Bad Fairy Tales, or Why I Don't Like Wonderpets, Dora, SuperReaders, Sid the Science Kid, Go Diego or Team Umizoomie

First, a caveat : I grew up devouring the Brother's Grim, Greek Myths and every fairy tale I could find.  I loved them and reread them regularly.  While I never thought, "Some day my prince will come..." I did believe that love can last forever and still do.   It's part of being Catholic I think.  The forever after is real and it involves blood and time and fierce courage; it doesn't mean love is always sugar spun and sparkly and effort free, it means the exact opposite, that love stays when life isn't spic and span, timely or without enormous hassle, struggling, suffering and utter frustration; that no matter what, true love stays with you. 

Having fairy tales was part of the magic of childhood, and like myths, they revealed truths without being true; that growing up involves a journey that is fraught with difficulties and requires tenacity; that love requires sacrifice and does bring a joy that the struggle did not and even mitigates some of the past pain and struggles that the hero or heroine might have endured.

These days, with toddlers, I am subjected to a lot of little kid shows when the laundry is piled high. 

These new stories are determined to rewrite fairy tales not only to shed all stereotypes but to eliminate any villains.   At first, I watched it, annoyed but oddly curious as to how some stories which require a nemesis, would be orchestrated to ensure no one did anything for a mean or spiteful reason, or heaven forbid, wrong.  Saying, "Swiper no swiping" wouldn't stop the Jack of the Beanstalk from taking the golden goose, nor would "Teamwork" from the Wonderpets or seven dwarfs prevent the evil queen from poisoning Snow White. Creating an imagination where the wolves only want the cookies or are sad because they have allergies that cause them to knock down houses isn't an improvement over the prior imaginary landscape.

Upon further viewing, I discovered that the protagonists needn't be in any way brave or heroic or plucky; only empathetic. They all have magic bags of holding, backpacks or rescue packs or what have you, that carry everything they might need, so no resourcefulness is needed.  So I wondered what lessons these "educational television" shows were teaching; always have all the resources to begin a journey so everything will work out? How were these tales anything other than "Once there were some kids/animals.  They got stuck.  Others showed up with supplies and everything worked out fine with dancing and a party at the end." The answers are all provided in simple one, two, three step parts; so the journey is a mere procedure to follow, not a task of self discovery and the "shes" in these stories are no more empowered than their helpless traditional counterparts, they only know the psychobabble necessary to discover that these dangers and difficulties were never dangerous or difficult in the first place. 

I'm not sure this massive rewrite of every fairy tale ever written to ensure a sanitized for your protection perfect conflict resolution and danger free world is any less a fantasy than the damsels locked in towers.   It's the satire of A Street Car Named Desire by Matt Groening made real, where a stranger is just a friend you haven't met. Further, to me, teaching children they need no courage in the real world to endure any pain and that even trials aren't really trials, is as big a fantasy as waiting for someone to come to the rescue.  If every show were written by the players of Pyramus and Thisbe in A Midsummer's Night Dream, you might again come up with these content calorie free confections, but they'd lack the sense to congratulate themselves at the end of the non journey.  Upon reflection, that lack of a celebration for the reaffirmation of self esteem for a trial not endured, a burden not carried, a struggle not fraught with meaning, might be an improvement.  They can sing "Congratulations" all day long for creating children's programing that is the equivalent of mental white wonder bread; I'll take my fairy tales with the fangs and the spells and the dark forests and deeper overtones and presume the kids also pay attention to real life and see that all that is, all that has any meaning, and all relationships that have meaning involve time, love, service and sacrifice. 

So today, I pulled out the Ugly Duckling and read it to my kids; for I do believe we are all these sorts, who struggle and suffer and engage in self pity, who endure pain and loneliness and crave acceptance and uniqueness at the same time.   I also believe those things happen in real life and knowing that one can come out of those moments stronger and more beautiful than we could possibly imagine, isn't a fairy tale; it's the way we can come to live happily ever after.

