I was born in the 1960s, so this essay, forwarded to me today by my father-in-law, applies to me as well as hundreds of millions of other Americans:

To all the kids who survived the 1930s, ’40s, ’50s, ’60s and ’70s:
First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they were pregnant. They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can, and didn’t get tested for diabetes.

Then after that trauma, we were put to sleep on our tummies in baby cribs covered with bright-colored, lead-based paints. We had no child-proof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets, and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks we took hitchhiking.

As infants and children, we would ride in cars with no car seats, booster seats, seat belts or airbags. Riding in the back of a pickup on a warm day was always a special treat.

We drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle. We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and no one actually died from this. We ate cupcakes, white bread and real butter, and drank Kool-Aid made with sugar, but we weren’t overweight because we were always outside playing.

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on. No one was able to reach us all day. And we were OK.
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