The Giving Tree

I can't decide who's the bigger asshole: The tree or the kid.

In thinking about this since my childhood (I wanted to punch Shel Silverstein's classic in the face even then), I have never figured out what all the precious fuss was about.

While some claim this book is about unconditional love, to me it smacks of a cautionary tale heard over and over again in twelve-step programs. In addition to being a playmate (branches to swing on), a protector (shielding the kid from harmful rays), a provider (offering up its fruit for food, branches for a house, and trunk for a boat), and a stool (finally a stump), The Giving Tree is a sap.

Plus, the tree is female, which makes her continual sacrifice to this knob even more annoying and questionable.

Might I suggest that this parable serve as a lesson to all the other anthropomorphic trees and shrubs out there. Set some boundaries, learn to say no, and get your Serenity Prayer on. Accept that you can't change greedy, thoughtless little shits, muster up some courage to change your behavior and drop an apple on his head, and get wise to his ways. That's the path to happy, joyous, and tree.

Preschool graduation

Ahem, what is a four year old graduating from, exactly? Pull-ups? These days, every kid gets a trophy, a sticker, a certificate just for showing up to school, to soccer, even to the breakfast table. And they spend a good fortnight in class making mortar boards and crowns, baking Cake Pops, and scribbling out a sloppy diploma for a ceremony that causes overworked parents to rework their already jammed Outlook calendar.

There's no real sense of achievement being cultivated when a diploma is handed to a pre-schooler for finger painting, playing well with others, and going number-two successfully. Where's the competitive spirit? I trounced the rest of my first-grade Lybrook Elementary class to win a spelling contest because cold hard cash was involved. I—no one else—scored a crisp dollar bill. That made me want to succeed, not a collective gold star for attendance.

Sorry to matricuhate, but too much fanfare over little piddly shit results in little shits growing up to be big shits with entitlement issues. Today's little graduate is tomorrow's massive unemployed bunghole.

(photo: buzzle.com)

Bounce houses

Need I say more?

Okay. The love child of an inflatable snow globe and a padded cell, bouncy castles are blow-up germ factories for both sugar-fueled kids and status-seeking parents. It never ends well.

Seeing as I usually got a cardboard box or an old refrigerator to play with as a kid, I’m clearly resentful that all these little princes and princesses get to yuck it up and take jumping on the bed to a escalated, extravagant extreme in a PVC palace that can be seen from space.

Childhood nicknames

My brothers used to call me Heifer Head, usually right before they thumped me in the head or beat me at canasta or cribbage. My 7-year-old admonition of "Words can hurt more than fists" didn't get me anywhere.

It gets better. Yeah, it gets better, primarily because we don’t live under the same roof as our siblings forever.

What nickname haunted your childhood nightmares? What low-forehead playground Monchhichi did you want to beat with your pogo stick?

Little boys with long hair

True story: Dave Matthews walked into our neighborhood coffee shop with his kid. As I was pouring cream into my Americano, I asked him what her name was.

Oops.

In his Dave Matthewsey way, he muttered, “He’s a boy.” Then he kindly added, “He is wearing sort of a girly hoodie.” It was lavender. As I commented on how evolved his son was, I was thinking that it wasn’t the hoodie that confused me. It was his long hair.

August—that’s his name—had silky blond locks. They weren’t Ryder Robinson long but they were mos def in need of a haircut.

I understand the need to keep your little one a baby as long as possible. However, babies don’t have hair long enough to dust their playrooms. Most don’t have any hair at all. Maybe you were wishing for a girl. Maybe you really, really like Bo Bice. Whatever the case, this look is not making the cut. It drives me as crazy as Gymboree on a Saturday morning.

Set your kid on a path to proper grooming and gender identity, and chop his mop. Otherwise, I might have to crash into you or send some fire ants marching on your ass.

(photo: knockedupcelebs.com)

Kids’ songs

“Baaaaackpack, backpack!”

“Hot dog! I’ve got the rhythm in my head.” 


“There were ten in the bed and the little one said, ‘Roll over, roll over.’”

Clearly, there are many problems with the above scenario (TEN in the bed? Are we in a Dickens’ novel?); however, the biggest beef I have is that I can’t get the mother-lovin’ song out of my head.

As much as I tried to sing “Doncha wish your baby was hot like me?” to my goddaughter, it’s the wheels on the bus that go round and round in my head. A friend once instructed me to hum the Entertainment Tonight theme whenever I got stuck in an endless loop of song suckage. Happily, this worked for wrong songs from Sisqó, the Baha Men, and a musician ex-boyfriend, but kids’ songs are more insidious. They appear innocent on the surface, which makes them all the more sinister (think of what happened to baby-faced Anakin Skywalker if you need a cautionary tale).

This will not do.

Since shouting some 2 Live Crew or other material offensive to Tipper Gore’s ears might stunt a toddler’s growth, I propose that for every one Wiggles or Little Einstein song we have to jazz hands our way through, they get to suffer the decidedly non-hummable sounds of early American Idol auditions. That’s some aural poop that will never get stuck in anyone’s cerebral sandbox.

Dancing baby videos

Call me a cold-hearted childless bitch, but I don’t want to see a 18-month old zipping around on roller skates when I’ve never figured out how to skate backwards (which, lemme tell you, really put a dent in my 7th grade social life). I don’t want to see a sugar-filled gang of CGI diapered gang members setting old scores through the power of breakdancing. I don’t want to see all the single babies putting their hands up, dancing in unison holding onto their Cabbage Patch Kids when I can’t do a decent cabbage patch.

The dancing baby on Ally McBeal was enough to put me into the fetal position; you can only imagine what a fleet of toddlers is doing to my delicate emotional state. It’s just not right. They're not right. Seriously, they all look a little off in the face, which gives me the willies. Is it just me, or do they all look like they've had work done?

I can’t really punch the babies, animated or no, so I am just going to take away their roller skates and dancing shoes and herd them into a giant pack ’n’ play. The time has come for a timeout.

Kiddie pageants

I don’t know which is worse: the pageants, the parents, or the glassy-eyed kids. Wait, yes I do: it’s the parents.

How any parent can dye or highlight their little girl’s naturally preternatural locks boggles the mind. Women are forever trying to get an eight-year-old’s natural highlights and momthras are frying everything good and holy from these tiny heads. Momsters brush mascara onto baby lashes and glop up little rosebud lips with lip gloss, transforming their little rays of sunshine into Stepford toddlers. These kids can’t read Vogue yet, but they’re more high maintenance than Anna Wintour. I bet they could even teach me how to finally apply liquid eyeliner properly…

The pageants themselves are beyond low budget. They are usually held on a rickety stage with a sad backdrop that looks like it was made with a glue gun, glitter, and an asswagon of prayer. Stage mommies sit in the audience, miming their kid’s “talent” routine, while the little girl preens, dances, smiles, and jazz hands her way through a treacly patriotic number.

The ragtag judges eat this shit up. I want to beat this shit up. I want to deprogram the little spray-tanned ventriloquist dummies by herding them into a lil’ miss protection program. Here, in a home with no television or tiaras, their hair will return to a color in the neighborhood of what Mother Nature intended. They will play with crayons, not lip pencils, and draw outside the lines. They will sing along to Baby Einstein, rather than “(Hit Me) Baby One More Time.” The only Barbies in the house will be the ones manufactured by Mattel, not a mom from hell. And the mommies dearest, the ones who continue to maintain that they are just helping their daughters realize their dreams, will be beaten with a sack of those very same Barbie dolls while being forced to sing Aqua's "Barbie Girl" in a leotard. Being plastic isn't always fantastic.

(photo: berkshirefinearts.com)