I wish they’d been on hand when my twin boys were toddlers. Perhaps they’d have come up with some suitable entertainments. Finger painting? Covering the living room with glitter? Oh, we did all that. The kids watched TV too, I’m ashamed to admit. Not acres and acres but enough for calmness to settle and my breathing to return to a rate approaching normal.
Teletubbies topped the bill back then. The day our TV packed up, I nearly wept – then, in a moment of madness, drove the defunct appliance to a TV repair shop in Hackney where the man laughed and said, “Jesus, they don’t make them like that any more.” It was unfixable. I felt the lifeblood drain from my body and bought the cheapest reconditioned set to “tide us over.”
While the Australian research is recent – TV impairs language development and attention span, apparently – the pressure was just as acute when my boys were small. At the time, we lived in east London where several hardcore mums severely rationed TV, if they had one at all. One would only let her daughter watch telly on Fridays, for some unfathomable reason. Another had an egg-shaped alarm that would go off with an almighty ping after an hour, meaning the TV had to be turned off. These were scary women whose partners had been banished to spare beds or sofas so they wouldn’t interfere with the business of mother-baby bonding.
If one of these mums popped round, I’d quickly switch off the TV before letting them in, praying they wouldn’t touch it and feel how warm it was.
Actually, my boys didn’t spend all their time glued to the box. We also engaged in creative play because I was scared of these mums and feared I’d be drummed out of Bethnal Green if we didn’t have a daily art session. Trouble was, art never lasted long enough. I’d get out the poster paints, feeling all chuffed with myself. The children would squirt a bit on to a piece of paper, dunk their sleeves in it and tip out the rest on to the dining table. Paint would drip off the edge and, on a really fun day, they’d “explore texture” by mushing food into it. I’d clear up the mess – and it would still only be 9.30am. How was I supposed to fill the 10 hours between then and bedtime? Where was J when I needed him? Oh. At work, earning money. Having almighty fun in his office, grr.
At least in summertime it was easier to entertain the children without resorting to too much evil TV. There were walks to go on, parks to frolic in. If you’ve been out of the house, you feel you’ve “earned” a short telly break. Suggesting a TV ban in winter is just plain cruel. How on earth are parents supposed to cope? You’d have to remove the TV from the house because the temptation to turn it on would be just too great. Besides, by two years old most children can switch the thing on by themselves and commandeer the remote in a fierce grip. I once asked a close friend what she’d found hardest in the raising of her two now-teenage children. “When they posted coins into the video player and broke it,” she said without hesitation. “They couldn’t watch their Thomas videos for a whole week.”
So we’re not alone in our lax attitude. I’d like to report that early viewing gave our children a take-it-or-leave-it attitude to the box – but they love it now as much as ever. My sons are 12 years old. Trying to lure them away from it with creative play would be ridiculous. There’d be outrage if I interrupted their viewing pleasure. Instead, I lurk on the sidelines while MTV blares.
Er … I suppose a felt-making workshop is out of the question?
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