Yesterday I read that the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends zero television for children under age 2.
Oopsies.
Now, it's not as though we plop June in front of the tube and turn on "Keeping Up With the Kardashians" while Greg and I troll Facebook, but she has stolen glances at the occasional cooking show while she's nursing. Oh, and Sportscenter during her early morning sleepless moments with dad. Does this make us inept parents?
Ok, so maybe not. But what about *hearing* television? Because she's experienced a whole lot of that. During her first 12 weeks, June did a lot of snoozing in my arms, especially when she was sick. And maaaaybe I had the TV on a little during those moments.
Scratch that whole "a little" nonsense. Some rudimentary math tells me she's been alive for just over 100 days, so about 2,500 hours. Some more rudimentary math yields that she's spent about an eighth of her life with the drone of the TV on in the background. Oh God, what have I done??
Just to reiterate, she's been sleeping during these hours, cradled in the loving, warm, protective arms of her mother (am I scoring any more points here?). But she has, subliminally, experienced four seasons of "Friday Night Lights," numerous crappy episodic dramas, cooking shows and "Nate Berkus."
Ok, now this is getting depressing.
Jesus only knows how much Food Network accounts for my television viewing with baby in arms. I think she's smart enough now to sense it, too. She actually awoke the other day and craned her neck to steal a glimpse at Ina Garten making a lemon curd napoleon. That surprised me, as I always pegged June for a savory food gal.
Again, she's not watching these shows, but instead has slept through them while I'm watching. And this is strictly when she's on some sort of sleep strike and napping only on top of me. The TV stays off the remainder of the day while we're reading, playing or napping in her crib or swing. I'm not a monster.
But I know that hearing television has an impact. I'm living proof. When I was in eighth grade, Lauren T and Lauren E called me to come over to Lauren T's house to watch a movie.
Me: "No. I'm staying home. You guys are going to rent 'Silence of the Lambs.'"
Lauren and Lauren (on conference call): "Come on, it won't be scary. It's daytime."
Me: "Forget it. You don't know how I operate."
Lauren and Lauren: "Okay fine, we'll rent something else. Come over."
Me: "Promise?"
Lauren and Lauren: "Promise."
Me: "Don't disappoint me."
Twenty minutes on my bike later I arrive at Lauren T's to "Surprise! We got 'Silence of the Lambs'!"
Feeling betrayed but too tuckered to make the bike ride home, I grabbed Lauren T's Gamboy and retreated to her dining room while they watched the movie. Twasn't a foolproof plan, as I could hear every last syllable Hannibal Lecter uttered, all the while shakily advancing in Tetris. Not seeing one frame of that movie, I still had nightmares for weeks. Serial killers, cannibalism and interlocking geometric shapes. Terrifying.
June on the other hand might grow older and find herself with an innate knowledge of tray ceilings and shallow braising. It's not the stuff that will keep her up at night, but it might make for some superficial interests later on.
I watched a lot of TV as a kid. I mean, a lot. I'm assuming it started early, too, as I have two older siblings and we lived in small houses when we were young so squirreling me away would neither be practical nor possible. I took to it. Oh, how I took to it. My parents have collected quite the assortment of photographs of me parked in front of a television set, usually with mouth agape and mere inches away from the screen. In some I'm upright, eating breakfast with hair coiffed and ready for a rousing day at preschool. In others I'm prone on their couch, hungover, on break from college and on an old "Beavis and Butthead" tear.
I can credit television with teaching me a lot about life, love and regret. And the meaning behind the word "slut." I recall being about 10 or so and watching the Miss America Pageant with my mom. She left the room for a bathroom break for a minute and returned asking, "What did I miss?" I replied, "Not much. Just some slut with a violin."
My poor mom was rendered temporarily speechless. "Where did you learn that word??" she sputtered. I blinked, petrified that I was in trouble. She was the first to speak. "You learned it from 'Golden Girls' didn't you?"
Guilty.
I contend that I turned out just fine even after logging all those sitcom hours and premature vocabulary lessons. Hell, our family was built on television (of the quality news variety, however). If anything I've grown to having a very tepid interest in the hobby. For a solid year the TV in my Chicago condo's living room didn't have sound. I would just crank up my wee TV in my bedroom to watch occasional shows on my couch. Changing the channel meant getting up and walking to another room. This doesn't sound like the behavior of a television addict, does it?
June's changed enough in the last week that these seemingly harmless habits aren't sustainable. She's increasingly seduced by her surroundings, noises and activity, so much so that if she's nursing or resting in my arms, she'll effectively shimmy her way into the action's sight lines. The TV now stays off until she goes to sleep at night. I have developed a pretty draconian take on what I'd like her future relationship with television to be. In a word, limited. This is mostly due to my intense fear of her getting sucked into the whole branded princess cyclone. But I'm also a realist. Just like those Girl Scout Cookies, everything in moderation. Do I hear my husband laughing?
Ok, I'm off to read Shakespearean sonnets to her as she sleeps to undo some of the damage. It might make a nice soundtrack to her lemon curd napoleon dreams.
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