This week, my wife and I watched the season finale of "Desperate Housewives," which resolved the season-long Dave Williams storyline. Dave, played with entertaining creepiness all year by Neal McDonough, conceived an elaborate revenge plan centered on killing Teri Hatcher's Susan and her little boy M.J.
It was a satisfying season-ender, but I gotta tell you: I used to scoff a tiny bit when I heard parents talk about how since they got children, they had trouble watching TV shows and movies that depicted kids in jeopardy. Well, "scoff" is a bit loaded, perhaps, but part of me was skeptical. "Come on," I'd often think, "fiction is fiction, and reality is reality."
Unfortunately, it's not so simple as being able to "tell the difference," as I well know now that I have a young daughter. Watching that episode made me cringe, squirm, and feel uncomfortable, but not always in a good way. Suspenseful entertainment is fine, but, man, there IS that identification factor where I visualize myself or my child, and want to kind of shudder. It's not impossible to view or even enjoy stories like this, but it is a lot tougher nowadays.
Do I feel guilty about feeling this way, you ask? No, of course not. Ah, you want to know what the True Confession is, huh?
Simple. I'm not embarrassed to admit that having a daughter affects the way I react to certain shows. After several years, though, I'm STILL embarrassed to admit I watch "Desperate Housewives."
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