Goons

I don't think my distaste for guns (or anything that could shoot my eye out or take my head off) is a secret. When Sy first discovered a toy gun, I managed to muddle through an explanation of hunting, and the topic has since remained untouched.

I have plenty of friends that would probably think I am stunting his male development by shielding him from ammunition and such, but I have high hopes for his growing into a strong, brave, manly pacifist.

We are currently at a conference with thousands of our co-workers from around the country. Our apartment complex is teeming with kids and scooters and pool floaties. A lot of these co-workers' kids play with weapons.

Rifles and pistols and swords, Oh my.

As I watch them play, I briefly entertain visions of my son's future as a murderer, and then I get over it with a shrug. These convictions run deep, I tell you.

As we walk by Sy's friends, he exclaims, "Mom? Can I have a goon?"

"A what?"
"A goon!"
"What's a goon?"
"You know, like those kids have?"
"Oh, a gun?"
"Yeah!"

I laugh, and think.... as long as he's calling them goons, I'm doing my job well, and the world remains safe.

Or at least, I'm safe.

"Don't worry, Mommy, I won't point it at you - just my friends."