Posts Tagged ‘ Books ’

Four Questionable Children’s Classics

Monday, May 14th, 2012

(Alternate Title: This is Why I Shouldn’t Be Allowed to Read Kids’ Books.)

Have you ever sat there, reading a classic kids’ book to your children, and thought… what in the everloving eff is going on here?  I have.  In fact, I do it on a regular basis.  (Don’t even get me started on fairy tales.)  For your convenience, I’ve listed here several books to watch out for, summarized their questionable messages, and thoughtfully re-titled them to more accurately reflect their content.  No need to thank me.  I do it for the kids.  Let’s begin.

Guess How Much I Love You: Okay, I’ll be the one to say it.  Big Nutbrown Hare is the biggest one-upper who ever lived.   His son is all “I love you as high as I can reach” and he’s all “Oh yeah well I love you as high as I can reach, which is way higher since I’m older and taller and smarter and better-looking.”  There is no need to get so competitive, you know?  Your kid’s just trying to tell you he loves you, so maybe don’t be such a jerk about it.

Moral of the story: Anything you can do, your parents can do better.  Sweetheart.

New title: Guess How Much I Can One-Up You.

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The Runaway Bunny: It’s sweet that the mother bunny loves her baby bunny so much that she’d resort to all kinds of impossible shapeshifting and crazy stalking and improbable kidnapping to keep him near her.  Wait… no it isn’t.  It’s the creepiest thing ever.  And I thought I was a helicopter mom.  I mean seriously.  This woman is gonna be all up in her poor future daughter-in-law’s business.  I can smell it from a mile away.

Moral of the story: Mommy loves you sooo much, honey, that if you leave her side, she will hunt you down Taken-style and drag you right back to where you belong, so stay exactly where you are, so help me Jesus.  You can move out when you’re forty.  Five.

New title: When Helicopter Moms Attack.

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Goodnight Moon: Okay, I’ll admit that I love Goodnight Moon.  (Sorry, Margaret Wise Brown.  Didn’t mean to call you out twice here.  Love you, girlfriend.)  Still, books like this are the reason my kid takes 45 minutes to go to bed every night.  It is the original book of bedtime stalling excuses.  Whatever happened to just saying goodnight to each other and going to bed?  Let’s not encourage saying goodnight to the room and the moon and the cow jumping over the moon, (which is not real), the bears and the chairs and the kittens and the mittens and the house and the mouse and the wait there’s a mouse in here?? What the f*ck??  “Goodnight nobody” is right, because none of us are getting any sleep tonight, are we.  Get real, kids.  When I say it’s bedtime, it’s bedtime now.  Where’s the children’s Benadryl?

Moral of the story: It’s perfectly acceptable to take so much time to go to bed that it’s basically the next morning already.

New title: But I Don’t Want To Go To Bed.  Five More Minutes?

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The Velveteen Rabbit (or How Toys Become Real): This story basically traumatized me as a child.  Yes, I am sensitive.  (I cry several tears for each and every mean comment you guys leave me.)  Can we first discuss the “Skin Horse” for a second?  That is some Jeffrey Dahmer sh*t right there.  But mostly, my problem with this story is that it’s just super sad.  The little boy loves this toy and lures him into a false sense of security that he’s gonna be real someday and then gets all sick and sends him off to be burned alive (what?!) and then gets a nice new shiny one and forgets about the old one and goes to the beach, the end.  Not nice, little boy.  Luckily the rabbit does get to become real because he cries, and he runs off to the woods with the other wild rabbits where they all probably live another two to three weeks, tops.

Moral of the story: If you get too sick, Mommy and Daddy will burn all your toys.  Also, you can get anything if you cry about it.  Even if it’s impossible.

New title: How Toys Become Super Depressing.

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Postscript: I sent a draft of this post, as I often do, to a friend so that she could prescreen it for excessive witchiness.

Me: Can you make sure this post isn’t too much?  I think everyone on Parents’ Facebook page thinks I’m a huge wench.  With a potty mouth.

Her: Oh my God!!  You’re like the Ann Coulter of the parenting world!!!

Me: …That’s the meanest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

Her: Oh. I meant it as a compliment.

Sigh.

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