Put my children in a room full of college professors and child psychologists and their whelps, and I think mine stack up pretty well. They don't watch a lot of tv (Twinklette is old enough to enjoy an episode of the Berenstain Bears here and there on a snowy day), aren't obsessed with characters or princesses, and couldn't sing the theme song to Dora the Explorer if they tried. I carried them in a sling and breastfed them. They play outside. They play freely and creatively. They eat organic and own an arsenal of wooden Melissa and Doug puzzles. This is all just how we roll; it's not about proving anything. It's not actually based on any philosophy; it's kind of just how we've evolved, and I don't think I'm better or worse than people who do things differently. But I do think I can hang in a room full of professors.
And this afternoon, I clearly wasn't. Thinking, that is. Or maybe I just didn't expect to encounter such an intolerant b*tch.
Rewind to this afternoon. My girls and I participated in a video produced by the local university about the dos and don'ts of good sleep habits. (My cousin is a child sleep psychologist there--and let me just say that she is an awesome resource for any parent who has questions about infant or child sleep). She called yesterday and asked Twinklette to act out some different good and bad scenarios with other children. Little did we know when we showed up to a quaint center hall colonial on Strathmoor Blvd. that we were actually walking into a liberal intellectual bloodbath.
The bitch was wearing mom jeans. Her name was Katie, and she had the slightly outdated hairstyle and and smug, self-satisfied look of a private therapist. (Why can't real-life therapists ever look like they're from the current decade?) She introduced herself and proceeded to let me know through the course of the conversation that she was intellectual and enlightened, a conscious citizen and socially-aware mother.
Filming began. Her daughter was supposed to be playing on a computer in her pajamas (screen time is a no-no before bed, according to the experts in the house on Strathmoor Blvd). Now, this girl was probably in fifth grade, but she didn't know what to do on a computer because she had never been on one before. Apparently she is a student at the hippy-dippy Waldorf School, which subscribes to a completely screen-free philosophy. (I actually like the Waldorf School, but if I end up sending my children there, I don't plan on being a jerk about it).
So, her kid, Holly, is sitting in front of a computer screen, unaware of what to do and completely uninterested. Whatever. I didn't think twice about Holly's computer habits or lack thereof; I'm not one to judge and I didn't really care one way or the other. But the fact remained that the cameraman needed his shot.
Cameraman: Uh...maybe there's a fun kids' Web site or something she can visit.
Me (ill-advisedly trying to be helpful): Oh, Pinkalicious has a cute Web site.
Katie (with a horrified look like I'd asked Holly to visit a porn site for Bratz dolls): Um..........yeah. Let's do pbs.org.
Bitch!
First of all, Pinkalicious is a book. I mean, yes, it is a book about the color pink, but it is a book nonetheless. It's not like I was suggesting she put on a tiara and full whore makeup and twirl around in a Disney princess gown. It's a book. Not a tv show. A book. It's actually a really cute book--a little girl eats too many pink cupcakes and turns pink. The other books in the series are slightly less well-written but have good messages nonetheless (Purplelicious is about being yourself no matter what other people think, and Goldilicious is a strange stream-of-consciousness tome on imagination that might have been inspired by a very girlie acid trip). My point: Pinkalicious is respectable children's literature. For that matter, so is Fancy Nancy. Best of all is Madeline.
Second of all, am I the only one who notices the irony of her letting the totally screen-free Holly appear in a video? The hypocrisy.
Like I said, it never occurred to me that I was going to have to impress Katie or anyone else at the house on Strathmoor Blvd. I was just generously letting them film my child (watching a cartoon, no less). I wonder if Katie judged the fact that, unlike her kid, Twinklette seemed to know exactly what to do when placed in front of a television.
Will it be hard for Holly to write a paper on a computer once she leaves the Waldorf School and ends up at a school that's less screen-free? Maybe, but it's not my problem. If I do end up sending my children to the Waldorf School, will they still watch The Berenstain Bears occasionally? Probably, but if it's going to have to be a big secret I probably don't want to send them there in the first place. I live my life and try not to get all judgy about what other people are doing. People get so myopic about their child-rearing philosophies, and it's all just a bunch of BS anyway. You do what works and try to survive; I'm not ashamed that my daughter loves Pinkalicious and I'll even admit letting her play on the Pinkalicious Web site every now and then.
Here's a dirty little secret: next to all those Melissa and Doug puzzles is this scary-looking Barbie styling head who looks like a complete whore and reinforces negative stereotypes and body images for young girls. And yes I hated myself when I bought it, and yes it cheapens the whole playroom, and yes Twinklette loves it. From now on it will stand as a meaningful reminder that I may aspire to the greatness of all-wooden, eco-friendly, gender-neutral toys for my children, but we must also be firmly grounded in reality. Because we do live in the real world, Pinkalicious and all.
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