Working Women 1986

College in the mid-80s was a trip. Hot on the heels of Dolly Parton, Lily Tomlin, and Jane Fonda giving us the comedy classic (?) 9 to 5, enrollments had become more and more diverse. Cool. Especially for a guy who'd last had female classmates in eighth grade.

It was in the 1986 pre-requisite class "General Business" that we were slapped upside the cranium with a concept that, in its name, signaled major repercussions for society in general — even if the pitchmen and women were solely celebrating without a thought towards the broader, future social implications.

We walked into class one Monday morning — young men and women, gathering in a class that 10 years prior would have been 90% dudes — and scrawled across the length of the green blackboard was the topic of the week: Women In the Workplace.

It was clear to see to anyone paying attention but in this particular class, the professor did not simply report the phenomenon objectively and demographically. It was presented in a manner more suited to a sociology lecture than a Gen Biz class; as a grand feminist accomplishment over the old guard. Decades later someone would create the more incisive and divisive term “the patriarchy” to describe the same guard. But in that throwaway class following a throwaway lecture, the precocious me and several other, I dunno, thinking humans, openly cited the clearly foreseeable down-the-line implications of what “Women in the Workplace” necessarily meant — moms were leaving the home.

This is not to say that women have no place in the workplace (so zip it, I’m not saying that) but to look back on what was developing — a new ethos among young families that in order to really make it, you’d better try the two-income model. And find someone to care for the kids. Or maybe just don’t have kids. But that's a separate issue.

It's heartbreaking for the moms — even Mr. Moms — whose dream is to be that omnipresent parent while the other goes to work. There are plenty in my orbit. The fortunate ones at least have local family to get the kids off the bus and try to explain Common Core over afternoon snacks. It's also heartbreaking for the kids who could easily have one parent at home but don't because mom and dad are chasing promotions; working early, working late, traveling, and entertaining. But for the couples for whom both simply must work to make ends meet, to an old-timey fella like me, it hurts. Been there, done that. Yeah. It really fucking hurts.

Still, for other couples, it's a choice. And there are plenty of choices couples make together that necessitate the dual-income model. From where to live, whether to buy a house, economy versus luxury car, vacations that require air travel and passports, making coffee at home versus 50 bucks a week on Starbucks. Each. Designer labels versus Gap and Old Navy. There are others who choose dual-income, day care, and camps from the start in order to get to the point that it's not a question of whether to join a country club, but which one. It's just wild how in a single generation, the family dynamic has changed so drastically.

I was raised weirdly. Dad went to work. Mom stayed home. Crazy, right? But that was 1970’s America. Morons will call it misogynistic and sexist but those words are as empty as they are applicable to that time frame. It was the way things were. No right or wrong, no toxic masculinity; just the norms of the day that had, in my opinion, wonderful consequences for me and my siblings and friends. Then, there was a perfectly acceptable word that described my Mom — housewife. Imagine the outrage if that word were to be uttered today. There'd be marches on the Mall in DC. But yeah, my Mom and the rest of them on the block were self-described housewives. You could say they identified as such. And you might snicker. But housewives are no more. The closest we are permitted to come today is homemaker or stay-at-home mom. Dumb. The first describes a general contractor, the second makes her sound like a hermit. The point is, ’70s moms largely remained home and raised the kids. They did. Sure, by today’s standards, household incomes suffered but there was something charming and comforting about rarely seeing anyone but a parent — usually mom — picking up the kids. The only single-parent homes were because of death or deployment.

The mid-‘80s workplace estrogen infusion was real, and because of it, the workforce is stronger, enjoying unique perspectives and broader competition for executive positions. Keep the ogres on their toes. But as much as the corporate world has benefitted, the effects on families have been plainly visible to anyone who cares to see.

In cities, in suburbia, at kindergarten drop-offs, and in the increasing number of “day care” facilities in all those same places, children were, and continue to be, shuttled from home to here and there by women who were clearly not their mom. Mom was getting ready for work. The daily duties of parenthood have been outsourced to minimum wage help from who knows where based on recommendations of other Merlot moms at the kindergarten Christmas — sorry, Holiday — concert. We close our eyes for a couple of decades, and we’ve had an entire generation for the first time raised by strangers. Many of these strangers — hell, maybe most — do a fine job and become de facto family members (on the tax-free cash payroll) but that does not erase the reality that we really don’t yet know what it means. But we can guess.

What are the implications? It’s 2025, and the first wave of kids raised by hired hands are in their 20s. Gen Xers (the last cool generation) like me wonder aloud what the F is wrong with these kids today as they taunt us from our lawns. It’s easy to blame social media. It’s easy to blame single parenthood. But it would require deep introspection and brutal honesty for parents to blame themselves.

Sure, there are plenty of well-adjusted 20-somethings raised by strangers. And there are plenty who are lost. They go to college overconfident, have their self-image polished by like- and simple-minded classmates, and eventually enter a workplace never having been told anything other than how smart and special they are, and as a result, they’re just not equipped for conflict or real responsibility. So, when they are exposed to even the smallest upheaval, it is catastrophic. No safe spaces in work places.

