I’m not a regular mom — I’m an 80s mom

I may be dating myself by admitting this, but I’m 100% an 80s kid. While my parents worked infinite shifts, endless afterschool afternoons spread out before me with the promise of adventure. Because our neighborhood was considered safe, certainly safer than the gritty Manila streets or muddy farmlands of my parents’ childhood, my grandmother left me to roam free. 

I’d meet up with the other neighborhood kids, also the children of immigrants, from all over the world. In the golden light of the dream American neighborhood, we would storm the members-only, old-Southern-money golf course and roll down its grassy slopes. We fashioned rope swings over creeks and soared higher than Indiana Jones. And Stranger Things has nothing on our bike gang... or the shenanigans we got up to. 

Fast forward to today, and I’m the one in charge. I even have my very own kid. But my, how times have changed. 

Gone are the absent parents of one’s childhood. True to the helicopter metaphor, parents now hover above their kids into teenagerhood — screaming through megaphones to BE CAREFUL, GET GOOD GRADES, and HAVE 10 EXTRACURRICULARS. 

Now, I was careful. I got straight As, and I got into college without having my entire day mapped out for me. But it wasn’t because my parents were helicopters. In fact, they were spaceships: rarely spotted, but when they saw you in real end-of-ET-type trouble, they’d beam you up. But you’d better be laying in a ditch somewhere half drowned. 

What moms today are up against 

A competitive perfectionism has worn away at the modern family — a version of “Keeping up with the Joneses” that falls heavier on moms. We are expected to help kids with homework, be super active in their schools, craft all manner of little paints and threads and vegetables into forms of art or food kids will actually eat, all while working, working out, staying coiffed, and eating healthy ourselves. 

I say no to all that. I simply can’t keep up. I’m a trier, but I gave up quite readily, likely because I sensed that there was an easier, simpler way to raise kids. The 80s way. It didn’t take me long to realize: I'm an 80s Mom. 

Care and feeding 

For a start, let’s talk about food. 80s cuisine was known for its convenience and microwave-ability, a nod to how futuristic our lives had become. If it could survive a flight on a space shuttle or Soviet nuclear winter, then it could sustain our families. So, into our Star Wars lunch boxes went astronaut ice cream and Chef Boyardee pasta, kept warm by an R2D2 thermos. 

Nowadays, if lunch doesn’t come right off the farm in all colors of the rainbow and cut into lovely little shapes, then you’re not trying hard enough. And I agree, wholeheartedly, as I sling a bologna sandwich and a pack of Oreos into a Star Wars 5.0 lunchbox. 

But I simply refuse to try any harder. 

“And, thank goodness for the 80s New Wave. No Elmo or Baby Shark could get my kid to sleep as a baby — the only thing that worked was Tears for Fears.”

It seems little kids these days always want their parents to entertain them. This is no different from when I was a four-year-old spring chicken... pretty sure I clung to my parent’s legs as they swung out the door the way my five-year-old does now. But when Dad finally did get a chance to hang out, he didn’t take me anywhere like a playground. He’d plop me on top of a miniature motorcycle, no helmet — certainly no protective pads — and we’d ride over hills and ditches in the farm fields. I do not recommend this. 

Who needed playgrounds when there were vast forests all around the house? The ‘rents got me a mini Schnauzer and would leave us to explore the creek in the woods for hours. My grandmother would scream either of our names out the backdoor, and back we’d go like cattle hearing the cowbell for dinner. There’s no better companion for a kid than a dog... except perhaps a bike. 

The 80s were the Renaissance of the kiddie bike gang, a magical, myth-making crew that would not have been possible without the freedom our parents granted us. There was no problem you couldn’t solve when your bike gang had your back. Got a map of a pirate treasure? Ring up the old bike gang, and you can take on a family of criminals while hunting for treasure in slippery underground tunnels. 

Extraterrestrial in your backyard, but you can’t trust your parents or the police? Bike gang to the rescue... you’ll get him back to his ship together. The bike gang was essential to solving problems yourself with the kind of ingenuity you only have as a kid. 

The 80s meant more was more, and everyone was a maximalist to the max. You either got your style cues from Dynasty or Madonna, but no matter which aesthetic spoke to you, it was likely topped off with a perm. I admit, I too donned the perm and pastel combo for a school dance, inspired by Molly Ringwald in Pretty In Pink. 

There can’t be a kid left who doesn’t know all the words to “Let It Go.” Parents, too. And sure, fine, Frozen’s soundtrack is genius (though not as genius as Moana), but lest we forget the immortal soundtrack of The Last Unicorn performed by the band America and the London Symphony Orchestra? 

The Last Unicorn was never an upbeat film, but its darkness was made all the more tragic by America’s minor-key melodies... a unicorn might as well be a horse with no name. 

And, thank goodness for the 80s New Wave. No Elmo or Baby Shark could get my kid to sleep as a baby — the only thing that worked was Tears for Fears, specifically and ironically, “Shout.” By giving him permission to let it all out, tears were the things he could do without. 

My kind of mothering 

Is it strange that I use myself as my own example? I came out fine — even though I didn’t develop a taste for veggies until well into the pre-teens. As long as my son’s growing and has no deficiencies, it’s all good. That’s what Flintstones vitamins were for. 

Perhaps this easy recline back into the 80s reflects a nostalgia for my own childhood. Parenthood is a funny thing in that it demands you grow up and be the adult while it simultaneously encourages you to step into your child’s shoes and be a kid again. 

While I don’t necessarily want to see my son sporting balloon pants and a Flock of Seagulls haircut, I do hope he finds his bike gang — figuratively for sure, but literally as well. 

The 80s signaled a confidence in kids that also allowed for a more chill parenthood, and maybe it’s time that we as adults let the never-ending struggle for parenting perfection go. Being an 80s kid made me want to be an 80s Mom, not just for my kid, but for myself.