Great, now I have “Cherry Bomb” stuck in my head. Can we start over?
“I’m your wild girl.”
Nope, not working. Okay, let’s try to move on from here, because actually, The Runaways and their 1976 song “Cherry Bomb” kind of apply. To the blog, I mean.
So, right, neither I, nor my husband, nor our son (the time traveling that would involve is making me light headed) were alive in 1976. I was born in 1980, Westley (that’s my husband, in case your sleuthing skills need work. Also, not his real name, but absolutely his level of dreamy [and yeah, it would make more sense to call him Jordan, but the whole Westley thing is kind of an inside Princess Bride joke (not any more!)]), Westley was born in 1979, and our son? Well, he’s 2015, but I digress.
Westley and I have argued (politely and then with increasing intensity) about which generation we belong to. He claims Generation X, the cool kids who listened to records of The Runaways in the 80’s and early 90’s- the kids who recognized Joan Jett’s influence on riot grrl music. Who were too cool to care that south Florida rendered the flannels tied around their waists completely absurd. Who rolled their eyes instead of smiling when meeting new people. Those kids.
Whereas I’m pretty sure we’re mostly Millennials (even though I may have had my own ridiculous flannel collection). We’re addicted to our cellphones, but mostly only in order to text, check the Internet, and play games. We’re optimistic. We’ll pause mid conversation to look something up online.
Apologies if my definitions seem simplistic. I’m assuming you have at least a modest level of familiarity with this shit.
Anyway! Then we learned of the Catalano Generation (from Jordan Catalano a la My So-Called Life). It’s a tiny generation snuggled between Gen X and the Millennials, composed of those born in the late seventies and early eighties, made up of people who grew up without cellphones, but then got one pretty young. People who most likely don’t have a landline now. Apparently we lack both the smug apathetic nature of the Xers and the special-snowflake narcissism of the Millennials. We’re both and neither. We’ve paged someone 143 , you know?
If my explanation is dissatisfying, you can google it or check out an article from Slate here, but for Westley and me, this moniker finally felt right. It fit like a worn-in pair of selvedge denim (don’t get me started on this topic. I’m not a fashion person, but Westley kind of is, so I, you know, pick things up).
Is that last sentence giving you the douche chills? Ugh, it is me, but I’m leaving it. That shit, while annoying, is apt.
So, here we are, two old af kids raising this new af baby. That’s what this blog is about. In case you were wondering.
“Hello daddy, hello mom/ I’m your ch ch ch ch ch cherry bomb.”
That’s our spawn, for sure. For realsies, even. He’s blown our entire world apart, but like any radical upheaval, he’s exposed a whole new reality. A Brave New World not at all dystopian; rather, baby man has evolved us. We’re leveling up, guys.
Which means the next boss stage is going to suck, eh?