The Friday morning after Thanksgiving, I gave my cereal bowl a hard stare like a mug shot. Next to my orange juice was a note, “Eat up. See you in a week, Love Dad.”

The previous day, our best dishes gleaming and piled with nostalgia, I tried to surreptitiously feed my stuffing to my dog. I was caught so-handed. “You will eat that stuffing,” my dad said, waving his fork pointedly, “or I will save it for your breakfast.”

True to his word, in place of my cereal was a mass of wet bread, sage and onions. I knew he was hunting for a week, so I didn’t dare throw it away. But I didn’t eat it either.

No food was too boiled, sloppy, spicy, canned or tasteless for my father’s palate or our plate. The term “I don’t like the texture” would have confused him for days. Anything deemed edible was to be silently chewed and swallowed, including the king of slop, my nemesis, stuffing.

Thanksgiving morphed from the most anticipated meal of the year to the most dreaded. If the stuffing didn’t have me gagging in my napkin, there was a plate of boiled turkey organs hiding under the cute name of giblets. We were encouraged to eat, because nothing says gratitude like Adirondack pate of boiled liver and kidneys with a sprinkle of salt.

Second to Thanksgiving was chip beef on toast, otherwise known as SOS (use your reasoning skills). This gut-clencher was an innocent piece of toast, covered by a thick flour smoothie with flecks of desiccated beef and shriveled peas.

Taking the bronze medal for most revolting was split pea soup. My mother failed to entice us by saying, “Look, there is a whole ham bone in there!”

A.) Ham is pig, so … no. B.) Split pea soup looks like barf. C.) I never, ever, saw my mother eat one single spoonful of that swill.

A ham bone tossed into soup was about flavor and authority. Our parenting — whether helicopter or hands-off, draws from a murky broth of ancestral habits and cultural quirks. Though our parenting playbook evolves, the influence of previous generations remains.

In the 1920s, parenting was less about hugs and more about conditioning — you were to be seen, not heard. Fast forward to the 1950s: Dr. Spock said to trust our instincts, embrace bedtime hugs and be firm. By 1975, we’d traded ketchup for emotional intelligence. Experts like Winnicott preached understanding, but James Dobson still reminded us to crack butts. Come 2000, we were all cosleeping in Dr. Sears’ love nest and implementing timeouts. In 2025, under Dr. Becky Kennedy, we’re banning burnout, whispering affirmations during yoga and wondering if our kids will survive without therapy.

Here is a quick look back at the timeless parenting scenes.

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Children who complained about dinner.

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1950: “I work hard to put food on this table. Children are to be seen and not heard, eat!”

1975: “Here comes the airplane, zooooom!”

2000: “Let’s try a no-thank-you bite.”

2025: “Which dinner would you like, darling? Yes, of course. We can Uber Eats again.”

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Children who run into traffic.

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1950: “Joey, are you trying — (smack) — to get — (smack) — yourself — (smack) — killed? This hurts me (say it with me people) more than it hurts you.”

1975: “Get over here! Stop that crying before I give you something to cry about.”

2000: “Joey, time out right now! Let’s sit and breathe Joey!”

2025: “No thank you Joey. Mommy says no thank you. You may walk to the sidewalk, honey. I know, so many big feelings. Let’s unpack this with an emotional share snack, how about ice cream?”

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High Schooler fails a test

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1950: “Don’t worry. My dad was a carpenter. I am a carpenter, you will be a carpenter.”

1975: “Enlist.”

2000: “PlayStation is not a major young lady! Do test corrections. Olivia failed too, but she did test corrections and has a 94 average.”

2025: “How? I made you a color-coded chart for the battles. Oh no,– don’t cry. I am not yelling at you. Let’s not shame spiral, how about some mindfulness journaling before I text your teacher?”

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Bedtime

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1950: “Lights out at 8. You want the Boogey Man to get you?”

1975: “Stop singing the ‘Gilligan’s Island’ theme song! Don’t make me come up there.”

2000: “Two chapters from the ‘Harry Potter’ audiobook and a foot rub.”

2025: “Time for your VIP Cuddle Protocol! OK, (pat, pat, backrub) you are clear to enter. Pick a mood meditation from your sleep app and snuggle under your weighted blanket. You need proximity, so I’ll sleep on the floor.”

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Birds and the Bees

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1950: “Your father will take you fishing Saturday.”

1975: “Here’s a book called Where Did I Come From? Don’t ask me questions, read the book.”

2000: “We signed the school sex ed slideshow permission slip. It has bananas and balloons.”

2025: “Puberty is your superpower. Your gender identity journey is valid, and we support all expressions of self. Here’s a zine your co-op counselor made.”

From ham bones to mindfulness, we’ve traded stuffing for self-care — but the table still feels like home.