February 6, 2002

Finding return address for Sesame Street

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
       Last week, I found a rather disturbing letter in my mailbox. The writing on the envelope seemed suspiciously childish, but it wasn't the possible threat of anthrax that caused concern - it was Elmo.
      For the first time in my adult life, I had received word from the Children's Workshop. Elmo, Cookie Monster and Big Bird were offering me this once in a lifetime chance of buying the letter C book for only $6.49 with 23 books to follow. While I was a bit troubled that Oscar the Grouch had sent me junk mail, it wasn't my main concern. What really bothered me was the realization that I couldn't tell you how to get ... how to get to Sesame Street.
      With the birth of our first child mere weeks away, the mass-mailed missive from Elmo made me wonder about the seemingly small things that go into playing the big role of daddy. Sure I know to support the head and the importance of burp cloths, but knowing all the words to "Itsy Bitsy Spider" is a teensy-weensy problem.
      When it comes to singing nursery rhymes, it is not rhythm I lack, but the right words. Of course I could hum the verses for a couple years, but around age two children can smell adult uncertainty. I can only imagine getting called out on "I'm a Little Tea Pot" by someone wearing pull up training diapers.
      Naturally, it has also been awhile since I've read a book outloud and did all the funny voices. Unless you count reading Milton's "Paradise Lost" for Methods of Literature homework after one too many beers during my brash college days. At least until the child gets hooked on phonics I can add subplots and rewrite endings to "they all lived happily after" for the 1,115 time in a row.
      Perhaps bedtime stories like "The Duckling That Was Judged On Its Personal Merits And Not On Its Physical Appearance" by James Finn Garner will suffice.
      As the due date draws closer, I've noticed my channel surfing occasionally washes up on the shores of children's television. Like Rick, Will and Holly, I am lost in this land of singing purple dinosaurs and bears in big blue houses. After viewing only a few minutes, I suggest guests of Camp X-Ray be forced to watch endless episodes of the Teletubbies - if it were permissible under the Geneva Convention.
      Perhaps the letter from 123 Sesame Street took me aback because the address conjured up childhood memories free of shipping and handling charges. I still remember sitting in my parent's living room and singing along with Bert and Ernie on "Rubber Ducky You're the One," even though I hated taking a bath. Thanks to Sesame Street, I knew that C is for Cookie and how to count like a Count: one ... ah, ah, ah ... two ... ah, ah, ah.
      Seeing the cast of Sesame Street characters again sent me tripping down the tungsten TV tube path of the past.
      Each morning was spent with a bowl of sugar-coated Cheerios and shows such as 3-2-1Contact, ZOOM and the Electric Company. As a child of the 70s, I also grew up under the watchful eyes of Mister Rogers and Captain Kangaroo and the extended family of Mr. Green Jeans, Mr. McFeely, magic trolley and Lady Elaine Fairchilde (who looked an awful lot like Rip Taylor, minus the confetti). However, I was disillusioned that after repeatedly saying the magic word, Ping Pong balls did not rain down on my sister's head.
      As the reality of our baby's arrival becomes a matter of weeks, days, hours or perhaps before the end of this paragraph, my dreams have also been caught up in the anticipation.
      During REM sleep the other night, I found myself pushing our car's rpms to the redline as I rushed my laboring wife to the hospital. Then, in a scene straight out of bad television, Eric Estrada pulled me over. Instead of asking for my driver's license, registration or favorite C.H.I.P.S episode, he asked me if I knew the words to "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." I woke up before he could write me a ticket.
      Perhaps my dreams are trying to tell me to answer the letter from Elmo still lying on the kitchen table. I rather doubt, however, that a post office box return address will tell me how to get to Sesame Street. For those directions, I might have to wait a few years. Thankfully, fatherhood is a journey, not a destination.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com