The Sherry Spin Doctor's Phx

What a difference a week makes.

When my parents flew back home and my husband went back to work and I was left to manage all nine people by myself, originally I thought the reason my two toddlers washed their beanie babies in the toilet while I was nursing was pure payback.

The two stacks of unchacteristically less than awesome marks for two of my other children, I also chalked up to post I just got a new sibling regression. When four of my oldest five staged a rebellion over what they would wear for school pictures, neither my husband nor I thought these antics were anything but the reaction of baby bear to Goldilocks.

"She comes into my home, eats my food, breaks my things and took over my bed. When do we get to scare her into running away?"

However, the scope of assaults on my adult sensibilities made me pause to consider whether larger forces were at play. When the three year old pushes a chair to the freezer to acquire the stash of M&m's from the top shelf, one has to wonder if she was working alone. When the younger sister of said three year old mimics those actions to spill coffee grounds and rice on the freshly mopped floor, perhaps a review of the catechism on venial and mortal sin is in order.

But today, my daughter decided to paint her hair with orange juice while the four year old sang a soft lullaby to the new baby, "Baby Paul, I love you. You're so cute. You...can pick your nose." Meanwhile, my other toddler put her potty training seat on her head as a hat. It got stuck. My son forgot about a major project which we could have been working on over the four day weekend. There is a little grey "pet" that scampered through my kitchen. We also have play practice, softball playoffs and two orthodontist appointments scheduled for this weekend. Meanwhile, both cars decided this week to require intensive love. They were feeling unappreciated.

Our 401K tanked.

Yet, despite this post partum regression/recession, I remain in a state of Yoga like bliss.

Why?

The Island Park News has asked me to be a regular contributor for a column called "Fractured Motherhood Tales."

I washed my daughter's sticky orange hair.
It's all potential material. Natural Prozac just courses through my veins. And I’ve already come up with the perfect cure should I ever suffer writers block.

“Look kids, Mommy bought a whole pack of rainbow colored sharpies.”

For more Endorphine Soothing Experiences try .Humor-Blogs.com!

Disney and Me

When my family went to Disney World, my father didn't like it. He felt annoyed at Epcot Center and the various mock ups of cultures most of all. “It’s like the world without God, sex or vegetables,” he complained. We kids rolled our eyes and offered him some of the better fare found in the Italian section. “Relax Dad, it’s fun.”

Flash forward a few years and we took a family vacation to Vegas. “Well Dad, here they have the sex and the vegetables.” I joked. I thought he might actually say he’d prefer Disney. When I asked him to weigh the two, he never answered.

These days, I am inundated by my almost six year old’s commercials for Disney. She wants to be a princess for Halloween, selects Disney films for her afternoon TV time and sings along with the Disney CD’s in the car. I have begun to understand a bit of my father’s resistance to the magic kingdom. Ariel is anorexic, Pocahontas is a Native American Politically Correct Barbie doll, Belle is an intellectual snob who wants more than a provential life, meaning she wants to marry a rich guy. Meanwhile, Cinderella remains a helpless puppet of fate and Sleeping Beauty never gets to choose anything. Jasmine never gets to fly solo, and the only princess I ever really liked, Mulan, my kids don't watch.

I want my daughters to be strong independent and loving women when they mature, who choose spouses that encourage them to grow in creativity, intelligence and spiritual depth. I do not see these lessons in the many DVD’s that my daughter so loves. I read her stories of strong women and try to show other points of view, but the princesses in their sparkling dresses are siren like in their irresistibility to my six year olds’ bright blue eyes. She has begun asking in that sweet six year old voice, if we can go to Disneyland on vacation.

Now I am a soft touch, but even I can see the dollar signs floating away as she speaks dreamily of meeting Ariel and Mickey. We have a large family and the idea of managing my many offspring in that large amusement park causes instant migraines. I can summon any number of adult rational reasons to say “No.” but so far all I can muster is a weak-kneed “We’ll see.” I also know when I bring this up with her father, his response will be similar. The epic struggle between the very strong desire as a parent to somehow present all that is wondrous and fun and delightful to your children and at the same time not go bankrupt will erupt. Past experience would seem to indicate Disney has the edge.

