Everybody Poops...On Their Kids' Self Esteem

As a staunch Irish Catholic and someone who likes to think of himself as "Old Skool," I obviously approve whole-heartedly of the aggressive, even draconian physical, psychological, and emotional chastisement of children. As I have none of my own yet --barring the pug who rules my apartment with a chubby, iron paw--I freely substitute my students, and on rare occasion, random children in the supermarket. There are few things so satisfying in this world as slapping the wrist of a strange child with a wooden ruler (like you don't carry them on you at all times, too) as he reaches on tippy toe to snatch a bag of Double Stuff Oreo cookies from the shelf. Finding that perfect mix of utter disgust and disappointment on my face is difficult, I'll admit, but my acerbic "God hates fat children, Oreo-lover" usually overrides any facial nuance the lad may have missed.

Imagine my shame, then, to have found that I am behind the times in this necessary, revered pastime. Simpleton that I am, I always assumed to only berate children for their own shortcomings, but truer prophets than myself have thankfully seen the primrose path of abusing kids for their parents' flaws. Take, for instance, My Beautiful Mommy, a book ostensibly in the same spirit as Everyone Poops and The Gas We Pass: The Story of Farts. But unlike these insightful tomes, which are designed to help explain the foul realities of the body to kids, My Beautiful Mommy is intended to explain the vile realities of their mothers' narcissism.
Now, the issue isn't about cosmetic surgery per se, nor about the fact that it has become prevalent enough in our culture that there are now books explaining it to children. The true beauty of this little gem is that the primary symptom needing surgical remedy is stretch marks--specifically, stretch marks resultant from pregnancy. In other words, it's essentially Junior's fault that Mommy needs to go under the knife. And here I thought accusing them of stealing the best years of your life was enough!

And there is absolutely no evidence of bias, no lingering stench of opportunistic "tweaks" on reality. For instance, the cosmetic surgeon himself looks like Superman in scrubs, and when we are privileged with a glimpse into Mommy dearest's mind, we see this very Hercules--this time in a suit--planting a tiara upon a newly "did up" Mommy. I'd be concerned that this Adonis was invading the fantasies of America's housewives, but he isn't really the most articulate chap, according to page 1: "Blah, Blah, Blah, Tummy, Blah, Blah, Blah, Nose." So the bastard may be staggeringly good looking, physically statuesque, obscenely rich, and enchanting to the fairer sense, but I've got my pointy verbal barbs. Oh, how I hope they sting.

"But I can't even read, Colonel Gentleman," you might say. "Is there any way to psychologically abuse my child from the comfort of my own double-wide trailer?" Have no fear, disembodied hillbilly voice! Like some sort of twisted perpetual motion machine of despair, you can plant a seed at birth that will cripple your child emotionally from the moment it can comprehend human speech. Or at least, you could until Johnny Law got involved. Apparently, some leftist nut job of a judge stepped in and made a Hawaiian child a ward of the court so that they could change her name. And what was it? Talula Does the Hula. I shit you not. Hell, just calling the kid "Talula" by itself is skating on thin, rotted ice, but to then blatantly reveal her favorite pastime in the same stroke? She may as well be that guy from the fraud protection commercials who has a truck with his Social Security number drive around downtown Manhattan. The poor kid was so damaged by the name that even her best friend didn't know her true identity, and instead was asked to simply call her "K." Apart from strategically positioning her little friend to tacitly agree with anything she says ("Do I want to suffer through Don't Mess With the Zohan....K"), why the hell would she choose that letter? If you're going to lie, why not use a full name? Clearly, the child has been damaged already by the moniker...so why bother changing it now?

My favorite part of the whole story, though, is the list of other names that have been banned, and on occasion, allowed: "Fish and Chips, Yeah Detroit, Keenan Got Lucy, and Sex Fruit...But others were allowed, including Number 16 Bus Shelter [always nice to be named after the place you were conceived, eh?] and tragically, Violence."

So it seems my dreams of simply smacking my children and occasionally locking them in the basement are merely average, even pedestrian. Thankfully, my wife has no intention of letting our DNA mingle anytime in the foreseeable future, so I have time to plan. And now that my brother has taken the BAR exam, he's officially a lawyer and can warn me about the most obvious legal pitfalls that might prevent me from constructing a truly magnificent warren of psychological torment for my progeny. Sure, my kids will be all kinds of fucked up, but I guarantee that if you give them a birthday present, you'll be getting a thank you card within the week. Of course, it'll be covered with their desperate pleas for liberation, but oh, what stunning penmanship.