It’s tough to find something easy to watch on TV with the kids.
Just last night, the fight ensued over the Wii remote. We barked angry words back and forth about content and themes and age-appropriateness. Merlin pilots, which open with an impending beheading? Not ideal for 9-year-olds.
Last Man Standing? Great theme (dad of three girls!) but chock full of shock-value one-liners about sex, sex, sex.
Garfield’s Funfest makes the big girls’ eyes roll. An episode – no, during a 17-second period – of Jessie during dinner will make me hurl, guaranteed.
That’s the day my dad died, in 2000. As any of you who have lost a parent know, those first milestones – Christmas, birthdays, Father’s Day – carry an unmistakable void. They came and went, and I wondered how dad must have felt on New Year’s Eve of the year before.
That day – early evening, as people finalized New Year’s Eve plans – doctors told dad he had leukemia.
He waited days to tell my sister and me. I lived in Tallahassee, Fla., eight hours of mostly of Georgia highway away from his brick house in Belmont, N.C. My numbness thawed when I told my friends at work that day, the tears rushing out before my words could.