Hey, you! Yeah, you with the tattoos and the earbuds pumping music into your brain. I have something important to tell you. I’m quite sure you won’t believe me, but I know it’s as true as rainfall in November. Are you ready? Here it is: Pretty soon you will no longer be cool.

“Like, why?” you might ask. Well, for now you are at the forefront of cool. Even your twitter network looks to you for coolness. But take it from an old hippie, the daughter of some real cool cats, if you have children, and those children become teenagers, they will have a new cool. And it won’t have anything to do with you.

Why am I bringing this up when we celebrate the bounty of Thanksgiving and the ideals of peace and joy? Because this is the time of year when generations collide. Many adult children think their parents live to criticize them, but just as often, parents have to endure the criticism of their offspring. It is especially painful during the holidays when our children demand acceptance, but refuse to grant it.

I became cool, and oh-so-righteous, in a pseudo-earthy-Jesus-freak sort of way, at which time my parents passed into has-been sadness. They were utterly predictable. We disagreed about everything, especially politics and the war in Vietnam.

Their religious views were hopelessly archaic. They called my friends “kiddo” and “young fella.” Mom cooked the same food for the same people (her parents, widowed aunts, and an assortment of lonely cousins) over and over and over again without fail. And the drinking! My mom used to drink a beer almost every night! Each time we got together I saw more and more things wrong with them.

Everything changed when I had children of my own. When our kids were still very little, my Mom died, and I inherited the family, at least those of us on the West Coast. It fell to me to be the caretaker of traditions. And then in the blink of an eye, my children were teenagers. Any of my residual coolness vaporized. Until a recently burst of maturity, they were as ruthless with me as I had been with my mom.

We passed through that difficult time, and we all look forward to the gatherings. Now I know that the keeper of traditions cooks the food that everyone wants over and over again because it makes them happy. I love my archaic beliefs in God. I call my kid’s friends “kiddo” and “cutie” because I can’t remember their names. I have a glass of wine some nights, and when I do, I silently repent for the way I criticized my parents, and I wait patiently for my grandchildren who will be very, very cool.

Patty Luzzi has lived on the Eastside for 32 years. Readers can contact her at pattyluzzi@yahoo.com.