I wouldn't use the word "ingrate" or "pansy"--no, I wouldn't use those words exactly

 
“Like every respectable child of the psychoanalytic age, I want to take this opportunity to blame my parents.”—Shannon O’Keefe, It’s a Wonderful Lie
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We didn’t ask to be born—we didn’t choose to be here. We had amateur parents. And? After the earth shattering revelation that our parents aren’t omniscient or perfect, at what point do we move on?  I think that once you deem your parents fallible, you can no longer hold them responsible.

I am not a parent. I’m only an older sibling, and even from this vantage point I can say that parenthood is hard.  You’re trying to relate but remain in a position of authority, assuring the younger ones that they will come out on the other side while attempting to remember what it felt like when it was you in the thick of it—the unending madness (both the anger and the crazy) of growing up. And it wasn’t even that long ago for me. Add to that the rapid rate of societal shifts and cultural transformation, and we have a damn-near complete breakdown in communication. Adults and young, not-quite-yet adults (children) are foreigners to each other; the cliché of “speaking a different language” is as close as it’s ever been to a literal interpretation. Try to hack into a son/daughter/sister/brother/niece/nephew/godchild’s laptop or phone and you may not understand what you find there anyway. Teachers face some of the same problems—how to prepare YAs for a future of challenges that don’t even exist yet.  Now, more than ever, children are validated in their complaints of “you don’t understand.” 

Fine, I can accept that, but I need them to accept this: THIS IS LIFE. And while I may not be savvy on the techniques of cyber-bullying or the peer pressure du jour, I’ve got more experience living than you. This is not me implementing some sort of hierarchy. I don’t believe in those, and we don’t need them. This is me simply saying that if I survived the paranoia, neurosis, insecurity, etc. etc. etc. of growing up (and still, from time to time, find my way through those obstacles as a "grown-up"), just maybe  word or two of what I have to say is worth listening to. The helicopter parenting only makes matters worse, it seems; the longer a parent hangs around, the more they can take the blame. My mom didn't wake me up…My dad forgot to write the check…blah, blah, blah cry me a river.

My dad used to tell this anecdote (I didn’t realize it was one at the time; I just thought it was a joke).  It went something like this:

Two friends are walking, when a bunch of guys approach and try to jump them (he’s not one for exposition, my dad). One friend turns to the other and tells him to run.

“Naw man!” he says, “I’m not a punk!”

So the one friend stays to fight the gang of guys, while the other runs away. When they see each other later, the tough guy friend is battered, bruised and pissed.

“How you just gonna leave me like that?!”

“I told you to run…”

“Man, I wasn’t about to run from those guys. You should’ve stayed to fight.”

“Well, my fault. You’re problem.”

I used to think, damn that’s cold. Not anymore. Regardless of where we put the blame, the onus is on us to find a remedy or coping mechanism.  So if your stage-mom is the reason you hate theater, or your overbearing coach-dad is to thank for the reason you avoid all sports like the plague, or any other person has ever hurt you or made you feel uncertain of yourself...Okay. It happened, and it sucks and we are affected. I honor that. I acknowledge that, but-- their fault, our problem. Now what?

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“Resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die.”—Malachy McCourt

**The image in this post is the result of a google image search for "Teen Angst". I think it's pretty hilarious**