I hate commercials.

To be brusque, I want to pluck my television from the wall and send it airborne every time I see Kirstie Alley thrusting cake into her mouth while asking viewers if they’ve called Jenny yet. Don’t let yourself become a disgusting fat slob. If your body isn’t what you see on television then clearly you suck. I was fat and repugnant, but now I’m losing that hideous fat and I’m worthy. I went from a size 10 to a size 4 in just two months! (Because we all know the average dress size for an American woman is a 4…..you can’t see me but you can presume that my eyes are rolling out of my skull.) Yes I realize I could turn the damned thing off, but realistically, that’s not going to happen. There are some really wholesome shows that my children enjoy like The Jeff Corwin Experience and Buggin’ With Ruud, but unless I switch the television off every eight minutes to avoid commercials, they’re going to see them. Because there's nothing more productive than hovering about the remote control like a horsefly on shit, right? And I’m not naïve enough to think I have control over what they’ll see every moment of every day.

I don’t get it.

Why does Bowflex try to sell sexy tight bodies to children? Why does NutriSystem feel it's necessary to relentlessly harp on the allure of skinny bodies to an audience with the average age of roughly ten? And since when did young children become their target audience? My smallish people are regrettably growing up in a society strained by unattainable perfection and even more troublesome, my kids are not-so-subtly encouraged to reach and embrace sexual maturity long before they should. Let’s consider Hoz, I mean Bratz, for example. They’re dolls intended for young girls, and by young I’m referring to ages six through ten. That's apparently not too young to learn the usefulness of full pouty lips, naval parades, “come hither” gazes, and attitudes that rival the salty Samantha Jones. Um, sure. My small girl knows exactly why Mama won’t buy Bratz. And deep inside that little seven year old soul, I think she appreciates what it means to be a child. The first ten years blow by in a fury of onesies, diapers, sippy cups, step-stools, growth charts, picture days, and homework. The dimply hand of a child is soon replaced by the ‘tude of a tetchy teen. And although we adore them no matter their age, but why make the growing up come earlier rather than later? I firmly believe commercialism is responsible for just that. And yes, I understand commercialism is the piston to America’s V8 engine, but there has to be a safe place for them to just be children. A place away from the expectations of perfection and the likelihood of perceived inadequacies. Until we find that safe place that once existed, talking to them is all we have.