The Mister is away again (don't worry, I'll get mine sometime soon) and this evening after bath I decided to let Magnolia and Oliver watch a little Charlotte's Web while I cleaned up the Great Spaghetti Catastrophe of 2009. I had just finished the last dish when I heard a blood curdling scream, a scream of unmistakable terror. I bounded upstairs and intercepted my two weeping and terrified children right outside the TV room (also know as the office and guest room). Behind them on the screen cartoon birds were flapping adorably in their nest while the golden sun rose over the bucolic Zuckerman farm. Honestly, it didn't seem that scary.
"Was it the rat?" I ask, clutching them to my bosom. "Was it Templeton?" (I had been a little nervous about Templeton).
"The pig!" they squealed, still visibly shaken. "I don't like that pig who runs in the house."
"No, Wilbur is sweet. He's a good pig."
"Turn it off," they sob, shaking.
I have damaged my children with Wilbur, and here he is in the all of his gruesomeness. He doesn't mean to be "objectionable" but, oh, the horror. The horror. . .
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