The Car that Anna Built.

At our new school, G (a fourth grader) is given a 1st grade buddy; and as it turns out, she was paired up with a really good friend, and neighbor--a family that we have known well for YEARS.  As a class assignment, the fourth graders were told to write a story for their buddies, and so, today's blog post is brought to you by my sweet, rule-following, oldest child--because when our friends shared it with us this weekend, we just knew this was something that is destined to find its way into the parenting hall of fame, or possibly an FBI criminal file.

And now.  May I PROUDLY, and with actual tears streaming down my face, present to you...

"The Car that Anna Built"

{Edited to note:  Yes, it appears that small creatures are eating butt-cheeks.  This is a MINOR detail in the scheme of this story, but one that draws you in, none the less.}

{WAIT. FOR. IT.}

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GASP!  

On my list of things I need to teach my children:  Assassinating the President with a car bomb is a NO-NO.  You would think this goes without saying, but much like those times when you have to explain that "Cats don't like to be picked up by their tails" or "We do not lick shopping carts" or "We do not throw knives at our sister"--this might be one of those situations where it would be *beneficial* not to assume the basic principles of common sense, decency and citizenship.  

Yes.  You have it correct.  My sweet girl, who loves animals and is kind to her siblings, INADVERTENTLY masterminded a fictional terrorist plot to assassinate the President. As this was a project that was done completely at school, I had NO IDEA--and were it not for our good friends (parents to G's buddy), we might never have known this little gem existed, and more than likely, Homeland security would have invaded my home some evening, probably on a day when we were trying to get to soccer/swimming/acrobatics. Because the only thing that would make this story more blog-worthy is a detailed account of how a terrorist raid really f--ed with my afterschool schedule.

This was all brought to my attention when Mike and I were casually talking last night, about our weekend, about what's coming up on the schedule, how the weather is changing, how our grade school is trying to BREAK ME with a planned bike rodeo--when suddenly, he asked me:

"Did you know that G wrote a story for A, and that at the end of it she kills the President with a car bomb?"

Um.  

I looked at him stunned for 2 seconds, and then I LAUGHED for a solid half hour, before I had even seen the story.  It's amazing, how we got to this point; that this would be the dialogue that comes up casually in martial banter.  Because every parent understands how their kid can innocently create a scenario, like a car bomb that kills the President in an election year--and it very closely resembles the logic of how seven sorority girls could *win* a photo shoot in a shady motel with a photographer (true story).  What I'm trying to say is that sometimes you are raised to embrace violence and anger and rage, and sometimes your parents put you on a sleep schedule and teach you sign language as a toddler and throw you themed birthday parties--and it can all freaking look the same, I guess.  Which really has me wondering WHY exactly, I am sewing Christmas-themed fabric buntings for the guinea pig's cage, if my children do not understand that we value PEACE, and that conflict is ALWAYS best settled in passive-aggressive wars over how long you breast fed, or who has the most creative use of monograms on throw pillows.  

Let me add--this is NOT a reflection of our politics, lest you assume our nightly dinner conversation includes ways to overthrow the government.  We are the least political people you know, and mostly this is a good thing, as we are unlikely to offend you on Facebook--but despite our refusal to partake in the constant whining and finger pointing, it appears that we are unknowingly raising a militant rebel army.  CLEARLY, G's story is a progression of instigators in Anna's fictional car; and as it turns out, the only way to make all the bickering stop is for a bomb to explode and kill everyone involved, thus eliminating the problem entirely.  On a side note:  We will be making sure that our daughter realizes that BOMBS DO NOT SOLVE PROBLEMS, no matter what Kim Jong Il says.  

And let me just say, before we repeat the sh#! storm known as Squash-gate 2012--I only find this humorous, because it is SO OUT OF CHARACTER.  And because she has NO IDEA what any of it means, aside from an easy end to a story (let me reiterate--we will be making sure she realizes that exploding anyone is NOT acceptable).  This is exactly the sort of thing that is likely to get Facebook's undies all up in a wad, but really, we are just commenting on how easy it is to be the most offensive person in America, without even TRYING.  So please.  Just join me in a chuckle over how RIDICULOUS this is, and don't try to make it anything political.  IT ISN'T.

To me, this post is the perfect picture of parenting.  And how your overflowing pride and amazement for your kids is constantly balanced by their casual use of nuclear arms and terrorism in storytelling.