And that turned out to be right:
Gen-Xers were latchkey kids of divorce and benign neglect.
(One of my touchstone movie lines is the mom in River’s Edge, telling her son she doesn’t care if he smokes weed as long as it’s not from her stash. It’s on a continuum with “Smoke up, Johnny!” from The Breakfast Club.)
So dammit, no child of ours was gonna end up on a milk carton.
My generation, I’m deeply ashamed to say, are those helicopter parents who make their helmet-wearing, over-scheduled, chauffeured-everywhere kids take off label ADHD drugs but won’t let them near a peanut.
I honestly thought we’d be tougher. (See, “recession,” above.)
I thought we’d be less cowed and conformist.
I can’t believe Heathers jokes are now public policy. (*)
And while I expected us to make a couple of (ironic) movie versions of our favorite childhood crap when we finally got the chance, I didn’t think there’d be this many.
So sorry about that, too.