Friday, August 15, 2008

On Fathers and Sons

Today my boys had some manly fun. Almost as manly as, say, having a crane in your front yard (my dear friend L.), but a little more scaled down. My dear husband bought the boys some Air-Soft Guns. His little Wobbers had played with some of the "big kids" from our homeschool group a few months ago and has been absolutely begging to get some ever since then. Dad finally decided it was time to buy and play - so buy the did yesterday and play today they did.

As manly as the playing was, it was not without tears. The Flower and I went grocery shopping (ask me again later how much energy that sucked out of me) while the boys put on their war faces and geared up for an afternoon of manhood. As I was on my way back from the store, I received a phone call from my husband.

"He is such a cry-baby."

Apparently, somehow, Wobbers thought that this whole "airsoft" thing meant one could not possibly get hurt. "But it didn't hurt when I played with Sheila's kids." Really dude? I remember you telling me it hurt, but you didn't want them to know. So when Dad shot the little pellets at him it hurt. I didn't really believe at the time that he was crying as much as his dad told me he was.

When I got home I experienced the true agony this boy was in.

"Waaawaaawaaahaaahaaawaaawaaa!!!!!!!!! Ohhhhhh, waaawaaawaaawaaahaaaa!!!"

Are you crying or laughing was all I could think.

You'd think he had been hit in the face with a brick. It was hilarious. Wadidya think? You'd be shooting each other with cotton balls? It is a gun. Duh. It's gonna hurt a little. Wear some padding silly. Or even just a sweatshirt.

"Ohhhhh, waaawaawaaaawaaa!!!! He shot me in the nuuuuuuuuutssssssss!!"

Wear a cup.

"He's got a better gun than me!!! Waaaaahaaaawaaaawaaaawoah!"

At this point I am trying my best to keep a straight face. Please, don't get me wrong. I am a compassionate mama. I love my kids and would never, ever wish them harm. But this little guy has been begging to get these guns all summer. It's all he's talked about since we went to the pool party in June where he played with the big kids. Every week, "When can I get an airsoft gun?" "Have I been good enough to get an airsoft gun?" "If I get all my school work done, does that mean I can get an airsoft gun?" "Can you call Sheila so I can go play airsoft guns with her kids?" "You know, if I had my own airsoft gun I could take it to Sheila's to play." On and on and on. And now that we have said "play" firearms, now he's crying.

And it so isn't worth crying over. He doesn't realize of course that his dad is trained as an officer, not to mention the years and years of hunting experience he has, and is a very good shot. It's not that his gun is "better" than my Wob's gun.......his experience is greater. He thinks before he shoots. Poor little Wobbs just fires away.

In the course of all things manly, I am sure he will get better. And even with the crying he was still begging my dear husband to play another round even after Dad said it was time to call it quits. This makes me think it must not really be that bad.

I, myself, do not find the prospect of being shot with a little itty bitty bb-pellety thingie a "good time" - but they have the Y chromosome. It kills brain cells ya know.


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