Let the censoring begin....

In fifteen+ years of parenting, I have never, not once, told any of my children that they were not allowed to read a certain book. Ever. It is just not something I've ever felt I had to do.

Partly because we are pretty liberal with what we allow:  I don't mind make-believe, even of the magical, wizardy sort. Or of the killing bad guys sort. Or really any type of make-believe, at all. Because, well, make believe is exactly that -- made up. Not real. And I think most kids understand that difference, even if they later run around acting out scenes from the make believe.

I know, for instance, that my boys know that pointing a stick and yelling, "Expeliarmus!" at their brothers will not, in fact, cause the brother(s) to drop whatever they are using for a wand. Even when an indulging big brother pretends that the fake spell did, in fact, work, I know that the little brother still knows it is all pretend.

So I don't mind them delving into fantasy, and adventure tales, and worlds of talking cats and half-blood kids who are part Greek gods, and wand-wielding teenagers, and what have you. I don't. Even when sometimes they come to me and report that this wonderful series has a bad word (or three) in it.

But today my oldest was found reading a book that gave me pause. For the first time in my parenting career, ever. He is of an age where make-believe has given way to realism, where the tales he picks up are firmly rooted in reality, giving a version of real life, of what is, not what could maybe be. Suddenly, this makes a difference.

What an uncomfortable place this is for me.

I have a deeply ingrained belief that censorship is wrong. Period. And I've let that color my parenting; I'm the parent who goes out and buys the books from the Banned Books list, who scoffs at those who allow X while prohibiting Y. I'm eating my words a little bit today.

You see, this book that my boy wanted to read -- had, in fact, started to read -- portrays a slice of reality that I just don't think he's ready for. More importantly, what finally pushed me to flat out tell him he's not allowed to read this book just yet, is that he showed me he's not ready for it yet.

As I explained to him the many things about the book that made me uncomfortable, the many things which I knew would also make him uncomfortable, my son portrayed a bit of innocence about these topics.  Okay, a lot of innocence. Innocence that I was touched to see, but that confirmed to me that this book is not the proper book for stripping that innocence away.

I'm not trying to shield him forever. I know that he will, gradually, come to an awareness of all the topics in this book. And I'm okay with that. But I am not okay with handing him this book to strip all of that away at once.

I can't explain all of the whys about this; it comes down to one thing. My gut, which never ever says "you can't read that!", screamed at me this time, loud and clear. When I saw the book in his hand, I was gripped with....something. Not fear, it wasn't that, but a deep-seated discomfort. And that never happens to me. I don't say no to books. Ever.

Until now. Because old enough, mature enough, nearly adult enough -- all of that might be true. But so is still innocent enough; innocent enough that this book would pull back a curtain he's not ready to peek behind. And as his mom, it's my job to keep that curtain closed a little bit longer; to give him permission, in the guise of my prohibition, to not peek yet.

And that's a more comfortable place, for both of us, even though it's a parenting first I never imagined having.