I thought I had been doing pretty well about not letting my own pop culture biases affect (or some would say “infect") my niece.  Take the other day, for example.  While shopping for a stocking stuffer book, I chanced upon a literary tome that immediately caught my eye.  Entitled Scooby Doo and the Rock and Roll Zombie, my first thought was that this was the perfect gift for Cameron.  Surely its gripping narrative and eye-popping illustrations would encourage her to take yet another step into the wonderful world of reading.

Now, I hadn’t read this particular installment in the Scooby Doo saga. But if I knew my literature, this alleged “Rock and Roll Zombie” would turn out to be the harmless old caretaker of the amusement park. Or perhaps the mean-spirited magnate who was attempting to buy out said amusement park.

Or it might actually be the caretaker wearing the mask of the magnate underneath the mask of the Zombie!  I hoped not, though. That whole “dual mask” twist is juicy but it’s also rather complicated. Surely such “Usual Suspects"-style reveals should be the province of a book that’s intended for, say ages 6 and up, rather than 5.

But as I reached for the book, I thought, well, maybe I was thinking too much about my own childhood and maybe it was possible to find something a little less corporate-ty for Cam.  And I ended up finding a very nice book with gorgeous, burnished illustrations and an easy-to-follow story. It didn’t have any rock and roll zombies, which I count as a minus (that’s also the reason I didn’t like Anna Karenina), but otherwise it seemed like a good choice.

Sounds like a rational chain of decision making? Except that I had an exchange with my sister-in-law the other day that made me realize that I haven’t been as good at this as I had thought:

SHE: Cameron’s decided that she wants a theme party for her next birthday.

ME: Oh, sounds great.

SHE (coldly): Yes...A Spider-Man party.

ME: Ha!  Really? Now that’s a chip of the old…

SHE: .....

ME: ...er...I mean...how nice?

SHE: Yes. I told her great, you can invite your uncle and all of your uncle’s friends.

I don’t remember foisting Spider-Man upon my niece, but maybe it just comes off me subliminally.  Or maybe it’s in the Howard blood. Maybe the Howard blood is radioactive.

(To digress for a moment, I’m confused why Dora the Explorer is somehow a more noble franchise to buy toys from than, say, Spider-Man.  I mean, talk about a role model that kids can’t live up to. How old is Dora supposed to be? Eight or so?  You show me a kid who is actually an “Explorer” by age eight. I could see Dora the Pooping or Dora the Oftentimes Drooling in her Sleep, but world traveling?  Let me tell you what I used to carry around with me when I was eight years old: beef jerky, Star Wars cards, and maybe a frog or two.  You know what I didn’t carry around?  A PASSPORT. If these are the characters that our kids are supposed to emulate, they’ll all be burnt out before junior high.)

The reality is, I don’t care one bit whether Cam reads about pink parasols or rock and roll zombies.  We start telling stories to kids as soon as they’re born: “This is who you are. This is where you came from. This is where you’re going.” And eventually they start choosing their own stories.  And no one, ever, has the time to read all of the stories in the world.  From that point of view, it doesn’t matter what stories you read, whether they’re these stories or those stories--as long as you’re immersed in them, and eventually have the ability to choose the ones that matter to you.  As long as she does that, I will happily stand down.

Which isn’t to say that I won’t stick her with Lemony Snicket down the road.