Like father, like son. . .

Any parents out there who read this will understand quite a bit with this simple sentence: I am the eldest child in my family. As such, things were a little more, ehm, strict with me than with my siblings who have come after me. That is fine, I don't mind at all. I like to think it helped me out, and has gotten me to where I am today. But it also does occasion some good stories. My mother, in her efforts to raise a sensitive, noble, caring son had determined that toy guns would not be allowed in our house. It was an action motivated by love, a love so deep that she hurts sometimes. And so, there were no guns in our house. For a time, at least. I forget how old I was, though I am sure my mother remembers, as it was a disheartening moment for her. There I sat, eating a piece of bread. Of my own accord, I careful and selectively ate that piece of bread until I could get her attention. I pointed the piece of bread at her (eaten in the shape of a gun) and simply said "Bang." There it was, all her work to keep me from violent toys foiled in a little boys selective biting of his bread. Despite her intentions, I made my own gun. It was inevitable. Needless to say, after that I started seeing toy guns around the house. Fast-forward to today. There I was, in the kitchen. My three year old son was finishing his peanut butter and honey sandwich when he turns to me and said "Bang, my crust is a gun Daddy." All I could say was "That's my son."