Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean have written a children's book called The Wolves in the Walls. Reed and I bought it because, duh, it's Gaiman and McKean.
It was not until Betsy was picking bedtime stories and grabbed it that I suddenly realized what I'd done. A Gaiman story might be light enough for 3 year olds, but with McKean illustrations? I am an idiot. I just gave my 3 year old a reason to dwell more on the "monster in the closet". Forehead slap. With great trepidation, I let her put it on the bedtime pile.
The story repeats like a mantra: When the wolves come out of the walls, it's all over. What's all over, you want to know? It. I resigned myself to a night of being up with Betsy and hiding the book in the morning.
Oh. My. God. She loved it. The illustrations of wolves eating strawberry jam that looks like they're slobbering blood, the spooky dead eyed family. She thinks they're great. Since we read it 2 nights ago, she has asked for it every time she asks for books at all. She can already almost recite it from memory.
I will have to rethink my position on what's ok for her. If I'd had my "mommy" hat on, I'd never have let her see this thing. Terry Pratchett always says children are bloodthirsty primitive little beings. And here I thought he was just being funny. I'm still not giving her the Brothers Grimm any time soon, but this has certainly given me something to think about.
Posted by karen at September 1, 2005 11:48 AM