Sanguine

Yo Gabba Gabba is a serious problem. This is mostly because I love it. It's an issue when something comes up that makes you go against all of the things you swore to yourself when you were still pregnant and all your thoughts were black and white and idealistic- I won't let my kid watch fluffy junk TV, I won't let my kid wear clothes or play with toys that have characters on them, I won't let the TV be a babysitter, etc.

Okay, let's get real, for a second- when you child genuinely loves something with all her heart, her whole face lights up when she's seeing or experiencing it, that touches you. When Ro gasps at the sight of Brobee (♫ the little green one ♪,) and her heart seems like it's going to burst in her chest out of sheer joy, it makes it okay. You realize everything is still okay, and you really aren't a bad person. (I promise.)

Not to mention the show itself is kind of great, in the most retro-tastic way possible. A bunch of people in foam costumes that make them look like low budget 1950's sci-fi monsters (á la H.R. Pufnstuf, or something equally ridiculous,) fantastic 8-bit animation (eighties calling!) and the host, DJ Lance Rock, who wears an orange satin track suit and glasses from the seventies and a hat that looks like it came from the São Paulo Gay Parade. I love him. And really, any show where Biz Markie teaches kids how to beatbox is alright in my book.

We find ourselves singing a lot of the songs, but especially the following:

"Please. Don't. Throw things at friends! Please don't throw things at friends!" (We have a problem with her throwing things, you see. She hit me in the eye with a shoe the other day.) "No no no no, don't throw things at your friends... say you're sorry, and don't do it again."

In fact, I love the whole mess so much that I want this shirt.