I'm an old fogey

Susan and I are officially uncool parents. For the first day of school we insisted that the two older kids where something relatively nice: long pants, shirt with collar, shoes, things of this nature. Compromises were made: the seven year old would not consent to anything like khakis, so – having ruled out sports pants – we settled on jeans, a bit frayed at the cuff but otherwise in reasonably good shape. Nobody would tuck a shirt in, of course, but we’re willing to be flexible. There was whining and fussing, but we told them that for the first day of school they should try to make a good impression, start the year on a positive note clothes-wise.

Well, it appears that the rest of the parent world does not agree. At the bus stop today was the usual assortment of gym shorts and tee shirts, with a sprinkling of girls in pretty dresses that our daughter (and needless to say our son) would never wear. Apparently, at least at our local school, the first day of school doesn’t come with quite the same baggage that it did in my childhood.

My uncoolness is revealed also in my attitude towards hairstyles and piercings. My 9-year-old daughter wants her hair green and spikey: I say no. My 7-year-old son wants an earring: I say no. To a great extent this is a generational issue. At 43, I’m a bit old to be the parent of a grade schooler. Many of my kids’ classmates have parents that are ten or even twenty (yikes!) years younger than me. My son’s 6-year-old friend Gaelin sports a mohawk and two earrings. His mother, Tigger (yes, Tigger) is about as old as my students, dresses punkish, and has a pierced lip.

So do I change my standards, go with the flow? I think not. The essence of uncool, after all, is the inability to change. Once you lose your cool, you can never get it back.