pc baby

Most of the unsolicited advise I receive about childcare comes from people who have not had a baby in their home for over twenty years. It comes at work, at home, at the store, and on the street from those would not dare drive the same cars as they did then, eat the same foods, wear the same clothes, smoke the same smoke, or drink the same drink, but they think my baby should be raised exactly the same way they raised theirs. Okay crazies, go ahead and talk but retro child rearing isn't the order of the day. Those little things that we happened to survive are gone by the way of Ford Pinto's, Pall Malls, whole milk, hashish, and platform shoes with goldfish in them. You can still buy them but they come with a Surgeon General warning taped firmly to the side.

I realized yesterday that I may be guilty of a slightly lesser offense- I was singing Ten Little Indians to Jake and just as I got to that sixth little Injun I thought to myself that kids just might not sing this song any more. My son will never know the thrill of making a head dress and vest out of a brown paper bag and following the teacher around the classroom, skipping and whooping and hi-ya hi-yaing like savages to the beat of what used to be an educational counting song. He will be sitting "pretzel style" instead of "Indian style". Chinese Checkers are being sold as Stern-Halma sets. Jake won't sing Chinka Chinka Chinaman sittin' on a fenceat the top of his lungs while running in circles around the girls playing hopscotch unless he wants to be punished. He may not ever watch the Song of the South on the last day of first grade or hear those tales of Brer Rabbit and Mr. Fox at bedtime. All probably good things, but this PC crap has been taken to an extreme.

As he gets older he might not discover he is actually a normal teenager thanks to Judy Blume and Lois Lowry. He may not learn How to Eat Fried Worms or see The Light in the Attic, meet James and the Giant Peach or find A Wrinkle in Time, cross the Bridge to Terabithia or share in the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. He may never see the world through The Bluest Eye or feel what it is like to be one of The Outsiders. He may never get To Kill a Mockingbird or learn that there is a Brave New World out there. All are in danger of being censored by the time Jake is old enough to read them.

These books are a part of my childhood, an integral piece of my upbringing thanks to my librarian grandmother. We read these books together and talked about the death, the drugs, the racism, the paganism, the adolescent angst associated with puberty. It was how I learned about these things before I encountered them in the real world. In high school I was lucky enough to take advanced standing English courses, where we only read nearly-banned books and discussed why they are so controversial. We were allowed to think for ourselves as we were made aware of the issues that effect poor minorities and rich socialites, displaced persons, transients, and kings. We understood the ways of Mice and Men, and Why the Caged Bird Sings. We giggled at the Canterbury Tales and were grossed out at the end of The Grapes of Wrath. We read these and we didn't kill ourselves, we didn't get pregnant, stick needles in our arms, or kill the local pawn broker. We sang our songs and we didn't eat that peanut we found, squish up a baby bumblebee, or believe that the old lady finally died after eating a horse, of course. We listened to heavy metal and punk and alternative rock and we didn't worship Satan or stab our mothers. We tore our jeans and wore long johns under our shorts. And maybe a little too much eyeliner and hair product.

A lot has changed since the 70s. I won't give my baby table food for quite some time, I won't put him on his belly to sleep, or forgo the LeapFrog toys for two spoons, a pot, and an empty spool of thread. I won't put him directly in the sun or let him stand up in the back seat or sleep in the wheel-well as I drive him around town, or make him wear three layers of clothing because the mercury has dipped below 70. It won't be cute if he swears or gets in a fist fight. Fries (are we allowed to call them French again?) aren't a vegetable and Hi-C isn't fruit juice.

But I'll be sure Jake will be reading the same books that we read so many years ago, even if I have to drive to Canada to buy them. And I'll remember to stick to songs that I won't have to explain at Parent's Night in five years. It is likely that the teacher will only be about 22 years old, and she probably never had the chance to hear about Miss Mary Mack nor Miss Suzy and their unfortunate asses and trips to Hell...