I hate cartoon characters on children’s clothing. Mickey Mouse, Disney princesses, Cars, Thomas the Train, Yo Gabba Gabba, Dora, Diego, Spiderman, Batman, Scooby fucking Doo. These characters are everywhere. Not just T-shirts. Pants, hats, backpacks, socks, sunglasses, bedsheets, cheap plastic jewelry, pens, notebooks and even UNDERPANTS! Fucking underpants.
My husband brought home underpants for our 2 ½ year old son last night. They had Elmo and Super Grover on them. Uch. Really? I don’t mind my son having a familiarity with these characters. Like the characters in his books, they populate his consciousness and shape his little world. He learns their stories and their personalities and I like that part of it.
What I hate is how it seeps into every aspect of our lives. The Diego plate and cup set. The Wonder Pets silverware. Thomas toothpaste. Spiderman play chair. Pooh jammies. Mickey puzzles. These faces adorn all his toys and coloring books.
These drawings are poor substitutes for the real world, but they are made in such a way as to entice the young human, make him pay attention, want more. How can my son develop the patience it takes to watch a caterpillar emerge from a cocoon, or see the wonder in a sprouting seed, or feel the power in the changing seasons if his brain is being bombarded by brightly colored Disney advertising everywhere we go?
I’m only vaguely bothered by the fact that children are walking free advertisements for these companies. It does seem kind of wrong that no matter what I do to keep Barney out of my life, all it takes is one friend at storytime to show my kid his Barney T-shirt, and then every time he sees that bloated, purple face he’ll beg for whatever it is that asshole is selling: clothing, toys, candy, games, DVDs. Barney doesn’t care. He needs more money for the CEOs of the company that owns his ass.
Why is it so hard to find a plain T shirt for a 2 year old? Why do they all have Spongebob Fucking Squarepants on them? My mother-in-law sends boxes full of clothes to us all the time for The Boy, and most of them are attractive and wonderful (as well as totally appreciated). However, she tends to include one outfit that is just for Liam. In one box it was the overalls with the Superman logo (and matching embroidered bucket hat). Then it was the Spiderman jammies. Then the Spiderman shorts set with the light-up logo on the shirt. Then the Pooh jammies. I don’t make a big deal about it—it’s more of an eye-rolling situation, really. Plus, Liam always LOVES those awful things.
I guess that’s what really bothers me. The character crap is like junk food or drugs –the brightly animated, familiar characters stimulate his brain and create their own neural pathways and associations. Those things end up being his favorites, but they junk up his consciousness at a time when his brain is absorbing information like a sponge. I know he picks up a lot of it from the DVDs we get from the library, and during the cold days of winter I definitely let him spend too much time watching his DVD player while I showered, cooked, read, wrote, etc.
The good news is that Spring is almost officially here in south Georgia. The weather will be warming up for good soon, which means more work in the yard and garden, and more playing outside. More bike rides, trips to the beach, learning to swim and to fish. We'll be way too busy having real adventures to worry about what that bitch Dora is up to.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
I Use Real Butter
I am not the same person I was 10 and 20 and 30 years ago. There are parts of me that have changed, and parts that have stayed the same. I still need to be loved and admired and sought after. I still desire pleasure and thrill and surprise. Laughter and happiness and love are sacred. These are values that defined me in childhood, in adolescence, in my youthful adulthood, and even now as I settle gently into middle age.
Lots of details have changed, though. I used to believe in unicorns. I used to look for fairies in the woods. I once thought my father knew everything. I used to be a passionate vegetarian. I used to think abortion shouldn’t be legal. I once felt I was pacifist. I once worshipped Goddesses. I used to think I needed a Jesus to save me from something. I once wanted to be a rich and famous actor who is loved and admired by millions. I used to think I could touch people through the medium of live theatre. I thought I’d believe all of those things forever.
So many passions and fantasies and desires and truly honest beliefs, discarded as new information becomes available. It’s not as though I feel these beliefs are now “wrong,” I’m just somewhere else now. As new experiences occur, as my life goes on, evidence amasses that changes the nature of my foundational beliefs. And my personality shifts. My body changes. My hair, my voice, my speech patterns, my clothing, my friends.
I love the flow and patterns of life, even when they beat the shit out of me. Even when they fucking suck. This is my life. This is my story. This is me.
