I’m chatting with my mom when I find myself reflecting on parenting. “You know, I think every generation of parents believes their kids are spoiled rotten.” I mention this because my daughter has never experienced what real yelling feels like—full-on, eyes-bulging, glass-shattering chaos. To her, a stern tone is a major freak-out. This kid has no idea just how fortunate she is, which is what I tell my mom. We both chuckle at the thought.
My mom remembers vividly how she used to chase me around with a wooden spoon, and how I would sometimes hide it before she could catch me. There’s nothing quite like the satisfaction of watching your furious mom stomp to the kitchen drawer, only to find it empty because I’d outsmarted her. I, on the other hand, can still taste the Tabasco sauce punishment from my childhood—sitting in the bathroom, praying for relief as my taste buds burned. My daughter thinks the worst punishment is me threatening to change the Wi-Fi password, which I did tonight. “Better shape up, or the internet is gone!” I warned her. The attitude was swiftly corrected.
From what I gather about the kind of discipline my parents faced from their parents—my grandparents—I was raised by relative softies. If you ask me, I had one strict parent and another who was a bit of a food-obsessed emotional rollercoaster. My dad grew up as one of seven in an Irish Catholic family, where his parents once chained him to a tree to teach him a lesson. Can you imagine? I recently saw someone on social media upset about a mother leaving her child unsupervised at a playground, and I couldn’t help but think, “There used to be kids chained to trees—chill out, Facebook friend!”
Meanwhile, my mom had to lift weights after school because her father thought she was getting too “thick.” She would sometimes pass out from exhaustion! I remember binging on Rice Krispies Treats cereal while glued to General Hospital all summer long. Now, my daughter spends countless hours juggling devices—tablets, Chromebooks, and even the TV. I hope that someday, this will make me look brilliant when she becomes a director or a comedian instead of just a couch potato with no direction, and I’m the one to blame.
It’s not that I want to chase my kid with a wooden spoon; rather, this parenthood journey of “breaking the cycle” is anything but glamorous. Kids have no idea what it takes to raise them, and they think you’re the monster in the story. No one mentions “expect zero validation” in parenting books, because that would be too real.
The best parent, it seems, is one who is childless. Nobody enters parenting out of pure selflessness; they either think they have all the answers their parents lacked or they just roll with the punches. Honestly, I’m not sure what hits harder first: the hormones or the arrogance.
Maybe your parents treated you like royalty, and you can’t relate to any of this. If that’s the case, bless you—you’re either incredibly lucky or from another planet!
As my mom and I giggle until we can barely breathe, we realize that perhaps I did have it pretty good. I mean, I wasn’t chained to a tree or forced to exercise until I passed out. My parents, with all their quirks, would have viewed any disappointment they expressed as a badge of honor. But with my own child, “I’m disappointed in you” feels like a thousand wooden spoons hitting me at once. She, like myself, has no clue how fortunate she is, which, I’m beginning to realize, is the whole point.