When our toddler shot the mailman, that was my bad. I’d forgotten to put my Glock in the gun safe, due to having been drinking, and I left it out on the coffee table despite the fact that I know Baby loves how shiny it is and how it goes BANG! BANG! when I fire it at things in the yard, in fact, now that I think of it, she loves standing next to me, forming her hand into the shape of a gun and yelling BANG! BANG! while pretending to shoot at random yard items along with me. That’s her very favorite. So I guess I could’ve predicted that she’d try out the real thing if it was left lying around loaded and all tempting like that.
But when Baby winged Grandma at the family barbecue – Grammie was only in the hospital for three days, so no big deal – I swear I’d remembered to put the gun in the safe! Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have let Baby watch me put it away. She must’ve been paying attention when I punched in the combination. Because later, she snuck in and got the Glock, lugged it to the barbecue, shot Grandma (yelling BANG! BANG! like she likes to do) and took off in a sprint. But when she toddled back at nightfall and received her warning from the police, I figured that was the end of it.
So I was wrong. I want to stress that her brother still has 80% functioning in his arm from when Baby shot him out of the swing. He wasn’t really very physical to begin with – you should’ve seen him play baseball! – so again, no biggie. And yes, the gun was in the safe, locked up with a new combination. But Baby had talked Uncle Ron into buying her her own gun (a pretty sweet little .22 pistol). I mean, I get it – her baby talk is pretty adorable. When she looked at Ron with those pleading eyes and said, “Me want bang-bang,” what was he supposed to do?
I was pretty surprised, though, when she shot me. We’d just had a long talk about all the gunplay, and I’d told her that only bad little girls shot their brothers and grandmas and mail carriers, and she’d nodded in what I assumed was understanding. So I felt pretty comfortable letting her do some shooting with me in the yard, just blowing holes in random items lying around the property like I enjoy doing, to try out her new gun, so I could teach her to use it safely. That’s when it happened. She got me right in the shoulder. A damn good shot, actually. I was both immensely proud and badly wounded.
After I got out of the hospital, I told Baby we needed to have a serious confab about her and firearms. She was initially reluctant, but after some coaxing, I got her to lower her weapon and sit on the couch for a talk. We really need to reduce the number of gunshot wounds in the home, I said. She gave me a blank look, so I translated my speech into baby talk for her: “No more bang bang.”
“BANG! BANG!” she yelled, jumping up and shooting a few rounds into the air (again, my bad). Luckily, I’d slipped into my Kevlar jacket before our little chat. I wasn’t going to let Baby get me twice!
I know that her Achilles heel is tickles, so I distracted her with a round of belly button pokes until she loosened her grip on the pistol. Crisis averted.
She cries every now and then and asks for her bang-bang, so I promised she could have it back when she’s a little older, maybe as a preschool graduation present, so we can do some father-daughter shooting around the property, show all those random yard items who’s boss.
I have both guns in the safe now, plus I padlocked the shotgun rack, but I’m not going to take away Baby’s favorite pair of bolt cutters (I’m not a monster!). A kid has to play. I sure love to watch her yell SNIP! SNIP! as she cuts up nonessential items around the house. Anyway, until she develops more upper body strength, I think we’re pretty safe. Grammie respectfully disagrees.