Behind the Zs there’s the next wave who have the added burden of social media expectations and competition hard-wired since pre-pubescence. Their own Insta-TikTok presence, of course, is critical, but their stroller rollers have been even more distracted by the devices in their pockets and the buds in their ears to even notice when their non-blood charges needed their nose wiped or most basic needs tended to. Go sit in the park and observe today’s pram pushers and au pairs; one eye on an influencer video and the other (maybe) on their assigned child. It’s heartbreaking. It’s a real-time, live-action elimination of parent-child bonding in favor of dual-income. But at least Todd and Margot can afford a mother’s helper. There’s a job title for the ages. You’re not helping mother, kid. You’re doing the shit mother doesn’t feel like so she can shop the mall and play tennis. You’re mother’s stand-in. Must have own car and clean driving record. See? Mother cares.

Do you want to see it in action? Go out to dinner at a local sports bar or pub. Not the kind of dive where you’re guaranteed dirty looks and a dirtier glass, but a family-oriented local joint with cold beer, great burgers, and a kids’ menu. Go there.

Now observe the lazy parents who allow kids to set up a video command station at the table. iPhones, iPads, noise-canceling headphones. Everything a growing brain needs to rot from the inside out. The parents themselves are constantly on their devices so why the hell not. Even they are not talking to one another. No one is interacting. Nothing is real. The family time they’ve eliminated during the work week and force-fit tonight is rudderless as the waitress — sorry, server — delivers apps; deep-fried, khaki-colored tokens of mom and dad’s affection offered 2-for-1 between 5:30 and 7 Saturday evening. Pass the ketchup.

They’ll blame the teachers when their progeny act out and underperform.

The same kids get a bit older and by the time they’re in middle school, the bus becomes the classroom. The algorithm is the teacher. The personalities they follow and the videos they watch determine the new ones they get fed. It’s an onslaught of age-inappropriate content just for the liking. There’s not a kid who doesn’t know how to get around parental controls. You know, that useless, feel-good function that leaves mom and dad blissfully unaware that their 12-year-old is already seeing every brand of debauchery there is. When we were kids, TV was commercial. Adult themes were nowhere to be found. Kids were allowed to be kids. Maybe there was a kid on the block who found a girly mag in his older brother’s closet and showed it around. Curiosity, a glance, and gone. Today, there is nothing the pre-teens have not seen. Porn, violence, trending stupidity in the form of challenges that leave kids sick, injured, or worse. All in their pockets, always available, and never having to be returned to big bro’s hiding place. Incognito mode.

Growing up, we had TV. We had cartoons. We had outside playtime all day every day. We faintly heard our parents yelling for us if they needed us. We knew there’d be no Saturday morning cartoons if we weren’t home to check in by the time the streetlights cast shadows. And God save your young soul if mom or dad or, worse, a neighbor’s folks had to come collect you. Guardrails. Respect.

Be a parent. Be involved. Don’t be a friend. Discipline. Teach. Support. What we have now is a generation that’s grown up being told they’re wonderful and they can do no wrong. There’s no authority in their life, they're being raised by friends and influencers, with few rules or regulations and no repercussions. They are ripe from manipulation, together with their parents who will go along with anything, reinforce it, and require it as a condition of what’s left of their parenthood. See, Chase? I’m down. I’m cool.

I’m grateful even though, as my Dad liked to say, we didn’t have two nickels to rub together, we had it all. While he slogged on the Long Island Rail Road for decades, he still never missed a Little League game. We always had a nice summer vacation that by its budget alone would horrify today’s entitled brats of hyper-competitive paycheck chasers. Near the beach, not on it. Restaurants nearby. Sometimes the doors of our rooms opened right into the parking lot! And we loved it — sandy floors, paper bathmats, and all — because we were together. And we were together because Mom held it together. When we were all old enough to care for ourselves after school, she caught a break. Part-time jobs, girlfriends, drivers’ licenses, and hormones drove us from the nest and Mom to boredom — so, to work.

But the “Women in the Workplace” culture shift promoted in mid-80s General Business was blind to the clear consequences of the phenomenon on young children. It was a different brand of feminism than the one that brought us the Virginia Slims “You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby” print ad and Billy Jean King vs. Bobby Riggs. That was the infancy of the battle — and blending — of the sexes, the reversal of the roles when the seeds of today’s gender bending were planted. I'm not saying at all that a woman’s place is in the kitchen barefoot and pregnant while “caveman go hunt and gather.” Of course, that will be the takeaway as it’s easiest for critics. Glad I could help. But you're smart. You know what I'm saying. Give it another 20 or so years and we’ll see what we have wrought.

What has evolved to date is precisely what we the blended students in General Business with a dash of righteous sociology had predicted. Salaries and status at the expense of the kids. Farewell to the family. By design.

It's a bittersweet symphony, that's life.

Trying to make ends meet, you're a slave to money then you die.

- The Verve