Sabotage by Omission

November 16, 2006 – 1:04 am |

It’s Hunting Season. Around these parts, hunting is a tradition passed from generation to generation in which apparently normal working men assemble into groups, wear coordinating orange and green outfits and pay homage to the days when men brought home the gamey-tasting-deer-bacon and women … piled it up in the deep freezer.Every year in November, my husband, as the provider of food, ventures forth into the wild to hunt and gather while I stay back and mind the home. This year his travels have carried him to a place where the temperature dips so low he has to wear special, insulated covers over his winter boots. He doesn’t get cell phone or Blackberry service, and he is rendered blissfully unavailable to the routine troubles of both work and home for several days. Usually his group returns victorious, carting with them enough venison to feed a small country (or at least to fill the freezer until we guiltily throw it away next fall to clear out room for more).

While the idea of spending the whole day in a deer stand in subzero temperatures with nothing but my Hand Warmers and Boot Blankets to keep me company as I wait in stealth to bring an untimely end to the lives of Bambi’s parents doesn’t really appeal to me personally, I do appreciate the draws: the tradition, the relaxation, the natural quiet, and even the challenge of sport. So I support the hobby – entirely – for my husband and all those who partake.At least I did. Until it occurred to me that this is a tradition that might get passed down to my children. In which case the only vision I can conjure is my babies wandering lost in the wilderness with weapons. There may be several years of peace before the option presents, but already the idea causes me panic.I blame the panic for my act of early sabotage. I had no intention of planting seeds of resistance, at least not yet. It just sort of happened.

We were just driving along, and I heard a little voice pipe up thoughtfully from the back of the minivan.
“When I grow up, I don’t think I want to go hunting with Daddy,” he mused, and my heart leapt with happiness.
Can it really be as easy as that? I thought, One down, two to go. I knew I had to choose my response carefully – too much anti-hunting enthusiasm would be noted and repeated.“Well, that’s ok, honey, you don’t have to hunt if you don’t want to. It’s your choice,” I said. (No one can argue free choice.) He thought a moment, then continued, “Yeah mom, you know, I just don’t want to kill any reindeer. Reindeer are my favorite animal. And Santa needs them.”I thought about correcting the mistake. I thought about explaining that Daddy wasn’t out plotting to assassinate Dasher and Dancer (certainly not this close to Christmas). But I couldn’t. A mother will do whatever it takes to protect her young.

“Yeah, I suppose that would be kind of sad,” I replied.