I hate Dora The Explorer. I normally stomach Trey’s choice of television programming fairly well, because it’s fun to watch the shows with him sitting beside me in my chair while we both interact with the characters on the screen. Blue’s Clues, for example, is great, sometimes even giving a wink and a nod to the parents in the audience. Dora, on the other hand, is complete and worthless tripe from beginning to end. There is little educational value to be found in any aspect of the show, even if you count the sporadic Spanish words sprinkled about each episode like las migajas del Hansel y Gretel. The animation is poor and repetitive, the voice acting is miserable (especially when the characters break into monotonous musical numbers characterized by tone-deaf vocals and three-frames of a dance animation), and Dora herself is an enormous, half-brained twit.
Take, for example, Trey’s latest favorite episode of the accursed show. As I’ve explained before, the little guy has an overwhelming fondness for trains. He loves to watch them on TV, and to see them in real life. They’re fascinating and mysterious and wonderful things, as far as he’s concerned. So, when he found an episode of Dora The Explorer that features – of all things – trains, he became instantly and inextricably infatuated with it. We watched it once, then we watched it again, and then again, and again, and again. And, do you know what the worst part of the whole episode is? They’re on a train. Trains ride on the rails of a track that’s been laid down on the ground. It is track that does not move, and that requires no navigation. You start here, you end up there. Simple. Easy. Foolproof.
Unless, of course, you’re a young, semi-portly girl of indeterminate age who lives in some vaguely Hispanic-seeming locale, and who spends all of her time cluelessly wandering around inside the brightly colored wonderland of a pseudo-rainforest along with her bestest monkey pal who not only speaks, but who calls himself Boots, and tromps about wearing bright red galoshes on his inexplicably bipedal feet. If you’re that girl – if you’re Dora – then you are a brainless, shrill-voiced banshee who probably gets lost on her way from the couch to the bathroom, and instead just gives up and poops in the hall. Honestly, I’ve watched a lot of children’s programming, but few of the necessarily clueless characters of other shows come close to rivaling Dora’s level of intolerable ineptitude. Let’s go back to that train episode, shall we? Naturally, Dora is incapable of hopping into the train and following the predetermined track to her destination. Oh, heaven forbid! Instead, she calls upon the dark forces through a chanting ritual that brings about the invocation of a bizarre navigational demon named Map that tells her where to go, as if she’d have any choice when it comes down to the silly and futile task of actually trying to steer a locomotive.
So yeah, I don’t like Dora. However, the annoying little animated turdblossom probably contributed to something that happened this weekend that gave me a warm fuzzy. In the show, Dora has another anthropomorphized friend in the form of a talking backpack named, shockingly enough, Backpack. He even has his own song, which goes something like, “Backpack! Backpack!” (Creativity, it would seem, is not very high up on the list of job requirements for the show’s writers.) Trey loves Backpack for some reason, and gets very excited when he comes on the screen. This, it turns out, worked to my advantage.
While doing some work around the house this weekend, I stumbled upon a Mickey Mouse backpack that I’d originally received as a bonus gift for signing up to buy books from Disney’s Wonderful World of Reading series. I’d meant to give it to my youngest nephew, but always forgot to pack it whenever I’d go to visit. It’s a small backpack, designed for tiny bodies that he no longer possesses, so when I found it in a closet yesterday, I decided to give it to Trey. He was being Mama’s Little Helper in the kitchen at the time, so I held the backpack behind my back and walked into the dining room.
“Trey, guess what?!” I asked in my most over-acted and excited voice.
“What?” he whisper-shouted back with the conspiratorial sort of enthusiasm little kids use whenever they think they’re about to get a prize.
“I got you a present!”
“A princess?” (It should be noted that this is how he pronounces the word present, although the way he was looking at Brittany’s friend’s little girl later that day suggests that he might have, in fact, been hoping for his very own princess to do with what he will. We shall have to keep a watchful eye…)
“Yep,” I said, “close your eyes!”
He shut his eyes so tightly that his face sort of scrunched in on itself in the way I might imagine it would if the tip of his nose were a gravitational singularity. “I close my Trey’s eyes!” he exclaimed, then held out his hands.
I handed him the backpack. “Open your eyes!”
“WOW!” he shouted in a falsetto that would make a castrato cry from envy. “Wow! Cool!” He turned around and ran over to Brittany. “Look, Mama! Look my backpack!”
“Wow, Trey! That’s pretty nifty!” she shouted from over her shoulder, her arms deep in the suds of soapy dish water.
“Yeah!” said Trey. “Daddy Kris give me my backpack princess! Thank you my backpack! Thank you my Mickey Mouse backpack! Thank you, my Daddy Kris!” (Trey is obsessed with congeniality.)
