Since my almost-two year-old nephew is in town, I’ve been listening to a lot of nursery rhymes these days. Every time we get in the truck to go about the day, our adventures are narrated by peppy voices belting out JACK SPRAT COULD EAT NO FAT; HIS WIFE COULD EAT NO LEEEEEEEEEEEAN! AND SO, BETWEEN THEM BOTH, YOU SEE…THEY LICKED THE PLATTER CLEEEEEEEEEEEAN!
Over the duration of the past few weeks, I’ve learned this one thing: Nursery rhymes are every bit as depressing as fairy tales.
Anyone who’s ever taken a high school or college literature class has learned that the story of Hansel and Gretel is not really kid-friendly at all. And don’t even get me started on creepy ol’ Rumpelstiltskin. Those Brothers Grimm, they were a gruesome bunch indeed.
So that’s common knowledge. But nobody ever talks about simple nursery rhymes (short little ditties, as opposed to the longer fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm), and how depressing those are, too. For example:
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider who sat down beside her and frightened Miss Muffet away? Hello? Hasn’t that damnable spider ever heard of personal space?
This particular Little Miss Muffet has quite the pair of cankles, hasn’t she? Image from here.
Or what about this one:
Five little ducks went out to play over the hill and far away (empty nest syndrome, anyone?). Mother Duck said, “Quack, quack, quack,” but only four little ducks came back? Did anyone ever think to call the police to report the missing ducklings? Of course not—poor Mother Duck, all she ever says is “Quack, quack, quack.” And what about Father Duck? Why doesn’t he get any of the blame for the missing kids? Isn’t he involved in his children’s lives? He’s probably a dadgum workaholic—off having an affair with his secretary while his children are running away from home. This is male chauvinism at its worst. It’s an outrage.
Or this:
Hickory, dickory, dock! The mouse ran up the clock. [Sick.] The clock struck one, the mouse ran down! Hickory, dickory, dock. I don’t know about you, but I have a mouse living in my garage right now, and that’s bad enough. To have one scampering up and down my grandfather clock all day would drive me to lunacy.
And speaking of lunatics, have you heard the one about Wee Willie Winkie? (Dude totally needs a name change.) Yeah, well, just wait til you read about this weirdo:
Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town, upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown. [Has he never heard of boxer-briefs? {Come to think of it—probably not. He is called Wee Willie Winkie, after all. His mother probably still dresses him and tucks him into bed.}] Rapping at the windows, crying through the lock, “Are the children all in bed? For it’s now eight o’clock! First of all, Wee Willie, who made you the curfew police? And why? With a name like Wee Willie Winkie, do you really think anyone’s gonna take you seriously? And secondly, stop rapping at the windows and asking about the children. It makes you look like a super-creepy child voyeur, and that crap’s not cool.
Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all? What’s the baby doing in the tree? Who put her there? It’s likely some mother couldn’t stand the screaming anymore, so she tied the baby’s cradle to a branch of the tree and went inside to have a latté, never dreaming that a simple windstorm would bring her demise. Poor little innocent baby; crushed to death by a broken bough. And this is what we use to lull our own living children to sleep?
Don’t even get me started on Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater—that bastard wouldn’t know a good wife if she bit him in the face. I feel sorry for the poor old broad he’s got locked up in a pumpkin somewhere.
Anyway, it’s obvious I have some issues with these nursery rhymes. They’ve always left me feeling a little unsettled, even as a kid.
Which means there’s no way I can submit my own children to such depressing jingles. I need to start thinking of some alternatives now, so I can be ready when I do have kids. {Hey, don’t laugh–I’m trying to be prepared. I already own What to Expect When You’re Expecting and BabyWise, plus a high chair as of last weekend.} Someone help me out—what do you play for your kids in the car on long drives? Are there any nursery rhymes you specifically stay away from because of how creeped out they make you feel?
Please tell me I’m not alone in my principles.
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