My third-grader making a pet rock for a project at school. My kids being shocked that I, or anyone, would actually pay money to buy a rock sitting in a clump of straw, back in the ‘70’s (but I did).
My nine-year-old author took that idea and ran with it. He is writing a children’s book series, The Rock and Roll Series, about a group of pet rocks who are friends. The kids in his class were really interested in this project, and he named some of his rocky characters after them.
Then he got another idea: to actually make everyone a pet rock for Christmas, and name each after the kid whose identity it was supposed to represent.
He worked and worked and made 22 pet rocks, each with a different shape and look. Hair was made from bows and leaves. One had the hair of an orange balloon, fully blown. Another had a crayon. And all had googly eyes. We carefully packed them in boxes, each wrapped in tissue, and he hauled them off to his school Christmas party.
His gifts were a hit, each classmate giddy over receiving what my child had perceived as the likeness of each in a rock persona. And after the party, the entire class lined up in the school hallway, and held up their rock-pets, posing for a picture for the school yearbook. Their unique rock party.
“I had the best day I’ve ever had!” my son told me that night. “The best!”
And so is he.
Just wait…You’ll be seeing more of The Rock and Roll series. Just wait.
This time I was grand-slammed by my nine-year-old boy.
His assignment for school was to make and adopt a pet rock, and we were having a discussion about it. A pet rock. Those of you who are my age know about these. But my older daughter, who was listening-in on the conversation, really didn’t, so I explained.
“You actually had a pet rock?” she asked me, not understanding how a fairly intelligent person like me could have paid good money for something so silly.
“Yes, it was quite the craze back in the ‘70’s,” I answered.
“I can’t believe people actually bought those,”she said.
I told her it must have been the brain-child of a marketing genius. Selling rocks that were probably found in his/her backyard. Ridiculous.
My nine-year-old boy heard me reference the ‘70’s.
“Wait,” he said. “You were born in the ‘70’s?”
“Uhh, actually no. I was born in the ‘60’s, if you can believe it.”
“Wow,” he said. “You were?”
“Yep,” I answered, and was a little surprised at his surprise. I am his mother, after all. And it wasn’t all that long ago.
“What?” He asked in astonishment, raising his eyebrows. “You were alive in the 1600’s?” He thought he had a dinosaur for a mother.
“Whatt??” I asked myself. “Not the 1600’s, you goofy kid. The ‘60’s. The 19-60’s!”
“Oh, good,” he answered. “I thought you were really old.”
And there is my latest anecdote portraying a modern-day generation gap. (And obviously, the fact that my son needs tutoring in social studies).