Mother Goose

We read a lot of Mother Goose in this house, or as I call her, The Whore of Babylon. (Wow, I used the word "whore" twice this week. I hope my dad doesn't wash my mouth out with soap.) Luke begs for TWOB alternately with Richard Scarry's Busytown when naptime or bedtime rolls around. I think both of these choices offer him exactly what he's looking for, which is an effective way to delay the inevitable. "What's wrong with Mother Goose? They're innocent little rhymes about tarts and boys named Jack that children have been enjoying for centuries," you wonder. I'll tell you what's wrong with Mother Goose--everything besides the tarts and boys named Jack.

First of all, these satanic little poems are quite violent. So violent, in fact, that my own mother censored and edited many of them. Take the old woman who lived in a shoe, who frankly resembles Octomom now that I think of it. I was in my late teens before I realized that she had given her children broth without any bread; and then whipped them all soundly and sent them to bed. I recall the words spoken from my mother's lips were about giving children broth and giving them bread, then kissing them sweetly and sending them to bed. I always imagined she sang them songs and rubbed their backs until they were in REM sleep. Not so! I simply cannot get on board with the child abuse propagated by the old woman who lived in a shoe.

And how about the maid in the garden? She was doing her job, hanging out clothes, and along came a blackbird and snapped off her nose. I don't want my impressionable children to think that anything so gruesome is a consequence of pitching in with the laundry.

Some of the nursery rhymes just plain give me the creeps. Take the three men in the tub--this one reads straight out of a public kindergarten sex education manual. Why are three men in a tub together? We all know about their vocations--a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker. I don't see what these have to do with one another, and what do they have to do with being in a tub? Perhaps they have synergy (especially the butcher and the baker) and they're in a business leads group together, but bathing together? And before anybody accuses me of hate speech, be assured that I don't care what these three men do behind closed doors. I just don't want to read to my children about it!

What about Wee Willie Winkie, running all over town in his pajamas, no wait, his nightgown, banging on everybody's door to ask if their children are in bed? This behavior makes my mother dander stand up. Why does he need to know? Is he a predator, trying to figure out which children are still running around the neighborhood playing tag so that he can lure them into a conversion van full of candy bars and X-box games? Mr. Winkie, if that's your real name, stay away from my children, and don't be surprised if Chris Hansen answers the next door you bang on.

At the risk of sounding like a helicopter parent, it seems to me like there's a lot of inadequate parental supervision in Mother Goose. I, for one, would never tie George's cradle in the treetop. I wouldn't let Luke climb a steep, jagged hill to fetch a pail of water. Kids shouldn't be playing around wells, anyway. Remember this girl?



I rest my case. Her mother probably read her too much Mother Goose. I wish Mother Goose would get off her very fine gander and stop writing poetry. Get some therapy and a new career track.

Tune in next week to find out how my oldest puts Mother Goose to work for him.