When I pulled into the driveway on our way back from the
YMCA this morning, there were some packages sitting on the doorstep. My son,
always excited about packages, asked me, “Mom. Do you want me to carry the post
in?” The post? Who calls it the post? My son, that’s who.
Following in Madonna’s footsteps, my son has become British.
When I pull into the gas station he says, “Mommy. Are we getting petrol?”
Petrol! What ever happened to good ol’ American gas? Don’t get me wrong. I have
nothing against the Brits. I just find it humorous that my son is becoming
one of them. He’s never met anyone from Jolly Old England and he laughs
hysterically when I attempt an English accent during our many tea parties. He
does, however, like the terminology.
The origin of this British transition is no mystery. I know
precisely where he is picking up terms like, “the post” and “petrol.” It’s from
his favorite TV show, Postman Pat. Postman Pat is the cleanest, most benign television show I have ever seen. It is very simple and focuses
around the antics of a Barney Fife-ish Postman in a small town in England. It
is old school claymation and my son could not love it more. It comes on HBO
Family and, as a result, there are no commercials. PBS and HBO are favorites in
our house because of their lack of commercials. I suppose my son’s transition
into a young, British lad is the price that a four-year-old has to pay for a little freedom from marketing.