Wet Blanket Reform

Against my better judgement, I have allowed my 11 year old son to spend his birthday money on an airsoft gun. An airsoft gun is sort of like a BB gun, but less powerful, and it shoots plastic pellets instead of metal BB's.

Before you pronounce judgement on me, you have to realize that I am the quintissential wet blanket Mom. I have put the kibosh on many activities that other cooler Moms have blithely permitted. In our parental version of Good Cop Bad Cop, I am always the guy in the bad polyester suit with the combover and B.O. who chainsmokes and has been put on desk duty several times pending investigation of suspicious circumstances surrounding the "accidental" shooting of a perp. I have heard "But MOM...everybody ELSE gets to go/do it/have one!" approximately seventeen thousand and three times. I have endured the withering disapproval of family members, acquaintances and various Athletic personages for not allowing either son to participate in a certain sport (rhymes with mootball) despite rabid assertions that they were "born" to play the game.

My husband and I often argue about discuss the fact that I am an overprotective ninny and he is an overgrown adolescent. Between the two of us, we usually manage to arrive at a reasonable compromise that allows our children to have fun without putting them at risk for life threatenting injury. But despite my inclination to swathe them from head to toe in bubble wrap, I am painfully aware that I can't prevent them from ever getting hurt. And while I do want to teach them to make good decisions regarding safety, I don't want to raise children who are too fearful to live life with relish and enthusiasm.

Like most mothers, I have my sticking points; hot button issues that I am unwilling to compromise on. But there have also been instances where I changed my mind about issues I initially vetoed on pure instinct. I allowed my children to have a trampoline, razor scooters, and a swingset. Yes, I know. But as risk assessment impresario here at B.A. Inc., I am required to do exhaustive research. After weighing the information, I felt the risks could be mitigated by close supervision, strict safety protocol, and proper protective gear. I can't help but feel somewhat validated, since thus far, we have had no serious injuries resulting from the use or misuse of the aforementioned.

As you may have guessed, ff...mootball is one of my sticking points. Another one is guns. I have no philosophical opposition to guns. I grew up in a culture where hunting was widely practiced and accepted. We were taught to respect guns and nobody, but nobody was ever allowed to handle a gun without thorough education and instruction. They were just a part of life, no more or less villainous than a kitchen knife.

But I didn't and don't feel that even a comparatively meek little gun belongs in the hands of a child who lacks the maturity and the experience to make good decisions about it's use. Even a plastic pellet can put somebody's eye out if shot at point blank range. And though one would think that an 11 year old should know that shooting someone at point blank range with a BB gun is a very bad idea, my sister in law, who lost the tip of a finger trying to protect the family cat from my jejune pre-husband, would argue that is not always necessarily the case.

So as we stood in the pseudo gun section of Dick's (snicker) Sporting Goods, perusing the paintball, air soft and BB Guns, and the vast assortment of accoutrements, I was prepared to be firm even though I was the lone dissenter. Oh sure, my husband gave his token support, but even the boys knew it was a pretense. They knew that we were only a nominally united front, and thus, more easily defeated. Truth be told, hubby was reliving his own adolescent war fantasies and drooling just as copiously over the realistic looking weaponry. I don't pretend to understand these hyper-masculine vagaries, but I have to assume they are a remnant of our hunter gatherer origins. And modern Man has few, if any outlets for indulging the latent barbarism that is the progenitor of today's road rage, so I suppose such tendencies are to be expected and even forgiven.

My son became deeply engaged in conversation with another boy of a similar age. They discussed the pro and cons of various models and evaluated them by degrees of coolness; coolness apparently being defined by both visual and functional realism. They talked about their shared humiliation at being absolutely the only kid in their respective peer groups who did not possess one. And in hushed tones they lamented how their MOTHER (eyes rolling, I'm sure) wouldn't let them have one. Then my son said,

"Actually, my Mom is thinking about it."

There was a moment of silence, and then the other child responded with reverence,

"Dude."

I could hear the pride in my son's voice as he said,

"I know."

Suddenly, I wanted to say YES. I wanted him to have that moment of glorious supremacy. I wanted him to have the acceptance that comes with having what everybody else has, even though I know that it's a completely shallow and self-perpetuating construct. I wanted just once to not be the Killjoy. The Wet Blanket. The Bad Guy. The Voice of Reason. The Party Pooper. The Spoilsport.

You know where this is going, right?

As my son walked through the stadium sized store with the gun under his arm, followed by husband and me who were loaded down with a helmet, chest protector, target and two gallon sized jars of camo colored plastic pellets, he drew admiring and envious glances. He beamed. He swaggered. He exuded the confidence that comes from knowing one is, if only for a fleeting moment, hot shit.

So I have placed a weapon of destruction in the hands of my 11 year old child for completely selfish reasons.

Jesus. I hope nobody puts an eye out.