I was convinced that boys and girls came to this world more alike than different and were socialized into their gender roles. They weren’t born with a predilection for Barbie or Tonka; they were sold those inclinations by shameless corporations and overly conservative parents. And weapons? Please. No child of mine would ever play with guns. I wouldn’t raise them that way.
Boy, was I naïve.
And I am reminded of that naiveté every time one of my children picks up a stick or a carrot or a random potato chip and says, “Hey Mom, you know what this looks like?” holding it sideways so I can make out its profile. I usually shake my head no. “It’s a semi-automatic-pistol-laser-phaser-missile launcher. See?” At which point, I am typically shot.
The whole gun thing came as a complete surprise to me even though I’d already learned that certain elements of my children’s development were beyond my control. The dolls I had piled into their toy chest, for instance, were never coddled or carried. Instead, they were "vroomed" along the floor, awkward, infant-like vehicles trailing me around the kitchen while I tried to make dinner. Eventually, I sprung for a few trucks (mostly to spare the dolls further humiliation), but guns? Hah! My boys would never want any.
Wrong again.
It happened just 2 years later, a few days after they turned 4. I’m not sure what was so magical about that particular birthday, but it was as though a switch had been flipped. One moment they were plucking dandelions from the lawn, and the next they were aiming sticks at one another, shouting, "Bam! Bam!" I was flabbergasted.
Neither of them had ever brandished weapons or simulated gun play before, and I couldn’t figure out where they’d picked it up. We didn’t watch TV, and I couldn’t think of any potential literary offenders, but it had to have come from somewhere.
Then I remembered: Winnie the Pooh. In an early story we had read that Christopher Robin always took his gun with him “just in case.” That seemingly innocuous reference came back to me after hours of contemplation, and I realized that if that one had slipped by, many others probably had, too.
But what’s a mom to do? Censor A.A. Milne? Eliminate all mention of weapons from her children’s lives? Of course not. For one thing, it would be tough to teach history that way, and for another, it’s not Milne’s — or anyone else’s — fault that my guys like gunfights. The reason they enjoy that kind of play is (dun, dun, DUN!) it’s fun. The thrill of the chase, the danger of being a good guy or a bad one, hiding, seeking, shouting "Bang!" and falling dead — it’s a good time. I played those games as a child, and so did most of my friends, yet somehow none of us became gun-toting sociopaths.
Still, I was disturbed at first, so I sat my boys down and talked to them about my concerns. They were only 4, but they got it right away. They told me, in no uncertain terms that they understood guns could hurt and even kill people. "But Mom," they added. "We’re just pretending."
Smart boys, I thought to myself. (I’m pretty sure they get that from me.)
Belinda Ray is a homeschooling mother and freelance writer who finds time to write when her children and their friends have lightsaber battles in the yoga room (but only if the laundry is already folded and everyone’s been fed.)