My parents were over the other day for awhile. Jedi happily ran around them, telling imaginative tales and wanting to share toys. He handed my dad one of his many plastic guns and they boom boom boomed for a few minutes from the comfort of our couch. The entire time I could practically hear my mother as she huffed and puffed and shook her head in disapproval.
My son likes guns.
He’s a boy, though. He likes pistols and tanks and Army men and semi-automatic weapons and camouflage and bombs and blood and stuff that blows up and zombies. All with lights! and live-action sounds! He’s not violent, he never pretends to shoot real people, just monsters and imaginary bad guys. Of course I would prefer that he took up cupcake decorating, but it goes without saying by now that I lost that battle. Instead, I let it go. I made sure that Jedi knows the difference between a REAL gun and a TOY gun and what might happen if he were to ever play with a REAL gun. I’ve said it over and over, and will continue to reiterate, you never ever play with a REAL gun. Ever.
There is no point in huffing and puffing and shaking your head in disapproval. I know where she’s coming from, I do, I was the same, but if I can let it go then she should, too. Or else I might have to remind her how my brother used to hide in trees and shoot people on a golf course with a BB gun they gave him. If she really wants to shake her head over something, shake it over that.