Gun Control

It was a cool autumn Sunday, just after school had re-started for the year.  I had just come home from a three hour birthday party where I had been forced to watch Reading Rainbow, and eat stale cheese balls next to a boy picking his nose and sticking the buggers in the carpet.  All I wanted to do was look in my grab bag, and see what kind of prize I would find.

On the drive home, my mom was intently focused on the road.  Sitting beside her in the front seat, I silently stuck my hand into the small plastic hole.  Rummaging casually through a layer of candy, I felt it and knew instantly what I had found.  But I had needed to make sure.  Sliding it along the slick side of the bag, I nonchalantly pulled the tip of it over the lip near the handle holes, to take a peek.

Big mistake.  Out of the corner of her all-seeing mother-eyes, she spotted it.  Before I had time to even grasp it between my hands and feel its wobbly white trigger, she had snatched it away.

Instantly, I flew into a rage.  "But mom, it's a WATER GUN!  It's green plastic!  It doesn't even LOOK real!"  I can remember screaming these words with such heated passion, that I felt like my face was going to blow up.

It didn't matter.  My house had a strict no gun policy.  It included everything from mock pistols from cops and robbers sets, to squirt guns meant for the pool.  I was SOL.
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My parents stuck to their no-guns on this rule,  until I was about 12, and my little brother, 9.   Then, finally, one warm summer Saturday at K-Mart, my brothers begging and pleading paid off. To the utter disgust of my mother, my father purchased my brother a cap gun.

I'm sure they fought about it for hours later that night.  But, to my brother, myself, and my little sister, that brown and black plastic gun with a shiny orange tip was the coolest thing in the world.  Finally, we had a gun of our own  to run around and play army with.  We wouldn't have to borrow the forsaken left-overs from the neighbors garage anymore.

You see, that was the irony of the whole situation.  The rule was "No guns allowed at our house."  There was no way my over-protective mother could stop us from using them while playing with our friends.  In a neighborhood of 9 boys and 3 girls in Wisconsin, where hunting is king, the only thing the no-gun policy did was make my siblings and I feel like constant leeches. 

The other irony of this situation is that the children I babysit for have a 7-year old boy who is not allowed to have guns either.   He is clever, however, and has crafted his own pistol out of Legos. . .

So, although I don't have any children of my own, and am a woman not a man, I can use some of my personal experiences to comment on the following article:  Bring it:  Boys may benefit from aggressive play.

First and foremost, I agree with Jane Katch.  Trying to oppress aggressive play is not the solution.  Making sure the aggression is properly directed is the key.  A boy should not be aiming his aggression at his little sister, but rather at other boys, or invisible enemies.

The one argument I always think aboutagainst this theory  is that these boys are too young to truly understand the consequences of violence.  However, there is no proof that children who are not allowed to play with guns learn about the permanence of death, or the seriousness of injury, etc. any early, or better than children who are allowed to play with guns. 

When I watch the little 7 year old I babysit for play Jedi swords with his buddies, (he is allowed to have light sabers), he is giggling as plastic whacks plastic.  He is not exhibiting any anger or hatred, just exuberant joy at being able to let off some steam.

I truly feel for teachers.  They are stuck between a rock and a hard place.  To appease the over-protective moms, they need to curb the natural play patterns of all of the children in their classroom.

The one component of this that I feel is often overlooked is how smart, and judgmental children are.  By the time I was in 2nd grade, my classmates knew my mother was strict, and I knew whose parents were lax.  I didn't know those terms, strict and lax, but I knew whose house to ride my bike to so that I could have a Popsicle and some Doritos, and play some He-Man vs. Shera if I wanted to. 

It's important for young child's social standing to be seen as having cool parents, and a cool house to hang out at.  (It's almost as important as having cool clothes and shoes in high school, but not quite.)  So when parents are making decisions about guns, video games, and other controversial toys and activities, keep your child's self esteem in mind.  Say no when it really matters, like when they ask you to buy beer, or to have their girlfriend sleep over.  Remember, it can really hurt a kid to have their peers never want to come over.

This doesn't mean I think that kids should rule the roost.  Children should never threaten adults with violence, even during temper tantrums.  Furhtemore, it is paramount that youngsters are taught that roughhousing is meant for the playground, not the dinner table or before bedtime.  Set boundaries, but not barriers. 

As a tom-boy who played with her fair share of the neighbors guns, I think that I turned out just fine.  My brother's cap gun was long-forgotten by the time he started junior high.  And I'm not aware of any of the 9 boys from my neighborhood turning into serial killers.  So, mothers, take all of these things into consideration when making your decision regarding toy guns, and boys aggression in general.  After all, if its just a water gun, it is just a water gun.