In December 2008, my husband, sons (then aged five and two) and I travelled to my childhood home in St. John’s, Newfoundland to celebrate Christmas with my parents. It would be the last trip there before they moved to Toronto in the summer of 2009. It was a bittersweet trip, full of goodbyes and nostalgia.

While home, my parents (who were avid sports fans all their lives) watched the World Junior Hockey Championships on television. This was an extension of a feature of my years living at home when my father would watch “Hockey Night in Canada” on Saturday nights. Because of the time difference, the games always started at 9:30 PM and were usually not over until after midnight. During the games, my dad would typically set a fire in the fireplace and tend it throughout the game, a way to heat the house without running the furnace. In the meantime, he would mix himself a rum and coke (or several!) and eat some Mr. Planter salted peanuts right out of the blue and gold can. It was one of the few times during the week I actually saw my father relax and unwind a bit. My mother would sit nearby and read the Saturday paper, occasionally looking up over the rim of her reading glasses to comment on the game or share a bit of news.

I enjoyed the fire and companionship, but not necessarily the game. Sometimes I might sit nearby and read, but more often I was in my room or out with friends – after all, it was Saturday night and I was a young adult. But I can still recall the bellow of Don Cherry during “Coach’s Corner” and Ron McLean’s moderating tone. My sister was more likely to watch the game with my parents than I, and I think she enjoyed it more – perhaps sweetened by the fact that my father would sometimes massage her feet while she sat next to him on the loveseat.

So, in December 2008, my parents watched the World Junior Hockey Championships, likely cheering as much for Germany as Canada. My little boys’ desire for cartoons and other kids’ programming had to take a backseat to their grandparents’ interest. For the first time ever, they were also exposed to TV commercials. While we were at home in our own place, TV was a relatively rare treat and the kids’ stations they were allowed to watch did not contain any ads – a big bonus in my estimation.

I don’t recall which team won the tournament, but by the time it was over, we were scheduled to head home. A couple of weeks after being back in Toronto, Son #1 suddenly piped up out of the blue and said, “Mommy, did you know that Walmart is a good place to buy things?”

Initially I was baffled by this statement. “Why do you think that, sweetie?”

“I saw it on TV,” was his simple explanation. Then I remembered our trip and his exposure to the ads during the hockey games. “Well, honey, the store wants Mommy to go and buy things from there.”

“Yes, but the ads say it’s a good place to shop.”

“I know. But they really just want Mommy to go and spend her money there. That’s what ads on TV do.”

And so it went, back and forth a few more times as he echoed what he had seen on television and I gently explained to him about the “siren call” of advertising and how you couldn’t trust everything you saw on TV.

Son #1 sat silently for a few minutes, contemplating all this new information. Meanwhile, I thought (again) how innocent and impressionable children are in the hands of marketers and resolved anew to keep his television viewing to the minimum possible.

Suddenly, he looked at me sharply and asked,” So, Mommy, is everything always fresh at Tim Horton’s?”

I laughed, hugged my burgeoning little cynic, and thought to myself, “Mission accomplished!”