The cute little bunny on the cover caught my eye first.
Which, in retrospect, is exactly how they get you.
We were shopping in one of those bougie little Santa Barbara stores with a coastal-bohemian vibe. You know the kind. Everything smells faintly like eucalyptus, there are linen dresses that cost more than my first car payment, and somehow a hand-thrown ceramic bowl is $86.
I was shopping with my cousin and my boyfriend when I spotted it. A children’s book.
I’m Not Scared.
Well… Perfect.
My three-year-old grandson, Ryder, had recently entered the charming developmental stage known as being terrified of absolutely everything that does not exist.
Ghosts.
Monsters.
Things that go boo in the night.
Random shadows.
Probably the air conditioner.
So naturally, Dedicated Mimi saw a book called I’m Not Scared and thought: Look at me. Addressing childhood fears through literature.
Then I turned it over. There was the bunny dressed like a little soldier.
Still cute.
The illustrations were delightful—soft pastels, artistic sketches, muted colors. Very soothing. Very tasteful.
Very this book will gently teach my grandson that monsters aren’t real.
Did I read the summary?
Of course not.
Why would I do something reckless like read the book I was purchasing for a three-year-old?
I took it to the counter. The lovely shop owner wrapped it in adorable tissue paper and tucked it into an equally adorable little bag.
I walked out feeling like Grandmother of the Year.
This is important because I have always maintained what I consider to be an extremely reasonable Mimi policy:
Grandbabies should receive gifts whenever they come to visit. There are only two of them. I’m their Mimi. This is basically my constitutional right.
So the book went home and waited patiently for Ryder and Hudson.
A week later, my son and my lovely daughter-in-law came to town with the boys. They were dropping them off for a weekend with Mimi and Papa while they escaped to San Diego, presumably to remember what it was like to eat a meal without cutting someone else’s food into microscopic pieces.
Before they left, we all headed to brunch.
My daughter-in-law was wedged into the middle seat in the back of the car with a car seat on either side of her, because motherhood is glamorous like that.
Ryder had just opened his new present. My carefully selected literary masterpiece. She picked it up.
“Awwww. I’m Not Scared.”
I smiled proudly.
“Yes! He’s been scared of monsters lately. I thought it might be cute.”
Again: Grandmother. Of. The. Year. Obviously.
She opened the book and began reading.
In her sweet mom voice.
“Mama, I’m scared.”
Perfect.
See? Exactly what I thought.
“Why, Little Bunny? What are you scared of?”
Here we go. Monsters. Darkness. Maybe a thunderstorm.
“The war, Mama.”
Excuse me?
My head snapped around.
“The what?”
My daughter-in-law paused.
My son looked over.
She kept reading.
“Of people dying in the streets.”
And then she turned the page.
There, in a beautifully rendered pastel illustration, was a dead bunny lying in a pool of blood.
Nearby stood militant bunny soldiers while a crowd of traumatized woodland creatures wept.
I stared at the page. My son stared at me. I stared at my son. There was a moment of silence.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
My daughter-in-law started laughing.
“Stop reading,” I said.
She did not stop reading. In fact, she somehow became more committed to the story.
She continued in this sweet little sing-song preschool voice.
I tried again.
“Seriously. Stop. We don’t need to finish this.”
My son turned around.
“Oh no, Mom.”
He was already enjoying himself…. way too much.
“You bought the book.”
“I DIDN’T KNOW.”
“Nope. You got yourself into this. We’re reading it.”
Then he looked at Ryder.
“We’re learning about real life today, buddy.”
Fantastic.
Apparently Mimi had accidentally scheduled Introduction to Geopolitical Conflict before teddy bear pancakes.
The book continued.
Fortunately, Little Bunny and Mama Bunny had escaped the fighting and moved somewhere safe.
Great…a bright spot.
Except Mama Bunny was still sad because her friend Benjamin Bunny had been killed in the war.
Benjamin Bunny… a casualty of war.
At this point, I was mentally retracing my steps through the Santa Barbara store wondering how I went from:
This could help Ryder not be afraid of ghosts to: Let’s explore displacement, grief and civilian casualties.
But the book wasn’t finished.
Oh no.
Because Little Bunny then explains that he’s struggling at his new school. Sadly, the violence there is triggering his memories of the war.
Turn the page.
Now there are beautifully sketched mean-ass foxes and various other forest delinquents knocking down bunny children and injuring them.
I blinked.
“Wait. Now there are gangs?”
My son was doubled over.
I was doubled over.
My daughter-in-law was trying to continue reading between laughs.
We had officially entered that specific kind of laughter that comes from horror, regret and the realization that there is absolutely no way to undo what is happening.
War. Death. Displacement. Grief. School violence. Gang bunnies.
And brunch hadn’t even started yet.
I leaned my head against the seat.
“Somebody shoot me.”
Poor choice of words, considering the book.
My son, meanwhile, was having the time of his life.
And I understand why.
Parenting two toddlers is hella hard. You’re tired. Someone always needs a snack. Someone else has lost a shoe. You haven’t gone to the bathroom alone since 2023. And every once in a while, another parent—or in this case, your own mother—makes a parenting decision so spectacularly bad that you get to sit back and think:
Wow. Wasn’t me.
For one glorious morning, my son wasn’t the one questioning parenting methodology. His mother was. And he was going to enjoy every single second of it.
Eventually came the well-meaning lecture.
“Mom.”
Here we go.
“You really need to read the summary before you buy books for our kids.”
I stared at him.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Thank you. Lesson learned.
Next time Mimi buys a children’s book, I will apparently need to conduct the same level of due diligence normally reserved for adopting a child or purchasing property: author background, book synopsis, trauma inventory, body count, known bunny casualties, possible fox gang involvement, and maybe, just maybe, a quick Goodreads search.
The good news is Ryder barely paid attention.
He was probably looking out the window thinking about his Hulk action figure. He did not appear traumatized in the least.
Mimi, however? Different story.
And maybe that’s the continuing humiliation of parenting—and apparently grandparenting. You never actually graduate.
I raised three kids. Well, ones still a teenager but we are almost there.
I survived toddlers, teenagers, dating, driving, sports, school projects, heartbreak, college and approximately four billion opportunities to get it wrong.
And now I have two grandbabies. You’d think at some point somebody hands you a certificate.
Congratulations. You now know what you’re doing.
Nope. Instead, you find yourself sitting in a car on the way to brunch while your daughter-in-law exposes your grandbabies to real life, and you realize this particular literary learning moment is less about them overcoming fear and more about Mimi getting schooled in learning to pay attention to the darn details.
So yes.
We’re always being humbled.
Ryder is fine.
Benjamin Bunny, unfortunately, is not.
And Mimi will never emotionally recover.
