Musn't See TV

Sophia woke me before yellow clock on Friday.  Thanks to the plugs I screw into my ear canals each night, I never heard her open the door.

“Mommy!” came a scream, penetrating my deep dream.

I shot up in bed, ready to attack the intruder. 

My eyes focused on the spritely form leaning over me, and I realized my intruder was Sophia.

Then I really went ballistic.  “Sophia, go back to bed and do not come back in here until your clock turns yellow.” I growled. 

“But, Mommy I’m in so much pain.  It’s my loose tooth.”

(This is the part where I sound completely heartless.) “You’re fine.  Go downstairs.  Get a book and read until I call you.  You do not wake me before yellow clock unless you are bleeding or dying.”

“But, I’m dying of pain.”

“Go.”

She left.  Of course, she was fine.  It was simply a ploy, one of many, to get my attention. 

That night, I made her swear up and down that she would not wake me until her clock turned yellow at 7:15 (which I surreptitiously set for 7:25).

So the next day, when I woke naturally at 7:55 and realized that she had let me sleep in, I was ready to bake her a cake. 

I found her downstairs on the couch, engrossed in a book. 

“Sophia!  Thank you for letting me sleep in this morning!”  I smothered her with kisses.

She did not look up from her book.  “You’re welcome mommy.”

“I have to go to the post office this morning, but other than that, I’m all yours.  What would you like to do?”  I was up for anything in my grateful state. 

“After I finish this chapter, can we watch Jessie?”

“Jessie?”  I had never heard of it. 

“Yeah.  Emma told me to watch it.  Emma LOVES Jessie.”  Emma is one of Sophie’s good friends from nursery school.  She’s a few steps ahead of Soph on the cool curve.  She shops at Justice, draws Peace signs, and knows all the words to We Are Never Getting Back Together. 

Emma has older siblings.  Much older siblings. 

The other girls are attracted to her like drones to their queen.  I watch at parties as all the other girls vie to sit next to her.  How, on the playground, they follow her lead.  Though, typically, Sophie defers to no one, Emma is the exception.  Emma sets the standard. 

“Well….” I struggle with wanting Sophie to have the equipment to navigate the complex social world of girls, and fearing that the content is way too mature for Sophie to be watching. 

“Please, please, please, Mommy!  It’s on the Disney Channel.” I had paused and she saw the crack in my resolve.  I know nothing of the shows on the Disney Channel.  But I assume Disney sanitizes its content to maintain its bleachy-clean image. 

“Well.  Okay.  We’ll watch it together for a few minutes, and then I’ll make a decision about whether I think it’s okay.”

“I know mom.  We’ll watch it for fifteen minutes, and then we can go to the post office, because you said you need to go.”  She’s slick, this one.  She was already negotiating for more time. 

“A few minutes.  Then, we’ll see.” 

We headed up to the attic (where I hide the television—out of sight, out of mind) to watch Jessie.  During the first 10 minutes, I tried to figure out the premise of the show.  The opening scene is of Jesse writing in her diary.  It seems that Jessie is a nanny for multiple children of different ethnicities.  Their mother is a fashion model, and their father is a movie director.  They all live in what appears to be a mansion on Park Avenue.  It’s Different Strokes meets Brangelina.  Suddenly the scene switches to a middle school, where two mean girls—one is the eldest child of the Park Avenue clan—exchange slights.  I don’t like the way they’re talking to the other.  In another scene, one of the children calls someone a “nimrod.”  This disturbs me, though I realize that I don’t know what the word means. I know it’s meant to be an insult, and it sounds dirty, but I’m not sure how bad it is. I make a mental note to look it up.  The central problem, neatly tied up in the 22-minute episode, is that one of Jessie’s charges is caught reading her diary.  Jessie then sets out to teach her a lesson about respecting the privacy of others. 

Sophie is rapt, staring at the screen with great concentration, but she only laughs at the slapstick, physical comedy.

We wind up watching the whole thing, because, I’m not sure what to make of it.  When it is over, I try to ascertain what she has understood.  “Soph, what did you think this show was about?”

“Jessie writes in her diary and the other girl thinks she’s an alien and drinks from her finger.”  All of this happened, but there was a little more to it than that.    

