Photo courtesy David Andrews

Ad nauseam

by Alison Lebovitz

When I was a kid, I absolutely loved television commercials. Those catchy jingles and infectious phrases were all part of my childhood vernacular. I wished I were an Oscar Meyer Wiener, I took the Pepsi Challenge and then had a Coke and a smile, I knew how to order two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun, and then would ask, “Where’s the beef?” And I never ONCE squeezed the Charmin. The influence all that useless information had on my life was irrefutable, and now that I am a mother, that’s exactly why I absolutely abhor advertisements.

If you’ve ever watched children’s television, you’re aware of the ridiculous ratio of commercials to programming. I’m not really sure whether the commercials are supposed to provide a break from the programs, or the programs from the clutter of commercials. And I have tried to explain to our three boys that advertisements have only one purpose—to sell you something. I constantly remind them that toys do not really come to life when you play with them, soda does not really give you a burst of energy, and, as far I know, it has never once rained Skittles.

A few years ago, while our three boys were watching television (and I, of course, was in the kitchen cooking a healthy and well-balanced meal for our family) the “three mom fire alarm” suddenly went off. This is when at least one and usually all the boys yell, “MOM! MOM! MOM!” so urgently that, with Pavlovian instinct, I drop whatever I am doing and run to see who is bleeding or, even worse, who has spilled fruit punch on the couch for the third time.

As I hurried into the den, the boys frantically asked, “How old are you? How old are you?” A little confused, I answered, “I’m 36. Why do you ask?” A crestfallen look came over their little faces, and finally the oldest responded with a deep sigh, “Never mind, you have to be 18 to buy this product.” I started to explain what that really meant, until I realized my good fortune in this misunderstanding and merely said, “Oh well,” and went on my merry way.

But the trappings of television commercials and my professional marketing background have at least taught me a valuable parenting skill: the art of creating the commercial child. This is the model of behavior and politeness we prefer to take out to restaurants, to introduce to our colleagues and to brag about to our parents, friends and family members. This child bears absolutely no resemblance to the one who throws a tantrum when he gets frustrated, puts his brother in a headlock just for fun, or picks his nose while simultaneously sucking his thumb. This is the public persona we can be proud of.

So, a few weeks ago, when a friend asked if our boys would like to be in a print ad for a local museum, the proud mother in me immediately accepted, while the PR professional in me knew this was a potential crisis situation. The day of the shoot, the boys were the pictures of perfection in their coordinating polo shirts. On the way to the museum, we went over the rules of engagement, and for good measure I told them we’d visit the ice cream shop if all went well. After all, every good actor needs some sort of incentive.

Much to my relief and surprise, they were the dream team. For that one hour they sat where they were supposed to sit, smiled when they were supposed to smile, and never once touched each other—or their noses, for that matter. It was an award-winning performance, to say the least.

In fact, it was such a convincing performance that as we sat down for our ice cream, I started thinking maybe this was for real. Maybe they had seen the light and realized that their good behavior would reap them even better benefits. Maybe my children weren’t just acting; maybe this is how my children really act. But as soon as that thought crossed my mind, the boys started being cross with each other. Still, when I ushered them out of the ice cream shop and into the car, I was smiling, because all I could think of was that line from the old Chiffon margarine commercial: “It’s not nice to fool Mother