The Perils of Reading to Your Children

Thinking only of the great values in the story regarding having a good work ethic and sticking to your goals, I decide to read Where The Red Fern Grows to my children. This particular coming of age novel is at least partially responsible for my determination to see good in every circumstance and have faith that all things happen for a reason. I want that for my children. I don't think one way or another about the gory axe accident halfway through the book until I start the notorious chapter and it already seems too late.
As the boy tries to speak and the bubble of blood works its way out of his mouth and bursts before he falls back dead, my children's eyes are wide and fixed upon me, their mouths hanging open.
Lucy stares at me as I close the book, then declares, "Mom, don't you ever read that to me again!"
Stuart exclaims, "THAT is why you don't go running around with an axe trying to kill some other kid's dogs! What a bad kid!"
Later that night, I find Lucy curled up in her bed sobbing.
I have traumatized my babies for life!
Tonight over the phone, Stuart says darkly, "Mom, I cannot believe you read that to us. I guess I'm going to have to tell on you."
"Who?" I ask, "Your Dad?" My concern is not so much with his father as the idea of my son thinking he can tattle on me like I am some sort of covertly bad influence.
"No."
Ominous pause.
"Your Mother!" He bursts out laughing.
I don't know how he managed to keep such a deadpan expression in his voice before that.
Must take after his Uncle. That guy was always fooling me growing up.