“You’re welcome, my Trey. Do you want to put it on?”
“YEAH!”
And then, I helped him put on his Mickey Mouse backpack. I didn’t know it at the time, but as the day wore on it became obvious that he was planning to never take it off again. Like Dorothy’s ruby red slippers, the thing was permanently attached to his back for the rest of the day. And night. He slept in it.
He did look exceptionally cute with it, though. He was wearing a blue Mickey Mouse t-shirt, blue jean shorts, and red Crocs with Mickey Mouse-shaped holes on the top that came from Walt Disney World. The backpack itself is yellow, with red straps and a big picture of Mickey Mouse on the front. Oh, and Trey was wearing his halo for most of the day, as well. (The halo is actually all that’s left of a small, cupboard-bound lazy susan type of thing that one can put spice jars on and spin them around for easy access inside the cabinet. He took it apart and claimed the outer ring as his ‘hat’.)
Seeing him enjoy the backpack so much made me feel all special and paternal, for some weird reason. I’ve given him toys and clothes and things before – in fact, Brittany would argue that I give him way too much stuff – but there was something about this particular present that just seemed to resonate with him on a much deeper level. Sure, he’ll get attached to a new toy and carry it around with him everywhere, but there was more to it this time than just a simple infatuation with something new. Maybe it’s because Trey and I are bonding more and more each day, or that he’s started calling our house “Trey’s home” now, but for whatever reason, the two of us were joined at the hip all weekend long, and it was great. I didn’t give him the backpack until Sunday, so it sort of capped off an already great few days for both of us. When he fell asleep on the couch playing one of his Xbox Live games (Trials HD and ‘Splosion Man – and he’s surprisingly good at both of them!), he curled up into a little ball at the far end of the sofa, fully dressed from his backpack down to his Mickey shoes – and he couldn’t have been more adorable.
Brittany quietly scooped him up and took him to his room, gently setting him down on his bed and covering him up. She didn’t take off the backpack for fear of waking him, and because we assumed he would wake up on his own at some point before we went to bed, since he fell asleep much earlier than his usual bedtime. He did eventually wake, but when he opened his eyes to a darkened room that he didn’t remember ever entering, he freaked out a little and started crying. “DADDY KWWWISSSSSSSSS!” I ran to his room.
He looked at me with big, sad eyes and I sprinted to the edge of his bed. He lifted his arms and sniffled out the words, “Up, up” between sobs. I picked him up and held him, then we climbed back into his bed, where put his arms around my neck and cuddled up beside me.
“I love you, Daddy Kris.”
“I love you too, Monkey.”
We just lay there for the next several minutes while he stopped crying and fell back to sleep. I patted his back and whispered to him until he calmed down, and he squeezed me tight and patted the back of my head. It was a heartwarming moment for both of us, although I eventually had to get up and go get in my own bed. Brittany came into the room and helped me gently pull away from him and reclaim my arm from under his increasingly heavy body (he somehow generates more specific gravity when he sleeps). And, as we stood there at the door looking at him through the dimmed light spilling onto his bed from the hallway, I smiled. He was still wearing the backpack.
Thanks, Dora!*
*But I still hate you…
Want some books? 'Course ya do!
NOTE:I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.
I'll take care of it.
Humor | Nonfiction Available now from the following retailers
Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?
Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?
If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.
You're welcome.
Short Stories Available now from the following retailers
The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.
Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.
Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.
Always get back up.
Gaming | Nonfiction Available now from the following retailers
This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.
The Life Bytes series of books take a deep dive into one man's personal journey through childhood into kinda/sorta being a responsible, competent adult as told through the magical lens of whatever video games he was playing at the time.
Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.
If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.
I'll try to not be boring.
Horror Available now from the following retailers
What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.
What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.
The views and opinions expressed on this website, COQUETTING TARRADIDDLES, constitute a work of creative nonfiction, should not be interpreted as factual, and are solely of the individual author of this website, KRISTIAN BLAND, and are not the views of any other individual or organization, or of any individual or organization otherwise affiliated with the author unless explicitly stated within the content of the website.
Publishing Schedule
Coquetting Tarradiddles publishes new essays Whenever I Damn Well Feel Like It, except where prohibited by law.*
*Prices and participation may vary. Always consult a physician before beginning a new reading regimen. Individual results are not guaranteed. If you are pregnant or may become pregnant, do not handle past participles or wayward adverbs. Side effects may include an increase in intelligence followed by overwhelming waves of anger, frustration and rage, irritable bowels and/or various effronteries to good taste and decent folk everywhere. Ask your doctor if Coquetting Tarradiddles is right for you!
You must be logged in to post a comment.