Hi. I’m an English major. I can write you at least five paragraphs analyzing ANYTHING. This makes it somewhat problematic to enjoy normal things. Like kids’ TV.
This morning, tired of Elmo and Curious George, I turned on Clifford. You might remember from childhood that it’s the story of a little girl and her bff, a Big Red Dog who’s basically the size of a house.
What I didn’t remember was that it’s basically a cautionary tale: family adopts shelter pup, no idea what they’re getting into, it gets bigger than expected, and they end up losing their home, having to leave the city they love, and wind up living on an island.
But then, I think to myself, NO! Clifford is like a perfect analogy to our fetal diagnosis experience: you think you’re just having a baby, and then something big comes out of nowhere and changes the whole experience. You might have to reconsider your living space, you may have to make some life changes, but ultimately you and your unexpected addition are very happy together in a new kind of normal.
Or maybe it’s just a kid show about a giant red dog. Yeah. It could be that.
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