You all know I am a left-wing, tree-hugging hippie, so it should be of no surprise that I hate firearms. I think most guns should be illegal and that bullets should cost $100 each (yet another reason I’ll never be elected to the US Senate). With this in mind, it might surprise you to know my house has its own personal arsenal. Stored in a huge antique trunk in my son Patrick’s room a person can find everything from a .357 Magnum to a bright orange gun used to shoot aliens. Yep—my youngest son somehow managed to become a gun enthusiast while growing up in the house of an avowed pacifist. Say it ain’t so.
I can take part of the blame for Paddy’s obsession with guns. With my first-born Cody, I was militant about banning all toy weapons from our home (get it? Militant—toy weapons—sometimes I crack myself up!). Cody wasn’t allowed to have any toy that even remotely resembled a gun. By the age of four, whatever primal instinct makes kids want to play with firearms kicked in and he was literally chewing his toast into the shape of a gun so he could go “shoot” his sister. Lego’s also became sub-machine guns and plastic cups were stacked to become anti-aircraft missiles. I figured at least he was using his imagination as he waged an imaginary war.
Josie was never into guns—the minute she attended her first t-ball game, sports were her number one priority. By the time Paddy came along, I was worn out from being a working mom and I guess I became a little lax. Patrick started trading his friends for their guns in about kindergarten. He’d take a cute little stuffed animal that I had bought him to the playground and come home with a Luger. At first I tried to make him either take it back or throw it away. “No guns on my property,” I righteously proclaimed.
Then the tears would well in my adorable son’s eyes and I’d relent—a little. “Okay,” I’d tell him, “you can keep them in the garage and play with them outside, but they absolutely, positively, in no way can come in the house.”
Yeah—that lasted about a month. Then the weapons slowly started creeping inside, although I will give Patrick some credit for trying to hide them. One day I was cleaning the living room and found three machine guns, eight handguns, and two light-sabers under the couch. I moved them to the garage and reminded Patrick, once again, about the gun rule.
This summer I finally gave up entirely and allowed Patrick to store his guns in his bedroom, as long as they are always returned to the “gun trunk” when he is done playing with them. This happened when I came home from a yard sale with a huge antique trunk and Patrick talked me into letting him keep it in his room. He explained that “real pirates” stored their guns in trunks exactly like the one I had purchased for $5. It seemed completely logical to his ten-year-old mind that the trunk should be used as a place to store his ever-growing arsenal.
At that moment, I conceded the gun war (get it?—gun war—I’m a punning machine today) and moved the trunk into his bedroom. I guess it was a good compromise: I no longer find guns hidden behind my refrigerator and Patrick is one step closer to being a “real pirate.”
Still, I wonder how exactly I went from “no guns in my house” to “what kind of gun do you want for your birthday, honey?” I guess it is all part of letting our kids be who they are—not who we want them to be. Just like letting Josie play football and putting up with Cody’s taste in music, Paddy’s love for guns is part of his personality and I need to embrace that, no matter how it sticks in my craw. Let’s just hope he doesn’t want to join the NRA next; I’m pretty sure I’d have to put my foot down on that one!
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