And when he came back, the tree was so happy she could hardly speak.

I was the girl reading quietly in the corner all through school.

I know, you can’t tell, now. I’m pretty loud, nowadays. But as a quiet and socially awkward kid, who grew into a quiet and even more socially awkward teen, books were my escape. 

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but the library was my church. Well, ok, fine, CHURCH was also my church, I mean, I went to church, but if I had gotten to CHOOSE a church, it would be the library. It still is, too. That hasn’t changed. Now, given my choice in the matter, I worship at the dual temples of Library and Theater. But the library. It’s still the same, all this time later, walking in there. The scent of it. The hush of it. The heady knowledge of all of those books, and you could check out any of them, and each of them has a different world inside, waiting for you to discover it and get lost in it. 

There was nothing I loved more than getting lost in a book, as a kid. My parents still tell stories about bringing me to family events and me refusing to interact with anyone, just curling up on the couch and reading until it was time to go home. I spent an entire family reunion in the car reading a Stephen King book because I had just discovered him and there were SO MANY BOOKS and they were SO GODDAMN GOOD that it was all I wanted to be doing. (Oh, and also I hate family reunions. I DON’T KNOW WHO ANY OF YOU ARE. So nervous-making.) My father always wanted to take us on long drives on Sundays with a secret final destination; I would get so frustrated because without him telling me how long I’d be in the car, I’d never know how many books to bring with me, and there was nothing more painful than running out of reading material and being forced to sit and stare at the landscape or (shudder) interact with people. 

It’s Banned Books Week this week, September 26-October 3. It’s appropriate this week comes right in my favorite time of year, and right as kids are coming back to school, I think. One of the purposes of the week, other than to highlight banned books, is to “celebrate the freedom to read.” What a beautiful phrase. The freedom to read. Because it is freedom, really, to be able to walk into a library and have a choice of whatever you’d like, and it’s freedom to be able to read it without fear of persecution, and it’s freedom to have the education needed to understand what’s being read. It’s a beautiful, rich freedom. It’s something I’m thankful for every day. 

I researched some of the most frequent banned books, in honor of this week, and chose some of my favorites from the list (and one that I haven’t read, but it makes me UTTERLY FURIOUS) to highlight and talk about briefly. I know most of you are inundated with banned books posts this week. You know what? Good. Read them. Find out why the books are banned, and then, oh, I don’t know, READ THE BOOKS. Because someone banning a book is taking away someone else’s freedom. Without getting too political, we’re a country losing more freedom every day. Be a little subversive. Stick it to the man. Read a banned book. Or, even better? Since you’ve probably already read these, share a banned book with a younger reader. Kids, especially teens, LOVE the idea of doing something they’re not supposed to. Well, play up that angle, if you must. All of these books are guaranteed to open up conversations, open up minds, and teach readers something – and piss someone off in the process. (Also, these are all vetted by me, and I have a little over THREE DECADES of experience with amazing literature. I’m no fly-by-night ne’er-do-well, here. THESE ARE EXCELLENT NOVELS.) 

Today, I’m concentrating on children’s books; tomorrow, young adult novels; and Thursday, adult novels (which could also be read by young adults, because any book I read today, I probably would have read as a young adult. I was reading quite a bit I most likely “shouldn’t” have been, as a teen. I don’t see any long-term damage from it, other than I had the vocabulary of an 80-year-old retired librarian and the other kids hated me.) So yes, you get three days of banned books posts. If you are only here because sometimes I can be funny, I apologize. Maybe some of the things I say ABOUT the books will be funny. But mostly, they’ll be pissed. 

I have to give a disclaimer, here. I know Google gives the option of putting a pop-up for “adult language.” But I’m going to be cussing over the next few days. Probably lots. Banning books PISSES ME OFF. People that ban books PISS ME OFF. They have nothing better to do than read books and decide – as if they are King Shit of Turd Mountain (someone said this to me once and it made me laugh so hard I snorted because it’s the stupidest, yet I keep using it, because I have the sense of humor of a teenage boy, quite often) – what is SAFE FOR THE CHILDREN. Oh, my, my favorite argument, WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?!?!?!? You know what? The children, they’re going to be alright. The children see worse than what’s in these books every day at school, on television, on the bus, amongst their groups of friends. If it’s in a book, parents have the option of also reading the book, and then having a meaningful discussion with their child after they’ve finished reading. I can’t wait until my nephew is old enough to read books with substance. I have grand plans for his literary education. (He’s already showing a lot of interest in books, so score one for genetics! Both his mother and I are huge book people, so we’re really jazzed about his love of being read to – and he’s already “reading” to his stuffed animals, so it’s only a matter of time before he learns to read and then ALL BETS ARE OFF, suckers, The Nephew and I are GOING TO START A BOOK CLUB OF TWO.) 

