One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Said the Alligator King to his seven sons I'm feelin' mighty down. Whichever of you can cheer me up will get to wear my crown.
And so it goes. and goes. I've listened to the "Alligator King" for 20 minutes now, different segments of the song looping countless times, fast forwarded and rewound again like a complex solution to a combination lock... the lock on the door into my son's world.
I watch him, his fists tightened with excitement, tiptoeing closer to the TV and then back away again. And then, finally, he receives the secret signal from the King... he skips ahead.
Take a breath. Take a breath. Stop and smell, sniff a sniff, take a breath.
I give my son about an hour of Old School Sesame Street (or IMAX Deep Sea or...) in the evenings. He has free reign on the controls, which he figured out how to work an hour after we plugged the new tv in. I struggle with this. Is this good? He loves it, and seems engaged. I feel like it's ok, but I doubt myself. Some experts and know-betters think this a bad idea. But I hear him later, as he points to our tower of blocks
da, do, dee, da, da, da, sada.
trust yourself. know your kid. Take a breath.
It's all good.
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