Nuke ‘Em If They Can’t Take a Joke
I’m not big on New Year’s resolutions, mainly because the objects after which I lust--three more inches of height, Jeff Bridges and world peace--are not within my direct sphere of influence.
Still, it occurs to me after the strong reaction to my recent “humorous” column on the strains of mothering a 3-year-old that perhaps a single personal resolution is in order: In 1996, I will refrain from attempts at black humor involving preschoolers and microwaves.
It’s not that I don’t think it’s funny to joke (as in, joke) about taking revenge on tormenting tykes--I do it all the time and will do it till my child outgrows this particularly trying developmental stage. It’s just that the world is full of folks who cannot distinguish between humor and advocacy, folks who find sick humor inappropriate because we live in a world where sick things happen. In deference to their tightly wound sensibilities, let me state for the record, ahem, that when I repeated a pediatrician’s joke about parents putting kids in the microwave as a last resort, it was not meant seriously. Anyway, I know of no microwave that will accommodate a 3-year-old.
(In my defense, I merely aver that I am a product of newsrooms, where this sort of humor is a coping mechanism, used to guard against the psychic corrosion that occurs when your job involves chronicling all the bad stuff that happens in the world. Would it mitigate in my favor if I swore I never bet on the time of death of a moribund celebrity? Didn’t think so.)
Many of my critics would surely be appalled if they overheard the technique I use to deal with my daughter when she is in the midst of a whining fit: I offer her a quarter so she can call someone who gives a hoot. (This makes both of us laugh.)
People who share homes with preschoolers understand that humor is the only way to survive the devilish behavior exhibited by the normal specimen. (Child development experts often suggest that now is a good time to hire baby sitters and get the hell out of the house.)
In any case, I cannot defend my parenting skills. There is no point, and the pudding--my child--is turning out just fine. As a friend told me when I was pregnant, “The first thing you learn as a parent is that no parent thinks any other parent is any good.” It is true: I, like every other Mom or Dad, can pick holes as big as Texas in the parenting abilities of anyone else. With gusto.
And so can newspaper readers.
Judging from the mail and phone calls, I can only conclude that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who live with 3-year-olds and those who do not.
A woman with two 3-year-old grandchildren said her daughters-in-law were considering psychiatric care for themselves until they read my column.
A mother of a 3-year-old son said she has considered suing her pediatrician for insisting that her child is normal and not a “hyperactive, extremely aggressive, plain old bad seed little demon.” Despite her doctor’s assurances that her son will outgrow his unsavory behavior, each day when he wakes from his nap, she said, “I hug him tight, thank God he is whole, healthy and alive, kiss him behind the ear and search the nape of his neck for the numbers 666.”
A preschool teacher with two decades of experience sent thanks, plus the only slightly encouraging words that “4 is a tad easier.”
Then, there is the Pacific Palisades mother who sent a Christmas card with this chilling sentence: “I have three words to say . . . Wait Until Puberty.”
People who live (blissfully) in preschooler-free environments are much less sympathetic.
Three letter writers actually called my tantrum-prone child a “brat.” One said she is a “spoiled brat, bordering on evil,” and that “this child will be drowning kittens if you don’t do something now.”
Several readers assured me that the next time someone places a child in a microwave oven, the karmic fallout will rain squarely on my head.
“The next time some moron decides to microwave a baby, or a poodle, or a live chicken,” said one, “I hope you are chilled to the bone. And I hope you feel responsible for the rest of your days.”
Being big on personal responsibility, I guess I would have to respond that while I would be chilled to the bone, I would not feel responsible, since I do not now nor have I ever advocated placing children in microwave ovens.
Also, even in the face of evidence to the contrary, I rather doubt the morons are reading my column.
That, folks, was a joke.
* Robin Abcarian’s column appears Wednesdays and Sundays. Readers may write to her at the Los Angeles Times, Life & Style, Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles, CA 90053.