CHILDREN’S BOOKS 

The Giving Tree –Shel Silverstein

Reason for ban: Sexist, critical of the foresting industry, undermining of the parental, school, and religious authority 

Plot: the story of the relationship between a tree and the boy that she loves throughout his (and her) lifetime. 

The Giving Tree has the distinction of making me cry like a crazy person in the children’s section of Barnes and Noble in college. I didn’t read any Silverstein as a child (I don’t know why, I guess he just wasn’t on my radar?) and a college friend recommended him to me. As a poor person (still am!) I went to the bookstore to read them. (Still do that!) And bawled my eyes out, right there in the children’s section. Mothers were dragging their children away from me. I have bought this book for so many of my friends who are having children, I can’t even count. And now I find out it’s sexist? Well, that’s nice. You could reverse the sex of the tree and the human and it would be the same story. The other criticisms are ridiculous as well. It is BEAUTIFUL. Sad, but beautiful. As are his other children’s books. Silverstein’s books have a twisted sense of humor and he understood how children’s minds worked. You can’t go wrong introducing your child to Silverstein. 

“Critical of the foresting industry?” Yeah. Give me a break, please. There’s one mention of “foresting,” without giving too much away, and it’s not “critical.” I think someone was grasping at straws. Or maybe at leaves. 

As for undermining everything and anything that a child should be respectful of – the point of this book is love. This is a book about sharing and love. Is the boy a bit of a selfish dick? Yes. But until the kid is older, he or she isn’t going to get that. It’s lovely, and it made me cry at the Barnes and Noble. 

And Tango Makes Three- Justin Richardson and Peter Parnell

Reason for ban - “an attack on families headed by heterosexuals”

This is the one that makes me furious. First, look at the cover.

Then, look at a real life photo of the penguins that inspired the book.

HOW CAN YOU HATE PENGUIN DADDIES WHO LOVE ONE ANOTHER YOU SOULLESS VOID. 

The penguin daddies are not attacking your heterosexual family unit! The penguin daddies just want to raise little Tango! The penguin daddies – I hate to say – DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU EXIST! They are too busy being adorable and penguiny and diving for fish and waddling around and raising their baby! They have no interest in furthering the insidious homosexual agenda that has you so up in arms! Why? Oh, let’s see, I don’t know, how about BECAUSE THEY ARE FUCKING PENGUINS YOU HOMOPHOBIC MOTHERFUCKER? 

Fine, no, I HAVEN’T READ THE BOOK. But you know what? Unless the final page of this book says something like “And Roy, Silo and Tango want YOU to know that if you don’t have two daddies, YOUR FAMILY UNIT IS BROKEN IRREPARABLY” then your argument IS INVALID AND IDIOTIC. There are gay penguins. It is a fact. This is a touching story. This is a fact. THE PENGUIN DADDIES WERE SO DESPERATE TO RAISE A CHILD TOGETHER THEY ATTEMPTED TO RAISE A ROCK before they were given little Tango to raise together. If this doesn’t tug at your heartstrings YOU ARE AN ANDROID PERSON. 

I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this? But my #1 of all time without any peer favorite animal? The penguin. Penguins are CHEERFUL. Penguins are ADORABLE. Penguins are KIND OF DORKY. You can’t watch a penguin waddling around and swimming and taking care of their eggs and such without a HUGE GRIN. (Well, except if you’re watching that penguin documentary that was made of tears. DAMN YOU MORGAN FREEMAN!) Once, I went to the zoo? And a penguin escaped from his little penguin enclosure and waddled over to the otter enclosure and started swimming gleefully with the otter. The otter didn’t know what to make of this! The otter was baffled! And I was a little worried there would be a bloodbath because I don’t know the ins and outs of the animal kingdom and/or how bloodthirsty the otter as an animal might be. But no, the penguin charmed the (hypothetical) PANTS off that otter (hypothetical because otters don’t HAVE pants, they are totally exhibitionists), and they swam around like good old chums. IT WAS THE BEST. You could not look away. BFFs cross species LINES when it comes to penguins. Then it was feeding time in the penguin enclosure and the penguin had to go and that was a sad parting because friends were made that day. BEST FRIENDS.

