Sydney and The Big Comfy Couch: How the ‘90s Children’s TV Series Impacts My Counseling Approach in 2020

by Sydney Schoen

I learned the phrase, “Liar, liar! Pants on fire!”––and consciously began incorporating the value of honesty into my social schema––from a full-time clown, part-time postal service worker who operated on a unicycle.

Major Bedhead, as this clown-postman was called, sang and produced various universal proverbs on The Big Comfy Couch––a show catered to preschoolers that revolved around clowns Loonette, her best friend/doll, Molly, and other various members of Clowntown as they encountered daily life. It ran from 1992-2006 and constituted a large portion of my childhood programming. I had always recalled the characters as responsible, caring, and funny, but rewatching Major Bedhead as he admonished Loonette with his rendition of “Liar, Liar! Pants on fire!” felt voyeuristic and cruel. Loonette had done a “bad” thing and was met with ridicule before forgiveness.

In full transparency, I planned to rewatch the series to write a blog about how comfortable The Big Comfy Couch always made me feel growing up. (Plus, couches are synonymous with therapists, so I would have an easy title and metaphor. Win/win.) I had no intention of dissecting it further, only wanting to remind myself of the side characters’ names. For me, the show was cozy and safe. To know that despite any conflict in the episode, the show would always start and end the same way––with Loonette and Molly on a big, comfy couch and with me on my own––provided a necessary, developmental constant.

I was going to relate this all to how important I find it for my clients to be comfortable on my couch, that my hope as a clinician is to always make my clients feel safe–no matter the conflict they’re recounting–and for us to make the journey to peace together. Like the teamwork displayed by Loonette helping Molly, who had no voice.

My recollection of Loonette was that she was Molly’s voice box for practical reasons. I don’t remember being under any pretense that Molly was anything but a doll. The show certainly never tried to conceal her inanimacy; she was portrayed as a ragdoll, a no-frills doll known to most of the show’s target audience. I did, however, accept that they were best friends. I also blindly accepted that they had an unequal relationship: Loonette led and Molly followed.

Molly did communicate, though; she communicated nonverbally, often through visualized thought bubbles or through limited gestures. Despite this, I have no recollection of perceiving her service to the show as anything other than that of a placeholder. My fondness for her extended to the consistency she brought, not to her contributions to the show.

Upon rewatch––and now having had the privilege of learning about various forms/styles of communication––I was disappointed in myself for having perceived Molly as secondary. This realization hit harder when I recognized I didn’t see her as secondary because of her exclusion from some storylines, but because her lack of verbal speech made me view her as lesser. She could not verbally advocate for herself, and I saw that as making her less human, less capable, less interesting (her status as a doll notwithstanding).

Notably, there was no exchange of “I need your help to communicate” from Molly to Loonette. Loonette’s swiftness to help someone who did not ask for it would normally be classified as “good,” but I was prompted to consider two things: 1) Molly could communicate. Loonette’s “help” was unnecessary and intentionally not requested. Why was it––why is it––so instinctive for me to see it, then, as good? 2) Why did I consider Loonette a good person for providing care for her friend? Why was unselfish, unchecked care for a friend not sung about by Major Bedhead as a virtue equal to honesty?

The particular ‘90s-‘00s flair for providing a standard for “healthy” childhood development by encouraging particular behaviors and condemning others through their attempts at brash comedy, rather than more nuanced, subdued education, may have proven to do some good for the privileged––like me, who did not find myself ostracized by the name-calling of Major Bedhead and was, like my favorite character, Loonette, already considered “loud”––but for the audience it most wanted to reach, it reads as dehumanizing. And for me, the “good” it did was help instill me with binary ideas of good and bad (i.e., I may not have lied much more after hearing Major Bedhead, but it was probably due to the fear of social shaming, rather than because of personal morals.).

My acknowledgement of my own biases and prejudice allows me to also acknowledge this: Nonverbal communication is no less communicative than verbal. To infer less would perpetuate communication as an economy, one in which certain types of goods (i.e., styles of communication) are deemed more valuable than others. Individuals invested in this system would/could/do communicate based on societal provocation, instead of communicating out of personal volition. This “value” is, like most things, determined by those with inherent privilege––those who may not immediately think of the ableism, racism, sexism, or classism associated with determining “valid” communication, and those who may not fear, face, or believe in the existence of weighted, uneven communication dynamics.

Certainly, in the era of #MeToo, voices long-silenced are now beginning to have a platform. But I cannot forget that survivors’ silence is still viewed by some as evidence against the validity of their experience; their silence can be seen as tantamount to “lessening” their experience, making them lesser for having experienced it. And I must not forget that the “some” I include could have very easily been me.

By contributing to the idea that certain communication is “good,” while other communication is “bad,” I am contributing to the idea that everything is the same, everything is equal. Silence is often remarked as complicity––an adage I, myself, have said numerous times––but silence can only be complicit if your right to silence is as true as my right to be loud. I cannot undermine others’ voices, verbal or nonverbal, if I do not understand the intersectionality involved in being able to first speak.

As appears to often be the case (see: “Liar, liar! Pants on fire!” or Loonette speaking for Molly), an attempt at providing a quick fix (e.g., calling someone out, speaking for someone) invariably loses the intentionality necessary for providing healthy accountability or requested care. By focusing storylines around Molly, the show, upon rewatch, seemed to give Molly autonomy; however, in her haste to be a quick-acting friend, rather than a conscientious one, Loonette took away Molly’s chance to have a voice.

Let me be clear: The trope of therapists (and English teachers) “ruining the fun” by unmasking metaphors that may/may not exist is on full display here. It is also not lost on me that long-identifying with a character named LOONette, struggling to self-regulate my mental health at an early age, and, now, working in the mental health field is its own brand of dark humor that screams, “Yep. That checks out.”

However, there is something certainly telling that in my attempt to write a blog post that emphasized how much I care for others, I was forced to reflect on what my idea of care is. My responsibilities as a human and a human service worker are intertwined: I am to meet the person in front of me where they are. Helping individuals communicate their feelings, needs, desires, and experiences to live more autonomously cannot be measured with a rubric. Independence, like communication, like progress, looks different to everyone. It is only my goal to empathize and help you realize what it can look like for you.

So, as Loonette should have stated every episode, and as I commit to doing in my own practice: In whatever mode of communication serves you––I’m listening.