THE SONIC BOOMER
I don’t think that parents in their 30s and 40s realize how imperative it is to keep their kids’ grandparents in the loop. It’s not just that we like seeing the kids, it’s that we need their interaction to keep from being sucked into the mindless oblivion of boring and routine.
For instance, without my grandchildren, I would have no idea how to use the word “cringe.” Cringe used to be a verb. Now, it’s a noun. For instance, an ugly car is cringe. What you want to be driving is a car that is “sick,” “fire” or “dope.”
Without my grandchildren, I wouldn’t know how to scan the QR codes (displayed on their science fair projects) that explains them in detail. I wouldn’t be able to get into the fair’s parking garage for free using a similar code. And I certainly wouldn’t be invited to attend the awards ceremony to witness my “skibidi” (cool) grandson win a silver ribbon and my “preppy” (now meaning sparkles and flair) granddaughter win blue.
When they’re not around, I feel myself slipping away. I get comfortable paying bills by check and reading newspapers that rustle comfortingly in my hand. I go to restaurants where the cashiers accept real money and know how to count my change back without referring to the cash register screen for a hint. Which reminds me…
Last night at the grocery store, the clerk asked me how much change I should get. But when I tried to explain how I figured it out, she tossed back her pink and orange hair, arched her tattooed neck, fidgeted with her nose ring and willed me to go away — quickly, before anyone noticed that she didn’t know or care about her job. I guess it was my own fault for paying $4.31 in cash.
At first, I thought children’s sports couldn’t have changed much over the years, but then I went to a few games. I was happy to see the additional protective gear for football, but lacrosse? It looked like the Michelin Man was playing. Skibidi’s mother told me she got the helmet for $70 — used! It looked like something the Jetsons would have worn to soar through space at 200 mph. And the kid still came home bruised.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to see head protection. I’m happy to see scientific advancements. And I’m happy to be included. But I do go home, often shaking my head in awe and wonder. How did I fall so far behind? And seemingly overnight?
And, because I’m a futurist only as far as the “art of worry” goes, I worry that soon my daughter will be following me into the abyss.
Later, when they have children of their own, my grandchildren will fall out of the loop.
And so it goes — generation after generation making their forebears feel ancient before their time. In fact (probably by this summer), no one will be describing things as sick, fire or dope anymore. Do it and you will be cringe. Or “ick,” which is even worse.
