PROBLEM? CHILD!


J'MelKids these days.

By J’Mel Davidson

 

Man do I love kids. Kids and babies and kids. All day! And most of them love me back. I think it’s because I talk to them. I don’t do baby talk. I don’t believe in it. Not with babies. With the ladies, it’s a different story. 

You’d be surprised how much a little one appreciates real language. Their little eyes light up, and they take it all in. They know the difference. They hear their parents talking to each other and to other adults. And when you talk to them, suddenly your tone changes and you stop using real words. That’s how you create deviants. Just saying.

I’ve always wanted kids of my own, too. A little J’Mel or J’Melle to call my own. We’d go on adventures, catching crooked politicians and amusement park owners. Showing old ladies that their houses aren’t really haunted. Testing rockets.

Nowadays, you mention kids to folks and a likely response is  “Eww!”

Because adults are now allowed to say “Ew” in public, I guess, and because the ideas of fulfilling your only true reason for existing as a species—reproduction—is not as desirable a goal as making beer in your bath tub. Takes all kinds, I’m told.

Truthfully, I understand that raising kids isn’t all fun and games. It’s hard work trying to wrangle a little human and make sure they don’t grow up with any dangerous psychosis. Like the sort of person who says things like “I love kittens more than people” and “I don’t own a T.V.!” Again, both things people say, proudly, aloud. With kids, you can’t walk on eggshells and you can’t be too harsh. It’s a gentle balance, like the Force.

We all saw what happened to Annakin. White child space slaves need the most attention. Do something wrong, and they turn into whiny violent sissies and terrible actors. And the crazy part is that there is no right way to raise a kid. I’m sure we all know a kid from a messed up, Rob-Zombie-like home life who turned out to be a great and charitable guy. And the kid from affluence raised with chocolate-covered silver spoons in her mouth who turned into a useless, dumb dummy.

There are still people that believe in the whole “spare the rod, spoil the child” method. You know, when you run out of ideas and decide that the best way to get your point across is to hit a child with sticks and belts. Because the Bible says it’s OK and it’s old-fashioned. Know what else is in the Bible? Cannibalism. Lots of it. And not the nice, symbolic kind of the New Testament, either. Good, old-fashioned George A. Romero ghoullery. Spank your kids? Fine. Also, eat your enemies. Because you’re old-fashioned. (Which is just a folksy way of saying you refuse to listen to a different opinion. Come on, man!) Where were we? Cannibals…Oh, yeah, beating children as “lessons.”

As previously discussed, I haven’t been lucky enough to sire any descendants even though I’d love to. But you know what makes me slightly reconsider this love?  Steven Spielberg. Whenever Steven Spielberg adds a child protagonist to his films, you can bet they’ll be anything but likable. Oh, they’ll be smart and possibly good at a specific skill beyond their years, but they won’t listen and they will constantly endanger you. Little idiots.

If you’re on an island full of cloned dinosaurs and you give them a simple command in an effort to keep them from being ripped to shreds, they will most definitely defy you. Then later you’ll have to rescue them and comfort them because now, all of a sudden, they ain’t so independent.

If Martians attack your neighborhood, that’s still not enough of a prompt for your cocky little darling to pay attention to your orders so that she isn’t turned into a pulsing red cocoon of human gyro meat. She’ll ignore your common sense instructions at every turn, knowing that you will risk life and limb to save her big stupid head. But even in these situations, perhaps adult-on-child violence is too harsh. Violence begets violence, after all.

And, looking back to the Good Book, there’s nothing in there that says once we’ve tampered in God’s domain and created fun-sized Martian dinosaurs and your stupid kids run right into the center of their feeding frenzy because they lost their special doll or something stupid like that—there’s nothing that says you have to go after them.

Where were we? Martians…Oh yeah! I love kids.

One Response to “PROBLEM? CHILD!”

  1. J'Mel says:

    im leaving my own comment

    Yay!

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