I have to think every red-blooded, first-time expectant father wonders the same thing when it’s discovered that babies are on the way: how much material in this house am I now going to have to hide or chuck altogether?
The wife and I need to sell the house. It’s a given. Currently, we have 1,000 square feet and 2 bedrooms (1 of which is my office). That, as the kids probably no longer say these days, is hella too small. So, clock ticking, we’re boxing everything up. We’ve rented storage space and we’re car-loading our non-essentials over there in the event that God’s Little Gifts come earlier than expected.
And then the inevitable happens: I’m sifting through our DVD collection and I run across some friggin’ hyper-violent David Fincher masterpiece and think, uh. Hang on. Or, in the office, clearing books off the shelves and I spy a dusty copy of The Kama Sutra. Er. Wait.
Hey, I love David Fincher and I fully anticipate any offspring of mine to share my impeccable film sensibilities, but come on. This material is not for children. So what am I supposed to do?
I suppose it’s reasonable to assume that I have a few years before I need to actively shield these children from our house’s flirties and dirties, but I still feel the need to develop some sort of game plan. Every guy who’s ever clicked a mouse (not to mention, statistically, most ladies) has done a digital porn-sweep of their browser history and this feels more or less like the big leagues version of that.
But it raises the bigger issue of what is and isn’t good to have in the home, now that I’m a soon-to-be father. Does everything in our lives need to be rated G now? On the one hand, I can’t think of anything more boring and frustrating. On the other, I’d rather not have to spend the first 10 years of their lives chasing their sticky little fingers around with a fly-swatter (“No no, baby! That’s only for big people! That’s adults-only! You’re not ready! Put it down! Don’t open that! That’s mommies-and-daddies-only!”)
Realistically, sure, there’s some sort of happy medium. Well, there has to be. Granted, I was raised in a home with no traces of alcohol. Or movies rated anything harder than PG. And, come to think of it, when I was a teenager, we didn’t even have a TV.
And god knows I don’t want to over-shelter them either.
!!! This is hard, this parenting business. And they’re letting just anyone with reproductive organs do this? WTF
(If you happen to be my children, reading this years from now, what Daddy means is “What The Fantastic”.)