STOP BANNING BOOKS ABOUT PENGUIN DADDIES.

Tomorrow: three young adult novels and three young adult series, most of which are banned for being too violent for WORDS. The children, people, come on, seriously, the CHILDREN. Where are the children, by the way? Playing Grand Theft Auto, you say? Oh, ok, then. Carry on.

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round and Round and Round and OMG SHUT UP

There was a news story here recently about a bus driver who got arrested for duct taping a student’s mouth shut, which I thought was kind of funny until I read it and found out he was a scary crazy person and the child was developmentally disabled and he had been abusing her, so it stopped being funny and started being more disturbing and evil than anything. But it did start me thinking about taking the bus to school.

I hated the bus. Hated. HAAAATED. I lived in the country, so the bus ride to school was a long one, and we stopped constantly to pick up other kids who lived in the middle of nowhere. Our bus was the one that no driver wanted to be in charge of. It was full of naughty kids and evil kids and downright cruel kids. The bus ride to and from school every day was one of the worst memories I have of school, and I have a lot of them.

Apparently, things have changed since I was young, but when I was a kid (stop with the old jokes, I know, I’m ancient) every age from kindergarten to senior year rode the same bus to school. That’s a recipe for disaster right there, isn’t it? I mean, put a bullying, hormonal fifteen-year-old on a bus with a sweet, innocent seven-year-old and see what happens. It was like Lord of the Flies on that bus.

I even remember my very first day on the bus: I sat next to another kindergartener (hi, Rich, who I totally don’t talk to anymore and I’m pretty sure doesn’t remember me!) and he taught me cusses. Then he told me I should say them to the busdriver. Which I did, because I didn’t know they were dirty words. So I got in trouble the first day for telling the busdriver “Hi my name is Shit Asshole” if I remember correctly. (I was a really sheltered 4-year-old. Yes, 4. I started school a year early due to my superior intellect. FINE it was because my birthday was in October. And actually I was a really sheltered child altogether. I didn’t utter the f-word aloud until senior year. I thought I would be struck by lightning. In third grade, another child said to me “I bet you don’t even know what a VIRGIN is!” and I said, very haughtily, “Yes, I do. A virgin is the mother of JESUS.” I was a total and complete catch!)

Some things I remember from my years of taking the bus to school:

• An upperclassman with a broken leg forcing his minions to bring younger children to the back of the bus so he could hold them down and stamp them in the middle of the forehead with the rubber grip on the bottom of his crutch, which was filthy with the gross snowy grime from the bus floor
• A busdriver who lost his marbles and drove into a field (we lived in the country, there were a lot of fields on our drive) with a bus half-full of children and sat in the seat, rocking and singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and refusing to answer anyone who spoke to him until finally one of the kids figured out how to use the walkie-talkie and radioed the bus garage and they sent another bus and driver to rescue them
• A busdriver who decided to record the bad language the students were using on his bus because he was a preacher and kept telling them they were going to hell and God hated them , so he brought in a hand-held recorder and kept clicking it on while driving and swerving all over the road trying to catch really naughty cusses
• A weird bully kid who had a psychotic break and one day stopped bullying kids and instead sat in his seat singing “takes a better man, to turn the other cheek, takes a better man to walk away” in a tuneless voice with dead, dead eyes
• A girl who decided it was her duty to shove kids out of their seats, so every day, she chose another child, and would shove them out of their seat onto the disgusting bus floor
• Whorey kids who totally did it in the back seat underneath their jackets (listen, the bus ride home was long, but not THAT long, that’s kind of impressive, right?)
• All the kids deciding it would be hilarious to throw paper airplanes at the busdriver while he was driving and almost causing an accident; this did not phase them, however, and the following week, it was spitballs, followed by those bouncy balls you could get out of vending machines, those paper throwing stars kids folded out of notebook paper, notebook paper balled up (that one didn’t take a lot of imagination but there are only so many things you can throw, really) and apples

