There are times when I have to fight off some thinking that might be considered old-school, at least compared to “kids these days.” I mean, I actually got married before online dating. Can you believe we didn’t stage a “surprise” must-see, viral video production for our first dance at our wedding? Never mind that my husband failed to rally the entire town to flash mob me as he asked me to be his wife. Lame! I mean, I’m so out of touch that I’ve never had the pleasure of receiving a Captain Morgan crotch shot after “winking” at a hot guy’s online dating profile. And I won’t ever get the chance to break up with someone by text or Snapchat.
I remember rolling my eyes as a kid when my parents would admonish my sister and me with, “Back in our day…” to illustrate how “easy” they thought we had it. Their threats that my eyes would “stay that way” did not pan out. But now I live in a world filled with so many people seeking fame for every, minor right-of-passage that, in reality, I do feel permanently cross-eyed.
Looking at the way people treat their life milestones now, you’d think I grew up on a remote, back-country lot without electricity. When my husband and I learned we were expecting for the first time – a whole 15 years ago – we actually used the phone to give our closest friends and family members the news. Other people picked up on the news when they noticed I’d stopped downing cocktails. And while ultrasounds and amniocentesis revealing a baby’s sex are WAAAAAY older than I am, it’s hard to believe I “revealed” each of our children’s sexes when the doctor announced, “It’s a boy!” after said male exited my womb.
How could we not have known to purchase a massive box of helium balloons in blue halfway through each pregnancy and host an intimate dessert party for 40 of our closest friends, complete with a Facebook Live broadcast of the box opening?
Enough already! Make. It. Stop.
Or at least slow it down. Get over yourselves, people. Stop trying to make life larger than it is. You’re setting yourself up for disappointment. By the time these over-the-top new parents have kids in high school, “gender reveal” upstaging will be more competitive than the Promposal scene, which my high school Freshman has to start preparing for already. Pink-infused exhaust fumes and will not be enough. No, there will be parties, with surprise tattoos. You’ll read about the sex of your own grandchildren as you rub Aquaphor® on the Inked Script words tattooed on your forearm. When Luci makes her way to the top of the preschool waiting list, you’ll receive push-notifications that flights are filling fast for aerial message flyovers announcing her school choice.
Dial it back, people. Turn down the spotlight and live in the moment once in a while. You might find you enjoy it as much as we underachievers did.