“Who is Jessie?”

“She’s their older sister.  She’s a teenager.”

“Actually, Soph, I think she’s their nanny.  Kinda like their babysitter.”

“No! She’s not!” Sophie is indignant. 

“I thought I heard a bad word used in the show.”  I say, changing the subject. 

“Which one?” she asks excitedly. 

“Did you hear a bad word?” I wanted to know if she picked up on it, by tone alone. 

“No.” 

“Good.”  I explain what I can of the plot to Sophie.  She eyes me skeptically.  As if I might be making it all up. 

Later on I look up Jessie on the Internet.  I’m dismayed to learn on Common Sense Media, that, based on 43 parent reviews, 42% of parents say sexual content is an issue, 26% of parents say language is an issue, and overall it received a “caution” designation FOR CHILDREN AGE 12. 

Either Common Sense Media is one uptight group of parents, or I am so pop culturally challenged, I have no sense of what’s written for whom.  I’m thinking it’s the latter. 

Nimrod, by the way, is actually a biblical reference.  He was a mighty hunter who was the founder of Babylon.  It’s genesis as an insult was actually based on the misinterpretation of its use in Bugs Bunny.  Apparently Bugs once referred to Elmer Fudd, as a “poor little nimrod [hunter],” but the viewing audience, not aware of the Biblical reference, assumed it meant “slow witted,” and appropriated it accordingly. 

From now on, I’m not taking media advice from Emma’s older siblings.  I’m vetting any new shows Sophie expresses and interest in. 

I will be the Nimrod of Age-Appropriate television

Or is that what I am already?

The Work of Parents is Play

Sophia and I have fallen into a relaxed routine in the morning. I make breakfast and she plays beside me. It allows me to have subtle input into her play, without actively directing it. I can help her sustain the play activity, adding voices, suggesting ideas, while taking care of some necessary tasks.

I never thought this day would come.

I have long been Sophia’s playmate. I’ve sat through countless (and endless) pretend meals served by the surly waitress at Sophie’s café. I’ve received questionable health care (and been charged outrageous co-pays) by Dr. Sophia at the hospital. I’ve been turned into a cat, a cow, and a car, under the spell of The Great Sophini and her magic wand. Sophia didn’t come up with these activities on her own (though she was always an enthusiastic participant). I taught her how to engage in these possibilities, to inhabit these fantasies, to pretend. And then she ran with it.

One might think that play comes naturally to children. And it absolutely does. Children imitate in play the activities they observe in the world around them. It was no surprise that Sophia’s first attempts at make believe involved talking on a cell phone and food preparation, two things I do on a daily basis, multiple times a day. Play is how children begin to make sense of the world and their place in it.

But there is so much in our society that serves to inhibit play, that squashes and replaces innate play impulses: two of the biggest offenders, I believe, are toys and television.

Here is my beef with modern toys: they have become so sophisticated that they have essentially put children out of a job, rendering imagination obsolete. A kitchen that sizzles, a ball that giggles and rolls on its own, frogs that have several pre-recorded rote responses in English and in Spanish—the very toys that appear to inspire play, in reality, wind up subverting it. They play FOR the children. Kids merely have to push a button to get a response. Parents may notice that these toys are not played with for any length of time. They are picked up, admired momentarily, and discarded. They fill basements, playrooms and garbage dumps. They do nothing to inspire creativity, wonder, and discovery (except perhaps in a few future engineers who disassemble them to see how they work). At best, they are boring. At worst, they’re annoying as hell.

I find TV particularly insidious because, at first glance, it appears that it inspires ideas for play. In reality, television is a thief of imagination. Kids become the characters they see. They act out scenes from their favorite shows. They indulge fantasies of other worlds, other ways of being. But if you listen carefully to this kind of play, you come to realize that the children are working off of scripts. They have no imagination outside of the images they have been fed. They don’t know how to develop a unique character, a novel world. This phenomenon, in turn, feeds the toy industry that produces all the figurines, props, and costumes that allow children to recreate what they’ve observed on TV.

