I'm also quite the permissive, bad mother, so when Ryan started asking for a BB gun many years ago, we didn't come right out and say, "No, not on your mother's grave." We said, "Sure, when you're 10." And doesn't 10 seem a long, long, long time in the future when a kid is 6 or 7? It sure does. Eventually, though, they reach that double-digit symbol of greater
maturity age, and his dad finds himself at the local gun distributor Wal-Mart, buying a pellet gun, fashioned as a pistol. 'Cause it's way cooler to be shooting a pistol. James Bond would shoot a pistol, right?
All goes fine and dandy. We have the lad's new BFF over and his mother gives permission for him to be with Ryan shooting. [Hurray! We've found another pro-gun family!] Things go off without a hitch. The first time. After the second time they were shooting at
squirrels and pretty birdies cans and bottles, I was driving the new BFF home. As Ryan has difficulty making friends because he is so darn shy, we all work collectively to make sure all goes well with new BFF and his family so they like Ryan (and us). What does the new BFF say, "I can't believe I got shot in the arm."
Whoa! It's not very impressive to send new BFF home with a wound, even if his dad is a doctor. And my immediate thought is, "Damn. Why couldn't Ryan have been hit with the pellet?"
[For the record, it was a ricochet. No BFF was harmed in the creating of this post.]