I try to raise my kids right. I’ve taught them the basic stuff, like not to steal or kill, although my youngest, Waffle, is still a work in progress on both. More importantly, I’ve introduced them to the holy trinity: Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and Harry Potter. I expanded their pseudo-scientific knowledge with Star Trek and gave them a splash of culture through the Simpsons. Most critically of all, I advanced their motor skills and teamwork through weekly rounds of Halo. My girls are on track to be sophisticated, well-rounded adults who are comfortable in all realms of nerdom and can also make a virtual headshot from a thousand yards. I was so proud of all four of them—until recently.
There were warning signs that one of them might eventually go off the rails. My girls all like The Phantom Menace more than The Empire Strikes Back. In some families, that would be grounds for disownment, but I’m an open minded dad. I let them get away with it as long as they don’t quote Jar Jar Binks. But there’s one belief I simply can’t forgive, no matter how much I love my kids. It’s the kind of wrong thought that disturbs my every waking moment and haunts my dreams. I don’t know if I can recover from this, and our family will certainly never be the same.
Okay, here it goes.
Deep breath.
Betsy
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