Enough

My oldest lined up his Lego guns on our bed.

He named each one.

I cringed.

My oldest made guns out of his fingers when he was four. My anti-gun husband and I watched as nerf guns stumbled into our home from neighbors. As squirt guns fell through our doors from family.

Conversation after conversation.

We don’t like guns. This is why.

My oldest sat me down and explained, “I don’t like guns either Mom. But these are toys. These are different.”

My boys are sweet, tender, generous. Their imaginations flourish around all the weapons. A reality that I have fought for years.

Then. Another school shooting. I want to toss every last gun out into the garbage. I want to scream.

“Mom,” he says as he leans into the bed my husband and I share, “it shouldn’t be so easy for people to get guns.”

He straightens the tiny Lego. His freckled nose looks up at me, green eyes blinking.

“What about the guy who did this? Why wasn’t anyone there to help him? Stop him?”

The boys I am raising don’t see their toy guns as stand-ins to the real things. The connection my husband and I make and so many adults make just doesn’t exist in their minds.

My oldest loves the history. Knowing the names. Playing. Just as he loves the history of war, plagues, and so much more. That doesn’t mean he wants to participate in a real war, grow up during a real plague (no choice on that one – thanks Covid), or live when there weren’t cell phones.

He just loves to learn, play, and absorb.

He and I talk some more. I listen to him, he asks questions, I share what I know. We try to take in all the time we are given.

“I’m going to do something,” I say to my son, “it’s our job to do something when the wrong keeps happening.”

He nods. My wheels turn. I pray.

Enough.