I've taken to repeating a modified phrase from Aslan in C.S. Lewis' "Chronicles of Narnia." Usually, it's just in my mind, but sometimes, it slips under my breath. "Do not cite the deep magic to me, witch; I was there when it was written," I'll mutter. "Of course, I know what a butterfly hair clip is."

I suppose turnabout is fair play, and the novelty of vintage could feel like the flattery of imitation. But I catch myself in the same dismissive stances my mom gave me when my generation's pants started to flair out.

"That's what Abba wore," she'd say. Then, she'd take a second to stare wistfully into the past, probably thinking about all the Fernandos of her past.

But to her, the Bee Gees were my Spice Girls, and for my daughter, it might be down to just one, with all the Swifties not debating which girl would define their personalities. Maybe they now distill their speculation of self-realization on which Taylor era mirrored their own current emotional turmoil.

All I know is that both my mom and my time in childhood were simple compared to the digitally laced childhood my daughter is experiencing.

Recently, my daughter requested a change to the security setting of a game; she wanted to be allowed to chat with her friend during gameplay, something I disabled at the beginning.

"That's why I had my laptop next to me to talk to my friend, " she said. "But when I run into someone in the game, all I can do is just up and down to try and get their attention."

I sighed. Was I hampering her social network, even if it was being netted online? Of course, the real question is: Could I trust my kid in a new space? Fostering digital literacy is just as important as fostering it in the real world — for example, when I've asked her to take money and buy donuts at the local bakery while I wait outside the car.

"Here's the thing," I started with, "not everyone online is who they say they are, and also, please don't send naked pictures of yourself to people."

"I know," she started, and we both finished with, "the FBI."

The FBI visited their school this year to talk about online bullying and more. This is fifth grade; those kids are 10ish. What a brave new world for all of us.

"This feels like we're going to get into a Very Special Episode territory," I said. She gave me a look. I had to explain that my generation watched shows after school — shown at certain times of the day! Incredible! — and there would be episodes about Important Topics such as drugs, sex, and sometimes the dangers of too much rock and roll.

We talked about how things can be almost eternal now when put into this vast, complicated web.

"I know this feels like skibidi toilet rizz," I said soberly. She burst out laughing, covering her face and groaning, and I followed up with, "Only in Ohio."

"No," she laughed hard, "You're infected, too."

Confused? You and I both are. It's wild out there for the kids, not just digitally but linguistically.

After we both wiped away tears of laughter, she asked me how I learned that. "The interwebs," I started and admitted that confused adult teacher videos explaining the lexicon of her age had been coming up on TikTok.

"You can't ask a former weird kid not to appreciate the novelties of the weird now," I said. "That's that deep magic."

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2024

Photo credit: Mark Rabe at Unsplash