The trade-off is that I occasionally find myself arguing with a preschooler about which cartoon we’re going to watch on pizza night.
Lockdown just was the beginning of my reevaluation of my child’s cartoons. I’ve come to love them on their own terms: Shout out to the Kratt Brothers and their deeply wholesome explanations of wild animals; my immense respect to the genius that decided to make a puppet show about a character named “Donkey Hodie” who lives in a windmill and his friend, “Purple Panda;” God bless the entireCall this a case of Stockholm Syndrome if you want, and fair enough.
There’s a part of me that wishes I were one of those endlessly creative, endlessly available mothers, overflowing with craft projects and enriching activities every minute of the day. But nobody is that mother — she’s a fantasy and an impossible standard to meet. Sometimes, I need to shower, or there’s a blizzard and I still have to do the job that helps keep a roof over this kid’s head.