Fathers and Age Appropriate Content

Alicia and I met at the wedding of her cousin, Jenny, who also happens to be one of my oldest friends. Jenny asked me to pick a reading to give at the ceremony. I chose the Skin Horse’s bit on becoming real by being loved from the Velveteen Rabbit, and Alicia and I have been together ever since. I’m sure I’ll cover the Velveteen Rabbit in a later post.

Anyway, Jenny and I spoke tonight because Alicia and I just passed the first trimester, which means we no longer have to pretend that she gave up booze for lent and can tell people she’s pregnant. As Jenny and I talked about pregnancy and parenthood, I brought up this blog and how excited I am to introduce Dream Weaver to all the books, music, and movies that I love.

And although Jenny was excited for us, she gave me some words of caution: “It’s really disappointing when your kids don’t love what you love.” She gave the example of her dad, who loves The Lord of the Rings, but who tried to indoctrinate his kids too young. Turns out 7-year-old girls don’t dig violent stories of elven armies and epic evil. Good to know.

Her cautionary tale reminded me of my father, who loved the Hardy Boys growing up. I can only imagine that as he watched me in my crib, he envisioned sharing the exciting boy detective stories he loved so much as a boy.

As a good and dedicated parent, he read to me every night, and it probably seemed like a natural progression from The Little Engine that Could (the original self-improvement book) to The Tower Treasure. But he made the transition when I four. I still needed pictures to follow a story. Quite frankly, I still do. So when Dad tried to shift me from Clifford barking at neighbors to Frank throwing his keys at an assassin, I wasn’t ready to go along for the ride. Instead, Dad had to wait till I was 10, when I rediscovered the titles with my friend Mike and read them myself.

Strangely, the media that I really absorbed from Dad at the age of four was a TV show that – had he really thought it out – he almost certainly didn’t want me to absorb. That show? Taxi, which featured the dirty Danny DeVito, the burnt out Christopher Lloyd, and the brilliant Andy Kaufman. Taxi, which split my sides with jokes about sexual harassment in the workplace, drug use, and the unrealized dreams of washed up New Yorkers. Taxi, which broadcast an episode in which Lloyd’s drug-addled Reverend Jim realized a cookie’s secret ingredient was cocaine and then provided this analysis: “Probably from Columbia… the southwest region… grown during the rainy season… by a farmer named Paco.”

Ok, that quote isn’t verbatim. But I bet it’s pretty close, and I’ve remembered the general gist of it for well over 20 years. I’ve often wondered why Taxi has stuck with me for so long. True, it was a goofy and well-scripted show. But I don’t think I fully realized that at age 4. Rather, I think it was the ritual of watching the show. Every night, shortly after dinner, Dad chimed out “Here’s Taxi!” in a sing-songy voice, and we’d sit on the couch together. Frequently, mom joined us. I didn’t necessarily get everything, but what I didn’t understand I learned by watching them.

This underscores two points for me. First, when I share content with Dream Weaver, it has to be a shared experience. We have to read the book together, sing the song with each other, and sit on the couch with one another during the movie. But this only gets you so far, which is where the second point comes in. I’ve got to make sure Dream Weaver is ready for whatever I’m presenting. Otherwise, s/he’ll get Lord of the Rings and the Hardy Boys and learn to love none of it.

By the way, I stopped reading the Hardy Boys in sixth grade, when I found The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings.

Be content,
John