Reading through the September issue of Money magazine, I became infuriated. No, it wasn’t about how badly that one person messed up trying to make a loan payment; nor was it about the couple who couldn’t agree on financial matters. It was a different, smaller article tucked in between a few others. The title of the article is, “The Right Price for Your Kid’s Rite of Passage.” The tagline is, “Teen celebrations are getting expensive. Does showing the love always mean spending the cash?” The article talks about stuff like a Sweet 16 party, a Bar Mitzvah or a Quinceañera and the average cost being $10k, $9.5k and $8k, respectively. How to plan the party, how much to spend and etcetera.
What a crock of shit.
“We all want to mark these milestones in a way that lets our children know we’re proud of their accomplishments,” writes Jean Chatzky. “If you don’t throw a humdinger of a fiesta, do you risk sending the message to your child that you don’t love him as much as his friends’ parents love their kids?”
All I can offer Jean in response is, “Wow.” Actually, I can offer somewhat of a response: tell your fucking kid to grow up. What kind of spoiled brat expects their parent to spend between 8-12 percent of their salary on a stupid party? Coming of age, my ass! I still haven’t grown up, let alone the absurd idea that I actually became an adult the day I turned eighteen. Why not have your kid work to pay for the party? I had to start working at 16, but I never got a damned thing, and I’m okay with that. What’s wrong with kids today that they have to be so friggin’ materialistic? Apparently, Money asked some parents and kids how much they would spend on a party.
Tarita said her max on a Sweet 16 for her son, Dominique, was $2k. Meanwhile, Dominique (he looks like he’s got 50 Cent playing in his head twenty-four hours a day) feels that $15k would be adequate. If I were Tarita, I would take my not-fully-grown son over my knee and spank him for fifteen hours straight. Fifteen thousand dollars! What in the world is wrong with that boy?
Maybe I just don’t get it because I don’t have kids. I know for sure that my parents love me and they didn’t spend diddly squat on my ass until after I moved out of the house, though. To me, it seems ingrateful to think something like, “sending the message to your child that you don’t love him as much as his friends’ parents love their kids.”
Perhaps I’m thinking about it too hard.