This is not to say that all toys (or even all television) is bad. In fact, many low tech toys that are facsimiles of real objects—or better yet the REAL OBJECTS themselves—are great props for the imagination.

Case in point: Sophia is obsessed with all things medical. Perhaps she’s trying to master her fear of needle shots. Perhaps she is trying to emulate her grandfather, who is a doctor. Or maybe it’s simply inspired by her great love for Curious George, who often finds himself in the hospital with a broken limb or an ingested puzzle piece. Regardless, as medicine is her current interest, I decided to try to find her a doctor’s kit. I quickly became frustrated with the expensive packs of molded plastic I found even in the best toy stores. Nothing looked “real” or remotely worth the money. I decided to look online and found a blog written by a mom who shared my frustration. She said that real stethoscopes and blood pressure machines could be purchased for less than what some toy companies charged for the fake stuff. Turns out, she was right. I quickly assembled a doctor’s kit that consisted of a light pen, a real eye chart, a stethoscope, a blood pressure machine, an old ace bandage, a pin that read Dr. Sophia Moore, a medicine syringe that looked satisfyingly like a needle shot, a child-sized lab coat, and a tendonitis elbow brace—all for under $30. I haven’t brought out all of the pieces yet, but already, the ace bandage is the number one utilized “toy” in our house.

That ace bandage was sitting in my dresser drawer for years. It only became a toy when it was introduced as such.

Play is a life skill; it brings joy into relationships, transforms work into passion, makes life worth living. Those who know how to play have the ability to think and act creatively. They are fun to be around. When I watch Sophia initiate a play activity with a peer, I can see the foundation of leadership skills taking hold.

But like most life skills, play needs to be taught. There is nothing simple about being a teacher of play. It requires a certain lack of self-consciousness and a lot of silliness, a willingness to get down on the ground and become everything you’re not, an ability to transform the everyday into the extraordinary. But of all the responsibilities I have as a parent, it is the one in which I take the greatest pleasure and reap the greatest rewards.

The Girl Who Mistook Her TV for a Vacuum

Vacuum (n): 1. A space entirely devoid of matter.

It’s not easy to avoid television in America. They're in our cars, our grocery stores, our hospitals, our airports, our restaurants, our shops, our homes. They have migrated from the living room to the bedroom and the kitchen. Some even claim their own “entertainment rooms.” I recently went to a mall near my mother’s house, where they had just installed televisions that hung from the ceiling at 50’ intervals. Just when one had escaped the assault of one TV, another took over, ensuring that, as you shopped, you couldn’t take one step without a commercial blaring at you. A neighbor informed me about a local restaurant that has a television at every table. Now, no longer beholden to watching whatever is on the communal restaurant TV set, you can choose your own programming. Home away from home.

Nielsen reports that the average American watches 5 hours of television a day (Three Screen Report, 2008). The average child watches about 4. And, true to my word, Sophia watches none.

This has been one of the greatest challenges in parenting Sophia. I specifically shop at stores that don’t have TVs. I have rudely asked my friends to turn off the tube when we come over. I have, on occasion, made Sophia face the wall when there was no other option.

Yes, I know you all think I’m nuts. No, I don’t think a ten-minute exposure is going to turn her into a fiend. Yes, I worry that depriving her will make her in a TV junkie by the age of five. Still, I can’t bring myself to allow it…even just a taste. That's the irrational part of me. The thinking part of me is concerned about brain development. Here’s my theory: Years ago, fewer kids were diagnosed with ADHD (From 1997 to 2006, alone, diagnosis of ADHD has increased by 3% each year, CDC, July 2008) . Certainly, the uptake in ADHD diagnoses could be attributed better diagnosis—or even over-diagnosis, with children with high activity levels being mislabeled.

But I think it might have something to do with TV. Hear me out: Three decades ago, when I was a child (and doing my part to contribute to those 5-hour/day stats), shots were long and steady. The camera stayed trained on Mr. Rodgers for what felt like an eternity, (probably at least a good three minutes at a time) occasionally panning to follow him into the kitchen, the front door or the fish tank. But for the most part, there was very little editing.

