File this under That’s Just Wrong.

Because the average child’s day just doesn’t include enough opportunities to view or conduct stylized physical violence, that bastion of taste and nurturing World Wrestling Entertainment has launched a website, magazine, toy line, and (tentative) television show to feed this perceived need. Did someone cancel the Road Runner while I wasn’t looking or something?

From Variety:

“A large percentage of children in America get introduced to our brand from 6 to 10 years old,” said Geof Rochester, exec VP of marketing for WWE. “We said, ‘We have a strong kids audience; let’s embrace that.’ We want to have a lifelong relationship with these kids…Anything we do, we do multiplatform,” Rochester said. “As we look at the kids marketplace, we’ll attack it the same way.”

Sounds to me like somebody needs a little Time Out.

A while ago, I bought the Munchkin some plates that were divided into four sections, a big one for the main dish, and then three smaller ones at the top.

As I suspected, he adored them. He is very methodical, very logical, so these appealed to his inner engineer. He also doesn’t appreciate his various food items touching each other, so the plates worked like a charm.

Since then, he demands prefers that every meal he eats utilize the plates. I only have four, so sometimes I am short one. Usually, knowing the fuss that will occur if the plates are not present, I will simply hand wash so that I have one to use.

The other day I was feeling ill, and Daddy, staying home from work and not being privy to the odd routines of a five year old, attempted to serve Mr. P his lunch on a regular plate.

It was so not pretty.

I can understand the perspective of hey, is a particular plate really all that important in the grand scheme of life?

And to those that live daily with a child, the short answer is yes.

So even though I wasn’t feeling great, I went ahead and got a clean one out of the dishwasher. Yeah, yeah, talk to me another day about undercutting my husband’s authority, blabbity blah…

After I had served the Munchkin his now-appropriately proportioned lunch, he, with all of the self-righteous anger that only a five year old can muster, pointed at my husband and said, “Daddy, you are fired!”

If only life were that easy, kid.