She’s been watching “A Bug’s Life” over and over and over – sometimes twice a day. She talks about it, in little snatches. She refuses to let me skip the scary parts. We discuss them as best we can later on, never in the middle of the night when she wakes homesick and ill, but often in the daytime when we’re out walking or indoors playing or reading or doing boring household stuff.
It’s got some pretty big themes; it’s fairly obviously about The Oppressed Majority, which is nice because I’ve been reading various books about South Africa lately, and my aunt has just come back from Zimbabwe. There’s also a little bit about small weak children growing up into big strong adults; she’s not sure she wants Emer to get big but she’s intermittently keen on the idea that she will herself. And she likes it when the grasshoppers (oppressive minority) get their come-uppance but doesn’t like the grasshopper-on-grasshopper violence one leetle bit. She’d prefer honour among thieves.
The biggest thing, of course, is violent death – squishing and being eaten by birds. I’m never sure how I feel about her watching things with or about explicit death.
It’s strange that something I feel so guilty about – parking her in front of a screen for hours so that I can cope with the rest of life – is so obviously interesting and stretching for her.