And then I had a boy.
My mother had it pretty fucking easy if you ask me. Oh sure, we put her through hell during our estrogen-saturated years of adolescence angst. Just ask her—she’ll be happy to tell you all about it, in gory detail. But banning guns from a boyless household is kind of like forbidding my husband to wear my panties. (No, really, it is.)
Yesterday marked my first encounter with gunplay, preschool-style. I was working at JJ’s preschool when I noticed a gang of four-year-old boys furtively aiming rakes at each other behind the playstructure. I sidled up to them to see what was going on, and they scattered across the playground. A little later, I saw them at it again, and this time I caught the words “soldier” and “kill.” I honestly felt a little bit sick.
Those of you with brothers or sons are no doubt laughing your asses off right now. I dramatically reported the preschool gun episode to Jack at dinner, and he looked at me like I had just disembarked from my spaceship. “Um, yeah. That’s pretty much all we ever played when I was little.”
JJ observed the whole gun posse from the sidelines. I’m pretty sure he had no clue what they were doing, but his interest was clearly piqued. After a few minutes, he ran up to me and told me he was Dorothy (from the Wizard of Oz) and he was going to use his magic shoes to protect me.
I’m sure I’ll be staring down the barrel of a gun any day now, but for now, I'll hang on to my ruby slipper-wearing bodyguard.