There’s a special bond shard between mothers and their sons. I’m not sure it’s universal, but I’ve seen many examples of it. There’s one such example I focus on now: a mother, sitting in her living room, intent on her computer, with her loving son at her side, looking on. I say she’s intent on the computer, but mothers can multitask, and it’s clear that her son, not much more than ten years old, also has a share of her attention.

He’ll lean in a little closer, and she’ll turn to him and smile – a small smile, barely more than a grin, yet filled with warmth and unconditional love. He reacts and smiles back. She puts an arm around him, and he takes a closer look at the screen. From a distance, I hear muted conversation. I come closer, to hear what they’re saying. If they know I’m there, I get no indication; they seem oblivious to me.

“You’re totally dead,” he says.

“I’m not dead.”

“Yes you are. There’s gotta be ten of ‘em.”

As the words become intelligible, the computer screen, also, comes into focus. She’s not doing work from home; she’s not balancing her bank statements; she’s not even catching up on her email. She’s playing World of Warcraft.

It turns out her son is right. She battles valiantly, but her foes overpower her, and eventually kill her. And so her soul must make its healing journey back to her body. The game gives the impression that it’s a long journey, but, in real time, it doesn’t take very long. This is, after all, a video game.

And so, as from time immemorial, mother and son share in activity, in conversation, and bond over a shared interest. This is special time, and I withdraw again, giving this private moment back its privacy.

Later, the same small boy is seen logging into the computer on his own. This time, it’s his dad who shares a moment with him. “You are NOT playing World of Warcraft!” he roars. The boy silently and dutifully logs off. We should not be too hard on old Dad. His son IS only ten, and, while he may have no authority over his wife’s addiction, he may yet be able to save his son.

And so, the boy has re-learned a valuable lesson: don’t play when Dad’s around. Like so many addicted people, his desire must be tempered by watchfulness, and his impulse by cunning.

There is one final episode that I’m privileged to witness. He wants his mother’s help. “Play my character,” he begs. This is not one of those stereotypical houses where the kids are the masters of technology. Mother still has a few lessons to teach him.

So, she agrees, standing behind him as he logs in and enters his realm. It’s clear that mother and father are not united regarding this game. But children have always known instinctively how to deal with mixed messages: they pick the messages they like best.

She sits down to play, and reacts almost immediately. “What did you DO?” she demands. “You can’t log out in the middle of a battle,” she scolds. “You’ve got to go somewhere safe when you log out!” There’s more desperate fighting, and another death. Then, she’s free to whip his character into shape.

“You’re carrying too much,” she says with motherly concern. “You’re going to have to sell some of your stuff. The transactions are made. He’s traveling light, and he’s got some extra cash. I presume, at this point, that she worked to develop his skills, took him on a quest or two, and left him ready to play again, more skilled and better prepared than he was before. Isn’t that what a mother’s job is, after all?

That was the last I saw of the mother and son crafting war together. They live far away from me now, and I don’t get to see them very often. But the scene has stuck with me. It seems like, whatever humans are presented with, by nature or by other humans, they continue to react in recognizably human ways.

This entry was posted on Friday, January 25th, 2008 at 7:21 AM and is filed under Steve Thinks. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.