Nine Kid Show Lines I Can’t Fricking Get Out of My Head

Kid shows are melting my brain. Some are definitely better than others: I love Sesame Street (which Sally knows, so she claims it is boring) and I enjoy Olivia. But most have these incredibly annoying repeated lines, or just types of lines that make me want to back over the flat screen with my car.

Bubble Guppies – “What time is it? It’s time for lunch!”
These weird little mermaidy kids live in a world without physics, one of my pet kid show peeves. Though annoying, their lunch line has become embedded in the Embee family arsenal of quasi-witty comebacks.

Dora the Explorer – “Say MAP! LOUDER! SAY MAP!”
If ever given the chance, I will kill Dora.

Berenstain Bears – “Gosh, I didn’t think of it that way.”
The Berenstain kids are super-duper wholesome, yet somehow manage to spend 20 of the 22 minutes available to them teaching your kid how NOT to act. But you know what bothers me most about this show? Mama Bear’s muumuu and shower-cap hat. Who decided that was the picture of a good mom? Also her treehouse is immaculate, which is annoying. Yes, I’m jealous of a two-dimensional bear.

Yo Gabba Gabba! – “There’s a Party in my Tummy!”
I haven’t even seen this show and the song is in my brain.

Angelina Ballerina – “Uh. huh–uh. Ah.” [grunts] “But that’s not FAIR, Mum!”
Angelina is a flat out brat. This has not stopped us from owning no fewer than six Angelina Ballerina books and Tivoing episodes.

Mickey Mouse Clubhouse – “Oh, Toodles!”
Another land without consistent gravitational pull. I don’t know why I expect more from a show where half-dressed, talking mice and ducks come to a clubhouse every day to learn their colors, but I do.

Team Umizoomi – “You’re really good at math, Umi-friend!”
Okay, actually, this show has shown me yet again how good at math my kid is. She can add! I still can’t add. And therein lies my frustration with the program.

Handy Manny – [in monotone] “that-is-right-it-is-a-screwdriver.”
Wilmer Valderrama is phoning this baby in. Then he hangs up and turns back to the supermodels partying in his pool. Jerk.

Caillou – “Caillou though that was silly.” “AHA! AHA HA HA! HEE HEE HEE! HA HA AHA!”
You do realize he’s Canadian, right? After I kill Dora, I’ll hunt down Caillou, eh? Then I’ll turn myself in, and be put in jail for life, but then they’ll give me the Nobel Peace Prize. I’ll pretty much be our generation’s Nelson Mandela.

You know what’s scary? The tween shows look way worse….

A Royal(ish) Wedding

Sally dug the royal wedding. What wasn’t to love? Beautiful people, military uniforms, designer dresses, hats that should have toppled several women over. Naturally, Sally then spent a good chunk of wedding day executing her own version of the royal nuptials.

Throngs of onlookers awaited a glimpse of the happy prince and princess.

The bride wore a Kleenex veil and a dress by Mattel. Her necklace is genuine China-made plastic. The groom wore a look of vague detachment.

The pool party reception (hmmm, the queen in a bikini…) ended with an exuberant–and naked–bride scaling the castle’s tallest tower. Her new husband climbed up to rescue her.

The newlyweds retired to a furnished castle built by the prince himself, where they promptly began planning a family. They are expecting their first daughter tomorrow. She will have bunk beds in her room. . . . As all princesses should.

The Super Bowl Will Make Your Child a Terrorist. Or a Nudist. One of those.

Case in Point: Left alone to stir brownie batter.

The Super Bowl is Sunday. And this presents a rare opportunity for children to cause trouble. All the parents will be busy for the same four-hour period. I mean, I don’t even know who is playing, but I’m definitely watching, and eating lots of salsa. And guacamole. Yum. And you will, too. A lot of people will go to parties, some will watch at home, but however you cut it, just about every adult in America will be consumed by TV and Doritos. Not a single person will care what the kids are doing. It’s like the moment in the movie when the guards change shifts and the security cameras go down for routine maintenance at the same time.

And this, my friends, is the perfect opportunity for a baby prison break.

