(Or Why We Should Rethink How We Talk About Kids)
I’ve said for years that I’m not really a cat person. And yet, when I’m at a friend’s house, I’ll gladly let their cat curl up on my lap for hours while I scratch its back and ears. I’ve never met a cat I didn’t love. But I’m really not a cat person. I may never be.
The truth is, I don’t dislike cats. I dislike certain behaviors that cats tend to exhibit. They’re aloof. They prowl. They act like they don’t care about me. They never come when they are called. But once I meet any individual cat, I always end up loving it. I’ve acknowledged that contradiction. And I’ve often wondered why I’m so reluctant to just admit that maybe I like cats after all.
Here’s where it gets interesting.
I think this same dynamic shows up when people talk about kids these days.
So many people I know write off an entire generation with a few sweeping generalizations.
They’re entitled.
They’re lazy.
They’ve been brainwashed by the liberal education agenda.
Or, for the tough guys:
They’re soft.
They’ve got purple hair.
You know exactly what I’m talking about. And if you’re over thirty, you might even find yourself agreeing with a few of those criticisms.
But those same people (not you, of course, you’re above the fray) often have deep love and respect for a young person in their life. A grandchild. A neighbor. A student. A young person they work with. And sometimes that kid has purple hair. Or is a little soft. Or questions traditional norms. Or can’t write in cursive. But because they know that kid, the stereotype breaks down. Instead of defining the whole person, it’s just a fascinating quirk that makes them unique and likeable.
They don’t actually hate kids. They hate the parts of youth culture they don’t understand. They’ve judged the entire 2026 Ferrari line based on the ones they saw speeding, painted canary yellow, or driven by someone they already didn’t like. But if they ever drove a 2026 Ferrari, they might feel differently.
Maybe they’re cat people after all.
On the flip side, I know people who claim to love kids and fight hard for what they believe will help all children. But often, their love is abstract. They want what’s theoretically best, or what seems right in a policy sense, or as a generational cause. But they haven’t sat down and really talked to one single kid in any meaningful way in years. And they probably assume most kids aren’t capable of deep or reflective interactions, so they don’t even try to make a real connection.
They think they care about kids, but what they really care about is the idea of kids. And that’s where it gets slippery.
The idea of “kids” is like one of Plato’s perfect forms — an abstraction we carry in our heads. It exists only in theory. There is no such thing as the perfect kid. No universal model. No ideal child against which all others can be measured. (Maybe your child is the exception to this generalization, but for the rest of us, it holds.)
Real, flesh and blood kids living in the world today are not a concept. They are individuals. They notice more than most people realize. They remember more than anyone expects. And they are shaped far more by the adults who truly see them than by any policy or slogan designed to help them reach the potential someone else has assigned to them.
Maybe understanding kids doesn’t require sweeping answers or cultural debates. Maybe it starts small. Maybe it begins with one kid, one moment, one honest connection.
Because when the stereotypes fade, what remains are relationships.
