My kids are going to be raised differently than other kids. Unlike most kids these days, my kids are going to play outside. My kids won’t spend all their time inside playing video games. If my kids want to race, they’ll have to do it on bikes in the street, like my first love Brett used to, swerving in and out of traffic during rush hour, narrowly avoiding death’s cold embrace.
Just like we did in the good ol’ days.
My kids won’t be getting a cell phone, either. Kids these days are always staring at screens. It’s not good for them. If my kids need to contact someone – much like I did, when on that winding mountain road many years ago Brett tried to show me a trick on his motorcycle but skidded off the shoulder and fell over the edge – they’ll just have to scream for help for hours and hours until their throat is raw, just like I had to.
My kids will know how to cook for themselves. Not only that, my kids will also know where their food comes from. Just like Brett, my kids will learn how to rear a calf, raise her, protect her from the severe Michigan winters, become emotionally dependent upon her, love her unconditionally, and when the time comes, slaughter her in the dead of night, skin her hide, butcher her meat, and sear it to perfection.
My kids are going to love music. Brett and I sure did. But kids don’t listen to music the right way anymore. If my kids have a lick of sense, they’ll listen to music the way Brett and I did: live. At concerts. With our heads right up against the speakers. The cacophony of noise blowing out our eardrums, deafening us to the horrible shrieks of the increasingly violent mosh pit as it starts to surround us. Those truly were the days.
My kids won’t have soft little baby hands, not even if they’re babies. My kids will have calloused hands and blistered fingers like Brett did, when his parents, to punish him, locked him out of the house for days at a time in the middle of winter, forcing him to scavenge for food in the woods behind their house. Tough skin means a tough mind, and nothing toughens the skin like crawling through a cold, dark forest in search of something the vultures haven’t already devoured.
If my kids want a dog, I’ll get them a dog. But not one of those prissy little dogs. My kids are going to get a big dog – a dog as big as Brett’s. Brett’s dog Horsie was as big as a horse, with four long legs, paws as hard as hooves, and a tail that swished from side to side, like a horse’s. Horsie was a great and hard-working dog, and even went on to work at a factory making glue.
Brett once said that social media turns kids’ brains to mush. I can’t say I disagree. But social media turns adults’ brains to mush, too. There are parents out there with truly wacky ideas about how they’re going to raise their kids.
My kids won’t be hanging out with those kids.