Fast forward 10 years to 1980. Enter MTV. Music videos spawned a novel, highly visually appealing approach to film making: strobe-like editing. Suddenly, images lasted on the screen for no more than a second at a time. What used to be one cinematic point of view was transformed into hundreds, even thousands of points of view over the course of a few minutes. But here’s the rub—we no longer had to sustain our attention for more than a split second at a time. The images were constantly changing.

Many times a parent with a child with ADHD has said to me something like this: “He can’t sit and focus on his homework for more than a few minutes at a time, but he can sit and watch TV or play video games for hours.” Yes, it is only anecdotal evidence. But I believe there is a reason. I believe that these children are not sustaining their attention for hours at a time when they watch TV or play video games. I believe they are being reinforced for their lack of attention, rewarded with new image after new image.

I would even go so far to assert that the TV is the egg and our children are the chickens: In growing up watching these constantly changing images, I believe the TV actually trains our kids' brains to crave constant stimulation. Why not? Doesn’t every environmental stimulus contribute to a child’s cognitive development? We know that if a child is denied stimulation during critical periods, he/she will be cognitively impaired. So, if a child is over-stimulated during these critical periods, it’s quite possible that a very different sort of cognitive impairment cold result.

I’m operating on a hunch. I’m conducting an experiment. I’m delaying the introduction of TV because, it certainly can’t hurt. And it might help.

Sophia and I were looking at pictures of every-day objects while she was eating her breakfast. She new most of them…jar, elephant, even ice cream, but when she came to a picture of a television set, she paused. “Vacuum?” she guessed.

“In a manner of speaking.” I told her, and we moved onto the next picture.

Why I Will Let Sophia Watch ABDC*

*once I let her watch television

ABDC, for those of you who don’t know, is not part of the educatainment empire. It’s not a beginning phonics program. It does not comprise 30 minutes of Sprout's 24 hour programming for babies and preschoolers.

It’s on MTV.

Yes, you heard me right. Once a large chunk of her neural pruning has taken place and I feel fairly confident that the strobe-like editing won’t rewire her brain to attend to a stimulus for no longer than 1/10 of a second …a process, I am convinced, is the root of all ADHD. I…will…let…Sophia…watch…America’s Best Dance Crew.

In a miasma of reality TV shows in which participants are selected on the basis of their poor mental health and then exploited for profit, ABDC’s greatest fault is that it errs on the side of sentimentality. Dance crews, often from underprivileged backgrounds, battle other dance crews for the chance to be named Amercia’s Best Dance Crew and win $100,000. Much like other talent shows of its kind, there is an elaborate elimination process, much of which occurs off screen. But unlike its popular predecessor, American Idol, contestants are not humiliated for sport or amusement. Instead, its competitors are celebrated. The time between dance segments is devoted to spotlighting how crew members have transcended difficulties in their life, recounting how the crew came together, and explaining where they come from and what they represent.

On a show, where there is certainly a great deal of pressure and probably some degree of arguing—conflict never makes its way onto the screen. Instead, collaboration and teamwork is emphasized. You see the participants brainstorming and problem solving together. And then you watch them realize a collective vision as they dance in the weekly competition.

Not only do the crews dance—they choreograph their work. Given certain parameters, they come up with a concept and generate a 45-second segment. They are judged as much on their creativity as they are on their technical skill. The judges provide thoughtful, critical feedback, in a way that is meant to help the crew’s grow and improve. Similarly, the audience is respectful, cheering for all the competitors.

And when a crew is eliminated, they conduct themselves with dignity, grace, and great sportsmanship, expressing gratitude for the opportunity to be on the show, reflecting on how far they came, and commending their competitors on their success.

The show has featured crews of different sex, race, ethnicity gender identification and body-type. There have been a variety of styles of dance included: latin, roller skating, b-boying, stepping, country/western, even clogging—each treated with equal respect. And whereas the comments of the judges aren’t always politically correct, you watch them struggle with and become aware of their biases.

ABDC is about more than dance. It is about dedication to a dream and realizing that dream. It’s about being open to feedback. It’s about working effectively with others. It’s about acceptance. It’s about pride. It’s about “bringing it hard” every time. It is a model of behavior I would like Sophia to aspire to. Oh yeah, and its fun.