My son plays this awful video game called TDU: Test Drive Unlimited. It’s a driving game where you just crash a lot if you’re 5 years old, and buy and sell cars. I’m sure there is more to it, but for him, the idea of just rolling about Ibiza looking for cool automotive decals is just the kind of end-of-school day mindlessness that he enjoys.
That, and we had to take away Grand Theft Auto (both Vice City and San Andreas) as he thought it completely fine to walk up to a police car, punch officer in face, and steal his wheels.
My husband has helped him win races in TDU, and therefore his cars have vastly improved from the first freebie the game gives you.
So now he’s stylin’ in a chartreuse Audi SUV. Or he WAS.
See, he can’t read yet.
And by accident, while I was busy checking Facebook or eating a cookie, he sold the car.
Allow me to set the scene: pillows fly off couch. Body flails. Screaming ensues.
“I loved that car!”
Of course it’s not about the car.
When you’re 5, nothing is ever about what you think it is.
His father and him worked together, spending countless hours winning him that Audi. Finding the paint color. Bonding over a 60-inch tv and play station, farting on the couch, every night while I left them to do laundry or steal five minutes of Jeopardy on television.
He’s asking when daddy is coming home to get him back this beloved car, because the Alfa Romeo he got instead is the worst thing ever and his life is terrible. In his words, “I’m just done.”
I give him a hug, tell him it will be ok.
But I can’t get back the car.
Because I can’t play video games.