Daydreamer

As the ending credits of one of my favorite movies of all time, "This is Spinal Tap" roll by, lead character David St. Hubbins is asked what he would be, if he couldn't make rock 'n' roll music.
He answered, "I'd be a full-time dreamer".

What a clever man he was!

How important is it to daydream? Sometimes, we refer to it as 'zoning out' or 'spacing out', as if we can somehow switch our brains off for a minutes and just veg. Nothing could be father from the truth.

Everyone I know is a multi-tasker, whether they like it or not. I am too. I am not good at it, though, despite the fact women around the world claim it's like a natural ability. As soon as I try to do two things at once, something usually ends up burning. But, this doesn't mean multi-tasking is an option. It's a requirement, actually, because I am a human being. And if you think you aren't a multi-tasker, well I got news - you are one too.

So, like me, you probably think you deserve a bit of vegging out now and then. (I know I do, and I may be even more deserving because I am a Mom.) Sometimes, especially when kids are hungry and tired and whining in my face, I long for that moment, when I can just flop on the couch, let my hair down, my belly hang and my mind wander.

Admittedly, there is a certain amount of guilt attached to the activity of daydreaming. During any given 'space-out' moment, I can hear my daughter saying, 'Mamaaaaaa.... why are doin' nothing?!' Or, out of the corner of my eye, I see my husband taking out the trash or fixing the roof or otherwise laboring his ass off, and although he won't say it, he's probably thinking, 'Some wife I married...(mutter mutter)“

But guess what again! I am officially the bearer of good news, because I can tell you, daydreaming is good for you.

“Mind wandering is typically associated with negative things like laziness or inattentiveness,” says lead author, Prof. Kalina Christoff, UBC Dept. of Psychology. “But this study shows our brains are very active when we daydream – much more active than when we focus on routine tasks.

The quantity and quality of brain activity suggests that people struggling to solve complicated problems might be better off switching to a simpler task and letting their mind wander. "

And, if scientists tell me something is better for me, then by golly, I'm gonna do it.

If you need me, I'll be in the hammock, exercising my brain while sipping on a mojito.

Things I Will Never Do With My Two-Year-Old Again

Recently, I've added another event to my 'Things I Will Never Do With My Two-Year-Old Again' list. I took my daughter, Mia, and my son Bram, who is going on 6 months, to...a restaurant.

I can hear you crying outloud: 'A restaurant?! What were you thinking?!' Let me assure you, it was a purely impulsive decision, without any forethought or consideration of the inevitably disastrous consequences. I guess all moms have to experience a catastrophe of this calibre if they intend to survive the next sixteen or so years of their childrens' upbringing...

I had spent the day in Gent with my cousin and her family, with every intention of having a pleasant visit and enduring as few tantrums as possible. It was the first time I was in the city with both kids stowed away in the double buggy, which I affectionately refer to as 'Bertha', the name my family endearingly calls anything which is monstrously huge and virtually impossible to maneuver. The day started out wonderfully, the kids (four of them, aged three and under) got along great, ate their lunch, sat in the buggy when we wanted them to and let us change their diapers when they started to draw flies. All was harmony.

But before too long, the day became just that - too long. Mia, my two-year-old daughter, is currently undergoing the 'Terrible Twos' stage. Or, as I prefer to call it, the 'Traumatic Twos', mostly the 'Intolerable Twos', sometimes even the 'Tsunami Twos'. She can be happy as a flea, all giggles and pure joy, then something will happen inside her little toddler mind that tranforms her into this high-maintenence Diva whose screams can be heard in neighbouring countries and has the patience level of a...well, of a two-year-old! Mia has no concept of the fact that goods in a shop are in fact not for removing from the shelves and running out the door with, setting off security alarms in the process. Nor are chairs on a terrace hers to knock over and dance around at her every whim. When I try to inform her of the reality of the situation, her reaction is usually one of surprise, horror and mayhem, almost always in that order. Followed by the cliché falling to the ground, raising her screams to a pitch just under the one that only dogs can pick up, and utilizing every limb to attract the attention of, and hopefully kick, as many passersby as possible.

