The Best Kept Secret Blog - Talking 'Bout My Generation (I Just Wish Someone Would Listen)

Imagine a comic strip. Or a greeting card, perhaps.

On it you see a crude drawing of a dog and his owner, standing in the garden. The caption along the top reads, "What You Say and What Your Dog Hears".

A voice bubble protrudes from the owner's mouth. She is admonishing the dog. "Now Rusty," she scolds, "don't go pee pee on Mommy's flower patch again!".

A thought bubble hovers above the dog whose head is caulked while he gazes quizzically at his owner. What does the dog really hear when his owner speaks these words?

"Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah"

I am that owner and my children are that dog. No, they're not peeing on the roses (at least not as far as I'm aware) but there is some serious miscommunication going on and I think it's thanks to the Generation Gap.

The last time I even thought of that phrase was more than thirty five years ago when I was firmly on the other side of the divide.

My father, a kinder, gentler version of Archie Bunker was mistrustful of all things "hippie". Anytime a teenage boy with hair past his ears walked by our house, my father would mutter to no one in particular, "Look at that hippie. He'll never get a job."

He was terrified of "the drug scene" and had me convinced that pushers would offer me LSD-laced chocolate bars on the playground at recess until I became hooked (which apparently would happen after just one CaraMilk). The story ended with me on a bad trip, believing I could fly and jumping off a balcony from the 20th floor of an apartment building.

He thought "Guess Who's Coming To Dinner" and actresses showing cleavage were pushing the envelope and he simply didn't know what to make of my mother who was in the throes of "Trudeau mania".

I thought his ranting was all a bit much. He obviously didn't get it and I politely tuned out whenever he had something to say. I was never disrespectful, but as far as I was concerned, it was all, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah"

Fast forward to present day where I am the parent of a daughter who is teetering in the no-mans land between sweet, innocent girl child and rebellious lip-piercing teen. Sadly for me, I am learning what goes around, comes around.

This past weekend found me in Future Shop, being talked into buying some latest and greatest electronic gizmo for my eldest daughter.

I think our home is already wired enough. On a recent family ski excursion, the four of us set out for the day with no less than five devices that needed to be plugged in and charged. This was for a one hour ride on the way to the slopes.

As my daughter and husband debated the merits of the "basic" versus "ultra-demanding on the power grid" packages, I couldn't keep myself from saying, "Honey, do you really think this will be fun? Wouldn't you rather get a craft kit? Or maybe a new book from the library?"

My daughter paused briefly, looked at me like I was speaking Swahili, and continued the discourse with her dad.

I tried again.

"In my day, we played after school. We'd ride our bikes, or talk with our friends. We had loads of fun without all this stuff."

Her look was long-suffering. Her words were respectful, "It's different now, Mom." But in her mind, I know she was thinking, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

And it was in that moment that I realized I was broadcasting from the far side of the great generational divide.

Now I've got to tell you, the experience left me with a whole bag of emotions.

First off, it made me feel very, very old. Hey, I'm a part of the Baby Boomer generation. We're not dictated to by standards, we set the standards. Don't we? But suddenly I realized that not only was my knowledge of the technological scene about as outdated as a blue polyester leisure suit, I was pretty limited in most other areas of current pop culture as well.

I fleetingly thought I could bone-up on the current trends of the day - a last, desperate gasp to be hip and in the know. But just the thought of the hours I'd have to invest in front of MTV, YouTube and reality shows wearied me to the bone and I had to sit down.

The whole experience left me feeling like I wanted to be with my own kind. I needed a glass of red wine, The Beatles in the background and a good session with my friends.

They'd commiserate and make me feel good. Heck, after two glasses of wine, we'd be sharing stories of stuffing our bras, debating who was cuter, Starsky or Hutch, and reminiscing about where we were when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.

A lot has been said about the difficulty of being in the "sandwich generation". And I don't deny that on days like last Sunday, dealing with the younger generation is quite the trial. But I'm happy to report that I discovered some relief from the other half of the "sandwich" after my daughter had gone to bed.

My mother-in-law called to see how we were and when I relayed the details of our trip to the store, she launched into a monologue about the "right" way to raise children. I sat back and smiled because all I could hear was, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

Dang it feels good to be back on the other side.