How Not To Raise A Pacifist

That Man came home after three weeks in posh hotels with really hip people. He was home less than 24 hours before he left again, but this time, he left with us -- for a long weekend away to his inlaws he had no part in planning. It was the ultimate kid and family culture shock.

When the weekend ended and we returned to the picket fence again (after 11, yes eleven, combined hours in the car), he was accosted by my middle daughter's begging to find a "cool" game on the internet. He was tired, worn out, but he relented. (She's 6; he isn't.) I was happy that he was happy to do it: after all these days and endless hours, he still was willing to be involved. I dug into the piles of mail, boiled the water for more mac & cheese, and felt satisfied and good.

Not fifteen minutes passed when my gut got the better of me.

That Man: I'm not so sure you should play this game.

He shields the screen; he giggles nervously.

R: Why, Daddy? It's good you found this game! It's fast and it has BLOOD