After a couple of these tantrums took place, I was able to distract and conquer the Diva, but was beginning to face the realization that it was time to go home. That was when we met up with my cousin's friends, two lovely couples from Amsterdam who were in Gent for a very romantic, culinary weekend...'sans' kids. Those poor, poor people. In retrospect, they should've fled in the other direction as soon as they saw us coming towards them. One of them invited me, and my children, to join them all for dinner. Maybe it was my uncanny ability to ignore reason, maybe the sun had gone to my head. I don't know why, but I accepted. A part of me seemed convinced that an over-crowded restaurant with tables just teeming with breakable dishes and sharp cutlery was just the place for Mia to settle down and enjoy a nice meal with friends and family. If only I had taken a step back to see how utterly delusional I was.

Why we thought we could just walk into any given restaurant that would actually be glad to give a table to seven exhausted, famished and slightly smelly adults and four screaming children is still a mystery. Not only was it dinnertime, the place was also crawling with tourists since it was the peak of the high season and we were smack in the center of a very hip, very bustling city. Finally, after roaming around for another hour, we managed to locate a 'child-friendly' restaurant that would take us. We managed to steer 'Bertha' through the obstacle course of tables without running over too many peoples' toes and were seated at a long glass-top table which was designed for decapitating children instead of seating them. But we didn't complain. We quickly ordered and hoped the food would arrive before the natives became restless again.

The waitress brought Mia some pencils and paper and all the kids actually seemed happy and occupied...for all of three minutes. That was when the real horror set in. No matter which favourite toy or jar of yummiest food was presented, nothing would do. Mia didn't want to sit, she didn't want to stand, she didn't want to draw, she didn't want a drink, she just didn't want to. Period. The room was slowly filling with guests who would be seated, then within minutes ask to be re-seated. Mia was putting on the show of her life and it looked like wasn't leaving without a standing ovation.

Throughout the day, my son Bram, God bless him, had actually managed to sleep through even the most heinous of Mia's outbursts, but now that he was awake and hungry as well, he decided to get in on the 'Let's Make Mommy Go Coo-Coo' game. Seeing as I wasn't prepared for dinner, I didn't have the right food for him with me, a mistake I now rectify by never leaving the house without enough food to feed him and enough children to fill a small daycare center. Bram was little, he was hungry, and he just wasn't going to take it anymore. Both he and Mia were screaming in unison, performing wild synchronized arm-flailing and developing the exact same purple hue on their tear-stained faces.

That was when the waitress approached us and asked my cousin and I if we would move to another part of the restaurant, a private room. We looked at each other, then eyed the table which was strewn with toys, stuffed animals, jars of food, plastic spoons, bibs, drawing materials and various other essential items that would have to move with us. Apparently, the guests had been complaining about us; more specifically, our offspring's volume level and tendency to move around outside of our designated area. One particular couple even complained because they were out together for the first time without their children, and the fact that they were seated near ours was so confrontational that they actually lost their appetites. My cousin wondered outloud if the waitress expected us to eat at McDonald's til our kids turn five, but she wisely ignored the comment.

Accompanied with much upheaval and growling of stomachs, we managed to move our party, and 'Bertha', into the private room. I wondered why we hadn't been seated there in the first place, since it was so obviously more appropriate for us, but quickly dismissed the thought. We took shifts bringing the kids outside for fresh air as we waited for our food, and with every minute the hard reality began to hit me that by the time the food actually arrived, there was no way Mia would be at all interested in eating it. She was still very much engulfed in the 'crying til my eyes hopefully pop out' zone. And, indeed, when the chicken-and-french-fries kiddie combination platter was set on the table, Mia took one look at it, lurched away, shook her head and engaged in a whole new screaming fit. I tried to show her that the food wasn't actually poison by eating a few fries myself, but nothing could convince her. I decided to take her outside myself and get a little fresh air as well, hoping that would somehow calm her down.

Upon exiting the restaurant into the warm summer evening, Mia proceeded to wrench herself away from me and run in a hollering frenzy in the direction of the canal, on which the restaurant was situated. I started hobbling after her as she bolted towards the water, now and then sneaking a devlish look back at me to make sure I was following her. Fortunately my cousin, who is nimbler than a wood nimf, managed to catch up to her before she very innocently sat down a few meters before the edge of the canal. The game had now evolved from 'Let's Make Mommy go Coo-Coo' to 'Let's See How Many Near Heart-Attacks I Can Give Mommy in the Expanse of a Few Minutes'.

