Personal Essay: TV-Free
Why does not having a television make me so unpopular?
by Kate Haas
May 7, 2009
Back when I was teaching high school, my students never looked at me the way you are now, mother at the playground. Once they got over their astonishment that I didn't have a television, they regarded me with pitying superiority, as if I were an unfortunate
freak of nature. "What do you do all day?" they asked, shaking their heads. "TV is my life," chimed in another. When I assured them that I was happy to spend my free time reading, they looked at me blankly.
But you don't pity me for not owning a television, playground mother. And I know better than to bring up reading in this conversation. Because what would that imply about your little Max and Willow, innocently munching their trail mix on the bench? I might
as well come right out and accuse you of forcing them to avert their eyes when passing the public library.
You seem like such a nice person, so please don't feel compelled to tell me that your family would eat nothing but frozen fish fillets and deli meals if it weren't for the shows that entertain your kids while you cook dinner in blessed solitude. Trust me,
I know the dreaded four-to-six pm time period, when the day's accumulation of chickens come home to roost.
What I say is, whatever gets you through.
And I promise, I'm not about to spout off from a (non-existent) pedestal on the virtues of soothing music and a basket of special toys your kids only
"get to" play with during dinner prep. No ma'am. What I say is, whatever gets you through. For me it's
Captain Underpants on tape. For you it's Nickelodeon? No finger-wagging here.
You see? I'm not the self-righteous Mothering Magazine commando you think I am. I drank wine while I was pregnant. My children go to public school. I don't know what kefir is and I don't want to. I wish you could see me as a comrade in the trenches,
making the best choice for my family, just like you. But you don't. The minute my son said innocently, "We don't have a TV," your eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Your formerly genuine smile became fixed. I know these signs. You've pegged me as a parenting
purist whose kids are only permitted to play with acorns, silk scarves and hand-knit gnomes. (Actually, they prefer Star Wars Legos.) You think I consider myself Mother Superior, when really I'm bumbling along like anyone else, just with one less piece
of furniture.
Article photo: Ashley Hopkins
©2009 Kate Haas and Babble Media
About the Author
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Kate Haas publishes Miranda, a zine about motherhood. Her essays have appeared in Brain, Child and Hip Mama. She is co-editor of creative nonfiction at Literary Mama. She lives in Portland, OR.
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