My son is a seventeen-month-old Magellan, a toddling Columbus, an infant Jacques Cousteau when the lid of the toilet is accidentally left open, and he explores his strange new world with cheerful eyes, an endless curiosity and a wonderfully optimistic, if still unsteady, stride. There are so many things I want to tell him.
I want to tell him that we love him without condition.
I want to tell him how lucky we are to have him in our lives.
And I want to tell him that Maisy is serious, serious bullshit.
"Bookie," says my son, handing me a Maisy book and climbing onto the couch. "Mayshee."
Maisy is a mouse, poorly drawn and shoddily inked by a cynical English con artist named Lucy Cousins. There are thirteen million Maisy books in print and Lucy is, as the back cover indicates, "beloved by millions of people around the world."
People are idiots.
I want to tell him that, too.
"Dada," my son implores me. "Bookie."
"Not Maisy, Buddy, please, anything but Maisy."
"Mayshee," he nods, snuggling up beside me. "Mouse."
"She's playing you, man," I want to tell him. "Lucy's playing everybody. How long does this crap take her, five minutes a book? It looks like a two-year old drew it. It sounds a one-year old wrote it. I honestly don't think she draws these, Buddy, I've got to tell you. I think she's abducted a bunch of kids, and I think she keeps them at the bottom of a well and every morning she passes a bucket down to them filled with markers and drawing paper. She draws the mousey with a grin or else she gets the hose again. Lucy doesn't give a shit, Son, trust me. She's got bills. She's got a new house in the Lake District. She's pimped-out her Hummer. Those kids' parents are worried, Son, I know, I'm a parent now, too. And I've seen the posters. "Have you seen Timmy?" "Have you seen Sally?" No, but I've seen their work. And it sucks. And they're in a well in England. Beloved? She should be arrested."
In Maisy Takes a Bath, Maisy takes a bath. The end. Maisy, to recap, takes a bath. There's no obstacle to the bath, no journey to the bath, nothing to learn from the bath — not even a "This is a shirt and this is pants," no "Is the water too hot?" or "Is the water too cold?" I'm not looking for The Brothers Karamazov, but Christ, show a little effort. Know what happens in Maisy Makes Lemonade? Maisy makes lemonade. Know what happens in Maisy Has A Party? Maisy has a party. Know what happens in Maisy's Creator Gets Slapped?
"Bookie," my son implores me.
"Maisy Takes A Bath," I read. "By Lucy Cousins."
"Mayshee," he says.
"Where's Mayshee?" I ask.
"Tub-tub," he says.
He leans over and kisses Maisy.
There are so many, many things I want to tell him.
I anticipated some difficulties, of course. That's what you do when you decide to have children — you anticipate the difficulties.
I figured time would be a big one. Our friends with children always seemed harried. "Not enough hours in the day," they said. "You'll see."
But I haven't. I have a fairly flexible work schedule, and can sometimes work from home. My wife still does her thing, I still do my thing, and we still do "other things" together as often as we always have.
Money. I figured money would be an issue. The same friends that always seemed harried also always seemed broke. "Diapers aren't free, you know."
Diapers aren't free. They're nine bucks for a pack of forty. Twenty-two cents a poop. The first few years are relatively inexpensive. I'm sure money will become an issue soon, but it hasn't yet; friends bring over old toys, yard sales sell old clothes, and if we ever need some quick cash, I can always write something dirty.
Friends, social life, sex, money, time; I anticipated difficulties with all these things before our son was born. What I hadn't anticipated was his complete lack of skepticism. His wide-eyed non-pessimism. His (ugh) optimism. And optimism is a bitch.
"What a silly mouse!" I say. "She's in the tub!"
My son laughs.
"May-shee! Tub-tub!"
"Look! She's splashing! Is she splashing in the tub???"
"Mayshee," he nods, snuggling up beside me. "Mouse."
"Splasheen!"
Because I want to tell him, but I can't.
I want to tell him that the applesauce in his "Organic Baby" applesauce is the same goddamn applesauce that's in Mommy and Daddy's applesauce, only with a picture of a baby girl on the label and three times the price.
"Baby," he says when I bring out the jar. "Girl!"
He leans over and kisses her.
There are so many, many things I want to tell him.
"Whore," I want to correct him. Shill. The blonde-haired, pink-ribboned brainchild of some pathetic Brand Manager — "V.P., Apple Sauce" — at some Allied Transglobal Foods and Heavy Machinery Concern, Inc. "Making Good Things for Good People!"
"Girl," says my son, pointing to the girl on the jar. "Hap-pee."
"She better be," I want to tell him, "or Mother Showbiz gives her the strap. If she's lucky she'll end up doing the weather on the Local 8 newscast; more than likely, she'll end up doing porn. You know how many Gerber babies grow up to do porn? A lot," I want to tell him. "Trust me." But I can't.
I want to tell him the balloon that Doctor O'Connor gives him is not just a balloon. That it's a pharmaceutical promotional item. That it says "Adderall XT" on it. That the drug companies hope that the kids go home with the balloon and the parents see "Ask your doctor" on it and they think, "Hey, I should ask my doctor," which sounds incredibly stupid but, hey, thirteen million people bought Maisy, right?
I want to tell him but I can't.
I want to tell him Clifford the Dog is sending the wrong message about being biggest and having the best, and that the name of the character on his new bouncing ball is Dora the Explorer, a show that airs on a channel called Nickelodeon, and I bought it because that there were no balls for sale in the store without characters from Nickelodeon on them, and that Nickelodeon is owned by Viacom, and Viacom owns the store, and I want to tell him that the Fisher-Price Ride-n-Stride sitting in the corner is a gift from my mother who thinks she can buy her way into his life with a few plastic trinkets, and . . .
"Bookie," says my son.
Time? Not an issue. Money? No problem yet. The tough part of parenting? The really, really tough part?
"What a nice present from Grandma!"
"Can you say Dora? Daw-ruh! She's an explorer! Do you want to be an explorer?"
"What a pretty balloon! Can you say thank you to Doctor O'Connor?"
Suddenly I'm Mr. Rourke at the opening of Fantasy Island — Smiles, everyone, smiles!
Tough, tough stuff.
"Bookie," says my son.
He has returned from his book box with Old Hat, New Hat, a Berenstain Bears book that, frankly, encourages classism and neglect for the workingman under the guise of non-materialism. Sure, the Bear comes to realize that his old hat was better than a new hat, but he's also wasted the poor hat shop owner's entire business day, and there's never a thought for that poor schmuck. The man mobilizes every member of his sales staff, brings out every goddamn hat in his inventory — hell, at one point he needs a wheelbarrow to bring out enough hats to satisfy this spoiled little shit — and I'm supposed to be impressed that Berenstain Junior walks out at the end of the story without buying anything? Hooray for him? Maybe if he weren't the wealthy son of a famous children's book family he would understand that some people have to work for a living. That you don't get to just stroll around wasting people's time because you need to learn a lesson about hats, okay? You know what? You know what? Fuck you, Berenstain, all right? Fuck all of . . .
"Hat," says my son, pointing to the book.
"Hat," I say. "That's right. Is that a shiny hat?"
"Shy-nee."
"It's a very shiny hat! What is that? Is that a bear?"
He holds up his hands like bear claws and roars. I hug him tightly and kiss his neck. He leans back against my chest and hands me another book.
"More," he says. "May-shee."
"Okay," I say. Maisy Goes For A Drive.
He leans forward and kisses Maisy again.
"Aww," I say. "That's so nice, Buddy! Is that her friend Tallulah? Can you give Tallulah a kiss?"
Tough stuff. Tough, tough stuff.