Listen, seriously, can you even IMAGINE being a busdriver? I assume it’s a little better nowadays – the busses are segregated by age-group, and a lot more upperclassmen have cars than they used to – but I can’t even imagine how insane a person must have been to want to drive a bus full of children who would not sit down and would not be quiet and would not behave and were THROWING PROJECTILES AT THEM WHILE THEY WERE ATTEMPTING TO STAY ON THE ROAD. I’m not saying I was completely innocent, here. I was kind of a dick on the bus. I mean, I wasn’t hurling spitballs, or anything, but when the busdriver told me to sit down and shut up, I didn’t. I think I actually got sent to the principal’s office in middle school for misbehaving on the bus, but I haven’t the foggiest what exactly I was doing that merited that. It was almost 25 years ago, so my memory’s a little blurry. What, do YOU remember exactly what you were doing 25 years ago? I thought not. Pipe down, junior. I obviously didn’t get kicked out of school so it couldn’t have been too heinous.

I would be the worst busdriver ever. First, I can’t even deal with kids. CAN. NOT. DEAL. You know how some people have the patience of Job? I have the patience of not-Job. I have the patience of someone who is utterly the opposite of Job. Which is why, until I found out it was a scary upsetting story, the duct-tape thing sounded like something that was actually possibly a somewhat rational reaction. You’re driving a bus full of children, and it’s your job to get those kids to and from school safely. You have to deal with asshats on the road who don’t pay attention to your lights and stop signs, and you have to make sure the kids crossing the road don’t get killed, and you have to make sure the kids on the bus are seated and not killing each other, and you have to, oh, I don’t know, DRIVE. This job is harder than an air traffic controller’s job. THERE ARE TOO MANY THINGS GOING ON. Why don’t we hear about more people dying in flaming bus accidents? I have trouble paying attention when I’m driving my car and it’s just me and I want to change the damn radio station, can you even fathom how bad my ADD would kick in if you factored in 50 screaming children all hell-bent on destroying the vehicle, me, and each other? Oh, hell, no.

So listen, I totally get it now, guy who drove into the field and rocked and rocked and sang nursery rhymes. You just got overwhelmed! It is understandable! How could you not? Kids are mean. Mean and nasty. And they DO NOT LISTEN. The preacher guy? He used to say “Sit down and BE STILL” over and over and OVER to us and we’d totally ignore him. Or laugh. Because “be still” was a funny thing to say. I mean, was it 1887 and we were in an old-timey horse-and-buggy contraption? Who says “be still?” But then recently I found out he died and that was sad. I mean, he didn’t die because of the busdriving, or anything, but I didn’t mean him any harm, and that was a tough gig, the busdriving. He just wanted us to sit down and be still! And we were not being still. And we were cussing! And he thought we were going to hell for it. That – well, that was a little disturbing but it was a small town and we took who we could get.

We also had a guy who was a dead ringer for Otto from The Simpsons and I loved him. He most likely was stoned off his gourd the entire time he drove us around and at one point he just disappeared and we never saw him again, but he was so laid-back and just did not care. And honestly, when he drove, the bus was quieter and better-behaved. I don’t know what that was all about. We might have been soothed by a contact high, now that I think about it.

I’m still a little confused about the sex people, though, honestly. How does that even work? I mean, was it actual sex-sex? Those bus seats aren’t very long. And we were kids. Country kids. We weren’t very knowledgeable about positioning and whatnot. Not to be crass, but I guess I get handjobs or whatever, or even (but ew, really, on a BUS? In FRONT of people?) blowjobs but actual penetrative sex? I’d think it was a rumor except someone got pregnant from it. I’m not a parent but I think this is something parents need to worry about. Parents! Talk to your kids about this phenomenon that was happening 20-some years ago! It needs to be addressed! At least tell them if they’re going to do it, have a little self-respect and not to do it on the bus. Those seats are filthy. And they’re just going to get a nickname, like Backseat Boogie or Ella the Bus Whore which I totally did not make up at all and was the name of someone at my school. Fine, not her REAL name, she didn’t put it on the top of standardized TESTS or anything, but that’s what people called her. Because she had SEX on a BUS. And bee tee dubs? It wasn’t even at night. It was after school. The sun was still up. That is super-whorey. And also quite sad.

