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Monday, February 11, 2002
A little roast pig
I was looking for something the other day. Something I'd tucked away in a safe place, you know, where I'd remember it. That rarely works for me, so I don't know why I persist. I found a little piece of history, a tiny reminder of the kind of mother I once thought I wanted to be. From my pajama drawer, I pulled a 1-inch plastic roast pig that came in a pirate set someone had given my son when he was 3-years-old. I had hidden it away before he'd even noticed it. He's nine now. And he has accumulated lots of toys, games, even books that depict way worse than a pirate feast. But then, I thought I could protect him, influence him maybe, by keeping out of his hands any toy that seemed violent. To me, a sometimes vegetarian, a small pig-on-a-spit fit that description.
I'm not sure when I changed. We've managed to keep our home weapon free, with the exception of a wooden Davy Crockett rifle his uncle helped him choose on a trip to Disney World. It was probably after the birthday party with friends who gave action figures with weapons and military vehicles. My husband and I laughed at the neurotic mother I once was, the mother who believed that small plastic roast pig would harm her child.
But I am also a teensy bit proud of myself. While other boys his age are gunning down everything in sight in the worst of video games, my son reads the warning labels on video games at the rental store and asks, "I know you won't let me have MILD VIOLENCE, but is COMIC MISCHIEF okay?" Well, okay, so maybe we've made him a little overcautious.
I put the little pig back in my drawer. I'm keeping it a while longer.
Christine 8:11 PM
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