“Mommy’s Dead,” and other fun and enlightening tales for tots
An excerpt from The Parent Trip
My favorite “urban legends” web site insists that the time-honored nursery rhyme Ring around the Rosie is not, as myth suggests, a song about children carrying flowers in their pockets to mask the stench of death that permeated the air during the black plague. No, it’s just a bunch of silly words strung together, like “a tisket, a tasket,” or “hey, diddle, diddle.” Fair enough. But what about the unfortunate, tumbling Rock-a-bye Baby? Or poor, irreparable Humpty Dumpty? And Jack and Jill with their fractured skulls? And that guy who dies in his sleep in It’s Raining, it’s Pouring?
Classic children’s literature is hardly any better. Am I the only person who had nightmares for four years after hearing the Hansel and Gretel tale? The first time my mom read me Charlotte’s Web I was afraid to leave her side for weeks. Sure, there are crazy folks in the world who try—sometimes successfully—to enslave and eat children. And yes, all living things die. That’s life. But can’t these joyful little lessons wait until our kids are a teeny bit older?
And while we’re on the subject, why are the mothers always dead in the princess stories? (Presumably, from a writer’s standpoint, this is because killing off the mother opens up a plot slot for the invariably evil stepmother, a dangerous concept to be introducing in this age of blended families, if you ask me.) Name one fairytale princess who has a kind, loving birth mother in attendance when she needless-to-say marries the handsome prince with whom she will go on to live in infinite bliss, and I’ll send you a check for ten thousand dollars.* At least most of the princesses’ mothers are long gone by the time the story even starts so you’re spared that small bit of immediate grief. Disney fans get to watch Bambi’s mother kick the bucket practically in the opening scene. Nemo’s, too.
It’s not just literary death and violence that bug me. Half the time when I’m skimming through the children’s book section at Borders, I have to put something back not because it’s boring or poorly written (although there are plenty of those), but because of the horrible behavior they seem to condone. Every other story features a kid talking back, lying, disobeying authority, skipping school, throwing tantrums or sneaking out of the house. (Angelina Ballerina clearly doesn’t live in New York City or she’d be a dead sewer rat being cannibalized by her filthy subway vermin family, which come to think of it, would make a wonderful children’s book!)
Do I really want to read these sorts of things to my child? Even the classic “Carl the Dog” series relies on a running plot-line of mom leaving baby with the pet Rottweiler while she jets off to shop/sip cocktails/stroll the streets with her friends. The only words in these books are generally mom’s parting shot: “Look after the baby, Carl. I’ll be back shortly.” So it’s not like baby and dog conspired to sneak out unsupervised, or mom got locked out of the house/mall/park and the precocious pair went looking for trouble. That selfish tramp is intentionally leaving her baby in the care of a dog! And a Rottweiler, no less. (Note to Carl’s creator: The American Veterinary Medical Association considers Rottweilers to be the country's deadliest breed of dog. I’m just saying.) Frankly I’m surprised Carl’s not a cobra.
Good, healthy stuff.
My sister Laurie doesn’t ban any of these books or movies. Rather, she uses them as “teaching tools” with her children (ages 5 and 9) because they present opportunities to point out discipline and parenting styles that “we don’t agree with.” The death part she addresses matter-of-factly, because she went to medical school and has no problem being cavalier about subjects I can’t even contemplate. (Her children: “Where’s the mom?” Laurie: “Dead. This was written, when? Late eighteenth century? I’m guessing famine.”) Fortunately I have a while before Sophie starts asking me any tough questions like, “But why do the stepmother and stepsisters hate beautiful, kind Cinderella, mommy?” (“You see sweetie, women can be incredibly petty, and you might as well face the fact now that pretty gals are frequently the victims of jealous wrath.”)
In the meantime, I’m dusting off my now-antique Dr. Seuss collection. Trust me, “There’s a Wocket in my Pocket” only sounds dirty. And sure, the Grinch may steal Christmas—but everyone knows Whoville isn’t a real place and besides, they get it back. Although, come to think about it, Sally and Whatshisname were awfully young to be left alone in the house on that cold, cold, wet day when the Cat in the Hat showed up and turned the place upside down.
Forget it. I’m writing my own children’s books. They’ll feature obedient children from functional, two-parent households where nobody dies or locks anyone in a dungeon, even as a joke. Please check www.jennamccarthy.com soon for available titles.
*Offer not valid anywhere in the US or now that I think about it, the world. I was just making a point, but honestly I cannot think of a single one. So shoot me if I’m wrong. I’m exhausted, okay?