outside the (toy) box

I am not perfect, or even trying to pretend that I’m perfect. I fail in a million ways every day and you probably care about things that I let slide (we don’t use nearly enough organic food, I never lay toilet paper down on public toilet seats, and to call our church attendance sporadic would be so generous as to redefine the word completely). At any rate, my “progressive” might be your Neanderthal. My “feminist” may be your misogynist (I do wear make up, afterall). I’m okay with that — I’m not pretending to be the poster child for clean, liberal living. I would, however, like two points for finally buying the reusable grocery bags.

I do not expect to win the war against popular culture. There are, after all, ubercompanies with a whole lot of dollars funding their side of the battle and they don’t fight fair. I mean, really, have you seen a Disney movie? They are gorgeous and silly and fast — hypersaturated colors and infectious music, crabs that talk, teapots that dance — I don’t stand an icecube’s chance in hell. In spite of the fact that I don’t expect to win, I do plan to put up a bit of a fight.

There are shades of gray. A wise friend (hi HL) once told me that there is a difference between renting Cinderella and watching it once and having a family copy in heavy rotation. I don’t believe in forbidden fruit, I think it backfires, so this story of coping with massive marketing to kids, media madness, and gender insanity is really not about solitary confinement, it’s a story about how my family and I find a space where we can be comfortable. Lots of the time this is hilarious. To me there is a difference between Hello Kitty Bandaids and Barbie Bandaids and between the Trader Joe’s Chicken Drumettes and McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets. These may be tiny differences, but I’ve learned that when “great” often doesn’t exist, and “good” is hard to find, that “better” is still an improvement on “awful.” I’m cool with better. Thank God, or I’d need to be hospitalized.

I don’t think you are a bad parent. Well, maybe you are, I don’t know, but I know plenty of great parents who could care less about whether sporting equipment is plastered on every outfit their sons own (except the ones with the construction vehicles) and who can’t get enough Baby Einstein (evil baby marketing monsters, also owned by Disney — shock of shocks). They don’t care about those things because they are busy caring about the things that are important to them, be it making sure that they are the ones who get their kids off the schoolbus, fostering a love of the outdoors, or making sure that they read enough. A second wise friend (Hi KS) once told me she doesn’t judge other parents because she doesn’t want to be judged. If I’m completely honest, I don’t think I’m quite there yet, but I’d like to be. And, I can say with confidence that most parents I’ve met, and every single one of the parents I know well, do the best they can to do what they think is right for their kids. And there is no arguing with that.

I often fail to practice what I preach. You would not believe what junk I’m willing to eat, download, and watch on TV when no little eyes are around. I don’t think of it as being a hypocrite, I just have more respect for their little minds and bodies than I do for my own. I can’t decide if that’s pathetic or if it’s a noble effort at being a good role model, but I do know that I’m glad they get enough fruits and vegetables

On a more serious note, please know that I realize these worries are luxuries. I can handwring over what televised football will teach my son about masculinity because I do not have to handwring over whether he will have enough to eat or whether we will be evicted. I am not having to help my children through a divorce, or concerned that they will miss me while I serve in the military or languish in prison. I do not have to help them learn to cope with physical or mental challenges. They have not lost a parent to a terminal illness. My heart goes out to the countless parents who will never have the mental space or emotional energy to worry about the things that worry me. I can only hope to have the strength that they have if and when I need to help my children cope with such profoundly agonizing challenges.