Growing Up In The 70’s

Yes, I grew up in the 70’s. What was your first clue?

My house was the quintessential example of 1970’s living, and the decor was hideous. We had it all – the shag carpet, the eight-bulbed “I look a bit like a tree but I’m not” lamp, the plants in macrame hangers that we actually made, the royal blue octagonal couch, the blue and yellow striped, full-length curtains, the triangles and circles that we’d painted on our living room walls, the brown and silver wallpaper in the bathroom, etc. etc.

Growing up, I was in love with Shaun Cassidy, Chachi Arcola, The Fonz, and Peter from The Brady Bunch. I knew what it meant to have “feathered” hair. I had a lava lamp. I ate bacon and didn’t think twice about it.

I loved the Bay City Rollers and hated Nana Mouskouri. My friends and I roller skated a lot – yes, kids born after 1990, it was a thing.

I’ve talked about this era with my children before. The conversation went something like this:

“Hey mom, what was is like growing up in the 70’s?”

“Well, how can I put this so you’ll understand ? We didn’t have computers. People sat around talking to each other face-to-face. There were no cell phones, which meant, if your parents went out, you couldn’t call them every half an hour to complain about stupid things. And you had to physically get off the couch to turn the television channel.”

“That sounds like hell.”

“We didn’t know any different, so it was OK.”

“And here I thought you had it better, you know, with everyone smoking weed and having sex with random strangers all the time.”

“Well, I mean, we WAS that…” I smirked.

Shocked and a more than a little grossed out, my son looked at me. “What?” He wasn’t sure if I was being sarcastic or not.

I waited a few seconds longer that I normally would’ve before answering, then I laughed. “Woodstock was crazy, but hey, that’s another story. Now what does everyone want for dinner?”

“Mom. That’s gross!” my son exclaimed. The look on his face was priceless as he started nervously scrolling through Instagram.

Now if my son had used his brain at all and/or done a little math and/or even taken the time to Google it (which I’m hoping he did later), he would’ve realized 1. that Woodstock happened in 1969 – only a year after I was born, and 2. that I was still a kid in the 1070’s and I wasn’t having sex with anyone. But sometimes as a parent, it’s fun just to watch them sweat.


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