Sometimes it occurs to me that M and I are raising our children in the most fucked up way possible. For example, we often say sentences that end in phrases like "the most fucked up way possible." Not only is that ruining their sense of grammar, but it's a little vulgar.
Also, while M and I have cultivated our wry, dangerously dry, and completely jaded senses of humour over the last thirty years, our children seem to be immersed in daily ennui therapy and are in a DeVry crash course on sarcasm and vulgar comebacks so they will be properly void of any wonder and sweetness by the age of eight.
Additionally, M (and while I usually assume responsibility for these things jointly, this is squarely on his shoulders) feels obligated to allow our children to watch WILDLY inappropriate things on YouTube. So, in addition to wasting the lives of millions of teenagers across the world, YouTube is now sucking the sweetness right out of my little babies. For example, my kids LOVE the Gilly bit from SNL. They also like snippets from a TV show on Cartoon Network's Adult Swim called Robot Chicken. I don't know what the show is usually like, but my kids are hooked on a spoof of Star Wars as acted by stop-action animated Ken dolls, and voiced by supremely pissed off comedians. For example, the Emperor, deplaning his shuttle on to the Death Star starts complaining to Vader: "lemme tell you about my flight. It was a total nightmare. The tray table collapsed and spilled burning hot coffee all over my groin. Seriously. It was like dipping my wang in burning hot lava. But you know something about that, right?" Vader: (sadly, sagging his head) "yes." And, being children, the boys can instantly memorize every last syllable of the damn show, so that randomly, and often in front of people who are judging me (I am not paranoid), they regurgitate this filth leaving me with only nervous laughter and blather about how kids can learn ANYTHING on the Internet these days.
After watching that, though, no wonder my kids no longer have any room in their soul for Max and Ruby or Diego. They just can't watch those shows with unironic eyes anymore. Is that a tragic capitation of their childhood or just good sense? I am not sure. A friend of M's once told the story of his nieces and nephews who would respond out loud when a TV character asked a question and how he was so disappointed in them: "Come ON. I know you kids are smarter than to answer that completely OBVIOUS question." Well, my kids stopped doing that at around 3. "Why is Diego asking us questions, Mom? He can't even tell that we're ignoring him."
Sigh.
I, on the other hand, am completely responsible for another parenting failure. My kids are now totally obsessed with bad, one-hit wonder bands from the 90s. I realize that I have no musical taste whatsoever. (See: Coldplay collection on my ipod). I realize that occasionally I find myself singing along to the worst theme music ever (but Jimmy Buffett is on the radio ALL the time here.) Since my kids spend a huge amount of time with me in the car, driving all over creation to take their spoiled selves to activities to enrich the mind and body, they have adopted some of my musical pitfalls. So that when M asks them what kind of music they want to hear on YouTube, they never answer The Beatles or Van Morrison. They answer like S did today, with "Drops of Jupiter" (That band was called Train in case you blinked) or "Shattered: Turn the Car Around" (OAR). And little musical S, who remembers every syllable of everything, sweetly sings the pablum that is Train as though it were the most gentle of lullabies. Of course, this he does without a HINT of irony, which sends M through the roof. It also begs the question of why I bother to take them to music class at all, if I am going to make them listen to/appreciate schlock on the way to the class.
But there it is. Which explains why S has been singing "Around Midnight" from a soon to be forgotten band with the douchy pretentious name of Airborne Toxic Event. And why last night, as he was playing with his Star Wars figures, he reenacted the Robot Chicken coffee break scene: "Get your hands off me, asshole. I was hired to kill wookees."
Stand back--Parent of the Year coming through.
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