We believe our physical presence is the linchpin to the children's emotional well-being and, although we never say so out loud, we want it that way--because it's central to our well-being. We're scared the kids will grow up to resent the fact that Mommy works, or--the biggest golem on the list--they just plain won't like us. And in an age of high divorce rates and transient communities, kids who don't like us suggest the possibility that we might really end up alone.
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