Of course, I’m nobody, really. If we’re thinking in terms of geological time and the billions of years that this planet has existed with life constantly evolving on it, and the billions more years that life will continue to change and evolve, my own life is nothing. Inconsequential.
Fortunately for my ego, human brains think locally. We live in the moment, and within the span of a few years we do all of our living and fighting and fucking and dying, making up some crazy drama along the way, just to try to make some sense of it all. We make our lives and the things in our lives important. We create the life we want within the environment that we find ourselves. Because we like it to make sense. That’s comforting.
So my life, as tiny as it is, makes ripples. I interact with the world around me and I change it, and it changes me. I make my contributions in the ways that make me who I am. I create humor. I tell stories. I make fun.
I wonder what I will think and believe and know when I’m 50. And 60, 70, 80, etc. If I get that far. Which I hope I will. I want to be a little old lady with lots of cats and a foul mouth. Ooh, and a cane. Then the neighborhood kids will swap stories about me (“She trains her cats to suck out kids souls!”) and dare each other to throw rocks at the witch’s house. The ones who let their fears get the best of them will never know that the best chocolate chip cookies they’ve ever tasted are cooling on the kitchen counter.
Lots of details have changed, though. I used to believe in unicorns. I used to look for fairies in the woods. I once thought my father knew everything. I used to be a passionate vegetarian. I used to think abortion shouldn’t be legal. I once felt I was pacifist. I once worshipped Goddesses. I used to think I needed a Jesus to save me from something. I once wanted to be a rich and famous actor who is loved and admired by millions. I used to think I could touch people through the medium of live theatre. I thought I’d believe all of those things forever.
So many passions and fantasies and desires and truly honest beliefs, discarded as new information becomes available. It’s not as though I feel these beliefs are now “wrong,” I’m just somewhere else now. As new experiences occur, as my life goes on, evidence amasses that changes the nature of my foundational beliefs. And my personality shifts. My body changes. My hair, my voice, my speech patterns, my clothing, my friends.
I love the flow and patterns of life, even when they beat the shit out of me. Even when they fucking suck. This is my life. This is my story. This is me.
Of course, I’m nobody, really. If we’re thinking in terms of geological time and the billions of years that this planet has existed with life constantly evolving on it, and the billions more years that life will continue to change and evolve, my own life is nothing. Inconsequential.
Fortunately for my ego, human brains think locally. We live in the moment, and within the span of a few years we do all of our living and fighting and fucking and dying, making up some crazy drama along the way, just to try to make some sense of it all. We make our lives and the things in our lives important. We create the life we want within the environment that we find ourselves. Because we like it to make sense. That’s comforting.
So my life, as tiny as it is, makes ripples. I interact with the world around me and I change it, and it changes me. I make my contributions in the ways that make me who I am. I create humor. I tell stories. I make fun.
I wonder what I will think and believe and know when I’m 50. And 60, 70, 80, etc. If I get that far. Which I hope I will. I want to be a little old lady with lots of cats and a foul mouth. Ooh, and a cane. Then the neighborhood kids will swap stories about me (“She trains her cats to suck out kids souls!”) and dare each other to throw rocks at the witch’s house. The ones who let their fears get the best of them will never know that the best chocolate chip cookies they’ve ever tasted are cooling on the kitchen counter.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Bibliophile
I love the library. The public library, of course, although private and university libraries are also awesome. I’ve been going as long as I remember. By the time my childhood memories began to solidify, going to the library was already a firmly cemented tradition. My mom was even the story lady for a while (she even dressed up in costumes and made puppets for it). Being an Air Force Brat, I got a new library every few years, and each one was a pirate’s treasure of discoveries. Where is the card catalog in this one? Where are the easy readers? The chapter books? Are there mats to lie down and read on, or just tables?
I vaguely remember posters and wall art and other decorative nonsense, but I can’t picture any details, since I was always in the stacks. It was so soothing to follow the numbered tags on the spines with my eyes, so comforting to walk past and let my fingers slide past each one, thin spines and thick, fabric and paper. And everywhere the lovely musty smell of old books.