So listen! When we are celebrating people in our society who have the most thankless jobs, like sanitation workers and such, I think we need to give a shout-out to the busdrivers. Because DAMN but that must suck and you totally must make an appointment to get sterilized after the third full day of work. So, busdrivers! You have my thanks. And also, I promise, if I ever have children, I will drive them to school myself. Dickery is genetic and I wouldn’t want to subject that on any other busdrivers. I’ve harmed enough people already.

I Say No, No, No

I was lucky enough to spend some time with my favorite little person this weekend. (That makes it sound like I have a preferred adult who is height-challenged, like the Wizard of Oz munchkins, and we hang out. Sorry. Poorly phrased.) The Nephew has recently turned two, and although we've all heard horror stories about "The TERRIBLE TWOS," I don't think he's in the least bit terrible. What he is is opinionated.

The Nephew knows what he likes and what he doesn't. If he likes something, he wants that. Now. And he's not to be dissuaded from it unless he finds something else he likes better. If he doesn't like something, he's equally passionate about that. How he lets you know he doesn't like whatever the thing is?

"NO."

"NO," I don't want to read the book about Buzz Lightyear, I want to read the book about Lightning McQueen.

"NO," I don't want my juice at this moment.

"NO," I don't want to play on the swing, I want to go down the slide.

Sometimes he elaborates; you also get a "No no no," a "No don't DO that," and, my favorite, "Don't sing that song," directed at me (the kid knows I can't sing. Already! So intelligent! I suppose it could be that he didn't like the song, but I'm pretty sure that wasn't the case. Who doesn't like "The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers"?)

I am in awe of his conviction. I absolutely adore it. If that sounds sarcastic, you're taking it wrong. I think it's amazing. I know, as we age, we can no longer just scream "NO!" when something occurs that we don't want, agree with, or like. I know, as the adults in his life, his parents, my parents, and his extended family, of which I am a part, are in charge of discouraging this behavior. Soon, it will no longer be accepted, as he will no longer be an adorable toddler but a school-age child, expected to get along with others. As adults, even as children, we have things to worry about: people's feelings, our jobs, people's opinions of us, and acting like a well-behaved member of society, where screaming "NO!" will get you at least, strange looks in public, and, at most, committed.

There are situations, however, where I vow, following his example, to start using The Nephew's vehement NO.

NO, I will not feel guilty about the things I am excited about. I am a proud geek; I no longer have to hide this fact. I will not pretend I watched American Idol last night; instead, if you ask, I will tell you I watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD for the fifteenth time. I will not be embarrassed and make a sad face and say, "I know, I'm so crazy!" when you tell me "but EVERYONE likes Extreme Makeover: Home Edition!" and look at me like I'm deficient for not watching it. I will not hide the title of the book I'm reading and tell you it's "some silly fantasy novel;" I'll tell you, instead, that I'm reading A Game of Thrones, and proudly. I will let my geek flag fly and I will stop my self-deprecatory behavior when it pertains to my interests. If I can be myself online I can let that bleed into my real life.

NO, I will not act like I know nothing about politics because I don't want to get involved in a debate. We may disagree, but my opinions are just as valid as yours. And, additionally, NO, I will not accept it when, instead of having a rational discussion, you start screaming or telling me that I, or my opinions, or my point of view, are stupid. I, and they, are not, no more than you, or yours, are. We are adults and can have a rational, adult discussion without raised voices or namecalling.

NO, I will not feel guilty about blocking people from my various social networking sites whose contributions I find harassing, derogatory, rude, unnecessarily vulgar, or overly avid to the point of borderline stalkishness. I will not spend days worrying what they will think, say or do if I block them; I will just block them, because life is too short to voluntarily invite emotional vampires into one's life.

NO, I will not allow work to get to me, mentally, to the point where I am weeping in the bathroom and letting what happens to me during office hours color the rest of my day. Most people don't like their jobs; I just tend to take my dislike more personally than most. I will act like an adult, grow a pair, and use my words.

