the Rot is everywhere

Okay, a long hiatus was necessary. This summer, with no school, no work, nothing but hubby and kids time, was necessary. All that sand in the floor of my car... I guess that was necessary, too. 

So as this month begins I am finishing my thesis and still, still, STILL on the search for that perfect individual whose position (encompassing nanny, tutor, cook, chauffeur, naturalist, and art teacher) is best described by my children as morah--- Hebrew for teacher--- is as yet unfilled. We have a good prospect, the best so far, who is currently in Kenya. Don't ask.

And I'm really appreciating the fact that I've gotten to know my kids a lot better this summer. I've been able to have the time to really see them, acknowledge their interests, and feel comfortable with my decision to take them from their various formal education environments in favor of something more relaxed, holistic, hip, and messy. So I'm sitting on the couch this evening, enjoying a little me-time after a late night of popcorn and goofiness with the offspring. I'm flipping through the pages of this parents/family magazine, Wondertime.

My infinitely wise sister Hazel gave me a subscription to this magazine as a winter holiday gift. Brilliant, this woman. I'd picked up a copy from the supermarket before, desperate for something that was a shift from the saccharine, line-towing, homogenizing, materialistic DRIVEL that passes for a mother's magazine. Wondertime was different. It was modern, it was funny, it was helpful and gave me that "Aha! Now I know how to do THAT!" kind of a feeling. Something in between those publications which teem with formula ads and articles on the Ferber method, and the self-satisfied eco-crunch epistles full of advice on how to co-sleep on a bed made with organic cotton sheets, hand-picked by vegan Ecuadorian mothers who are given a fair wage and taught to recycle. 

In short, I wanted something real. I breastfed, I used cloth diapers, but hey--- I like Target. I sent my children to preschool (dangerously more mainstream than the crunchy SAHMs), but my kids have never eaten dead animals (take that, Gerber Graduates). Wondertime is my Goldilocks of motherhood: juuuuuuuuuuuuust right.

Except. Tonight as I'm flipping through, I decide to go online to renew my subscription. I had decided to let it drop after the expiration (yes, I'm cheap) but then I was reminded seventeen times during this evening's read why I loved it. Yes! Re-subscribe! I encouraged myself. From what other source are you going to get a recipe for kid-friendly protein balls AND an article on Froebel AND a headlice survival essay?

Brace yourself: Wondertime is Disney.

Because, of course. What isn't? And while I struggle to keep Barbies from darkening my doorstep and wince every time Isis mentions that Pink Plastic Princess tea set (which I totally, unabashedly, with no regrets, threw away without telling her because it was a disgusting meaningless piece of gender-specific consumerist trash).... while I wage war against Mickey Mouse and his entourage of appealing junk in the toy aisles, while I chuck every Dora the Explorer item into the give-away bin, while I don't even use paper towels, do you understand me?!?!?---- while all of this is going on, I've been unknowingly snuggling up in my couch corner with the literary equivalent of American Rot. 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh.

So now I have to think: does Hazel know? And then I think: if she knows, she doesn't care. She sees the value in it, without needing to compartmentalize or eschew it. 

And then I think: does this mean that Disney, in some tiny part of its evil plastic corporate heart, is actually not that bad?

And then I think: ooooo, that's what they want you to think. They plant publications like Wondertime to lull you into the belief that Hannah Montana is an acceptable role model. Or Bratz dolls. Or whatever it is that they sell.

And then I think: Yeah, but those recipes.... Those Thoreau quotes!

A very tiny, whimpering, auugh.