The E.T. Factor

Every once in a while we make parenting decisions that are, let’s say, not brilliant. I recently noticed the TV Guide’s announcement of E.T, and, remembering it fondly from my own childhood, called my daughter. “E.T. is on television,” I enthusiastically told her, “You should watch this with us. It’s fun.”

Unfortunately, I forgot that I was twelve when I first saw it, and my daughter Isabella is not. She didn’t make it past the first ten minutes; seeing Elliot sneak around in the dark, hearing funny noises, she quickly hid underneath a pillow, all the while begging us to shut it off. It was too scary.

“But there will be Reese’s Pieces!” My husband tried, as if that would make a difference.

Now, in spite of the fact that Isa never even saw E.T.’s face, she comes out of her room every other night to announce that ‘she can’t sleep; she’s scared of E.T., the monster’.

“He’s not a monster,” I tell her, “He’s just an alien. And besides, he’s not real. It’s a puppet. Why would you be afraid of a puppet?”

She looks at me as if I’m the biggest idiot that’s ever walked this planet, and maybe a few other planets in the process. Have I forgotten what it’s like to be six? The concept of what is real is stretchy, fluid; whether something is real is up to her to decide, not me. How dare I suggest that E.T. is not a monster, what do I know?

We bring out the monster spray, which is a nasty old bottle of Fahrenheit, saved by my husband for occasions like this. After all, when little brown Hollywood puppets are around, the power of suggestion is at its strongest. It helps, her room smells up to high heaven and she goes to sleep; how she’s able to breathe with those fumes hanging around, I’ll never know.

To put things in perspective, this is a girl who loves Corpse Bride, who’s seen Modigliani take his last breath many times, and who reenacts whole CSI episodes on the playground, body count included. I admit; we don’t censure her television habits much, except maybe for the Disney channel- I can’t stand Mickey Mouse’s Club House. So why E.T.?

Why does she know most Tim Burton movies by heart, yet seems unable to shake the idea of an alien, ugly, faux Muppet, who she’s never even seen?

But there’s the problem, isn’t it? Not knowing is much worse than knowing; every horror flick is at its scariest when the blonde bombshell goes up the stairs and you don’t know what is coming. So maybe this particular blonde just needs to sit down and watch a few minutes, somewhere in the middle, when E.T. is happy and cute, to get over this unreasonable fear. Perhaps we’ll try tomorrow; I think Starz is showing it again. As long as she doesn’t develop a fresh fear of flying bicycles, I think she’ll be okay.