NO, I will not say yes when I really mean no. Not for big things, anyway. Small things can't be avoided, but there's nothing worse than looking back on something you've gotten yourself into because you didn't say no in the first place when you knew you should have.

NO, I do not like it when you choose to make eye contact with my chest, rather than my eyes. I don't find it flattering and I don't find it sexy. If you can't be bothered to make eye contact, then I can't be bothered to continue this conversation, take you seriously, or give my full attention to whatever it is you are attempting to tell me to do. Demeaning me by regarding me as a body part rather than an intelligent, capable woman is not acceptable.

NO, I will no longer overextend myself to the point of getting 4 hours of sleep a night. I deserve better than this. I am no longer a teenager who can do this on a regular basis. I will stop accepting tasks that require me to stay up long past the time I should be asleep; if that means I can't participate in activities I find enjoyable, then those activities will have to go on without me.

NO, I will no longer second-guess my emotions. I feel the way I feel. People, and myself, telling me "you're being silly" or "that's not the way it happened" is belittling me, my experience, and what I'm going through. If something has upset me, there is a reason for it. Don't tell me it's because I'm "overemotional," "tired," or "melodramatic." I may be all three of those things, but there's a deeper problem as well.

NO, I will no longer look in the mirror and see nothing but my flaws. I will see them (let's be honest, I don't know anyone who's confident enough to look in a mirror and not see any flaws at all), but I will also see a strong, capable, intelligent, one-of-a-kind woman looking back at me, and I will be proud of her and all she's been through that has gotten her to where she is today.

Eventually, The Nephew will get over his "NO"'s, and things will be quieter for us all. I, for one, will miss them, a little. They're brave, those no's. They know what they want. They don't give a shit what anyone else thinks. They deserve celebration.

Nick Jr.'s Website Wants Me to Friend Dora the Explorer on Facebook. WHAT? NO.

This past weekend, I watched Nick Jr. with my almost 2-year-old nephew. This seems to be a channel where educational shows are aired on a regular basis. He was entranced – a good sign he is not a fairy changeling, because he shows the same unwavering attention to television as his aunt – but I couldn’t help but compare these shows to the shows I watched growing up and find them lacking.

When I was young, you didn’t have much choice, educational-television wise.  I grew up in a small, rural town, without cable, so we had PBS, a few basic channels, and a few Canadian channels. My children’s programming was mostly Sesame Street, Romper Room, The Electric Company, and a Canadian show called Mr. Dressup. (Just a quick aside – Mr. Dressup was, in retrospect, creepy. He was a man who invited the neighbor child and his dog – Casey, a plastery puppet with no facial articulation, and Finnegan, a floppy puppet dog – to come into his house and dress up in costumes. Said costumes were stored in – wait for it – his “Tickle Trunk.” I could not make these things up if I tried.)

Mr. Dressup and his weird, possibly illegal, habits aside, I learned a lot from these shows, enough that I was able to read already upon entering kindergarten, much to the joy of my teacher, who would install me in front of my class and have me read while she went out in the hall to chat with people. (This, thinking back, might have started my 13-year run of unpopularity.)

Note – this is going to sound like craziness unless you understand that I talk to the television. Listen, I live alone, and the television is my roommate. I know it doesn’t respond. But I have fun snidely commenting on its shenanigans. Watching these shows, I did the same thing. It didn’t go over well. It goes over better when the only audience = my two cats who don’t care what I do as long as treats are dispensed at the accustomed times.

Dora the Explorer: This show is about a girl who lives in the forest. Her sidekick is a talking monkey. But it doesn’t stop there. Everything talks in this forest. Including inanimate objects. And there is a fox (I only know it’s a fox because the Internet told me so, I thought it was a weasel, it LOOKS like a weasel, and weasels are known to be weaselly, wouldn’t that have made more sense, show?) named Swiper who takes things, but they seem to get returned, so that’s not a huge plot point. The thing that irked me was her constant breaking of the fourth wall. She kept turning to the audience and asking us questions. “There’s a hole in my SHOE!” she’d say. (Oh, and she shouts every other word, it seems. Maybe you have to do that, to be heard over the forest noises.) “Do you see any OTHER holes?” Then she’d stare at us with these creepy dead unblinking eyes. There would be a hole in a tree or something, and I guess the correct answer was you saying “Yes, Dora the almighty, there’s also a hole in the tree there,” and after what seemed like the longest pause in the world, an arrow would pop up pointing to whatever she wanted you to notice and she’d say, “In the TREE! YES! GOOD!” My thought was, what if you said, “There’s a hole in my sock” and she said “In the TREE! YES! GOOD!” – wouldn’t that confuse a kid, that the TV seems to be talking to you, but wasn’t answering you correctly, or even referring back to what you’d just said? This might be the cause of the terrible twos. Just a theory.

