The thing is, guys, that I mostly like Thomas the Train. If only for the reason that there are no choreographed dances, references to maps or rescue packs, or odd personifcations of inanimate--....well, wait. Eh, two out of three.
But I *have* always had this sneaking suspicion about socialist or communist (could you do the math there for me?) undertones surrounding Sir Topham Hatt's endless praise of Thomas' usefulness. So far, however, Plus One has not grown a beard or taken to marching about the house jabbering about the bourgeois or the proletariat. (Which is good for many reasons, including the fact that I won't have to google those terms.)
Then, yesterday, we went to the library. (Because it was raining. And I hear books are quite the rage.) Naturally, he beelined for the Thomas section. After taking some inappropriate pictures for Twitter, hiding all the books that T9 had hurled from their shelves, and eyeballing some sign about keeping it SHHHHH!, we packed up our books and headed home.
Then. The bubble burst.
I won't even *touch* on the absurdity of the direct object of Henry's crash being more EXCLAIM-worthy than 1) knowing he's going to crash and being POWERLESS to stop it or 2) the crash itself.
My concern, really, is that my son will think it's just OKAY to toss punctuation about like it's damn ticker tape or candy or last night's dishes. Naturally, I paused and took advantage of this teachable moment. I was met with blank-eager-fearful eyes, which I took to demonstrate comprehension that no son of mine would grow up to be an EXCESSIVE EXCLAIMER.
I happen to be a teacher, folks. And, clearly, a goddamn top-notch mother.
Bonus: This dude has spent more time thinking about the implications of this odd blue engine than I have, and appears to be leaning towards a fascist interpretation. Silly