2 nights ago, I put The Girl to bed at 8 and, as is sometimes the case, I fell asleep beside her. I woke up in her room 3 hours later, tried to go down to my bedroom and fall back asleep.
No luck. I was wide awake.
After tossing and turning for an hour, I grabbed my pillow, hopped down to the living room couch, and flicked on the TV just in time to catch the start of that family friendly flick Scarface.
I made it to the chainsaw scene before I was sawing zzzzz’s on the couch.
Next thing I know, I hear a very groggy voice saying “Daddy?” I open my eyes to see the Girl standing in the living room, just as Tony Montana is cutting to the chase and introducing his “little friend” to the entire Columbian drug cartel. There is my girl, my innocent precious 3 year old who we have been shielding from the nastiness of the world, catching Tony Montana in full over the top ultra-violence glory, mowing down Colombians, screaming “Fug you mang. FUG YOU!” at the top of his lungs over and over again. Blood squirting, bullets flying. General mayhem.
I scramble for the remote sitting on the coffee table and manage to turn off the tv before The Girl really clues in to what is happening on screen. I get, up, walk her back up to her bedroom and tuck her in. A few minutes later she is fast asleep, and I am left back awake, wondering what kind of psychological damage might have just done to my 3 year old. It keeps me awake. I can’t get back to sleep. It’s 3 am.
Hmmmm, I wonder what’s on tv?