Sorry. ‘My Little Pony’ just tackled the Broncos
I fondly remember a few years back, when my daughter was 1, and how patiently I tried to help her learn to speak.
The way she mis-enunciated sounds was sweet and adorable and makes me wish I could go back in time to those precious days. That way, I could prevent her from learning any words at all, thereby keeping me from hearing about “My Little Pony” all day.
The “My Little Pony” phase began a few months ago. It’s tiresome but much better than the “Barbie” phase since the ponies retail for less.
She talks about them at dinner, while going potty and at school. Keenan, a boy at her pre-K, told her she talks about “My Little Pony” too much. Then again, Keenan talks a lot about Batman to her, and I can’t imagine that’s really scintillating conversation.
The secret to being a good parent is caring. But that’s not always easy, so sometimes you have to pretend to care, like when they try to talk to you about fake purple flying horses during an important Broncos game.
“Um, did you know Twilight Sparkle shared her ice cream with Rainbow Dash?”
“What? Mmm. Yeah hon. Sure. TACKLE HIM!”
“...and did you know? Rainbow Dash said thank you to Twilight Sparkle for sharing the ice cream?”
“Is that so? HOW DOES A TIGHT END GET THAT FREAKING OPEN!”
“And Daddy? Daddy? Are you listening? When Pinky Pie and Rainbow Dash were dancing —”
“Hon, why don’t you go outside and play?”
“Mommy said it’s just 5 degrees outside.”
“I know. TACKLE HIM!”
Every night when I come home from work, I’m subjected to a recap of that morning’s “My Little Pony” episode. If Jeopardy ever decides to run a “My Little Pony” Week, I’m taking that sucker down.
At bedtime we read about the ponies. In one of her favorites, Cherry Blossom is hosting a slumber party for all the ponies, only there’s a huge disaster when Skywishes forgets to bake the cookies. If you can imagine. Without time to bake, she’s forced to show up to the party empty-handed. Apparently, the City Market in Ponyville does not have a bakery department.
We have all the pony books and the games. And the ponies themselves, of course. We may not be able to eat next month, but we have Fluttershy. To those of you who own shares of Hasbro: You’re welcome.
In addition to Fluttershy, there are six other ponies, including Pinkie Pie, who even Mother Teresa would despise. I don’t care if Fluttershy is “fun-loving” and works at Sugarcube Corner; this horse needs to be put down. (“It’s OK, honey. We’ll see her again when we need to glue something.”)
We own three different versions of Pinkie Pie. Often my daughter insists that I play with one of them, instructing me to give voice to Pinkie Pie, which I do, all the while watching the last remaining drops of testosterone flee my body in disgust.
But at least Pinkie Pie has a job. I have no idea what Rainbow Dash does all day. Collecting pony signatures for a pro-gay marriage amendment, I imagine.
The aforementioned Fluttershy’s job is to take care of bunnies. Then there’s “Apple Jack,” who works at an apple orchard, and “Rarity,” a DEA informant.
This world of multi-hued ponies marks new territory for me, and I have a hard time mustering up any interest in these annoying horses. Yet your children have to know you care. Which is why I sat my daughter down next to me, even during the middle of the Broncos game, for a heart-to-heart.
“Honey,” I told her, “I want you to know that even though Daddy gets distracted sometimes, you’re my top priority, and that anytime you want to talk about “My Little Pony,” you’ll have my full attention, and ... what the? TACKLE HIM!”