As a new Mom during the 1980s in Downers Grove, IL, Mr. Rogers’ TV show for wee watchers taught me the difference between grownups and babies. Babies are smarter.
I latched onto the show early in our boy’s babyhood to infuse our mornings with energy, since mine was still in bed. But after the guru of glee did his sing-a-long silly-willies, his kindy voice bounced around my head for hours, like pebbles in a maraca. More, his infinite patience was irritating, as any trait I couldn’t emulate tended to be.
Our son had better sense. He never watched it. He sometimes used the TV console to ballast attempts to stand upright, which I knew from reading all the books was bloody unlikely. He tried to scale the TV a few times, putting his little feet on or about Mr. Roger’s face on the screen. Mostly, he just let Mr. Rogers be while he went about his business, which was to enjoy exactly where he was, immensely.