The episode of Dora that I watched involved holes, and talking about holes ad nauseum (and because I have the mentality of a 13-year-old boy, I thought that was hysterical, and whenever she asked “Can you see my hole?” I would crack up, garnering me major glares from my mother and sighs from my more-tolerant father) and fixing things with a magical machine that fixes holes, and traveling through the forest with other talking animals, all of whom had hole-related issues (don’t we all, forest animals, don’t we all) and confronting the audience with in-your-face hole-related questions every few seconds. Very disconcerting. My nephew loved it, though. Whenever I snarked on it, he would look at me with a confused look, like, “I do not understand your venom, beloved auntie! This is Dora! She is my teacher, nay, my friend! Her backpack and her map talk! Her monkey wears red boots!”

Ni Hao, Kai-Lan: This show is about a Chinese girl who has adventures with animal friends (a tiger, a thing that looked like it was meant to be a rhino with a balloon tied to its trunk, and a monkey) and her grandfather. It seems to be teaching our children Chinese as well as friendship. I saw two episodes. Both involved a naughty monkey named Hoho.  In the first episode, Hoho would NOT PAY ATTENTION. People were talking to him and he was all “ooh shiny apples wind a tree look a bird I like grass on my feet.” When Kai-Lan asked me “What can I do to get Hoho to pay attention?” and I said “You can go to the doctor and get him a prescription for ADHD medication,” my parents thought that was an inappropriate response. Well, she opened herself up for the answer. If she didn’t want it, she shouldn’t have asked. In the second episode, Hoho had a temper tantrum because someone took all the yellow paint and banana stickers (they were painting a mural. You know, as you do, with your magical talking animal friends) and so he furiously kicked a tiger named Rintoo who, Rashomon-style, may or may not have been the cause of the paint and sticker pilferage. (See, I was thinking it was Swiper, but no one got on board with this theory.) I was sure we’d get some major action and Rintoo would eat Hoho, but no such luck. We just got a speech about using our words. It was, overall, a disappointment. But Kai-Lan was much less bitchy than Dora, so I was less inclined to stab her with a fork whenever she opened her mouth.

Team Umizoomi: This cartoon was very much like the dreams you have when you are very ill and drink too much codeine cough syrup. There were two cartoon children, rendered in bright colors (Wikipedia says they are Milli and Geo) and Bot, their sidekick robot. They seemed to perhaps be teaching us about math? Or hallucinogenic drugs. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Because in the episode I saw, they went to the grocery store, and this very, very bossy child popped up on Bot’s stomach screen and started screaming about how she was left alone with her toddler brother and they needed to buy him some items so she could make his favorite snack now now now and my comments at this point were, “Why is there a live person on a cartoon robot’s stomach?” and “Why does she get to be such a bitch? RUDE” and “Where are her parents? She can’t be more than 8. That’s kind of the thing you call CPS for, no?” My father at this point tried to explain to me that this was a children’s show, but I don’t think that means logic gets thrown out the window. Sesame Street used to make sense, didn’t it? They were neighbors who lived on a street and they taught you things, and some were monsters, but some were people. Just like in real life!

So the cartoon children and robot had to buy a banana and a carton of yogurt, and the girl was most unhelpful about the yogurt. “Buy the one with the triangle inside the square, that’s his favorite” she said, and I said, “You couldn’t just say, ‘Buy YoBaby Peach’ or something like that? Way to be vague’” and my father told me if I couldn’t behave I would have to leave the room, so I had to quietly watch the rest. Which killed me, because next, the loud girl told them to buy him EIGHT BLUEBERRIES. Eight? Who sells blueberries individually? This does not happen. Now my nephew is going to think that the grocery store sells individual blueberries and it just isn’t true. You are crushing his little dreams!

