Where did the cynical media bitch go–that inner snarkmeister who insisted, pre-child, that Barney is the devil and will never set one blubbery purple foot in my living room or anywhere near it should I eventually procreate.
(This is not to be confused with my cat, by the way, who is indeed The Devil. Barney is just a devil. Perhaps one of Desi’s minions, here to do her bidding on earth.)
This morning, barely more than one year after giving birth I found myself doing the previously unthinkable: I tuned into Barney.
I went right to the kids on-demand channel, scanned past Bob the Builder, Teletubbies, and even (gasp) Sesame Street, and clicked on Barney.
Now it’s not as if I’ve come to love Barney; bite your tongue! The kids on that show tuck their shirts into their jeans in that way that’s sure to get you beat up behind the tire swings during lunchtime. The black kids look like they were cast from the Bryant Gumbel school of ethnic diversity, ready to break out into Tie a Yellow Ribbon any minute. Not one song has a modicum of soul to it, and the rhyming schemes surely have Mr. Geisel rolling over in his grave. The dance moves (Jazz hands, everyone! Jazz hands!) make me want to kick the choreographer in the face with his own 80s-era Capezios, and the dinosaur’s voice – my God, if there is one voice on this planet that could inspire spontaneous seizures it is most certainly not Mary Hart’s.
But you know what I’ve learned about being a parent? That walking around town with maple syrup on my pants is not the worst thing in the world. Also: It’s not all about me anymore.
And so this morning I put on Barney. Voluntarily. Of my own free will. For my daughter, who seems to like the bloated beast, bless her undiscerning little 15 month-old heart. I even sang along with the songs for her.
The things we do for love.