If you have teenagers, God help you because they already know what’s up. But if you have younger kids, the first hour might be okay. The kids will spend that time going through the five stages of grief/abandonment. You’ll know they’ve hit “bargaining” when you start hearing “Dad. Dad. Dad. DAD. DAD. DAD. MOM. Mom. MOM. MOMMOMMOMMOMMOM.” If you do not respond–and of course you won’t because we need a tiny wiener platter refilled and that one team is about to score–the kids will quickly move to “acceptance” and then the real mess begins.

Babies will schmeer walls with, well, NOT guacamole. Toddlers will feed the dog all the tiny wieners, then run when he barfs them all up on your carpet. Preschoolers will call whoever is on your speed dial. Older kids will alter the chore chart and give themselves massive allowance raises. Actually I don’t know what the older kids will do, I’m just pretty sure that’s what Sally will do in a few years. In any event, they’ll go power crazy. They’re alone! They rule the world, FINALLY. So they’re going to decorate your boring bathroom with purple crayon. They’re going to experiment and see if dolls other than Baby Alive can pee if they drench them with orange juice. They’re going to lock younger siblings in confined spaces. They’re going to take their clothes off. And dance in front of the TV. During the halftime commercials.

So beware, parents. I’m not saying you need to pay attention to your kids this Sunday, just accept the situation and be thankful they can’t all coordinate on Twitter to lead a revolution: Lock the front door; have a first aid kit ready; and be prepared to clean up the trail of sugar they made to lead the ants to the pantry. Happy Super Bowl!

The Suspicious Disappearance of Raspberry Torte

RIP, Raspberry. We'll miss your fuschia hair and your cankles.

If you’d asked me a few years ago, I would have told you 4 year olds drag around baby dolls and cook play food. They do . . . but there’s also an awful lot of murder mystery going on. . . .

As I folded towels while Sally was in the bath, I learned that Raspberry Torte (of the Strawberry Shortcake gang) was missing. She disappeared while her friends Orange Blossom and Strawberry Shortcake briefly left the house to buy party supplies. Neither Miss Blossom nor Miss Shortcake called the police, which should automatically make them suspects (Yeah watch out, I sometimes watch Law and Order reruns). In fact, nothing came to the attention of the authorities until Lemon Meringue nearly drowned in the bathtub.

“Help, help!” I hear her shriek. “MOMMY! Do Strawberry’s voice.”

“oh-no-what-has-happened-do-not-drown-you-are-so-young.”

“Not like that, do it REAL.” (That’s preschool direction for ‘from the top, with feeling!’)

So, with charisma, I play along and eventually Lemon confesses she recently escaped from a shark’s stomach. But–insert ominous music–Raspberry was there, too. She and Lemon argued over which, er, “direction” to exit the animal. I didn’t ask for details, but suffice it to say they took separate paths and only Lemon emerged. Sally, wide-eyed: “Raspberry is STILL. IN. THE. SHARK. …Probably. Lemon just swam away so she doesn’t know for sure.”

Lemon’s kind of a jerk.

We try desperately to think of a way to rescue our pink-haired friend. All of my plans are useless, natch. Sally’s plans–which typically include Lemon Meringue gliding across the water on a bar of soap like it’s a chariot (MY plans are dumb?!)–are well crafted, but ultimately fruitless. Sally announces that we must give up the search.

WHAT?! I think of the Chilean miners, and the fact that we live in an earthquake “black zone” and my kid will probably try to dig me out of the rubble that once was our house for, oh about seven minutes, and then give me up for dead. So I stress that surely we can find some way to rescue Raspberry.

No. We cannot. Even though this clearly makes it look like the berry gang set the whole thing up and the congressman is in on it, I have no ground to stand on. The bathtub is Sally’s jurisdiction, I’m like the city police up against the FBI (I’m telling you, Law and Order). She begins to climb out of the bath and says, with the chilling steadiness of an officer who has seen this sad outcome all too often: “But it’s okay. In every home and in every café, they will hang a picture of Raspberry Torte.”

Um, okay, I need to check my Tivo because I’m starting to think Sally has been watching Law and Order.

**** This is my 100th post! Who’d have thought I’d be so annoyingly persistent? To help me celebrate, write a comment telling me which post is your favorite. (You don’t have to know the title, just tell me “the one where…”) This will help me learn what readers like the best, AND I’ll put all the commenter names into a hat and draw one to win a prize. Oooh, exciting! [Drawing will happen on December 15. Comments must be submitted before the 15th.]****