Failing Science 2.0

{Photo: www.thinkgeek.com}

I never liked math or science when I was in school.  I’ve seen the anti-math piece come back to haunt me as an adult, but I really didn’t suspect that my lack of science proficiency would be an issue until much later, when my kids might need help with biology or chemistry homework.

Turns out, my problems are starting sooner than I imagined, and it’s all because of Nickelodeon.

It’s awfully nice that Nick Jr. wants to make television educational so that parents like me don’t die from abject guilt over our small children being cracked out in front of their programming.  But I think things have gone too far. 

Here’s why:  The shameful truth is that, some days, I’m not smart enough to keep up.

It started with Thomas the Train.  And while the details of operating a railway on some bizarre island that bears a strange resemblance to “Lost” aren’t purely scientific, they were firmly in the camp of “things I never paid attention to.”  Discussions about buffers and hopper cars started coming out of my three year-old’s mouth.  I had never heard of a damn hopper car before, and I didn’t know which type of engine specifically makes deliveries to the quarry.  But, through the power of context clues and years of schooling, I was able to figure it out and keep up with the Thomas conversations.  Tuition well-spent. 

Now it has gotten worse.  My son, it appears, loves science — a genetic defect contribution I can blame on my husband, the engineer (electrical, not locomotive).

I can also blame Nickelodeon.  Specifically, Diego and Dino Dan, I’m looking at you.  Let me illustrate my point.

Science Failure Scenario One:  Diego

I come home from work a few weeks ago and my son says something about the animal on the current Diego episode.  Something that sounds, in my head, sort of like this.

“Look at the pink and green marmaduke.”

“A what?  A marmaduke?”

“Nooooo.  Mommy.  A [jumbled pairing of words I’ve never heard].”

I look at my husband:  “Oh, what an imagination — did you hear that? He made up an animal. He called it a piggy mountainette.”

Husband, snorting:  “No, he’s watching the Diego episode about the pygmy marmoset.”

I stare at my husband in silence and note that this sounds a lot like what our son just said.  Which sounds like another language.

Flashbacks to elementary school science.  Nothing is retrieving from the memory banks.  I must have been reading the Judy Blume book under my desk again that day.

Me, pulling up Google on the laptop:  “What the fuck is a — what is it called?  Pinky Tuscadaro?”

Husband:  “PYGMY MARMOSET.”

Righto.  If you didn’t know either (and I need you to raise your hand in the comments section so I know I’m not alone), here it is. 

I can honestly tell you I had never heard of this creature before in my life.  And then I started to notice, as the week went on, that Diego is trying to make me look like a jackass.  Because I cannot pick a sloth nor a kinkajou out of an animal line up.  Thanks, pal.  My kid is three — you couldn’t stick to giraffes, tigers and domesticated canines? Show off.

And stop running around the jungle unsupervised if you’re so smart.

Science Failure Scenario Two:  Dino Dan

My problems were recently compounded by my son’s newfound obsession with Dino Dan.  If you haven’t seen it, imagine a smug school-aged boy waxing poetic about dinosaurs all damn day.  How he has any friends is beyond me, but whatever.  Thanks to this little pain in the ass, my son now conducts conversations that run like game shows — where I am the losing contestant.

3 Year Old:  Mommy, which herbivore has the longest neck?

Me:  Uh, the T-Rex?

3 Year-Old  (laughing at my ignorance):  No.  He’s a carnivore.  Try again.

Me:  Uh, the Brontosaurus?

3 Year-Old:  No.  It’s the Brachiosaurus.  Now, which carnivore is very fast with a big claw?

Me (trying redirection):  Do you want to watch Wonder Pets?  Or Cinemax?

3 Year-Old:  Mommy.  Just guess.

Me:  I don’t know.  Who?

3 Year-Old:  We just saw this on Dino Dan, remember?  He has purple spots.

Me:  You tell me.

3 Year-Old (rolling eyes — this, he gets from me):  It’s the Dromaeosaurus.

Me (pouring wine):  Riiiight.  I forgot.

3 Year-Old: I can’t find my Stygimoloch, my Compsonagthus or my Spinosaurus toys.  Can you help me?

Me (because I’ll now do anything to make this stop):  Do you want mac and cheese for dinner?  Smothered in chocolate with a side of ice cream?

My life is being run by a punk TV character who is hallucinating dinosaurs.  This is what happens when you take in too many toxins as a kid.

Meanwhile, my brain seems to have completely shut down the portion that deals with science.  Just like I explicitly instructed it to do just after completing my AP Biology exam at the end of my junior year of high school.

So, while I have the chance, really, can’t we go back to Sesame Street?  I could keep up with The Count.  And I totally support Bert and Ernie’s same-sex domestic partnership, even if they are not yet ready to come out of the closet. 

Because, someday, the algebra and the trig and the physics will be here, and it’s evident to me that I will be of no use.  Not to a kid who insists I refer to him only as Baby Stigymoloch.

How young is too young to get him hooked on Scrabble instead?  That, I could handle.