Daily Archives: September 29, 2013

Cartoons make me lonely

My daughter was over yesterday with her one and three -year-old sons and after a couple hours of “let’s play frisbee with Yaya’s coasters” and riding the scooter on the driveway and dinner and bath time, she let them settle on the couch in front of one episode of Mickey Mouse.  My daugher is very good about television with her kids. She never uses it as a babysitter but as a treat and only then on days that start with an “S” (Saturday, Sunday, Sick, mom feels Shitty). She also often watches it with them.  In fact, the one-year-old doesn’t really get to sit in front of it but when he does, he sits very still and laughs loudly at regular intervals to show he is really into the plot and “please don’t move me.” Needless to say, it’s adorable.

So I was in the kitchen doing whatever Yayas do in the kitchen when babies are in front of television.  Probably getting squished banana out of my rush-covered counter stools. And it hit me.  The sound of cartoons make me lonely.

I thought about it for awhile and I think I have an idea why.  First, I was the kind of kid who worried when I watched cartoons.  For instance, when the dog ran through the grocery store, cans and loaves of bread flying, I always stressed about who would clean up all that mess. Don’t even get me started on the mayhem Mr. McGoo created.  Or the Roadrunner. He could ruin a city block in the blink of an eye.

But beyond my not registering these were pictures that could be easily cleaned up with an eraser not a mop, I think cartoons represent a time in my life and a time of day I felt lonely.  When I was in grade school, my mom had gone back to work to help pay for my brother’s college education.  So there was an hour or so after school in middle school through high school that I would, in today’s world, be considered a “latch key kid.”

Now the reason that could be misleading is that we lived in a neighborhood where doors were always open. Playdates were arranged by a tap on the screen door announcing our arrival, certainly not any talk among our parents as to who should show up when. So coming home to an empty house always felt safe as I had Jean and Peg and Ruth and Loreen a hop, skip and a jump away. If I needed anyone or anything, even a hug, they were there.

But lots of days, I would throw my books on the dining room table, grab a bowl of dry Cheerios or a plate of Ritz crackers spread with strawberry jelly and retreat to the basement to watch TV.  And if  Father Knows Best or Leave it to Beaver wasn’t on yet, I was stuck with my chaotic cartoons. Our basement was dark with painted grey cinder block walls.  Dad’s favorite green chair with the stick shift footrest sat empty and the upright piano stood looming, shaming me for not tinkling the ivories for Aunt Alberta, my piano teacher, instead of vegging in front of Porky Pig or Daffy Duck. Which reminds me, cartoons always worried me also because all the characters seemed to have these horrible speech impediments that no one seemd to  notice or write in a speech therapist for.

I mentioned these deep-seated feelings of longing and sadness regarding cartoon time to my daughter and, completely typical of her personality, she hit the nail on the head and said, “It probably was the lonliest time of day raising us, too, mom.  You had done and run and coped all day and by the time you threw us in front of TV, you knew you had a good hour before dad got home and you had some adult relief.”

Bingo, I thought.  That, too.

So the next time you flip past the Disney channel, stop and pull out your hanky and take a moment to think about little Nancy Noble, the latch key kid, who thought cartoons were lonely and messier than her jam and Ritz covered fingers.

But take heart because I can whistle the tune to Leave it Beaver like a master or trip over the ottoman as well or better than Dick Van Dyke. So my salvation always came soon after Tom and Jerry or before my second bowl of Cheerios.

And no, thanks to my mad crush on Mark in The Rifleman, I still can’t play the piano.