Notes from within the brain fog

The Wiggles were doing a show in Albany last night, of which I was unaware until it was too late to do anything about it. Part of me is disappointed, thinking that the kids, especially Nik, would have been delighted to go. But the larger part of me is throwing itself on its knees to the deities of children's programming, praying that they get out of town before my wee ones find out. Because you see, the Wiggles make this vein in my forehead start to throb, my alimentary canal tie itself into a half-hitch, and my brain go into Emergency Lockdown mode.

If you're not familiar (and if you're not, start thanking your Inner Power immediately), the Wiggles are four Australian fellows on some unspecified pharmaceuticals who sing songs for the under-5 set, and perform skits. To call them annoying is to understate by a factor of 30: they're like Barney in quadruplicate, minus the foam padding. If you were to manifest insulin shock as a watered-down folk-rock quartet and slap some colored mock T-neck shirts on it, you'd be creating something close enough to the Wiggles that I'd have to hit you.

Yes, they're wholesome. Yes, the kids adore them. And yes, I want my kids to be both enriched and happy. But that does not, does not mean that I have to like it.

*flips the channel to Steve-era Blue's Clues, and sighs happily*