Oh, and also Milli’s braids doubled as measuring tapes, and Geo had a magic belt. And there was singing.

After this show, it was time for dinner, so we didn’t have to watch anymore television. I was pleased by this, because there’s only so much of this you can take.

I’m going to YouTube some old Electric Company episodes now. I need a palate cleanser.

No! Myself! Up! Now! Juice!

My nephew is almost two. I don't get to see him as much as I'd like, as he lives upstate, but every time I do I learn more interesting things about children. My knowledge of them is limited to babysitting many, many years ago, so it's a little fuzzy, but here are some things I have learned about two-year-olds from hanging with the kiddo:

1. Two-year-olds are LOUD. Like, pitches and tones only caught by sensitive dog-ears loud.

2. Two-year-olds are opinionated about everything - both things that matter ("No! APPLE juice! Not ORANGE juice!") and things that don't ("I am NOT A MOUNTAIN GOAT!") (OK, yes, I am aware that technically he is a child and not a goat. Only, he was head-butting things, and climbing up everything in sight. Hence the comparison.)

3. Two-year-olds think the world revolves around them. Which, ok, it kind of does, when you're that age. You can't really get anywhere, do anything, make any decisions, etc. yourself - someone is always doing something for you. So it's a fair assumption that the world is there for your pleasure. Everything belongs to the kiddo. "My (insert item here - cell phone, water bottle, car keys, book)!" Even when his hands are full of all of the other things that are his. And he won't drop anything that's his. It becomes a toddler's Sophie's choice - what to take? What to leave? The matchbox car or the toy cell phone? Which? WHICH ONE?

4. Two-year-olds think someone will always be there to catch them. This is kind of a continuation of #3. We went to the playground (which - tangentially - is a horrorshow. There are a million places a child can be injured there. Was this as dangerous when I was young? How was I allowed to play there? Sharp things! Metal things! Things that move when you step on them - which only scared me, not the toddler, because I have a fear of the ground moving under my feet due to a childhood suspension bridge incident!) and there was a ladder. He almost stepped off into space, I think assuming that either his mother or myself would be there to help him with it. That kind of blind faith is both heart-swellingly touching and gut-numbingly chilling. (OK, stop freaking out. He didn't step off, his mother was right behind him and asked him nicely to stop, he did, I stood on the other side of the ladder, and I showed him how to climb down it while gripping his little waist for dear life. But - very dangerous planning, playground. That ladder was my height, and I am 5'8. He is a wee fella! That's like 4 stories to him!)

5. Two-year-olds are more dramatic than theater people. It is awe-inspiring, really. The tiniest imagined slight, or fall, and the level of hysterics is Academy Award-worthy. Also, the waterworks can be shut off at a moment's notice. I think, instead of taking theater classes, we could all benefit by watching toddlers at play. That is dedication to one's craft. I AM ANGRY I AM CRYING NOW I AM PLAYING AGAIN. AND SCENE.

6. Two-year-olds are capable of conversations that are not as one-sided as you might think. Example: "Cars can fly?" "No, kiddo, I don't think so." "Yes!" "No, not yet. Only on The Jetsons." "Why?" "Because we were promised things in the future that have not yet come to fruition, I guess. It only gets worse from here. You have to learn to live with disappointment." "I have car fly?" "Maybe someday. Maybe someday." "I have car fly!" "Oh, yes, look there, your toy car has wings and I misread this entire conversation. Why does your toy car have wings oh ok nevermind now we're going to throw candles on the floor. Cool."

7. Two-year-olds have the attention span of a gnat with ADD who just ate an entire box of Froot Loops.

8. Two-year-olds - at least this one, I haven't met another one who can, at least - have the amazing superpower of turning this bitter, jaded, sarcastic bitch into a smushy puddle of goo. You cannot, no matter how hard you try, be in a bad mood around this child. It is an impossibility.

So I guess what you can take away from this is: unless the two-year-old is yours, or beloved by you, it is probably an age you want to avoid, as it is loud and messy. Me, I'll take it. I get to see the kiddo again in 6 days. I'm already gearing up for more conversations. I think we'll tackle the meaning of life this time around.