Elmo’s Punch
posted Thursday November 7th, 2013
The other morning, Sophie emerged from her bedroom just as it was time to zoom out of the house, hurl ourselves at the car and drive three blocks at NASCAR speeds to make it to school before the bell rang.
“I want to use this,” she said, something pink and familiar dangling from her fingers.
It was her Olivia the Pig backpack from second grade. Damn, I didn’t do such a good hiding job, I thought, wondering how hard she’d fight this one. Hard, as it turns out. Really hard. In the end, I quickly transferred folders, lunch box and library books from the fifth-grade appropriate, plain purple backpack I’d purchased at the beginning of the school year — and Sophie climbed into the car with Olivia.
At least it’s not Elmo, I thought as we roared out of the driveway, heading for a late slip.
I know that lots of kids (and adults) wear clothing with cartoon characters on it. But this is not the same. The other day, Sophie told me the differences among a narrative, opinion and explanatory essay, and she can hold her own during an episode of Project Runway or something on Animal Planet and she loves PitchPerfect, but really, she’d rather be watching Olivia — or better yet, Elmo.
I’ll hold you captive for half an hour complaining about the school psychiatrist who had the nerve to tell me when Sophie was 7 that she had the cognitive abilities of a 3 year old, but the truth is that in a lot of ways, Sophie is Elmo — stuck in a tiny body with a baby voice and a lot of questions on perpetual repeat. A 3 year old.
That’s where her comfort zone is, anyway. I’ve worried about this since Sophie was 3 and I threw her an Elmo party and realized that most of the Elmo favors at the party store actually said “1″ on them, not “3.” Already, she’d fallen behind. Years ago, I quietly got rid of all the Elmo toys, the videos and DVDs, telling myself she’d find something else to watch, to love. And she did. Olivia, for example. Even Monster High and American Girl.
But Sophie still goes for Elmo every chance she gets, even as she reminds me that she’s almost 10 and a half — old enough to get her ears pierced, old enough to wear a padded bra, maybe even to get her own phone. I change the channel, hide the errant book, steer her to a different toy aisle. It doesn’t matter. She finds Elmo anyway.
One day last month during Fall Break, Sophie and I were at Whole Foods, and she zeroed in on juice boxes with Elmo on them: Elmo’s Punch.
She wore me down, and when we got home I made Sophie her favorite lunch and handed her the iPad as I reached for my laptop, eager to sneak a few minutes of work in. Sure enough, she searched the internet and found herself an episode of Elmo’s World, cracked open an Elmo’s Punch juice box and kicked back.
This time, instead of being annoyed, I couldn’t help but notice the grin on Sophie’s face. It doesn’t get better than this, does it? I asked her silently, taking the whole thing in. She exuded such a sense of peace. Probably how I look when I’m getting a pedicure and reading People magazine.
Oh well, I thought, she’s on vacation. Live it up, Sophes!
It’s been a few weeks since that day, but the image has stuck in my head. Who cares if Sophie loves Elmo, I ask myself. I do, I answer, picturing myself dropping her off at junior high with her Olivia backpack or in her Yo Gabba Gabba shoes, watching the big kids point and laugh.
Elmo’s Punch.
It’s Barney here with Abby. It used to be Dora. And once upon a time it was Elmo. She doesn’t seem to out grow them so much as move through them to the next. Honestly the main reason I want her to move on here is so that I can steer clear of the thunderdome that is the control for the netflix remote. Elmo, Barney and My little Pony. It’s hard. We expect more from some kids then others because we know others expect less.
I know it’s not comparable, not at all: but my Sophie still likes Elmo. She watches with her younger brother, which makes it more socially acceptable, I guess. My Sophie can do multiplication tables and comprehend the hilarious-but-advanced Clementine books — but she has always liked tv shows pitched to someone younger than she is.
I don’t have to care, of course, because she’s not got a lot of experts monitoring her development. I know it’s not comparable. But it might be helpful to know how we manage this: I tell her that some people might make fun of her for liking Elmo. Those people are fools, I add, but still, it’s her choice whether she wants to give them the chance to tease. It’s her choice whether she wants to tell others outside the house about watching Elmo.
Maybe that sounds like I encourage her to stay closeted about her tv tastes — but that’s not what I mean. I just encourage her to decide what she wants to deal with and who she wants to share with, when. I let her make the decisions we all make, really, when sharing out pop culture tastes. At least I hope so.
Oh, Amy. I know. Hugs.