Julie Jay: Son of a gun — why everyone in our house is suddenly ducking for cover

My husband took our son for a haircut and came home with an army regulated crew cut and the gun to match

Parenting is hard enough that the last thing I feel we should be doing is arming our children. But still, thanks to a moment of nostalgia from my husband, here we are, ducking for cover in the sitting room and having been told by our eldest that he will answer to the title of ‘Special Agent Striker’ only going forward. Picture: iStock 

Back in my younger years, I would always find an excuse to give paintballing a miss. Even though paintballing was viewed as being up there with getting the shift as a teenage rite of passage back in the day, I never gave it a whirl — mainly due to having watched an episode of Byker Grove where Ant McPartlin’s character PJ removed his goggles and subsequently suffered permanent blinding from a wayward paint splash.

The episode impacted me to such an extent that when I accidentally swallowed some acrylic cayenne during an art class, I came home and told my mother I loved her, and to know I died doing what I adored: Capturing a still life of various fruits.

Aside from the questionable medical evidence for such an extreme paintballing outcome as complete, permanent blindness, I also hated any depiction of guns, even if they were of the paintball variety. I had developed an aversion to them ever since my brother subjected me to endless episodes of The A-Team.

As a result of this deeply embedded fear, I always swore I would never allow my kids to play with guns, and I would never purchase one for them. All of that went out the window this week, however, when Daddy returned with a foam pellet handgun for Number One.

Having sent them off for a haircut, it was a double whammy when Number One returned with a crew cut in army regulation length and carrying a weapon. It all felt a bit like Daniel Day-Lewis in character actor mode, and I for one couldn’t help but get the absolute ick at how much our five-year-old was enjoying his new GI Joe personality.

American proponents of the Second Amendment would insist the only thing that can stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun. But the main problem that presented itself when Number One returned home armed and ready for plastic warfare was that he was the only guy with a gun, making the rest of us sitting ducks.

I thought we weren’t letting them play with guns,” I muttered, ventriloquist style, to my husband, who outwardly played down the seriousness of this purchasing error — while inwardly, I could tell the reality was setting in with him that this had been a terrible, terrible idea.

As Number One loaded up his round of foam pellets and pulled the trigger, the cat ran for the back room blanket quicker than you can say “it’s only pretend”. After all, the cat didn’t sign up for this — the cat is just a civilian like the rest of us.

Unfortunately, this is the one time Number One is more than happy to share, and happily gets his toddler brother on board with loading the foam pellets before aiming them at the door.

At one point, I confiscate the gun, terrified at how quickly Number One is loading this thing and his love of pulling the trigger.

Unfortunately for me, when my back is turned Number Two retrieves the gun from no man’s land — my handbag — and returns the gun to his delighted brother, who quickly reloads. Make no mistake, they’re an army now.

Twenty-four hours later, and while I have yet to be hit with an actual pellet, just the sight of my junior infant brandishing a knock-off Glock makes me want to call the authorities and report myself.

My concern is how this might escalate. It starts off with a foam pellet launcher, and before you know it, he’s asking for a samurai sword for Christmas and is suddenly better armed than the guards. After all, toy guns are better than no guns at all.

Parenting is hard enough that the last thing I feel we should be doing is arming our children. But still, thanks to a moment of nostalgia from my husband, here we are, ducking for cover in the sitting room and having been told by our eldest that he will answer to the title of ‘Special Agent Striker’ only going forward.

The maddest part is how quickly our guy has committed to the new title and name. Hand any five-year-old a toy gun, and suddenly they don’t have a gun, they have a backstory.

“Don’t make me do this,” Number One announced, barging in through the kitchen door, brandishing his toy gun as I was trying to do the dinner.

I played along out of sheer exasperation, while rewarding this domestic terrorist with some pasta bake and the promise of a flapjack if he momentarily puts his hands in the air where I can see them and stands down for the duration of the meal.

Give a child a dinosaur, and he might roar at a coat rack; give a child a toy gun, and he becomes a villain of Gotham City proportions.

“This house isn’t big enough for the both of us,” he announces after his flapjack, leaping through the air from one armchair to another like Jean Claude Van Damme.

Given the tiny proportions of our home, he’s not wrong, but I mentally vow to ensure this gun is ‘lost’ during the night and never darkens the door of this house again.

I rarely follow through on things, but for my own sanity, this is the one time I’ll definitely be sticking to my guns.