Kicking and screaming, I lugged Mia back inside and tried in vain to feed her some chicken. Bram was content, as long as he stayed on my lap, but Mia was not, as long as he did. I managed to ration what was left in his jar of mixed veggies, but we were still waiting for our main courses and the lack of food for him was beginning to worry me. Feeding him bits of my tournedo and potatoes simply wasn't an option.

Finally, to everyone's relief, the food arrived. I couldn't wait to 'eat it and beat it', but when I took a bit of my steak, it was cold. I considered eating it the way it was, but I just couldn't chew on meat which was cooler than the surface of the table. Mine wasn't the only dish served cold either, the sour look on everyone's face as they took their first bite confirmed it. When the waitress came to ask if everything was all right, we sent everything back. My cousin had taken Mia outside again so I could eat in peace, but there was a constant worry on my mind that she was waking the dead with her screams outside. Our private room had a window to the kitchen, which we thought was pretty neat at first. Now, as we saw with our own eyes how the chef reacted as all our dishes came back, I can only say that if I was able to lip-read in French, I probably would've shielded my eyes.

When the food re-arrived, this time warm, I scarfed it down, grabbed 'Bertha' and made my exit as quickly as possible. I apologized profusely to my cousin's friends, who looked as weary as I did, as they had most likely been reliving the worst moments of their childrens' tantrums throughout the evening. Bram protested to being removed from my lap but once he reconnected with 'Bertha', his home away from home, he fell asleep within seconds. I met my cousin outside who was sitting next to an extremely cute and friendly little girl, who had blonde curls and a little pink dress just like my daughter's... only when I got close enough did I see it was my daughter. I loaded her into 'Bertha' as well, said a very fatigued goodbye and headed to the car.

Never underestimate a two-year-old. The minute Mia realized we were heading home, she transformed once again into the wonderfully cool little person I knew. She started singing a little song as we walked and smiled at passersby. I wanted to rush back to the restaurant, burst into the busy dining area and show them, show them all how lovely my daughter really is! But I didn't. We were home-bound, we were leaving, and we knew we were never, I repeat, never going to do this again.

p.s. To any grandmothers or child protections service agents who happen to read this, this story was only slightly dramatized for literary purposes only...

Why Children's Television is for Children

Jan 19, 2008

There's a reason why children's television is for children. Adults simply should not be allowed to watch it, under any circumstances. In fact, there should be a warning preceding each children's show: 'The following programming is not intended for viewers over 18 months old', it should say. But sometimes, a parent just doesn't have a choice, and is more or less forced to view programming intended for toddlers. 

There's no point in getting worked up about it, yet I find myself becoming increasingly livid at the insultingly sophomoric level of humor, blatant predictability and endless repetitions. For some reason, my daughter doesn't seem to mind, but I sometimes forget she's only 17 months oldMy daughter wakes up at 8 every morning, and we watch children's TV together. She makes me watch. If I whine and ask why I have to watch, she'll say 'Because I say so,' or something to that effect, I imagine. She hasn't actually learned how to talk yet. So I suck it up and endure another hour or so of children's television that could very well be warping my brain because it is so inappropriate for viewers my age.

I try to see the plus-side of the situation. We get a variety of international programming here in Holland, which you'd think would be intellectually and culturally stimulating to the young minds of Dutch society. But these expectations are hopelessly crushed when the Belgian programming begins, which consists of a combination of (thankfully) short episodes. There's one about pirates, and another one about gnomes, and if you're lucky, they sometimes show one about a farting pig. 

The one with the pirates is about three men and a woman, who are all unbelievably immature and just sail aimlessly around in the middle of the ocean. One of the men has the physique of a stick insect and can't talk. Another man, the cook, is loud, obese and just really annoying. The ship's captain is a handsome fellow but has the same IQ of, again, a stick insect. The woman, who is severely overweight, steers the boat, but that doesn't mean she's any more intelligent than the rest. They go nowhere and every show is about three of them thinking the other one is dead. Probably a side-effect of an untreated scurvy epidemic.

