Nine Year-Old Kid
My daughter turns nine years old today, which is weird because I’m the same age I was when she was born.
Not!
It is true, though, that these last nine years have seen a lot more aging on her part than mine. I’ve only gone from 40 to 49; she’s gone from 0 to 14.
Having a nine year-old kid is something else; she’s enough of a grown-up to be able to do all kinds of things for herself, but enough of a teenager to refuse to do any of them.
I remember being nine years old pretty well; this was 4th grade, when Michelle Dupepe and Sally Perkins let me and Sandy Sherrard look at her dad’s Playboy magazines in exchange for dancing with them. Sort of a weird trade; and I wonder why our nine year-old minds wanted to look at centerfolds when we had real flesh-and-blood girls right in the room with us.
I can’t see my own kid making a deal like that at all; for one thing I don’t have a stash of Playboys and for another, the chances of her wanting to dance with some boys in her class are about the same as those of voluntarily cleaning her room: not a logical impossibility, but pretty much a physical one.
When I was nine, there were no personal computers, cell phones, internet, or cable TV. I wonder what ubiquitous new developments will have emerged by the time my kid’s 49: personal nanobots? Time travel? Feces-free pets?
To a nine year-old in 1966, the world of tomorrow promised jet-pack travel, cars that folded up into briefcases, robot maids, and dinner in a pill. To a nine year-old today, the future portends global warming, endless cycles of terrorism, global pandemics and the even more frightening prospect of another Bush in the White House.
So, I wouldn’t trade places with a nine year-old today; not unless those jet packs and robot maids show up soon.
Not!
It is true, though, that these last nine years have seen a lot more aging on her part than mine. I’ve only gone from 40 to 49; she’s gone from 0 to 14.
Having a nine year-old kid is something else; she’s enough of a grown-up to be able to do all kinds of things for herself, but enough of a teenager to refuse to do any of them.
I remember being nine years old pretty well; this was 4th grade, when Michelle Dupepe and Sally Perkins let me and Sandy Sherrard look at her dad’s Playboy magazines in exchange for dancing with them. Sort of a weird trade; and I wonder why our nine year-old minds wanted to look at centerfolds when we had real flesh-and-blood girls right in the room with us.
I can’t see my own kid making a deal like that at all; for one thing I don’t have a stash of Playboys and for another, the chances of her wanting to dance with some boys in her class are about the same as those of voluntarily cleaning her room: not a logical impossibility, but pretty much a physical one.
When I was nine, there were no personal computers, cell phones, internet, or cable TV. I wonder what ubiquitous new developments will have emerged by the time my kid’s 49: personal nanobots? Time travel? Feces-free pets?
To a nine year-old in 1966, the world of tomorrow promised jet-pack travel, cars that folded up into briefcases, robot maids, and dinner in a pill. To a nine year-old today, the future portends global warming, endless cycles of terrorism, global pandemics and the even more frightening prospect of another Bush in the White House.
So, I wouldn’t trade places with a nine year-old today; not unless those jet packs and robot maids show up soon.
posted by Professor Dave at 12:26 PM
1 Comments:
I hate you dad. This doesn't even make sense!
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