“In the photograph I’m shown wearing a diaper and that’s about it. My older sister is topless as well. I’m about two years old and holding a lit Fourth of July sparkler. I vaguely remember burning my hand and having my grandmother stick it in her gin and tonic to cool it down.” – college classmate
The other night in my gender and sexuality class, students were sharing stories about their youth. The gist of the conversation was the Grand Canyon-sized gap between parenting decades ago and now. Today children are bubble-wrapped in safety requirements imposed by government regulations and nervous parents. To illustrate, one person shared that recently her sister freaked out when she realized her child had been given room-temperature milk. “You let her drink that milk? How long had it been sitting out? Do you think we should take her to the hospital?” The person’s point was that her sister had not exactly been engaged with her child until the milk incident, and then suddenly turned into super-tiger mom. The same person related that when she was a child she had a hand full of sparkler, or pop-bottle rocket sticks, in her hand. As she was running around in glee, she tripped and the sticks went up her nose. Her parents were reluctant to leave the Fourth of July festivities, so rather than going to an emergency room they took her to a local IGA grocery store to find something that might stop the bleeding. “All I remember is walking through the aisles with a huge wad of Kleenex pressed against my face and blood dripping everywhere.”
It’s not funny, but it is, because it is so relatable from my childhood upbringing. I remember it as a time when safety was a word used in conjunction to pins, and not children. Car seats for kids? Never heard of such a thing in my day. Depending on the vehicle in use we crawled all over the place. On those “had to behave or a parent was coming back there drives,” my two older brothers kept me locked in place by jamming their elbows into my ribs on a frequent basis. (I was always made to sit between them. As the middle child I hadn’t earned a window seat.)
There are literally times I wonder how we survived childhood intact. We never told our mom when, or where, we were building hay forts. It would have been so easy to get buried under the stacks of bales and not found until ??? Another memory recalls a summer afternoon when my younger brother and I decided to try jousting on our bikes. We each selected a long, fairly thick, tree branch and started riding towards each other. Luckily one of us—I can’t remember who—wasn’t strong enough to hold the branch out in front and pedal on the gravel road at the same time. I shudder to think what would have happened had we managed to reach each other. Call me an alarmist, but something bad probably comes from skewering each other. My mom and dad mostly took a, “Meh. They’ll learn,” approach. In an odd way, their attitude made me stronger. Every little scrape or tumble wasn’t the end of the world. I wasn’t so precious that I needed to be sheltered from any and all possible hurt. In fact, growing up with three brothers meant I did my dog-gone best not to cry if injured. The teasing was worse than the nail stuck in my foot, or the misaimed rock hitting my head. (At least my brothers said they were trying to miss me. Hmmm…)
I’m not exactly slamming today’s isolative climate, but do wonder if we are protecting our children so completely that they won’t know how to handle life’s bumps as they mature. It just occurred to me that early overprotectiveness might be a reason why we have so many lawsuits going. There is an atmosphere of entitlement. We deserve to be free from any pain…even if the pain is self-inflicted…like spilling a cup of hot coffee in one’s lap and then suing because McDonald’s didn’t specifically say hot coffee could cause burns. Really? Really? Give me a break.
If you have any childhood stories about either being over or under-protected, I’d love to hear them. Maybe we’ll learn something, and maybe we’ll just have a good chuckle at ourselves and cultural dictates. Joust, anyone?
Gail, we could talk farm stories until the cows come home. I have happy memories playing in the hay mow, using the old burn pit full of water as a swimming pool, and playing on machinery and in the barn. The room temperature milk made me smile- I ate my fair share of dog food, and I feel like if one could survive that, one could survive warm milk 🙂
Why did we both love dried dog food? That’s just weird, and I’ve known other people who said they ate it as kids, too. Did you ever break off a chunk of the white cattle salt lick? I remember carrying a shard of that around and licking it during the day. Farm life was good, and please keep the stories coming. They make me smile and nod in memory.
One more thing- my brother and I were talking before we left about some legislature that was trying to be pushed through regarding age limits for farm help and needing to determine a competency beforehand to prevent accidents. I don’t remember much of the details, but we did have a lengthly discussion on how something like that would affect Paul’s children should he choose to have them. I couldn’t imagine having your own child injured or killed in a farm accident (and I’m sure you and I both can think of plenty of moments when angels were watching out for us). On top of that, should legislation be pushed through that isn’t worded properly, what if you’re held liable for that accidental injury or death? Oooh, I shudder at that!
Hey Amanda,
It is a tricky situation. From my view point–that as a former farm child–I liked that I was part of the family work ethic. It was hard work picking rocks from the fields, cutting and hauling wood for the winter months ahead, and spending endless hot summer days putting up hay.
Guardian Angels were present many times, but from those accidents and near misses I learned how to be responsible. I could drive a tractor when my feet could barely reach the clutch and gas pedals. Most farm kids I knew were driving cars and trucks long before they were old enough to get their permits. That was life on the farm. But so was learning to plan. You had to work hard in the summer to make it through the winter. Each of us, in our own way and with our own abilities, kept the family going strong.
I understand that abuses do exist. Part of the problem is the migrant farmers and their children. It can be easy to take advantage of them to keep prices down and profits in the black. One of the news reports I heard addressed the migrant issue, but the children the reporter spoke with said they were happy to help their family earn money. The reporter was aghast and said something like, “But what about playing instead of working?” The children, who were of various ages, said that could happen when they were in school. Working with their family in the fields made them feel part of something good, something solid and core-like, and helped them dream and plan for the future.
I hope our political system talks with, and listens to, the people they are trying to “protect.” I can’t imagine farm families like yours and mine forced to keep their children away from the land and what it means to tend it. Hard work is what built this country… along with free will and choices.