The kid is upset and it’s hard to take. All of his little third-grade friends are caught up in the latest Youtube video sensation, and we won’t let him watch. It’s crude and it’s rude and it’s meant for teenagers. It’s not appropriate for a nine-year-old, in our judgment, and we’re holding the line.
His frustration with us is keen, colossal from his perspective. These videos are forbidden fruit, the only topic in his class right now, and he feels painfully left out. It’s on his mind all day long, but he can’t do anything about it.
There have been lots of tears, but the worst part is when he screams in his frustration, “Just stop talking about it! Pretend it doesn’t exist!” He doesn’t want to go over it yet again, not when there’s no hope of changing our minds. His inclination is rather to be resigned, to suffer in silence. It hurts more to talk about it.
We second-guess ourselves, of course; we can’t stand to see him suffering. We come almost to the point of giving in. It would be easier on us if he got angry at us and acted out, but he just walks away and cries quietly until we prod him, and that only makes it worse.
We ourselves get frustrated, with the raw power of viral Internet culture, the permissiveness or absence of other parents, the immaturity and meanness of other kids. “Should I say something to the parents?” his mom asks him gently. “No!” he wails. “Then everybody will hate me!”
God knows this is nothing—there will be a whole lot worse than this before all is said and done. At the moment, however, it feels bad enough.
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