Final Word

By Jeff Girod

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Posted August 18, 2011 in News

Three things I have learned as a first-time father to a five-month-old son:

Never turn your back on a bowl of pureed squash.

The cartoon character goes on the front of the diaper.

And thanks to “Toddler radio,” I have a white-hot enduring hatred for all things Julie Andrews.

You remember Julie Andrews, star of the 1965 movie The Sound of Music, that 146-hour musical (give-or-take) featuring seven children with a love for mischief and choreography—and Julie Andrews, as a former nun-turned-governess.

Well, “governess” is a rather formal title. I prefer to call her Satan’s spawn.

Julie Andrews is a melodic terrorist. She really is. Because once one of her songs gets lodged in your ear, it festers and mutates like weaponized bacterium. Instead of singing, Julie Andrews might as well be blowing anthrax in your face.

Being a rookie father, I’m trying to do right by my kid. Most of what I listen to or watch on TV is too loud, sexy, angry, violent or just plain scary. You don’t realize how much crap goes into your brain daily until you have a 5-month-old sitting next to you auditing your every move.

And five months old is the best/worst age to make you feel guilty about anything, because babies are literally Hallmark greeting card cute with those big saucer eyes. Five-month-olds can’t speak so they just sit there, silently judging: “Hey Dad, I can’t talk, walk or hold my poop in yet. And there’s an entire world out there just waiting for you to show me, but here we sit on the couch watching True Blood. I forget, is Sookie a werewolf, vampire or fairy?”

Which is why my 5-month-old son and I now watch a lot of the Discovery Channel—because rarely does Anna Paquin get naked during a re-creation of the sinking of the Britannic. We also listen to Toddler radio on Pandora.com. I highly recommend it if you have a small child or if you’re a recent immigrant and want to learn your ABC’s from Jack Johnson and Kermit the Frog.

The only person on Toddler radio I can’t tolerate is Julie Andrews. And you don’t realize how many songs Julie Andrews actually sings until you spend every waking moment praying to every deity for her sweet demise.

I’d never say I’m “pro-Hitler,” but when it comes to one particular Austrian villa in a mountain hideaway during World War II, I was all for the Nazis bombing the living crap out of a twirling singing nun. Whenever I hear Julie Andrews screeching like a whale call, I literally have fantasies about plowing over a field of pansies in a vintage Panzer IV tank. “Doe Re Mi Fa So La Te—I’d like to stick the business end of a German tank shell in her happy pie hole.

What part of “Doe Re Mi” is even language? Pick a language, any language. I’ll spot you pig Latin and Swahili. Kids have a hard enough time learning the important stuff, like their address and phone number. So Julie Andrews just gets to yell gibberish like a stroke victim and somehow it’s labeled “timeless, award-winning art.” How about I blow my nose into a tissue and we call it The Sound of Mucus?

And don’t forget her stint as Marry Poppins for which society is eternally grateful for the show tune, “A Spoonful of Sugar.” Thanks, Julie Andrews. Because what today’s children need is 100-percent pure granulated sugar . . . on a spoon . . . Oh, and to start self-medicating. What a helpful little ditty.

You know, whenever children see Mary Poppins floating in the sky beneath her magical umbrella, they’re supposed to make a wish. My wish is for a low-flying jet to suck her into its turbine engine.

As a parent, you worry about things like underage sex and drug abuse. Thanks to Toddler radio, I’m more terrified that my son is going to make like Julie Andrews and put everything in our lives to song.

Still, it trumps him growing up to become a sexy vampire/werewolf/fairy.

On second thought: Go ahead. Suck my blood. Anything’s better than a flying English housekeeper.

Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.


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