There was a time when “parental control” meant us being controlled by our parents.
Now, it means fumbling through Netflix profiles trying to block Squid Game while your 10-year-old explains VPNs to you.

We grew up on scarcity — of time, choice, and technology. We drank boredom straight, no mixer. We earned joy in pixelated bursts: Sunday cartoons, Maggi on a monsoon evening, the rare luxury of watching Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar again on Metro Channel.

Now we’re raising children who swipe before they speak. Who skip intros like it’s a birthright. Who ask Alexa for bedtime stories and Google for emotional regulation.

They Know Too Much. But Not Quite.

Today’s kids are built different — touchscreen toddlers with opinions on breakfast textures and playlists. They can Google Kargil War facts, get distracted, and end up watching a Korean slime video narrated by a talking capybara. They’ve seen more reels at age nine than we did episodes of Small Wonder in a decade.

They know how to say “boundaries” and “anxiety” before they know their own handwriting. They say “trauma response” when asked to clean up. And yes, they ask ChatGPT to do their homework — and then argue with it. They know what a panic attack is but can’t name the capital of Mizoram. They know what to do in a zombie apocalypse but not how to greet an elderly relative without using Google Translate for “namaste.”

They demand “space,” “autonomy,” “consent” — all noble words, used like Uno reverse cards.

We waited for Star Movies on Sunday night — praying the cable guy hadn’t ghosted or eloped. We watched “Coming Soon” trailers like they were sacred texts, memorizing premiere dates as if they were national holidays.

We grew up with 8-bit Contra and Super Mario, where you had three lives, no saves, and no second chances unless you knew the cheat code by heart. We played Islander and Duck Hunt on shared, overheating consoles that worked only if you blew into the cartridge with the desperation of a boy about to fail science.

Our children?

They say things like, “Netflix is lagging. This app sucks.”
“We got this blog before GTA 6?”
“Ugh, this isn’t even in HD.”

They skip classics, complain about pixel quality, and binge five seasons of something forgettable while eating cereal that costs more than our first year of school fees.

But here’s the glitch — their minds are sharp, their tongues are sharper, but their patience? Deleted in the latest update.

Schools, Fees, and Existential Dilemmas

Every millennial parent I know is stuck in an endless feedback loop: “Should we choose IB or IGCSE? Is this Montessori or just an overpriced day-care with yoga mats?”

Education used to be a one-size-fits-most situation. Now it’s a buffet that costs as much as a Goa trip every month, and comes with emotional side dishes: guilt, FOMO, and a constant fear that your child might be left behind in the Race to Finish the Alphabet Before Age Four.

Choosing a school is like choosing a religion — it defines your family identity. There are orientation sessions, parenting workshops, and syllabus previews that feel like tax seminars. And if your child doesn’t play chess by six and attend robotics by eight, you feel like you’ve failed the parental KPI dashboard.

You pay for air-conditioned mindfulness periods, QR code snack coupons, and Annual Day costume rehearsals that require four Uber rides and six hours of leave. Meanwhile, Decathlon is where the real parenting happens. Malls are memory factories now. And every child has a curated childhood — down to the last inflatable pool.

Authority? That’s So 90s.

We were told.
They are consulted.

We obeyed out of fear, reverence, and the occasional chappal.
They negotiate screen time like lawyers in a Silicon Valley custody battle.
They demand “transparency” while hiding five browser tabs.

Even school teachers today are caught in a Kafkaesque swirl of syllabus, scrutiny, and school WhatsApp groups that feel like passive-aggressive war zones. My wife teaches — and sometimes she’s expected to be a life coach, surveillance system, therapist, and subject matter expert… all while remembering gluten allergies and who brought eco-friendly glitter. Today’s school WhatsApp group is a minefield of complaints, disclaimers, and demands for gluten-free annual day snacks.

And the parents? Oh, the range.

From the over-involved ones who want daily updates on worksheet margins…
To the uninvolved ones who forget their kid’s name during PTMs.
To the indifferent ones who treat school as a glorified holding pen until tuition takes over.
To the entitled ones who call at 9 p.m. and ask, “What did you do about his low grade in Art Integration?”

And let’s not forget the kids — ruder, brasher, armed with expletives they don’t understand and exposure they don’t know how to manage. How do you discipline a child who claims “emotional dysregulation” when you ask them to stand in line?

DINKs, Dogs, and the Park Politics

My wife and I are DINKs. Double income, no kids. Just Simba and Nala — two Indie dogs with full-time personalities.

We take them to the pet park twice a day. They’re model citizens — except when Simba pees on people he likes (his version of a friendship badge). Nala, on the other hand, panics when children go feral on cycles, racing through the apartment podium like it’s the Tour de Noisy. She’s afraid. Frankly, so are we.

And no, we don’t believe in “gentle parenting.” Because kids aren’t gentle. They’re chaos in Crocs. They’re protein bars with legs. They negotiate, retaliate, and if given full agency, will unionize by age ten.

These children aren’t just high-energy — they’re unfiltered, unsupervised, and often, entirely unparented. You say “hi,” and they grunt. You say “be careful,” and they say “whatever.” Some are adorable. Some are… building their criminal origin story.

What They’ll Never Know

They’ll never know the pain of missing your favorite serial because someone else got the remote.
Or the euphoria of taping songs off the radio — without the RJ’s voice ruining it.
They’ll never know what it means to crave. To wait. To earn.

They’ll never know that “TV is back!” used to be a full family moment. Or that getting samosas on a Sunday was a bigger dopamine hit than an entire Happy Meal.

They’ll never know silence — the deep, non-urgent kind. They’ll never know not being watched.

Maybe we’re not meant to parent like our parents — because our kids aren’t growing up in our world.

Maybe the job isn’t to control, but to calibrate. To hold space without holding back.
Maybe love now looks like screen-time boundaries and therapy bills and 9 p.m. breakdowns over school projects you never signed up for.

Maybe the real upgrade is in us — learning to raise without rage, to guide without pretending to know better, to let go of the illusion that we were better kids, or that they’re worse.

Or maybe parenting now is just this: remembering to breathe, and occasionally remembering the Wi-Fi password.