This Mom? Hate Barney? No Way, but . . .

Ihave heard nasty things about Barney, things that are not in keeping with the Barney spirit. And this upsets me.

OK, so Barney is a little slow, simple-minded perhaps, someone who giggles incessantly--I mean, we’re talking after very utterance--which, from what I understand, can grate on a parent’s nerves.

Plus, the guy could stand to lose some weight. Anyone can see that. And lime green and purple are not slimming.

Oh, and those kids who are always hanging around him. Don’t get me started on the kids.

What do they call themselves The Backyard Gang? What kind of message is that sending to our young people? Next they’ll be finger-painting graffiti around the neighborhood.

But, as I was saying, I like the big guy. Barney is so uncool that he is incredibly hip. So don’t count me in on the Barney backlash.

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Two Dallas moms want to dream up a simpleton dinosaur, get out the video camera, throw in some sappy songs that bore their way into your subconscious so that it is absolutely impossible to pass a day without once singing to yourself the Barney version of “Knick-Knack Paddy-Whack, Give a Dog a Bone”. . . .

Or, now that I think of it, to stop yourself from buying as many Barney videos and other Barney paraphernalia as the stores can keep in stock, which is getting tougher because, believe me, the toddler-preschool crowd just has to have Barney, a phenomenon that has turned these two Dallas moms into Dallas multimillionaires. . . .

To all this I say: More power to ‘em.

Fact is, my own mother suggested not long ago that my wunderkind sister could have dreamed up Barney or a reasonable facsimile, and, naturally, were it not for the phone line separating the two of them, my sister would have grabbed my mother by the throat.

But that’s my sister.

Me, I’ve welcomed Barney into our home. I was the one who first turned on PBS at 6:30 a.m.--actually it was a little before that because the yoga lady was still on--and said to my 2-year-old daughter, “Look! Barney!”

Well.

Just let me say that if there really is a war on drugs, then what the DEA should be looking into right away is this visually transmitted narcotic that Barney is dosing out to our children.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It’s just that as a mother, it’s my job to worry about any long-term effects of these prolonged periods of sedation punctuated only by outbursts of “Barney! Barney! Barney!”

(Then again, even wonder drugs have little-bitty side effects, right? And nobody’s suggesting that aspirin be banned.)

Plus, truth be told, I have encouraged my daughter in her adoration of Barney. Because it’s not like there’s a whole lot out there for the discerning 2-year-old.

Moreover, a chubby dinosaur with a laughing disorder is preferable to say, Mr. Rogers, a middle-aged man in a cardigan who appears to be zonked on lithium and looks suspiciously like all those candy-proffering “strangers” I have warned my daughters about.

And besides, Mr. Rogers doesn’t have anything to sell?

Which is how I came to find myself digging furiously through a shrinking pile of stuffed Barneys in the toy aisle the other day.

Working quickly (seeing as how I just hate scuffles with other shoppers, especially if they are under the age of 4), I tossed aside the Barneys with the obvious drool spots, or the split seams, or without their little white T-shirts, and I grabbed the last perfect Barney for my little girl.

“Look! Barney!” I said to my daughter when I presented her with the surprise.

“Barney!” she said, then immediately ripped off the little white T-shirt, which has not been seen since.

But Barney himself has been much in evidence. Barney kisses everyone, including the cats. Barney gets hugs good night and good morning and in-between. Barney sits in the middle of restaurant tables. Barney goes for car rides. Barney goes to sleep. And, naturally, Barney gets lost.

“Where’s Barney?” I have been asking lately.

“Barney!” the 2-year-old says. But she makes no move to find him, and she doesn’t seem concerned that Barney hasn’t been around to hug.

“Go get Barney,” I’ll tell her. But the kid won’t move.

Which, you know, seemed a little strange to me. Like maybe the child was ODing on Barney, like maybe Barney’s physical absence in the midst of countless viewings of the Barney videotapes was a signal of some kind to me.

Like maybe what I was witnessing was a child’s way of deprogramming herself of Barney. Could the cult of Barney go too far?

I don’t know.

All I know is that I did find Barney, only my daughter doesn’t know that I’m wise to her scheme. She’s put Barney in a drawer, where he is alone and in the dark, and she comes back frequently to check on him, to make sure that he hasn’t escaped.

You ask me, I think it was the constant giggling. It’s enough to drive anybody nuts. And, no, my daughter has not expressed an interest in handcuffs yet.