As the first expectant mother in our family lineage, I embarked on an enlightening journey from the moment I shared my pregnancy news. Those early weeks were a whirlwind of new knowledge about parenting—navigating diapers, assembling Pack ‘n Plays, and recognizing the signs of an ill infant.
As they grew, the challenges evolved. I had to figure out which vacuum cleaner could handle Cheerios without jamming, train myself to replace “damn it!” with “sugar!” and reinforce the principle that “hands are not for hitting.” Strangely, amidst these daily trials, I discovered a profound love for parenting. The existential puzzles it presents continue to astonish me. This month’s conundrum? Answering the question, “Mom, what is a hippie?”
When my 5-year-old declared, “It means ‘an old man,’” his older brother quickly corrected him: “No, it’s a teenager with long hair… and funny clothes… and…” He went on to describe Shaggy from Scooby-Doo but soon faltered, asking, “Mom, what is a hippie?”
At this moment, parenting took on an existential dimension. Even in their youthful innocence, they were grasping at something intangible—a socio-political and historical context that lay beyond their comprehension. They sensed that the term “hippie” represented something significant, something they couldn’t fully articulate, but could feel in the fabric of their cartoon world.
As I contemplated how to explain the concept, I realized that defining a hippie requires delving into the cultural backdrop against which they once rebelled. In our current context, where boys with long hair are often the sons of trend-setting mothers, how could they possibly understand the statement made by men who allowed their hair to grow in an era where such freedom was rare? Back then, public hats were the norm, and my grandmother, along with my mother, would not be seen without pristine white gloves.
To my children, hippies are reduced to colorful peace signs on napkins or neon flowers on party supplies, devoid of their historical significance as emblems of a radical movement toward a gentler, more natural lifestyle during times of corporate dominance and war. How do I convey the memories that linger in my mind, like the paper butterflies adorning my young aunt’s wall above her black-and-white poster of “Bridge Over Troubled Water”?
Though I was not a hippie nor a child of the movement—my parents were staunchly Republican—I had my own associations with them: broken glass scattered on the playground. Yet here I am at 40, driving an SUV filled with curious little boys who marvel at how we didn’t have to wear seat belts as kids. I reflect on avocado-colored kitchen appliances, trying to recall the charm of rainbows and what they represented.
Having children has expanded my world—not merely in terms of physical space, necessitated by high chairs, toy tables, and scattered Legos, but in the way my children reintroduce me to the universe through their eyes. Soil, which I once regarded as mere dirt, is now an exciting substance to explore. My son proudly shows me how he separated layers of mulch, peat, and sand in a jar, demonstrating a newfound understanding of density.
Life is filled with mysteries—its unexpected twists, sorrows, and joys render it breathtaking. On vacations, we marvel at sunsets, art, and majestic landscapes, experiences that would feel incomplete without someone special to share them with. Yet, my children find beauty in the mundane. They point out wonders in everyday life, asking, “Look! What’s that?” They can fall in love with the simplest flower at the market, leaving treasures like rocks and feathers in their wake.
As they take something as seemingly trivial as the word “hippie” and transform it into a treasure trove of meaning, I find myself at a crossroads. I prepared to share insights about self-expression through clothing or reminisce about the 1970s, but my boys were caught up in their own laughter. Just when I thought I had them engaged in the riddle of it all, they declared “hippie” their new favorite term for anything odd.
In this way, they effortlessly show us the balance of complexity and simplicity that life presents.
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In summary, parenting is an existential adventure that continually reveals the depth of life through the innocent curiosity of children. They challenge us to see the world anew, turning the ordinary into the extraordinary, and inviting us to explore life’s rich tapestry together.
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