July 13, 2009
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It's hard to remain cool as a parent
The Family Guy It's the “cool parents” whose kids end up in juvey by the time their old enough for long division and gleefully lead all the other kids down the road to ruin before they're able to drive 'em to the liquor stores armed with fake IDs. Corey Haim's parents were that kind of cool … or maybe it was Corey Feldman's. Well, it was one of the Coreys. I'm not aiming for that kind of cool: The parent who lets underage kids hang out at their house and drink, but only if they promise to surrender their keys; or the kind that doesn't give a curfew and instead trusts that their kids will “use their best judgment.” Nope. I've been looking forward to being strict and mean for too long to do that. Besides, truly cool parents wouldn't be wickedly amused by the look of horror creeping across the face of their children when said parents bust out with an off-key rendition of Tim McGraw's classic country hit “Indian Outlaw.” Sung at full throat in a packed Pizza Hut, this can actually make a pre-teen spontaneously combust. And I speak from experience. Rather than “cool” as another word for “laidback” or “lenient,” I always thought when hormones took hostage of common sense and intelligence, I'd be able to relate to my child with a sort of been-there, done-that, here's-the-power-ballad-to-get-you-through-it attitude. I basically envisioned myself as intellectually and pop-culturally cool. After all, I've read Nietzsche. I know what nihilism means. I can quote Anne Sexton – “My poems may hurt the dead, but the dead belong to me.” - and Dawson's Creek – “It hurts so much, sometimes I can't sit still.” - in equal measure, proving I'm in touch with my angry/morose feminine side. I can defend the value of Southern literature – anyone wanna read a Midwestern gothic novel? I thought not. I can explain the subtle differences between English punk, i.e. The Clash and Sex Pistols, vs. that of American hardcore featuring the likes of Black Flag, Dead Kennedys and Minor Threat. I've been wearing Converse All-Stars since they were sold in TG&Y. And I wear Iron Maiden T-shirts, not because they're tongue-and-cheek retro, but because I spent my family's tax refund on a trip on New York City to see the greatest metal band ever play a concert at Madison Square Garden and bought the T-shirt to prove it. OK, so maybe that last part didn't exactly make the best argument. Still, when it came to parenting a “tweener,” I thought I could at least speak the language. I'm dope. I'm down wit' it. I know how to chill and get crunk or whatever catch phrase the kids are using these days. Oddly enough, that's the only response I get when trying to have an honest conversation with my budding misanthrope, whom I've playfully nicknamed The Diva. “Whatever,” she says with an infuriating roll of the eyes. “You wouldn't understand.” “Oh, but I would,” I plead in return, surprised at the sound of my own voice. “If you'd only talk to me, you might find out that I've been through some of the exact same things.” Then I meander through pointless stories about being angry at my mother and the series of broken hearts that have taught me “valuable life lessons.” I spout off about the pains of youth and the war between what my body wants and what the locks on my bedroom window will allow. And after a long silent pause, I looked over at The Diva expecting to see her staring back in awe at the depth of my understanding only to find that she had long since popped in the headphones of her iPod and hadn't heard a thing I'd said. So I did what any truly cool parent would – snatched those things out of her ears and started all over again. She may not listen, but at least she'd hear me out. Brett Buckner is an award-winning former columnist for the Anniston Star. He lives in Columbus, Ga. with his wife, daughter and stepdaughter. His humor column appears regularly in The Post. Contract Brett at brett.buckner@yahoo.com. |