Tucked away in a box in our cupboard, underneath a collection of letters and mementos from our early days together, lies a mixed tape I created for my partner long ago. Back then, during those exhilarating early stages of romance, my goal was to impress more than anything else. Each song on that tape holds meaning, like a breadcrumb trail of memories, with the A side and B side titles whispering secrets of our budding relationship. Seventeen years later, this mixed tape remains a cherished artifact of our love, a piece that would sit proudly under a spotlight in the museum of our shared journey.
It dawned on me that my children will never experience the heart-pounding thrill of receiving a mixed tape. They won’t know the feeling of sitting on their beds, listening intently to a tape made by someone they admire. There will be no examining of handwriting or interpreting the awkward pauses between tracks. If you grew up in a certain era, you might remember the painstaking process of hitting the pause and record buttons in perfect sync, or the lengths you went to avoid awkward silences while flipping sides or waiting for the radio to play your favorite song.
Love often required a bit of creativity back then, didn’t it? I imagine kids today still compile playlists for friends and crushes, but the magic of a Spotify playlist stored in the Cloud seems to lack the same substance. Although it exists, the ethereal nature of the Cloud doesn’t allow for a tangible piece to occupy that special spot in their personal museums.
In a similar vein, my children will never know the joy of lounging with their legs propped up against the door frame, the phone cord straining as they gossip and share dreams into the receiver. They’ve grown up with instant access to everything, from on-demand shows to binge-watching entire series, missing out on the anticipation of waiting for a favorite show to come on.
They won’t know the taste of ginger ale in the nurse’s office when mom isn’t available to answer the school’s call. The sharp scent of freshly mimeographed paper will be foreign to them; they won’t understand the need to be patient as it dries, risking purple ink stains on their fingers. They’ll never feel the thrill of flying through the air after being bumped too hard on the see-saw or swinging high above the playground asphalt.
They won’t rush to grab the house phone when a crush might be calling, nor will they take the risk of mailing film canisters, hoping to preserve precious summer memories. The experience of taking a typing test with a plastic bag over their fingers or hearing the satisfying click of the carriage return will be lost on them. They won’t recognize the smell of Wite-out or endure the frustration of crumpling a page to start over.
They’ll likely never hear the distinctive sound of a dial-up connection or endure the patience-testing wait for a letter to arrive. Road trips with the whole family stretched out in the backseat will be a concept they won’t know, nor will they experience the joy of flipping through encyclopedia pages or the sweet agony of navigating a card catalog.
When it comes to entertainment, they won’t have to get up to change the channel or hold it until the commercial break. They won’t step into a store with a handwritten note from their parents allowing them to buy cigarettes, nor will they flip through vinyl records in a store or know the thrill of rewinding a cassette tape.
The exhilaration of accidentally-on-purpose hitting someone you dislike during a school game of dodgeball will be a lost art. They won’t develop that little callous from hours spent perfecting their cursive handwriting. They’ll miss out on the smell of sunburn relief creams or the nostalgia of perfecting their summer tan with baby oil. The iconic scents of childhood, from Ogilvy perms to the sweetness of Love’s Baby Soft, will remain unexperienced.
Books that once shocked us, like Judy Blume’s novels, will likely seem trivial to them. They won’t know who characters like Ponyboy Curtis or Jake Ryan are, nor will they understand the significance of a fateful Saturday morning detention with a jock, a brain, a princess, and a basket case.
It’s possible their lives will be tracked, tweeted, texted, and electronically monitored in ways we can only imagine. However, they will still experience love and friendship, discovering new and faster ways to connect. They will be part of a world where acceptance is commonplace, and they’ll witness how a simple hashtag can spark change. Their universe is expanding rapidly, shrinking distances, and they are at the forefront of it all.
Perhaps their cherished memories will be stored in the Cloud, accessible through futuristic devices. However, they will never hold a mixed tape in their hands. For that reason, I cherish our own special one.
If you’re interested in learning more about family planning, check out this resource about at-home insemination kits. It’s an insightful read for anyone looking to navigate the journey of parenthood. Additionally, you can explore this authority on at-home insemination kits for more information. For those expecting, March of Dimes offers great insights on pregnancy week by week.
In summary, while our kids will grow up in a vastly different world filled with new experiences, they will miss out on the unique moments and tangible artifacts that defined our youth. They will create their own memories, but the nostalgia of mixed tapes and other experiences will remain a cherished relic of the past.
Leave a Reply