By DR. LARRY MOSES
No one asked me but… We are raising a nation of wimps. This thought came to me as I have been reading about children coming from South American countries and crossing the Mexican-American border into the United States. These are not American 7-18 year olds. Childhood in American has be extended to 26 years old even though 18 years can vote and join the military.
At seventy-five years of age, I have to believe my generation grew up quicker and were a hardier than the American of today.
We lived in homes where we were continually exposed to second hand smoke. We were put to sleep on our stomachs in cribs painted with lead-based paint. The paint may explain my lack of intellectual development. We had no childproof locks on medicine bottles, but if we touched the bottle, our bottoms would experience a pain, which would remind us not to ever touch a bottle like that again. Most things in those days were child proofed with a “butt-whacking,” something youngsters of today would never understand. I marvel at watching parents explain the hazards of things to two and three year olds. My parents usually explained those things with a “Just do as you are told or you will receive a “butt-whacking.” That I understood.
When it comes to transportation, the world has changed. I watch my kids as they buckle my grandkids in to a car seat large enough to be a throne for the King of England. The kids are restrained with so many straps, they look like Hannibal Lector.
I remember us seven kids along with mom and dad loading in to a two door 1949 Chevy. All I could see through this mass of humanity were kneecaps and armpits. I never had to worry about being in a seat belt; we were packed so tight, no one was moving. The best place to sit was on the shelf between the back seat and the rear window. If it were only you and dad in the car, you sat on the front bench seat next to him. Yes, kiddies, the front seat and there was only a metal dash to brake your fall. If you stopped short, dad’s arm shot out in front of you to keep you from bouncing your little noggin off the dash. Sometimes dad missed. That may well explain some of the thought processes I possess; or lack thereof.
Riding in the back of my dad’s pick-up wasn’t a crime; it was a fact of life. There was only room for three in the front and that was reserved for the adults. There were no extended or crew cabs in those days. We not only rode in the truck bed; we sat on the edge.
We often rode bicycles. In our family, there were two for the seven children to share. We didn’t each have one and we didn’t get a new one each time a new model was available. The first to the garage in the morning got the bikes. One was a girl’s bike and we boys would usually walk rather than ride a girl’s bike. We often rode double. If your friend came by, you hopped on his handlebars and off you went. How many remember catching your heels in the spokes? A helmet was unheard of.
When my grandkids ride, they wear a helmet, kneepads and elbow pads. Hockey goalies wear less protection. We played tackle football without the pads that these kids wear to simply ride a bike. You would think they were going to ride a bull, but then again, bull riders didn’t wear helmets in those days.
In the summers when we left home, the only adults we saw for the rest of the day were the ones who yelled “you kids get out of here and quit bothering us.” Adult supervision was not only not there; it was not wanted. We played baseball, football, and basketball without an adult official. The biggest, oldest, and toughest kids decided who was out and who was safe. In the process, we learned about pecking orders as well as self-defense. We learned to live with pain and disappointment. We also learned how to overcome both without feeling sorry for ourselves.
We had green-black walnut fights in the woods behind out house. We engaged in great dirt clod wars when new houses were built in the neighborhood. We bounced dirt clods, some with rocks in them, off each other’s heads. We indulged in B-B gun fights where it was illegal to shoot anyone above the shoulders. We fell out of trees and crashed homemade go-carts. We could always figure out how to make go-carts go. We were not always as good at figuring out how to make them stop.
When we arrived home injured, we worked hard to not let our parents know because then we would have to explain what had happened. When they found out, they did not sue anybody, but you would probably receive a “butt-whacking” to remind you not to do that again. Usually it reminded me to not to let my parents know I was doing that again.
I didn’t realize it at the time but I saw the beginning of the end of this childhood freedom and development when I was thirteen. Little League came to Des Moines, Iowa. It was the worst thing that ever happened to the development of young people. Suddenly every decision was made by an outside authority. Kids suddenly began to believe that you could not play a sport without a uniform or an adult around. The sandlot gave way to the manicured field.
Tackle football could not be played without hundreds of dollars worth of equipment. The pickup game became a thing of the past.
It evolved to a point that every child, no matter his/her ability, must be allowed to play. No child is ever told, as my father told me when I complained my older brother wouldn’t let me play, “Get better and then you can play. Now get out of here and stop whining or I will give you a butt-whacking and you will have something to cry about.”
Organized youth play was the beginning of the entitlement society we see today. Uniformed and organized may be prettier but it sure isn’t better.
Thought for the week….Old people are fond of giving advice; it consoles them for no longer being capable of setting a bad example.
Francois De La Rochefoucauld
