Can'tsleepclownswilleatme.

If our sweet baby is anything like her parents, she will possess a vivid imagination. 

With this realization, I will make you another promise, Mini: 

Nowhere in your crib, nursery, or home will you ever find a @#$&! clown.

Would you trust your baby with this Bozo?

I was a fortunate young'un.  My first memories are of the color yellow -- goldenrod linoleum, the sunshine-yellow siding on our house, my Winnie the Pooh mobile.  It was a placid, pleasant existence.  Everything just kinda...glowed.  I reason that this is why, to this day, I favor ol' yeller splashed all over our domestic dwelling.  It warms.  It softens.  It goes with a lot of other colors in unique contrasting ways.

Ya know what DOESN'T go with mental stability?

Clowns. 

And guess what wee ones thrive upon...

Stability!

It's a no-brainer. 

As I got older, I began to notice clowns everywhere.  The haircare place where mom had my hornet's nest of hair cut had pictures of droopy hobo clowns that would glare at me every time I climbed into the beautician's chair.  They even had a velvet one.  Bonus points: it was the 1980's.  They were so not new.

My aunt-by-marriage's niece and I got to be contestants on the Bozo Show on Little Rock's KLRT station when I was five.  All I remember is that he was really IMPOSING and RED and I sat on a balloon in my fancy-pants and when it popped, I was so on edge that I nearly pooped the aftorementioned fancy-pants.

My baby sister, Angela, was haunted by dancing primary-colored clowns on her crib sheets every night.  We slept in the same room from the time I was six, so I had a nice eye-level view of the creepy boogers dancing through her dreams from my bed across the room.

And then, the major psychiatric event of every child my age occurred in 1990.

Gah, I can hardly look at this post now.

I remember the TV Guide from the week the ABC miniseries aired -- it had Tim Curry as Pennywise on the cover.  It sat next to my dad's Lay-Z-Boy and gnawed at my soul until I gathered the courage to roll it up and run it to the trash can.  And I mean run.

Now I know this story reads as entertaining now, when you're in the throes of developing some serious pediatric coulrophobia, it's as serious as flushing your favorite Barbie Doll's head down the john. 

So, to recap:

Little Girl, I promise you a clown-free household.  And as much as parent-ly possible, a pretty clown-free young life.  I'm sure that you will have fears of your own that are unique to your little mind, and I will take them as seriously as you need me to.

But really, please don't like clowns. 

Mommy couldn't handle that.

Now here's a nice pug picture to clear your mental palette.