Thomas Gone Wild

My three-year-old son is obsessed with Thomas, and the entire "Tank Engine" franchise. He knows every single train by name, and is constantly throwing out Thomas euphamisms: "He's a really useful engine!" "Emily is cross." "Bust those buffers."

On our family computer, Trey learned to type T-H-O-M-A-S in Google to get himself hooked up with a shot of Sprout Online. Straight to the Thomas games he went. He's a genius! I thought, until ...

One day I got distracted blogging or reading blogs or something, and eventually I wandered over to find that Trey had made his way onto YouTube, and was watching Thomas "videos" (some not-so-appropriate for your average 3-year-old as you might imagine). We had a talk about this - I know I had a stern talking to myself about being more "hands on" - and we moved on.

Fast forward, the other night Macy ran over to me with a, "Mommy! We won a contest!! Come look!"

OMG. At the computer were at least a dozen pop-up screens. Yes, one blinking screen notified us that we'd WON!!! THE BIG PRIZE!!! The other screens? Well ... How do I say this? One word. Porn.

Trey, in his ongoing quest for a fix of a newer, better Thomas video, had stumbled into a virus that unleashed a flurry of T & A (and various other body parts).

The moral of my story. Well, too much of anything, even Thomas, is a bad thing, I guess. Either that, or keep a close eye on your children as they "surf" the internet!

I Don't Want to Dance Anymore

"Mommy, I don't want to go to ballet," Macy told me recently.

"But you love ballet!" I said, a little too excitedly. (I'm thinking, I love you in that adorable ballet outfit.)

"Actually I don't," Macy informed me. "I need a break from ballet. I've got so much going on."

"Like what? I'm just curious," I asked, trying to act nonchalant. (I'm thinking, You're 6. You just wait.)

"Well, learning to read. You want me to read, right? And all that homework. Play dates. I'm just a little tired is all. It's just too much."

"But what about the big recital that's coming up?" I asked. (Thinking, and the recital costume I paid $50 for.)

"I don't really want to be in the recital," Macy stated, with firm resolve.

(I'm thinking, Is my daughter a quitter? First ballet, next what? High school?) I think quickly on my feet and decide to deliver a blow below the belt.

"Yep, you're right. You shouldn't do ballet if you don't want to," I agreed. "But what if Hannah Montana or Angelina Ballerina had quit their dance lessons the first time it got hard? Where would they be?"

"Angelina Ballerina is a mouse," Macy informed me. "And Hannah Montana's Dad is Billy Ray Cyrus. She didn't need dance lessons at six to be famous."

Darn.