We made the mistake of letting Henry watch TV this morning because he was up early. (And the more general mistake of upgrading our cable a few weeks ago to include the Devil's minion, Playhouse Disney.) Then he didn't want to stop watching. He threw an almighty fit. Kicking. Screaming. Crying. Wailing. Moaning. Complaining. And that was only the five minutes I personally witnessed of the meltdown before I escaped to my car and the sanctity of the copy desk. Later, Tim sent me an e-mail. I'll just copy and paste, because he did a beautiful job of summing it up. ...At one point, all weepy, he asks, “Why don’t you let me watch cartoons on stay-home days when Handy Manny comes on?” I didn’t even know what he was talking about, but I asked when Handy Manny comes on. He says, “It’s on at 10, 9 central, right after Imagination Movers .” TV is a scary thing...
When you've lost your way, I'm not the person to ask for directions.