"Up yours!" Fizz from the Tweenies and please Mr Tumble stop being such a smug faced show off, making me feel inadequate that despite my best and failed efforts to teach any sign language to my little one, ten minutes with you and your spotty bag and she is signing like a pro. Oh, and don't get me started on Pingu. If anyone has a clue what that little shit is all about then please pass me whatever you are on as it must be bloody good stuff!
This may sound a little harsh, but if I have to endure any more of the tinkle tinkle sounds, bright colours and annoying voices of children's TV screeching through my consciousness I am going to lose my bloody mind!
The relationship us mums and dads have with children's TV shows is one of epic love-hate proportions that the Greek Mythologists would be proud of. On one hand these shows are the knackered parent's saviour; The antidote to colossal tantrums, the providers of entertainment when we need to fill the dishwasher and, let's face it, the perfect distraction when we need a break from patiently stacking plastic crap and singing "row, row, row your boat" on repeat. However, they are also the mind numbing sound track to our new parent shaped lives that leave us wanting to gorge our eyes out as we stare glossy eyed at the screen wondering where the hell our previous life got sucked out to.
I originally thought I was incredibly clever when I discovered that CBeebies was the perfect way to feign parent weaning nonchalance being a fantastic "I'm not really distraught that you keep spitting out my lovingly prepared puree" distraction technique that magically resulted in my little girl eating her food rather than throwing it. However, I soon realised (too late I might add) that the characters of distraction I stupidly introduced her to quickly became the new loves of my daughter's life, whilst simultaneously driving me insane.
Unfortunately, the deed is now done and despite my best efforts to back track and convince her that the latest developments in Afghanistan or what Holly and Phil are up too is way more exciting than how Postman Pat is going to find the escaped fruit bats he was supposed to be delivering in time for the school fete (Special delivery my arse, if I was Amy the vet I would be asking for a refund), she is having none of it. It seems her heart and my mornings now belong to adults talking like knob heads on helium as they bounce around our screen and demand that I touch my nose and other various parts of my body.
I have therefore decided to adopt the parent double bluff tactics I first experienced when my folks grudgingly accepted my first boyfriend into our home; Welcoming him in with one hand whilst keeping everything crossed on the other that my new love for boys dressing and speaking gangsta, P Diddy style circa 1995 would be as short lived as the one tracksuit leg he had rolled up mid-calf to show off his high tops.
Who knew that Pingu and P Diddy had so much in common when it came to confusing and irritating the shit out of parents?
I have now applied these parent double bluff tactics to my headstrong toddler. Investing time and brain cells into learning the shit, but oh so catchy theme tunes of the latest children's TV shows and priding myself in being able to recall all the tongue tying character names and the annoying sayings that spurt out of their mouths at the drop of a cat in the hat. All to prove to my little one that mummy is down with Mike the Knight and can sign hello to the Cloud Babies just as good as the next tiny human.
Unfortunately, these tunes and larger than adult life characters now rattle around in my head (along with my lost former self) for hours on end. I no longer know who's topping the charts and the Tweenies have replaced any sign of Tinie Tempah in my dictionary of cool. I am ashamed to admit that I can't remember the last time I listened to Radio One and now refuse to turn it on for fear it will cement the fact that whilst I'm here slowly morphing into a walking, talking Fisher Price machine, the rest of the world has moved on in a waft of cutting edge style, summer festivals and pop-up concept bars.
So who is responsible for bringing these shows to life, orchestrating our fall from adulthood cool and replacing our memories of classic Ibiza tunes with the opening Choo choos of The Chuggingtons? Who are the people who make this stuff up and then beam it into our living rooms? I like to think that they are a band of childless and cool singletons, waging a war against every parent and screaming child they ever had to endure a flight or train ride with. That they are the Sunday trainer and vintage t-shirt wearing, brunch bunch making a subliminal stand against the families who have turned their favourite dirty yet eclectic and impossibly cool local boozer into a wacky warehouse.
I have to admit that the remnants of my former self can't blame them as I would have happily done the same pre procreation. However, I am now desperately begging for their mercy and asking them to please give us a break, as despite first glances at our bedraggled, puke covered and crumpled attire, proclaiming otherwise, we were actually once from the same tribe. Therefore, next time you are penning an equally catchy but oh so annoying theme tune and characters to boot, please spare a thought for us, your fallen comrades who have had to sacrifice Sunday brunch with a Bloody Mary and the broadsheets for spat out Weetabix, sleep hangovers and the "please shoot me in the face now" kiddies programmes you have so creatively and ingeniously dumped into our living rooms.
In the meantime, take heed Granny F$%&ing Murray as I couldn't care less if your bus driver mate can "do it" before the song is through. Kerry and Kat the only thing I want to "discover and do" are hard drugs after sitting through your show for the billionth time. And no it's not time for an adventure Baby Jake! Instead it is time for me to pour myself a large G&T and you a large glass of "please shut the f%&* up!" as you have officially sent me Goggi giaAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!!!
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