Letter: Dear Starkadders of Cold Comfort Farm

There's a piece of your English Countryside Farm that has always appealed to me. The fresh country air, the quaint shops a hop and skip down the country lane, and the loyal nature of your family clan. That seed of filial loyalty was the primary exploitation of your Head Matriarch, Ada Doom, who ruled her family's life and the farm from the shrouded confines of her upstairs bedroom. Any thoughts of modernization? Travel? Careers off the farm? were met with the proclamation that "There's always been Starkadders on Cold Comfort Farm" and if that didn't discourage properly, then the trump card was played: "I saw something nasty in the woodshed!"

You see I'm calling you out, because my daughter recently discovered her trump card, and she's been playing it again and again. The nasty thing she saw in the woodshed aroused my sympathies. I even wrote a nasty letter to whoever scheduled "Frosty the Snowman" and "Criminal Minds" back to back. Aside from the indecencies, the healing, comforting, and striving for cleaner entertainment, my daughter derived a sense of power from this trauma, and it's getting a little out of hand.

Exhibit One:

Rainbow Girl is hanging out with her Idaho Cousins and 11-year-old cousin wants to show her something on the internet. Ever diligent, Rainbow Girl asks permission first, and worries that it could be bad to watch. Mrs. Olsen (the mom) says Go for it! and then Rainbow Girl watches the following clip. Afterwards, she becomes the sullen female of the cousin group, and proclaims that she is sensitive. She also gets lots of extra attention and won't go to bed at night. Prepare to be damaged for life:

This coming from a kid whose favorite toddler movie was "The Nightmare Before Christmas". The thing is, she warbles her voice and calls out "MoOoom?" while she gives me a play by play for every innocent, if slightly irreverent, clip, joke, or sibling rivalry.

MoOOoom? (warbly voice of a deserted victim discovered 3 hours post-trauma)I think that the show was inappropriate.

Charlie the Unicorn? I ask.

Uh-huh.

Exhibit 2:
Desperate to refresh our favorite movie feeding off our proud Idahoan heritage, we decide to watch Napoleon Dynamite over Christmas. This was Rainbow Girl's idea, and after our day was done, we nestle in for this flick. As it begins, she reverts into watchdog and says: "Wait mom, Vanilla Wafer (age 4) probably shouldn't be watching this. I think there's some bad words." After which she kills the humor of this flick by turning to her brother after Napoleon delivers his deadpan "Idiot!" name-calling, and says "Hey. Hey. Don't say that word brother".

She gave her brother some excellent training that day.

Time for bed!
MooOom....so-and-so threw a snowball at me yesterday

Please gather the eggs!
MooOom...my cousin told me a scary joke and I can't go outside alone

You're greasy. Take a shower!MoOom...I heard a barking sound under my bed

Signed,
Watchdog parent not willing to be taken hostage by Charlie the Unicorn

Labels: good flicks, parenting, Rainbow Girl

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Letter: Dear Mr. Network Sequencing Agent

To Whom It May Concern:

I'm not sure who to write this letter to. Let me first start by saying this: You're an idiot. Perhaps it's sexist for me to assume you are a man, because any sense of nurturing or sensitivity that occurs naturally in the female gender appears to have been absolved. I'm not sure if your job is big or small, but I would surmise it's some exalted secretarial position that always leaves you wanting for more. So to whoever you are, "Mr. Network Sequencing Agent", please consider this:

It's Christmas. Frosty the Snowman is a TV classic that even I enjoyed as a kid, so I'm sure it was a no-brainer to schedule this wintry wonder the week before Christmas. Everyone's happy right? Thirty-something parents reminisce, and adorable offspring watch in wonder of the magic of that old silk hat they found. The thing is, the old silk hat doesn't do laundry, so your older demographic has a higher chance of tuning out. Please consider that 8 year olds don't tune out. They are ready for whatever you dish out next, which in this case was a bloody re-enactment of a crime scene perpetuated on a wife by her husband, or in this case, (because your audience was still single-digit-aged kids high on Christmas Spirit), someone's dad.

As a parent, I try not to buy into the hypersensitive paranoia that scratches across the border of common sense. I'm reasonable okay? But this isn't a case of over-reactive parents. Some news is meant for adults, adults who can balance their morbid curiosity of filial love gone terribly horribly wrong, with years and years of relationships, neighboring, traveling, schooling, and working to realize this: most people are good. Horrible things happen, yes, but most people are good.

I have had to repeat to my daughter how old I am, how many places I've lived, traveled, and worked, and how I have never even known someone who had done something like hacking another living soul to pieces.

But to an 8 year old kid, with a handful of relationships, carefully nurtured by parents and family, well it practically blew her brain to think that something like that could ever happen. After the flashing of images, she was nauseous, and for the past 2 nights her giggling comes to a halt when she squeaks out: Mom, those bad pictures are still in my brain. How do I get them out? Plus she's worried that she's being watched, and is afraid to go to bed even after I gave her a kick-A bedroom makeover.

I wish you knew my kid so you could understand that she is not a stupid drama queen, and that she is a good, sweet, and loving soul. I wish you understood that you are effectively a flock of seagulls with gullets full of loose, fibrous, wet waste that you just dumped on her head, and probably a family heirloom sweater she was wearing. You get the picture.

So please eat shit. I hate you right now. I don't even know what network is responsible (longer story) but I would urge you to bore your cartoon market with some local news, or maybe an all boys choir, to ensure that you aren't infringing on our happy, sacred, reveling Christmas Spirit that we occasionally entertain through the media.

Passionately,

Mrs. Olsen

Labels: parenting, Rainbow Girl