My toddler, now 20 months old, is persistently whining for the shiny cowboy cap gun that his older brothers are engrossed with. The metallic clinks of the trigger evoke excitement as they pretend to fight off imaginary villains, aiming their weapons at walls and each other while sporting a cheap holster.
Five years ago, I would have never permitted such play. My stance against guns has always been firm; I believe handguns should be outlawed. I vowed that my children would never handle toy guns, particularly handguns, which I viewed solely as instruments of violence. I was convinced that allowing them to play with guns would normalize their use and perpetuate harmful narratives about gun culture. After all, gunplay can lead to real dangers, as evidenced by tragic incidents involving children accidentally harming others.
My perspective began to shift with the introduction of Star Wars. My husband introduced it to our eldest when he was just three. Suddenly, “blasters” entered our vocabulary. Lacking an actual blaster, he started crafting them out of Duplo blocks, carrying his makeshift creations around the house until they inevitably fell apart.
Outside, he discovered sticks, transforming them into weapons and making the classic “pew, pew” sound with an instinctive flair. Some were small, others quite large, but he always wanted to keep them close, stashing them in the car.
I quickly realized that resisting this urge was a futile endeavor. If I continued to confiscate his playthings, he’d only find new ways to create them. So, I compromised, allowing him to engage in “blaster” play—emphasizing the importance of the term “blasters” instead of guns. I set strict rules against pointing them at real people, insisting they should only target imaginary foes. My close friend, Sarah, adopted a similar policy, and during our playdates, we repeatedly reminded our sons to aim their elaborate Duplo creations at “imaginary bad guys.” “We don’t point blasters at friends,” I would insist.
Despite our best efforts, we knew that when left unsupervised, they would inevitably point their toys at one another. Our repeated admonitions morphed into the occasional slip of the tongue, and before long, the term “gun” crept back into our conversations. “No guns pointed at people!” I would declare, over and over.
Eventually, we surrendered to the reality of their play. Our sons ran around, constructing weapons from various materials—Duplos, sticks, and even random toys—all while mimicking laser sounds. The transition to my son owning a real blaster was gradual. I made sure to emphasize that it was a “blaster,” which had a rounded, almost adorable design. It featured a real trigger, emitted a generic space gun noise, and lit up. He treasured it more than any of his other toys. Given that it was a reward for good behavior, I felt powerless to reject it.
Once we crossed that line, more toys followed. The initial light-up space blaster quickly multiplied, as my now-nearly-five-year-old wanted to share in the fun with his three-year-old brother. Soon, they were clamoring for another blaster, and then water guns for the summer. Every imaginary game revolved around the concept of guns, and the toy box overflowed with swords and blasters.
Yet, I held my ground against anything that resembled a realistic firearm. I was determined to keep playtime safe and devoid of any true weaponry. That resolve crumbled when my three-year-old earned a potty-training reward at a quaint local store. To my surprise, he chose a cowboy cap gun instead of a pricey dinosaur toy he had previously wanted. Caught off guard by the convenience, I allowed him to take it to the register. His excitement was palpable as he unwrapped it in the car, marking the introduction of a genuine toy gun into our home.
I remain conflicted about this development. While I don’t relish the constant gunplay, I’ve observed that they primarily target imaginary foes rather than each other. We’ve had conversations about the importance of knowing what to do if they encounter a real gun. I stand firmly for gun control, yet I’ve come to understand that parenting often diverges from our political beliefs. Perfection is unattainable, and sometimes it’s acceptable for kids to engage in a little make-believe shooting.
In conclusion, navigating the complexities of parenting requires balancing our values with the realities of childhood play. Embracing this journey means acknowledging that sometimes, our children will engage in play that conflicts with our beliefs—but that doesn’t necessarily mean we’ve lost the battle.
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