© 2005 Brian Hodges - Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

isual stimulation is a crucial learning tool for the developing mind.  You’d think the people at the book and toy companies would understand this concept and respond accordingly.  I always assumed that they put at least a modicum of thought into every illustration or visual representation aimed at babies and toddlers. 

Then one day at Babies-R-Us I saw a plastic placemat with a drawing of two kid-sized hands on it, with the thumbs pointed out – not in.  This should have been the kind of illustration that begs a kid to place his own hands inside the outlines to see how they fit, except that no Homo Sapiens’ hands face that way when they’re flat on the table!  Whose turn on the crack pipe was it at the printing company the day they mass-produced these things?  

We own bunch of little books that show a single picture and its corresponding word on each page: apple, cat, boots, etc.  It’s fun and easy for a baby like Allison to appreciate since she’s really only looking at the pictures anyway.  Now, if I were the one making seven dollars an hour to pick out these pictures, knowing that the entire success of this book depended on what I chose, I think I would have been a little more discriminating than these people seem to have been. 

If I were seeking out a picture for the page that says, “cookie”, I would look for the quintessential cookie.  And to me, to any rational person, that can only mean chocolate chip.  Instead, the Queer Eye Martha Stewart lemming over at the book company picked some frou-frou Fancy Lad cookie with jelly in the middle.  To me, it looks like a cherry pie with no crust, but the moniker on the page definitely says, “cookie.” 

In the Things to Wear book they continue getting on my nerves when they show a picture of two ponytail holders that say “hair accessories.”  I’m sorry… accessories?  These books are for kids under the age of three.  Could we please stick to nouns with more tangible definitions?

But it’s the Animals book that really pushes me over the edge.  Because on the page that says “bird”, they show a picture, not of a robin or a sparrow, but of a scarlet macaw.  That’s right, a parrot!  Again, if I’m the picture guy, and my book is full of animals, I know that the parent reading this book is going to point to the picture, read its name and ask, “What does the birdy say?” 

Well, what does a freakin’ birdy say?  “Tweet, tweet,” right?  But the bird in their picture doesn’t say that.  He says, “Polly wanna cracker.”  Now I have to explain, then clarify, then re-clarify, all the while trying to make clear the original point, which is to say that while certain ornithological creatures utter one sort of mating cry, this particular winged beast, while cute in the traditional sense is rendered essentially unviewable because I have torn his page from the book and thrown it across the room.

And people wonder why so many kids are on Ritalin.

The eyes on one of Allison’s rolling toys are drawn just slanted enough so that it appears to be scowling as it chases her across the kitchen floor.  The guy who painted the face on Raggedy Ann made it look like she hasn’t slept in a month.  And the etching of a plate of spaghetti on Allison’s green plastic pot looks suspiciously like a cannabis leaf. 

Seriously book and toy people, you’re not giving my daughter a lot of options here.  Between books with lazy plotlines, illustrations that she’s better off not looking at, and toys that are so riddled with safety codes that they’re too boring to play with, you’re putting the burden on me to make up games and talk to her myself.  You’re forcing me to form an actual bond with my daughter at a time in her life when that void is supposed to be filled by your toys, books and “developmental videos”. 

Well rest assured, if my daughter grows up feeling merely “loved and nurtured” rather than entertained and prep-school-ready, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.  I’d love to discuss this further, but I hear Allison laughing in the next room and I have to go dance, clap hands and play “Daddy’s Nose.” 

Maybe you should too.

…sorry, that advice was unsolicited.

Back to the beginning:
PART I - THE SAFETY DANCE