(Ed. note: This post inaugurates a new series, “The Tantrum,” in which each of our four regulars will address one subject over the course of a week.)

TV or not TV: In our house, that’s not the question. I consume too much of it, but my wife and I have decided that our little guy shouldn’t, at least while his developing brain is still getting itself sorted out. Her family also has a history of autism, and although the link is still hazy and preliminary, there is a certain amount of promising research that has persuaded us that the jittering of interlaced digital images may not be good for him. And anyway, reduced TV consumption will be a better habit later in life: good for attention span, even better for spending time on other things. I’m not anti-TV; I’m anti-mindlessly flicking it on whenever we’re home.

But this morning we made an exception for a few minutes. All three of us were home sick with a stomach bug (yes, this was the Weekend of Upchucking that everyone experiences at some point), and my wife’s boss was scheduled to do a segment on Good Morning America that she had arranged. So we thought a few minutes of TV wouldn’t kill him, and of course it was fine. But it was quite amazing to watch his reaction. He was rapt. The flickering screen of color and light worked its magic. It felt like the red apple in Disney’s Snow White: beautiful, shiny, toxic.

Yes, we’re going to hold out for as long as we can. But I have a feeling we’re bailing out the Titanic with a teaspoon on this one. He’s an American kid in the twenty-first century, and his father works in media. Is it even plausible to keep him away from (most) TV until he’s of school age? I’m going to try, and most likely, I’m going to fail.

(Up next: Confessions of a reformed anti-TV Nazi.)