The Wiggles have made a Faustian pact and the cost of their success is the fear and loathing of millions of parents
I fucking hate the Wiggles. I hate them like the Montagues hate the Capulets, like Collingwood hate Carlton, like the Bandidos hate the Comancheros. But no, this isn’t quite right. These are competitive binaries – duals practiced by rough equals. That’s not what this is. This is captivity.
As my daughter is captive to the Wiggles, so I am captive to her. My partner tells me to set boundaries. She tells me to be firm. She says to be like the Soviets at Stalingrad. She doesn’t say this last bit, but I can infer it. And what I say is that it’s real easy to suggest gentle assertion against a tiny angel who shits herself six times a day, but, goddammit, her screams are jagged and my psyche thin after months – years? – of lockdown.
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