The gnome show is even worse. It's also about three men and a woman who are also all unbelievably immature. They hang around in mushrooms and all of them are obese. (I guess the producers figure all gnomes are fat, which in my opinion is slightly prejudice, but who am I?) The gnomes are named after their personal health problems, as if having one in the first place wasn't humiliating enough. 'Lui' seems to be under heavy sedation the entire time, 'Kwebbel' has a bad case of verbal diarrhea, 'Klus' is an obsessive-compulsive when it comes to odd jobs around the house, and 'Plop', well, I suppose we can only speculate what his unfortunate condition might be...

The less said about the farting pig show, the better.

Between these episodes, they show musical acts starring the aforementioned characters, as well as other Belgian children's TV heros, like the bland middle-aged man and his flea-bitten dog who sounds like he's suffering from severe smoker's lung. Then there's the misunderstood police agent-slash-super hero who, after three-thousand episodes, still hasn't gotten around to informing her loved ones about her sordid alternative lifestyle. And finally, there are the three middle-aged women who look and act like 10-year-olds, which is slightly disturbing because one of them is pregnant.

Children's programming in Belgium is instantaneously recognizable because every show has the same ingredients, or so it seems. The main characters are middle-aged and are struggling with weight issues or other health problems, like flatulence. Usually, they form an inseparable group on the show, and spend the episode dealing with everyday issues like finding out how many cupcakes they can eat before they get physically sick, or why practical jokes can sometimes backfire if executed too convincingly.

If the main character is not part of a group, it is always accompanied by an ugly, shoddily-made puppet. You can ask yourself which is more pathetic: the self-pitying group of hypochondriacs, or the sad loner who's best friend is really just some guy's hand stuck inside a piece of furry fabric.

Then come the British shows, which I initially thought would help my daughter expand on her bilingual capacities. Unfortunately, the characters (usually overweight puppets again) in the shows have little to say, and when they do speak, how they talk has very little to do with the English language. Before I became a parent, I swore I would never allow certain programs (especially the one that stars grown men in fat alien costumes) into my home, but I can't help but notice the calming effect they have on my child. I convince myself of the extensive scrutiny these shows must have gone through before being allowed to be shown on TV, so as to not damage the impressionable brains of little children. I figure, the show must be educational on some level, or the producers would all be sued by now...

And yet, it's obvious that some children's shows have clearly been made by people high on LSD, which is only interesting to watch if, like me, you've never actually experimented with drugs. After watching these children's shows, I actually feel like I've just undergone a completely substance-free psychedelic trip. The effect this might have on my child is slightly worrying, but again, I am convinced that if the program is actually being shown on TV, it must be kosher. 

Then there are the random Eastern European shows in-between the main programming, which are fun to watch because even though they're brand new episodes, the makers are still using cameras made in the Pre-Iron Curtain era. The cameras are probably carved out of stale bread and the lenses are actually highly polished slices of cheese. The end result looks, therefore, a little old-fashioned. But then again, these days, even my 17-month-old daughter recognizes that a show filmed in anything but 16:9 is old-fashioned.

Dutch children's shows are of a completely different calibre. Even though Holland is an ultra-modern and culturally diverse society, it also has about ten-thousand years of a flagrantly sober Calvinistic mentality to deal with. You'll find a fascinating combination of both sides of the Dutch disposition worked into a very conservative variety of Dutch children's programming. Most shows are simplified to such extremes in that no more than three colors are ever used in one episode (any more would be an extravagance), and the characters don't actually have a face. Instead of speaking, they communicate via Bluetooth. 

Even in conservative Holland, television is all about ratings, and what sells. We all know that in an adult world, sex is what sells, but unfortunately that doesn't apply to children's programming. If it did, most television media CEOs would be in jail, not driving around in BMWs with scantily-clad, fast-talking assistants. 

So what makes a children's show sell? Essentially, it seems, if it's got girth, it'll be a hit. While parents around the world are worrying about adjusting their children's diet as they increase in volume, they're forgetting to take a good look at the role models these kids have on TV! Hell, even one of the highest rated children's shows of the past decade is all about fat aliens with TVs built into their bellies! Whoever dreamt up that clever money-making integration of elements must be lounging around by some pool in the Caribbean as we speak. We adults can complain about it all we want, but at the end of the day, children's TV is for children.

Why? 

Because I say so. That's why.