I came to The Hunger Games late. It was while I was reading Suzanne Collins’ juvenile series Gregor out loud to my children that I heard that she had also written a Young Adult series. The Hunger Games name rang a bell, so I decided to read it. In a weekend. Followed quickly by Catching Fire and Mockingjay.
The books left me breathless, sickened, upset, and gave me so much food for thought, it often took me a while to fall asleep at night if I was reading in bed.
In the meantime, I finished book 2 of the Gregor series and my oldest daughter asked me to please stop reading them out loud. While they are much (MUCH) less violent than The Hunger Games, this series has enough suspense, death and suffering that my then-ten-year old was having trouble going to sleep at the end of a chapter. I ended up reading the remaining three books in that series alone.
So it is interesting that this same daughter is now asking to read The Hunger Games. Why? Because “all the kids are reading it” according to some of her friends. And, yes, as soon as I heard that quote coming from the lips of a tween, my eyes rolled back in my head.
At first, I thought “eh, ignore it. Make a big deal about it and they’ll be dying to read it.” But, I have a big mouth and can’t ignore anything, so I’ve been telling them why they can’t read it. Whey they shouldn’t read it. And now they think I’m the big, bad mama who doesn’t let her kids read the most-hyped book since Harry Potter.
Hell, even my seven year old says he wants to read it despite the fact that he’s still working his way through Easy Readers.
Here’s my gripe: The Hunger Games is not a Juvenile book. It is not even Tween. It’s Young Adult. It’s insanely violent and the violence is almost always against children. It’s bloody and scary. It is NOT the next great novel for kids who have finished the Harry Potter series.
Listen, I get it. The kids want to be “in” on the next big thing. I’m pretty sure kids have read Twilight though I think that is also a YA title. And I snuck Forever out of the library at 16 so I could read about Ralph. (heh)
But, man, when I hear that nine year olds are reading The Hunger Games, it bums me out.
And if I see them grabbing popcorn and settling into watching the movie with me, my eyes are going to roll. I won’t be able to help it.
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If you are on the fence for your kids, check out Snarky Amber’s excellent suggestions in today’s MamaPop article called Is “The Hunger Games” Too Violent For Your Kids?”
The kids are ruining my appetite for The Hunger Games
FollowI think there is a reason it reads as "die"
We are one week from my Elementary-Level Destination Imagination team’s regional competition. Otherwise known as DI.
I am so tired.
Our team is doing a challenge that includes both a skit and a balsa-wood structure that must hold weight and collect golf balls. Somehow these two must be related.
The competition is March 17. Yet, my little four-person team does not yet have a structure, a complete script, finalized set, or finished props.
Did I saw I was tired?
Ever try to motivate four distracted 8-9 year olds who aren’t really sure they want to do this anymore? And, if you know DI, you know there is only so much “motivating” I can do before I step into the sticky mess of “interference”, a dirty word in DI circles.
(You know why the dads build 99% of those pine wood derby cars in Cub Scouts? Because without “interference”, you age about 25 years.)
But, I guess it’s good that we have the interference clause because it’s kept me from wringing my daughter’s neck when, instead of painting her ONE prop, she decides to run outside and play with her friends.
Hands off, hands off, hands off. My new mantra.
I hope I survive this.
And, yes, I already have a pedicure scheduled for the 18th. May have to throw a massage and facial on top of that.
On the cusp
Every night at bedtime, my daughter tries to break my neck.
Now, this may sound like an odd start to an annual Happy Birthday message to my middle daughter, but bear with me.
You see, when I lean over to give her a goodnight kiss at bedtime, she throws her arms around my neck and hugs—as hard as she can—while I say, “ow, ow, ow, not so hard, okay, that’s enough, I love you too“. . .
But, that’s her. She loves, and lives, with that same fierce determination every day.
She hugs everyone. Teachers, neighbors, even kids she’s met only once before. When she sees our next-door babysitter, she will run at breakneck speed screaming “Miiiiiichaaaaaaaelaaaaa!” which gives this poor girl time to turn and open her arms to the child about to leap into them.
She hangs on like a baby monkey.
She’s loud and wiggly, and so wound up at night, she’s often the last one to fall asleep—even after me.
When she was young, we mistakenly took her to be a wrecking machine and total klutz because she was always falling, knocking things over, and tripping. I guess that’s what happens when you are determined to walk at nine months old. She’s so anxious to get on to the next big thing, she sometimes forgets to watch out for what’s in her way.
But, then she took ballet and we saw the flip side: Total grace and a look of weightlessness that I couldn’t achieve if I practiced for 100 years.
She is up for everything: rock climbing, soccer, dance, art, chess, track, knitting, swimming—yes! yes! yes! There aren’t enough hours, nor is there enough money, to do everything she wants to do.
But when she doesn’t want to do something, woe to the person who has to talk her into finishing her commitment.
I know, because that person is usually me.
Oh, little girl, you can’t wait to grow up and do more, more, more. I saw it in your eyes in Sephora as you walked around big-eyed, gazing at the makeup as if it held the key to your next step at growing up.
I see it in your eyes as you watch the bigger girls at coop, or as you play with your older sister and her friends.
And then, in the next minute, you’ll be with your dolls, or playing LEGO with our brother, or dragging out the dress-up clothes, giving me time to catch my breath and remember that you are still just a little girl.
On the cusp.
So, Jilly, on your ninth birthday, forgive me if I hug you just as tightly as you hug me. I know that in about a minute, you’ll squirm out of my grasp.
Happy Birthday, my sweet.
