Boot heels clicked firmly against kitchen tile and I turned just in time to see his eyes narrow as he aimed the gun. "Bang! Bang!" he whispered as he squeezed the trigger.
Soapy hands splashed warm dishwater as I grabbed the edge of the sink. Moaning and gasping, I began a slow downward spiral. The last thing I heard before sprawling grotesquely across the kitchen floor was muffled laughter in the background.
Silence held us in its grasp until, kneeling beside me, breath gently brushing my ear, he whispered, "Mama ... make me peanut butter and jelly."
"I can't," I whispered back, "I'm dead."
"I didn't wake the baby that time, " he announced proudly.
"No, you didn't."
"I used my inside voice to shoot you."
"You're a very good boy."
"Will you stop being dead and get up now?"
"This floor feels good. I think I might sleep here for awhile."
"No, Mama, get up! I want peanut butter and jelly."
"Okay. first, I'll finish the dishes. Then, maybe we'll take sandwiches out to the backyard and have a picnic. Uh-oh. The baby is starting to fuss. Do you hear her crying?"
"No," he lied, "I don't hear no baby crying. Mama, how long we gonna keep that baby anyway?"
"Forever," I say, as I stand and brush the latest death scene from my clothes, "We're going to keep that wonderful baby forever and ever."
"Will I always have to whisper when I shoot my guns?"
"No, because she'll grow big and run and play with you and you'll both be noisy.
"She can't have my Roy Rogers guns."
"That's okay. Little girls don't much like guns. They like dolls."
"Maybe I'll shoot her dolls."
"I'll be sad if you do."
"Mama, I'm gonna shoot you one more time while you're washing that pan, but you don't have to fall dead on the floor this time."
"Thank you."
"I'm just gonna shoot off one ear."
"If you shoot off my ear, I won't be able to wear my hair up in a pony tail anymore."
"I can't be worrying about that, Mama."
" Bang! Bang!"
In today's world any self-respecting psychiatrist would shudder to think of a young mother allowing ... promoting ... ENJOYING such games, but half-a-century ago little boys thrived on cowboys and Indians and Roy Rogers pistols, and very few of those fellows grew up to be bad guys.
My long-ago, gun-toting, three-year-old has now become a middle-aged grandfather. To the best of my knowledge he has never shot an ear off anybody's head.
Soapy hands splashed warm dishwater as I grabbed the edge of the sink. Moaning and gasping, I began a slow downward spiral. The last thing I heard before sprawling grotesquely across the kitchen floor was muffled laughter in the background.
Silence held us in its grasp until, kneeling beside me, breath gently brushing my ear, he whispered, "Mama ... make me peanut butter and jelly."
"I can't," I whispered back, "I'm dead."
"I didn't wake the baby that time, " he announced proudly.
"No, you didn't."
"I used my inside voice to shoot you."
"You're a very good boy."
"Will you stop being dead and get up now?"
"This floor feels good. I think I might sleep here for awhile."
"No, Mama, get up! I want peanut butter and jelly."
"Okay. first, I'll finish the dishes. Then, maybe we'll take sandwiches out to the backyard and have a picnic. Uh-oh. The baby is starting to fuss. Do you hear her crying?"
"No," he lied, "I don't hear no baby crying. Mama, how long we gonna keep that baby anyway?"
"Forever," I say, as I stand and brush the latest death scene from my clothes, "We're going to keep that wonderful baby forever and ever."
"Will I always have to whisper when I shoot my guns?"
"No, because she'll grow big and run and play with you and you'll both be noisy.
"She can't have my Roy Rogers guns."
"That's okay. Little girls don't much like guns. They like dolls."
"Maybe I'll shoot her dolls."
"I'll be sad if you do."
"Mama, I'm gonna shoot you one more time while you're washing that pan, but you don't have to fall dead on the floor this time."
"Thank you."
"I'm just gonna shoot off one ear."
"If you shoot off my ear, I won't be able to wear my hair up in a pony tail anymore."
"I can't be worrying about that, Mama."
" Bang! Bang!"
In today's world any self-respecting psychiatrist would shudder to think of a young mother allowing ... promoting ... ENJOYING such games, but half-a-century ago little boys thrived on cowboys and Indians and Roy Rogers pistols, and very few of those fellows grew up to be bad guys.
My long-ago, gun-toting, three-year-old has now become a middle-aged grandfather. To the best of my knowledge he has never shot an ear off anybody's head.
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