As Old as You Feel

Em, at 15, frequently raises a point in our conversations about permissions, outings, and parenting in general, especially if her views and ours are in conflict:

"You and mom are old!"

She's right, in its comparative sense. Em is a late-life baby and now, at 15, she has parents who are both 58. I am almost totally gray-headed, and Joyce is catching up (even though I call hers "silver"); we are clearly and delightfully, middle-aged. Her contemporaries at school, however, have parents at around mid-30s to early 40s. No gray. Much more youthful looking. Get the picture?

These parents are significantly more permissive than we are because they were raised on the near side of the '60s divide, while Joyce and I were raised in the '50's, and are thus "strict". Truth to tell, not especially strict (to us), but we ask questions about upcoming events that maybe these younger parents don't ask, and we feel free to put our foot down forcefully on some things, to Em's chagrin. Sometimes, it's because of economics, sometimes it's in the interest of simplicity of living. And sometimes, it is "no" because "no" is a really sensible answer.

"I'm the only one of class who doesn't have a cell phone!" Or a laptop. Blackberry, anyone? Even leaving out mid-teen hyperbole, she's probably right. We haven't wholeheartedly embraced the latest technology as a "must have," and this is part of the package of having "old" parents. Add to that our disapproval of CSI and ultra-violent rock videos, and you got stodgy with a capital "S".

Truthfully, I am delighted to have wisdom and experience on my side in child raising, instead of the endless energy of hormones and youth.

But sometimes, I feel very, very old. When I face the future Em may experience in terms of the environment, I feel like someone has stepped on my grave. And even though the '50s were not terribly safe (a 5-year-old girl was kidnapped, raped and murdered in my home town when I was 8; I still remember her name--Susan Cadieux; her murder was recently solved, but the perp had died long since.), this century and decade seems to feature a culture that tacitly goes along with exploitation of people, that, if you want to do something, "just do it." Without limits of any kind.

The film Forbidden Planet spoke of "monsters from the Id," or the instinctual level of human existence being released into our sphere of action, with dreadful results. There are times when I feel that way about life in 2006, as though metaphorically the Furies have been released. What kind of life will she have? Shakespeare was right to speak of "hostages to fortune".

But there are times when we oldies get it right, like when she really doesn't want to go to an event where "all my friends are going!" and we say no. Relief plays across her face and body like a wave on calm water. Or when we reach across the divide and meet, shake hands, even.

Nickelback was playing on Muchmusic the other week and she and Renee were supplying an acerbic commentary to the music of Kroeger and company. As one who intensely dislikes Nickelback's sound, I offered my 2 cents: "Nickelback's music is so dreary that I call it 'the soundtrack of hell!'" Em looked at me, eyes widening, a smile of ineffable joy on her face.

"Yes! That's right! Oh, thank you, dad! That's it!!" she blurted.

Take a bow, geezer man.