Wednesday, April 08, 2015
G is for Guns
One day your oldest will pick up a slice of seven-grain bread, take a bite out of the bottom right corner, and then tell you that the remaining shape is a gun. Gun? You don't even know where they learned the word.
Then they will proceed to pretend to shoot all their siblings who will all be busy fashioning their own bread artillery.
I hate the notion that boys will be boys, so I'm not going to say that being fascinated with guns is part of boy DNA - deal with it. I was horrified that my sons were interested in guns.
But horrified didn't get me anywhere. So I took a long look at what horrified me. I was okay when they wanted wooden swords and shields. I bought bows and arrows and tacked bulls eyes to bails of hay. We went to the Higgins Armory Museum. Twice. There are actual museums devoted to armory. Who knew? Mothers of sons know.
When my 10 year old was in his Moby Dick phase I let them whittle spears with his pocket knife and then pretend to hunt whales in the front yard - un-politically correct as it was.
It's only guns that I have a problem with. And not all guns. I bought muskets in Lexington after we watched the Revolutionary War reenactment. I'm even okay with guns that shoot rubber bands. And guns made of bread. And guns made of Legos. And sticks that look like guns.
It's hand guns. Toy guns that look like hand guns, even though they are made of bright green or orange plastic, those are the guns I don't want around.
I guess moms will be moms. Deal with it.