Each book is a unique translation of one human being’s mind, even authors long dead. Open any book, fiction or non-fiction, references, field guides, self-help, science, history, hobbies, arts, gardening – any book in the library. Open the book and read the words. These words were thought up by another human being and written down for others to examine. Look inside the author’s mind. What does she say? What doesn’t she say? What does he believe? When was this written and in what context? What inspired the author to tell his story to others? A dream? Divine inspiration? The Voices? So much is revealed about another in the words they write for the world to see. So many ideas. So many perceptions and beliefs and stories and experiences. I fall in love with humanity when I read the words that have been recorded, even if they’re utter shit. Even the crappiest book I’ve ever read was written by a person who was in love with it. That amazes and inspires me.
So the public library is where humans come to absorb the ideas of other humans, translated into words and written down into books that you can take home and read for free. There are all kinds of folks there, too. I see homeless men, upper middle class housewives, Hebrew school boys, hairy vegan girls, mommies and daddies of all stripes with kids in tow, be-mulleted lesbians, street kids, old black ladies in hats and gloves, assorted balding nerds, and last week I could have sworn I even saw my ex-husband (speaking of balding nerds). It’s a nice cross-section of the population of Savannah.
This is as close as I get to church y’all. The reverence, the enforced silence, the patterns of walking through the stacks like the meditation of a labyrinth inspire such peace and awe. I’m also intimidated by the quiet, invariably introverted and often quite tall librarians. These massive, silent goddesses scan my card and see my account, my reading list laid out before their giant glasses that see all my thoughts through the books I read. Do they notice? Do they make judgments about this woman who always wears black and reads books about science and botany and gardening and feminism and health and Savannah history and horses and religious and spiritual books of all shapes and sizes? Do they see me? If they do, they say nothing. They are beautiful and mysterious.
My kid is not even 2 ½ and he’s already in love with the library, too. It’s school and church and Disney land all at the same time (he thinks the elevator is a fun ride). We do storytime and he’s so in love with the ladies that do that. He used to just sit on my lap and watch, but now he scootches up close to see the books better and he even does the Hokey Pokey and turns himself around. Maybe that IS what it’s all about.
I vaguely remember posters and wall art and other decorative nonsense, but I can’t picture any details, since I was always in the stacks. It was so soothing to follow the numbered tags on the spines with my eyes, so comforting to walk past and let my fingers slide past each one, thin spines and thick, fabric and paper. And everywhere the lovely musty smell of old books.
Each book is a unique translation of one human being’s mind, even authors long dead. Open any book, fiction or non-fiction, references, field guides, self-help, science, history, hobbies, arts, gardening – any book in the library. Open the book and read the words. These words were thought up by another human being and written down for others to examine. Look inside the author’s mind. What does she say? What doesn’t she say? What does he believe? When was this written and in what context? What inspired the author to tell his story to others? A dream? Divine inspiration? The Voices? So much is revealed about another in the words they write for the world to see. So many ideas. So many perceptions and beliefs and stories and experiences. I fall in love with humanity when I read the words that have been recorded, even if they’re utter shit. Even the crappiest book I’ve ever read was written by a person who was in love with it. That amazes and inspires me.
So the public library is where humans come to absorb the ideas of other humans, translated into words and written down into books that you can take home and read for free. There are all kinds of folks there, too. I see homeless men, upper middle class housewives, Hebrew school boys, hairy vegan girls, mommies and daddies of all stripes with kids in tow, be-mulleted lesbians, street kids, old black ladies in hats and gloves, assorted balding nerds, and last week I could have sworn I even saw my ex-husband (speaking of balding nerds). It’s a nice cross-section of the population of Savannah.
This is as close as I get to church y’all. The reverence, the enforced silence, the patterns of walking through the stacks like the meditation of a labyrinth inspire such peace and awe. I’m also intimidated by the quiet, invariably introverted and often quite tall librarians. These massive, silent goddesses scan my card and see my account, my reading list laid out before their giant glasses that see all my thoughts through the books I read. Do they notice? Do they make judgments about this woman who always wears black and reads books about science and botany and gardening and feminism and health and Savannah history and horses and religious and spiritual books of all shapes and sizes? Do they see me? If they do, they say nothing. They are beautiful and mysterious.
My kid is not even 2 ½ and he’s already in love with the library, too. It’s school and church and Disney land all at the same time (he thinks the elevator is a fun ride). We do storytime and he’s so in love with the ladies that do that. He used to just sit on my lap and watch, but now he scootches up close to see the books better and he even does the Hokey Pokey and turns himself around. Maybe that IS what it’s all about.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
