You may have clicked on this link because you assume, based on the title, that this is some protofeminist rant about gender roles and the dated burden of motherhood. I have no idea what “protofeminist” means, btw. Is it real? Who knows.
But this has nothing to do with made-up words or feminism. Having children is not stupid. Children are stupid.
I work for eight children’s magazines. And let me tell you, those little suckers are D-U-M-B. We recently put out an issue on “trees.” I was like, SNORT. You idiots don’t know what trees are? “Why do the leaves turn golden in the fall, Miss Tori?” “I don’t know, Paulie-bear, why does your mom drink so much?” That’s how I handle little kids. WITH FISTS OF IRON. With whip-smart sarcasm.
Oh wait, using sarcasm on little kids is a total waste of time. You make a hilarious joke, they drool. You do some prime physical comedy (you should see my slapstick routine–I run into a wall and then fall down. It’s hysterical, and what’s even funnier is how little my health insurance covers!) and they start crying. You surprise them by jumping out from behind a bush and suddenly you’re off the babysitting roster. Know what I’m saying? It’s a total waste of time trying to get little kids to laugh, unless you’re the type of comedian that finds artistic fulfillment in putting your fist in your mouth.
Also, it’s time for little kids to GET THE EFF OVER MOTHER GOOSE. Can we all just MOVE ON, PLEASE? Jack jumped over the candlestick: FIRE HAZARD. There was an old woman who lived in a shoe: SANDUSKY. I will sail my little ship: SNOOZEVILLE. Children’s literature has been stuck in the decaying claws of Madam Goose for far too long, but of course kids are too dumb to seek out aesthetic innovation.
Here’s the type of poem that little kids like to read:
Pretty pretty to my eye
Here’s the type of poem that adults like to read:
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
ADULTS WIN. And no, I will not cite my sources. If you don’t know who wrote that last poem, you’re either an idiot or you have mercifully avoided the “I’m into Beat poetry” phase that we all wallowed in for about 2 years. If you don’t know who wrote the first poem, well, it was me.