True story
Robert had a friend over today. He was rifling through our collection of video games. We keep most of the console games in a big translucent storage container underneath one of the living room windows. We stack some comforters and throws on it. The cat uses it as one of his preferred napping spots.
"Oh, wow. Grand Theft Auto Vice City. Can I play this?"
"No," I said.
"Why not?"
"We don't let kids play M-rated games at our house," I said.
That's true -- Robert is allowed to play T-rated games, but that's it -- and only if the rest of the content meets with our approval. The M-rated games we do have I've bought for myself.
It's often a surprise to some of my son's friends after they find out what I do for a living, that we're as restrictive as we are in letting the kids play video and computer games. It also comes as something of a disappointment to them -- they think that because Robert's dad plays games for a living (well, for part of his living, anyway), that it must be some kind of gamer's paradise. I admit, it's fun sometimes, but I don't let my children have free reign over the gaming systems in the house, not by a long stretch.
"I can play it at my house," he told me.
"This isn't your house," I said.
He kept fingering the games for a few moments longer then said, "Well, I'm not really allowed to play it at home, either. But I do sometimes."