I am now facing my first fatherhood crisis. No it’s not the fact that I haven’t slept more than four hours in a night in the past seven months, nor the daily grind of spit and poop. No, it came in the form of a three foot mouse named Mickey, an uninvited guest who landed in the dark night of Xmas.

Receiving a monstrous Mickey Mouse doll should be a family decision. This is not something you casually buy someone with no warning. It’s an invasion, the D-Day of consumer capitalism. A well-meaning relative believed he was doing the right think by giving our daughter this play thing, yet it’s one of a dimension that can only be deemed, uhm, American. To a seven-month-old this is not a toy, a mouse or a Disney character, but a large plush blob conglomerating abstract shapes that through training takes the form of something more recognizable in the future. I have no doubt that Mickey will now join the family and give her hours of joy. That’s why I feel guilty re-naming him Beelzebub.

Upon rolling my eyes when He arrived, my Italian partner reminded me that I already have a Ronald McDonald doll in the apartment. But he’s wearing a Mexican wrestler’s mask and a button that says “McShit.” I also pointed out that I have two Zapatista dolls as well. She wondered why I object to the innocent looking creature that takes up half our couch. I responded that he is the smiley face of Empire, a gateway drug to consumerism. Once our daughter becomes acclimated to Mickey’s likeness, then the door opens up to a host of other nefarious consumer goods, none of which I can afford, nor do I want to. But can I break her little heart by arguing that Mickey was probalby made by Chinese prison labor, or that the fire retardant material it’s made out of is comprised of neurotoxins? But alas I remember my grandmother telling me that I should finish my food because other kids in the world were starving. I always hated it when she said that. I don’t think I will impose globalization upon my daughter. Yet.
Now, I don’t intend to censor my daughter’s reality. If she wants Disney, she will have Disney, with restraint, of course. We’ll do Santa, too. I don’t intend to be an anti-capitalst scrooge, 1) because I won’t deny her the magical aspects that brought me happiness as a child, and 2) because it will make her a social outcast. I know too many hippie kids who ended up becoming stock brokers and real estate agents because their parents nursed them on wheat grass and made them toys out of roof shingles. Still, something has to be done. Ultimately I have learned that it’s better to ask questions and let the child decide what is right and wrong. This is how my grandfather approached things, even when he denied me coloring books because they controlled my creativity. I honestly don’t know how I will respond when the society will parent my child again. But rest assured, I’m making it my project to design the best mousetrap possible.
BTW, Happy Holidaze!

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