Secretly I begin searching the internet for deals, maybe I will do a limited trip of a few, to squirrel away a few memories. Days are coming when I will have to worry about the CD’s and DVD’s far more than now, for the time when she becomes sixteen and sullen and wears clothes that will make me cringe far more than the dripping with pink sparkling confections she currently favors. I gulp hard at the idea of her maturing and suddenly feel far more benign about the Little Mermaid, Snow White and every other Disney Princess. Disney may not have God or vegetables, but it has a monopoly on my six year old’s imagination and heart and suddenly, that doesn’t seem so very bad.

I’ll supply the Church and carrots, and you know what I learned, “It’s a small world after all.”

P.S. My profound apologies if I’ve stuck that song in your head now as a result of reading this blog, just plug your ears and start singing the Star Spangled Banner until it goes away or you could try Humor-Blogs.com

Reading Lessons

"Why should I read these when better versions are availble on DVD?" It was hard to beat the logical issues raised by one so young. Saying "The books are richer." didn't satisfy the way a good musical number with singing crabs could.

With my first child, I read to him every day from the time he was two. I was obsessive about it and sure enough, my diligence bore fruit. He entered Kindergarten already a solid reader. By second grade, he was handling the third Harry Potter book when it first came out without my help.

My subsequent daughter took a little bit longer, but dove into big books as soon as she got the hang of things. My third child, always striving to ensure I didn’t mistake her for her older sister, held out on falling in love with reading until third grade. Then she discovered…if you’re reading, Mom doesn’t make you clean…and it became a favorite and preferred activity.

Three kids past third grade, three solid readers…a good track record.

But numbers have begun to wear down my endurance for returning to Green Eggs and Ham and Curious George. I have allowed the later children to delve into questionable reading material like Captain Underpants –in part because my son would read with his older brother –and I didn’t have to look at it.

For my fiver, she delighted in such fare as "Tinker bell finds Her Place," a story so sugary I considered the possibility of injecting insulin after the fifth reading. Plus, reading aloud, both my son and daughter like interrupting and that drives me nuts. They are not into the reading world yet, not in the transported way my older three are. The words haven't yet successfully cast a spell over their brains.


When I introduced Charlotte’s Web, my son wanted to know when we’d get to the part where the gosling danced with the pig. In the Gingerbread Man, my kids asked where Donkey and Shrek were. My daughter was thoroughly put out by the unhappy ending of Hans Christian Anderson’s Little Mermaid, and they were completely outraged by the way some authors had the audacity to rework the stories of Winnie the Pooh, Stuart Little, and even Harry Potter. My son, being a visual learner saw books as being so old fashioned. "I'll just wait until the movie version.”


I wanted my son and daughter to take to reading with a bit more enthusiasm than they do vegetables, or my husband does leftovers.


Being a good mom, I summoned my inner Sebastian…(Sung to “Under the Sea”)

“Inside a book…
Inside a book…
The story is better
A real Page turner
Just Take a Look!
Those Words Create a bigger scene
Of a Place You’ve Never Been!
And in Full Color
If You Take the Trouble
To Just Read a Book..”

Maybe I’d have fared better if we hadn’t been in the library, or if I had a backup band of singing bass and clams.

However, he did grudgingly put back the movie book version of the Pirates of the Caribbean Part III and agree to check out “The Trumpeter Swan.” (the assigned book for the next book report). And she checked out the original Peter Pan. "Tinker Bell is in this one too!" she told me in a knowing half secret. "The librarian told me!"

I picked out "The Rough Faced Girl," an American Indian version of Cinderella and a younger version of "The Once and Future King."

Eyeing me with suspicion, my son glared at my selection. "I bet it doesn't have any pictures."
Some day they’ll thank me I’m sure.


In the meantime, I’m going to work on my Swan and Dance number.



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