Bargain Hunting, Kids, and Genetics

I used to think that through careful parenting I could raise a couple of kids who were just as frugal as I am. What I’ve come to believe, however, is that like so many other things – thick thighs, unibrows, a penchant for sarcasm – there is a gene for parsimony. Those born with the nature of thrift will pinch pennies no matter how many they have to spare, and no amount of nurture will transform the imprudent child into a tightwad. How else can I explain the fact that my daughter comparison shops at the school carnival and my son can find a $6 loaf of bread at Walmart?

I’ve tried to provide my kids a decent financial education. When I worked in retail we used to hang the things that appealed to kids – stuff like Dora socks and anything made entirely out of sugar – at eye level. Kids’ eye level. Once they saw it, they had to have it and once they started screaming, they’re parents happily paid the cashier for the $10 pair of socks or the $5 lollipop shaped like a pretty princess. Aware of this evil genius, I vowed early on not to buy my children anything when they were at the store with me. When they got older I showed them how to seek out the store brands and head to the clearance racks first.

With one of my children, all my training paid off. She finds coupons for things we actually buy and knows when her favorite store is having a sale. She’s careful with the money she earns and, at nine, is already saving for her prom, her car, and her cell phone. Then there’s the other one who believes there is a fairy who sprinkles sporting equipment, Nintendo games, and Ralph Lauren polo shirts around his room at night.

I’m hoping those genome project people can figure out just which gene is responsible for the tendency to scrimp because parents need support. Even if we can’t do a thing about it – sure would be nice to know in advance who’s going to be able to care for us in our old age.

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2 Responses to “Bargain Hunting, Kids, and Genetics”
  1. DeNae says:

    I’m the fairy dust one. Money isn’t real to me. Neither is time. Nor, for that matter, calories.

    Yes, my husband lives in constant terror.

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