Okay, I'm back. Real life does have a way of interupting doesn't it? I won't share the details, just let me say two words. Stomach Flu. But before you begin to even contemplate feeling pity, let me also share that Hubs has an ingrown toenail, and no other human has ever endured such pain. Oh the agony, the pain and misery. And that was just hearing about it all week, so you can just imagine how much pain he is in.
Son was out of school Friday. It was raining and cold so he was stuck indoors. We decided to rent a movie and a video game. Son found the game he wanted right away. It was a spy game and had a teen rating but he assured me his friend has it at home.
"Please, Mom?" Son begged. "It's not that violent or anything." I looked at the cover and read the description. It seemed okay, so I agreed to the rental but made sure I sat down to watch to see what "not that violent" means in Son's world.
The first part of the game was tame enough: learning to drive the spy car as it morphs into different cars. And then I saw him go to the next level. As he drove over several little people on the screen I became concerned.
"Son, are you aware that you've just run over a few people?"
"Yeah, cool huh?"
"You mean you did it on purpose?"
"Sure. Now watch this!" Before I had a chance to say anything else, he started shooting. The car was equipped with "cool" guns that he could fire from the grill. (Wow, is he going to be disappointed when he finds out Dad's Honda doesn't do that.)
From there he started blowing up buildings. I'd had enough. "I thought you said this isn't violent."
"It's not. There's this one game that's SO awesome; you should see it! When you shoot people their guts splatter EVERYWHERE!"
"Whoa, where did YOU see this game?"
"At my friend's house." Of course.
We had a lengthy discussion about the games he plays and the fact that splattering someone's internal organs everywhere is not a good use of his time. (Unless he's a surgeon, of course, which frankly I'm kind of hoping for because he's going to need the income to cover the psychotherapy he will no doubt need one day after being raised by Mike and me.)
In the end we came to an agreement. He agreed not to play--or at least not whine a lot when I refuse to let him play-- games that depict murder and destruction as "cool" and in return I agreed to let him think I'm tragically unhip. I can live with that. I'm also never getting into a car with him if he's driving. I'm not that crazy.