Crock-Pot BBQ Pulled Pork Chili

Childhood used to be one long dare. No cameras, no evidence, no viral posts — just pure, uncut mischief. If you grew up when I did, you know exactly what I mean: no one was watching, no one was listening, and thank God no one was recording. Our mistakes lived only in rumor and memory, not on somebody’s camera roll.

We rode in the backs of pickup trucks barreling down the highway, bare knees knocking, hair whipping like we were in a shampoo commercial — all on our way to swim practice or ballet lessons. If you flew out? Well, there was always another kid at home to take your spot.

Summer was its own brand of chaos. We ran barefoot through sprinklers, drank hot metallic water straight from the hose, and slicked our shoulders with baby oil because SPF 4 was considered more than enough. Sunburns peeled in sheets and we thought it was hilarious. If you had a Slip ’n Slide, it was probably laid out over rocks or roots, but you flew down it anyway. Our mothers didn’t chase us with sunscreen — they just cracked the back door long enough to holler, “Don’t track mud through the house!”

And everything was analog. Phones were tethered to the wall with curly cords that stretched across the kitchen. If you wanted privacy, you dragged that cord down the hall and prayed nobody tripped. Television stations signed off at midnight with the National Anthem and a waving flag. If you got in trouble at school, your parents might not find out for weeks — unless your teacher called the house phone at dinnertime. We lived in a gap where you couldn’t be tracked, texted, or located unless you wanted to be. That freedom was dangerous, and it was glorious.

Pop Rocks and Coke were our version of chemistry lab. Everyone swore some kid in Ohio had exploded from the combo. And did that stop us? Of course not. We dumped a pack in our mouths, chased it with Coke, and waited to see if today was the day.

Candy cigarettes came in little flip-top boxes that looked exactly like the real thing, complete with powder that puffed out the end when you took a drag. Six-year-olds strutted around like Rat Pack rejects, blowing fake smoke rings and leaning against the chain-link fence like they’d had a hard day at the plant.

Playgrounds were medieval obstacle courses. Seesaws that launched you like a trebuchet. Swing sets with one leg that always jerked out of the dirt like it was trying to make a break for it. Monkey bars built six feet over concrete. I once flew off a rusty swing, landed in gravel, and stood up bleeding but victorious. Today’s kids have helmets and rubber mats. We had tetanus shots and grit.

Even report cards were negotiable. Teachers didn’t email grades or mail them home; they slipped that folded sheet into your backpack and trusted it would make it back. Which meant sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn’t. A little Wite-Out, a Bic pen, and pure nerve could turn a C+ into a passable B. There’s a whole generation walking around with diplomas partly earned by forged signatures and the audacity of hoping no one looked too closely.

We were both the babysitter and the baby. If you didn’t burn down the house reheating SpaghettiOs, congratulations — you lived to see another episode of Diff’rent Strokes. Our parents loved us, sure, but they weren’t helicoptering. They were more like air traffic control: “You’re cleared for takeoff, just be back before dark.”

And work-life balance? Please. We invented it. We saw our parents working double shifts, divorcing, remarrying, and generally disappearing into their own lives, and we swore we’d do it differently. That’s why we keep one foot in the office and one foot in the backyard. It’s not yoga — it’s survival instinct.

The truth is, we should be dead. We should have been flattened on a highway, poisoned by asbestos, or at least scarred for life from BB gun wars in the cul-de-sac. Instead, we’re still here, rolling our eyes at Boomers, raising Millennials, and covering Gen Z’s rent. We’re the invisible generation, the ones holding it all together with duct tape and sarcasm.

And maybe that’s why we’re funny. Because the only reasonable response to our childhood is to laugh about it now. Our nostalgia comes with sharp edges: field parties where nobody asked how old you were, bike rides that ended in the ER, candy designed to mimic carcinogens. We weren’t just unsupervised; we were running our own unsanctioned summer camps with nothing but Kool-Aid packets and questionable judgment.

Julio down by the schoolyard got caught. The rest of us just got lucky.