More Guns

Still thinking about guns. Like everyone else in America, I guess.

When Keith and I had Owen, we didn't really talk about the whole issue of toy guns much. We were liberal parents. We were going to raise our child in a healthy environment, devoid of junk food and worthless tv and all racial and gender stereotypes. And of course, guns.

And then three things happened. Well, four, actually, as the first has to be that Owen turned three. Perhaps you haven't had much exposure to three-year-old boys. Hence you might not know that when a child with one x and one y chromosome turns three, he immediately starts shooting things and obsessing about heavy construction equipment. I don't know what male three-year-olds did before the advent of the musket and the internal combustion engine. Perhaps they began brandishing knives and obsessing about horse-drawn carts. Enormous carts with big ol' wooden wheels.

Second thing: Keith, little Owen, and I were in the coffee shop one morning. Keith and I were sipping our coffees and nibbling on our croissants, Owen quaffing his milk and staring at his banana bread. Then, with astounding speed, he lunged forward, bit his banana bread into the shape of a revolver, and proceeded to gun down every other customer in the coffee shop. Keith and I just watched in astonishment.

Third: It was hot. We live in Baton Rouge. It's almost always unbelievably, mind-numbingly, soul-destroyingly, body-disintegratingly hot. A couple of friend with kids around Owen's age were coming by for the afternoon. So I bought squirt guns. I didn't think about it, didn't plan it, didn't strategize or ponder or question it. It was hot. Damn hot. I bought squirt guns. And the kids had a marvellous time, squirting each other and themselves and their moms. A wonderful afternoon. Except then the moms and kids went home. And the squirt guns remained. And quickly, in a matter of a day or two, said squirt guns dried out and made their way indoors. Hmm. How do you explain to a 3-year-old that a squirt gun is fine and moral as long as it's filled with water and squirted outdoors on a hot afternoon, but not ok and utterly immoral when dry and indoors and accompanied with shouts of "bang, bang!"? Owen was confused and frankly, so was I.

Fourth: The hot squirt gun banana bread revolver summer coincided with the Discovery of Robin Hood. Ahh, such a glorious time. If you didn't grow up reading Robin Hood, if you didn't lie in bed dreaming about Robin Hood, if you didn't long to be Maid Marian and marry Robin Hood, oh, how can I explain the utter, absolute delight of introducing your myth-loving little boy to the wonders of Sherwood Forest, the village of Locksley, and the city of Nottingham? My Owen, blessed Owen, he leapt into my fantasy world like a heroic knight confronted with a marauding dragon and a damsel in distress. So how could I not give him a toy sword and shield? And logical liberal that I am, how could I not wonder why it was ok to give my son low-tech slaughter toys and at the same time insist that more advanced weaponry was forbidden?

The combination of these four happenings shredded our anti-toy gun parental stance. Soon, we had a veritable fantasy arsenal: not just swords and shields and squirt guns but also maces, Three Musketeer pistols cowboy guns, Davy Crockett rifles, Star Wars blasters and light sabers. (We did, however, draw the line at lifelike modern-style handguns and assault weaponry.) We became The Gun Family, the popular, preferred, go-to household for all the male children of all our liberal friends, the only place with weapons.

Interestingly, Owen rarely played with said weapons except when his little gun-loving buddies were visiting, and Hugh had no interest in the arsenal whatsoever. Owen has grown up into an animal rights activist with strong no-guns views. In contrast, Hugh is now a teenager who longs for a rifle, just as he longs to belong to a proper huntin'/ fishin'/ fundamentalist-chorus- singin' family. Soo, it's all a crap shoot (so to speak).

Maybe, then, the parenting practice we fell into by accident wasn't all that bad. That's what I tell myself anyway. Plus, once upon a time, a legion of little boys thought I was awesome.