This week and next hundreds of thousands of college students are heading for the beaches and slopes in an annual migration known as “Spring Break.”

Daytona Beach, which has muscled out Fort Lauderdale as the capital of frat and fratette hi-jinks (the Fort Lauderdale Chamber of Commerce was only too happy to cede that distinction) is expecting some 300,000 visitors over the next two weeks.

Meanwhile, sunspots south of the border are getting even hotter. Cancun is making room for an influx of some 100,000 spring breaksters. Acapulco, by reputation a tad more staid, is also gearing up. Could it be that the attraction is a drinking age lower than that of the States – as well as the weather?

The irony is that during the same period, the majority, nay, the vast majority, of the parents of these sun-bound collegians will be sitting behind desks, polishing patients’ teeth, serving hamburgers, writing insurance policies, doing whatever it is that parents do to pay tuitions. No need for sunscreen in this scenario.

What is wrong with this picture? It’s not an entirely new picture. After all, the 1960s opened with Connie Francis singing the theme song to “Where the Boys Are,” in that movie ode to Fort Lauderdale and that generation’s rites of spring.

But the tradition of doing for our children what we wouldn’t think of doing for ourselves has gotten out of hand. It’s not just college kids getting a break from (putatively) grueling studies. Parents seem intent on handing out the silver spoons at birth and keeping them filled from that point on.

Last Sunday’s New York Times business section featured a story on the boom in the party business. The reporter wasn’t gathering prices on Sweet Sixteen parties or Bar Mitzvahs. This was about catering to kids one year and up on their birthdays. At $30 a preteen pop, Glam Jam, a Randolph, N.J. outfit, enables girls over 6 to get made up and strut a fake runway in front of a real camera. Parents of the guests, the reporter notes, can buy a video of the event at pickup time.

Whose party is it, anyway? To ask the question slightly differently, are parents paying for their kids to have fun, or are they living vicariously through the next generation?

Parents have always lived through their kids to some extent — especially in the United States. Social commentators, starting with Alexis de Tocqueville, have pointed out that the signature feature of American life is the chance to move up a rung or two on the social ladder. By giving our kids parties that we wouldn’t have been invited to ourselves and vacations we still don’t go on, we are living the next generation’s success – in our own generation. But in whose interest is this money really being spent?

It is one thing when a grown-up decides to buy $150 stonewashed jeans or lease a brand-new SUV or go on a trip to Cancun. At least it is his or her own money (or debt, as the case may be.) But when parents use their kids’ activities to reflect their own success, the message is not just mixed, it is a mess.

When I moved to Brooklyn with two young kids many years ago, I went for a walk with a friend who did not have children. She noticed a phenomenon that had passed me by, perhaps because I was part of it. Why, she asked, were the little girls decked out in $75 French-smocked dresses, while the mothers pushing the strollers wore sweatpants?

Parents undermine their children when they shower them with stuff that they, the parents, think the kids should want, or, even worse, what might look good in a video to be shown to friends and extended family. Find out what kind of party your child might like based on his or her particular interests at the time.

Of course, along with being age-appropriate, parties and such should be budget-appropriate. Going into debt to keep up with a pre-teen down the block doesn’t encourage financial competence in the next generation. Even stretching the budget to accommodate TV-based dreams can create a dangerous unreality in the minds of your kids.

As for the spring migration, parents, let your motto be: “Give me a break.”

Ms. Bailey is a writer and therapist in New York. She can be reach at ebailey@nysun.com.