We're not allowed to tell our kids anything. We explain, we ask, we reason. This is the official philosophy of my boy's school: don't tell, ask. I'm not kidding. It's madness, I tell you. Why can't these people see that kids are tiny, rambunctious jackasses? Don't ask them to sit down; tell them. And not because kid's need authority—I'm not a reactionary who pines for the day when a man's word ruled, even if that does sound nice. No, I'm not suggesting we tell kids what to do because they need it. I'm saying we should tell kids what to do because we need it, because this makes life with them bearable.
The entire discourse of parenting sacrifices the parent; its sole object is the pleasure of the little beast. And the result of this indulgence is we breed self-entitled assholes who yell and shriek and whine and generally make life unlivable for everyone around them. Walk in anyone's house with kids and it's a fucking nightmare of noise, shit, and stink. Try to have a conversation with a parent with a kid around: it's impossible as the kid, all 20 pounds of him, won't allow it. The kid, that deranged bundle of incoherent desires, has become all mighty. This self-entitlement drives their lives and the demise of our sustainability.
The little fuckheads in my classroom resent me when I actually ask them to learn something; if they don't get it, it's my fault. But when you question this indulgence we bestow on today's youth, you're met with book upon book by doctors, shrinks, parents, Oprah, lawyers, teachers. It's not open for debate. And it starts with parents who treat their children as if their own kids were clients and the parents were afraid of being fired. It's so insanely backwards. The very possibility of telling your own kid what to do has been eradicated by an elaborate discourse that penetrates the courts, the doctor's office, the home, your mind. Even mentioning it makes you a sick fuck, and probably dangerous.
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