Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

My kids run my life. LIke when they barge into my room in the morning, take up precious real estate in my bed, and then insist on watching "kid TV." Yes, child, come on in. Please put your knee in my back. And whatever you do, make sure I never watch the news. I shouldn't know what's going on in this world when there are creepy babies teaching us how to dance on Disney Junior. 

I just talked about this recently. Maybe I should take my own advice. Or maybe my "Tuesday's Tips" are for you. Learn from my mistakes. I'm already a lost cause. These shows are so weird. And possibly tied to an imminent toddler uprising. I'm sure my kids are getting some kind of subliminal message from them on how to overthrow the parents. Why else would these normally intelligent children go completely slack-jawed when oddly animated babies start dancing?

Cute or Creepy? It's a fine line.

I'm not sure what's more disturbing, the cut & pasted baby heads or the high-pitched male voice-over guy saying, "Look. It's Sophie's bottom."

Sophie's bottom.

So, instead of catching the latest headlines or a bit of national news, I'm learning how to "dance silly" by a couple of baby heads pasted on little dancing bodies. And contributing to my own future demise when my children declare the mutiny for which these creepy babies are surely preparing them.

Dancing creepy babies.

Don't mind me. I'll just be sitting on my ass doing some silly dancing. If you can't beat them, join them?

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Censorship (or lack thereof)

As a child, my parents never really censored the things I watched or read. It wasn't an unlikely occurrence for me to beg to watch a scary movie like The Exorcist, only to end up crying and asking why they made me watch that. We all loved horror films growing up in my house. Unfortunately, I have an excellent imagination. Add that to my love of reading Stephen King (starting in third grade) and you get one screwed up adult who can be seen running through the house in the middle of the night if I have to pee.


Take the movie Poltergeist, for example. I'm fairly certain I saw that at the ripe old age of five. Thanks to that, the clown scene is forever etched in my memory. My family thinks it's hysterical that I am scarred for life. 

This is the magnet I found on my fridge when I got home from work. Thanks, big sister!

You will surely never find any clown dolls in my house. I'm not even too keen on the American Girl Dolls (thanks for taking me to see Child's Play, Dad).

Seriously. Who would buy this for a child and not think it would try to kill them?

You had to know this was going to happen!

The Stephen King habit hasn't helped, either. My dad has always been a huge King fan. I'm sure I was trying to impress him or emulate him when I picked up 'Salem's Lot in third grade. I even brought it to school as my personal reading book. Now, being a teacher, I can see why Mrs. McLaughlin sent me to other teachers' rooms to show them what I was reading that day. Like I said before, I have a great imagination and Stephen King certainly knows how to write a compelling horror story. In 'Salem's Lot, the vampires will come scratching at your window in the middle of the night. These aren't sparkly, handsome Twilight vampires. They're undead bloodsuckers waiting to kill you. So, when I'm in my kitchen at three in the morning getting a drink, I am surely not letting the cat in as he scratch, scratch, scraaaaatches at the sliding glass door. I can't even open the shade even though I know it's hopefully him. Sorry, Frank the Cat. You're out for the night.

It might be the cat, then again, it might be this creepy kid.

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The Elf on the Shelf

 We have the Elf on the Shelf in our house. When he first came to us two years ago, the kids named him Fred Paul (these are the same kids who tried to name Charlotte Cherry Sprinkles). Every year, on the day after Thanksgiving, he returns to us from the North Pole. Except for this year, when he had to make an early appearance due to some fresh behavior. I warned them that it might happen. Sure enough, a few days before Thanksgiving, he had returned to his favorite shelf in the living room to watch over my little angels. {snicker}


The kids adore Fred Paul. They jump out of bed every morning to see where he might be sitting after his nightly visit to the North Pole. They leave him little notes and questions about Santa (that he answers for them every night). Unfortunately, the first question this year was, "Do raindears {sic} fart?" Aside from potty humor, they do try to behave a little bit better when reminded of the fact that he makes a nightly report to Santa about them. As of yet, they haven't become aware of his general creep factor.


Fred Paul reminds me of all of the dolls and clowns I was afraid of as a grown-up child. He's got eyes that follow you (seriously, walk back and forth - he's still looking right at you) and a little smirk that says, "I'll be coming to life while you're sleeping..." My twisted imagination draws very sinister conclusions. Not only that, but he is sent here from the North Pole to watch our every move. I'm pretty certain they've developed laws in most states that define that as stalking. I am fully aware that, as an adult, I should really be able to handle the inanimate objects in my house. There must be some unresolved childhood issues at work here because I am still waiting for Lucy's American Girl doll to open her eyes and talk to me when I check on the kids every night.


Seriously, though... I am positive that if I ever let the kids watch the clown scene in Poltergeist, they might view Fred Paul a little differently, too. For now, I'll happily use his powers to control my children's behavior - as long as he doesn't kill me in my sleep.

You never know where he'll turn up!

Look at those eyes - sweet elf or evil clown?

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