Anna came home from school today singing a new song she had learned on the playground. It goes along the lines of the 'one potato, two potato, three potato four' only the words were 'my mother hit my father, what color did he bleed?' I felt proud of myself for not freaking out, and asking her 'well what do you think about that?' And I was proud of her for saying 'I don't think it sounds very nice'. So we came up with an alternative about bugs biting our brothers and what color did they bleed.
But really? A little sing song ditty about domestic violence?! Harmless verse, I don't think so.
Later, we were sitting with afternoon snack watching Popeye. You know, the one that makes kids eat their spinach so that they too can save someone as beautiful, wonderful, thoughtful as Olive (obviously another blog post could come out of that). What I failed to notice as a child was glaring today. Every short Popeye cartoon featured feeble minded Olive (that's the other blog post) being violently pursued by a big fat man wanting a kiss. Hello?!
Don't get me wrong. I think old-school cartoons with a dash/bang/boom/crash of comical violence are okay. And I daily lose my battle with the kids to lean more toward my love, peace, and harmony view of life - as they sort out and play out the battles that they construct. And we talk more about the color of blood and other bodily fluids than I think doctor's offices do.
The two extremes of violence against each of the sexes in the matter of an hour was too much for me. Thankfully, it was too much for my kids, and they still have the lenses to see it. What happens when the image becomes blended into what is just part of the culture?
Lord, keep our vision sharp, and our hearts ever tender.