The times are a'changin'

My grandparents, so the story goes, walked to school through neck-deep snow uphill in both directions. They had to wake up at 4am to milk the cows and their only toys were whatever they could fashion from hay and loose twigs, fastened with bits of cloth pulled off their raggedy clothes.

My parents had it a little better. They lived in the city and only had to walk 17 blocks to school on a level sidewalk. There were plenty of trees to escape into when the bullies came around, and after school they were permitted a half hour of listening to Sunday School records before taking a crack at their mountain of homework. They didn't play on Saturdays because they had 8 hours of chores and a paper route.

I tell my kids that I rode the stinky bus to school. I played with Cabbage Patch knockoffs and collected Strawberry Shortcake scratch 'n sniff stickers that I bought with my allowance. This allowance was earned through daily chores plus yard duty on Saturdays. We had a TV with rabbit ears that beamed 3 fuzzy channels on a good day. I remember when my dad bought our first VCR and standard tape deck.

My kids moan and groan under the load of making their beds and putting dirty clothes in the hamper each day. Their 2-hour TV limit can be selected from a range of programs (but we only have basic cable, so we're in the Dark Ages), and on the weekends they are expected to help out here and there as requested. With all the griping that usually follows, the path of least resistance is to not ask very often. I know this is not the right way to do things, but it might be the sane way. We have high-speed internet, 3 computers, a full entertainment center with all the gizmos, and an Xbox system. Heck, even our van has a DVD player.

Yeah, we're really slumming.

Many things have changed "since we were young". This post was precipitated by a recent article by WebMD on tooth fairy inflation. The going rate in our house is a shiny new quarter. According to friends and family, we are the biggest cheapskates on the block by a huge margin.

I'm just curious--what do you pay for those little bits of enamel that your child's body rejects on its path to adolescence?