Caving In or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Furby

The two oldest girls have been asking for a Furby for months. Not just asking, but coming up and in stereo, in the most polite of voices, begging for a Furby on a weekly basis.



Hubby and I have been scared of these creatures since their debut in 1998. They're like Barney - FREAKY! Maybe it's the resemblence to Gremlins, or even worse, Hobgoblins . We were adamant that we would never have one in the house.

And then two little adorable moppets start asking for one. We told them in no uncertain terms that we would not let them have one because they were, well, FREAKY. They scared us. They were disturbing.

Then, the other day, it hit me. If the only reason we didn't want them to have a Furby was because we got the heebie-jeebies anytime we saw one, and not because they were dangerous, too expensive, a frivolous desire-of-the-minute, or honest-to-goodness Demons From Hell (although they come close... perhaps just a minor Demon from Hell's suburbs, like Blythe), then what kind of message are we sending our kids? Yah, ok, common sense, you've got me on that, and a curb on rampant consumerism, that too. But in the grander scheme of things, when they come home with purple hair, I'm still going to love them even if they are a bit different. Embrace diversity, all that stuff.

So, Furby will be under the tree this year. In all its gray and pink glory, talking like Oobie and asking if we're friends.

Is it immoral to tell a lie to a robot?