“I was a bit smug. My child isn’t drawn to mindless violence. My child is drawn to baking. But when my second son was born, he pretty much emerged from my vagina brandishing firearms…”
The image was shocking. A small boy walking with his family in Martin Place, right in front of the Lindt Cafe, carrying a toy replica of an automatic weapon.
“Oh my God,” I thought, horrified. “What kind of parent would DO that?”
And then I thought some more and realised that kind of parent was me.
“No child of mine will have a toy gun”, I declared 17 years ago. And I meant it, dammit.
I was a brand new parent and I was blissfully deluded about so many things. The idea I would be able to control what my child was into was just one of them. I’m the parent right? My values. My rules.
My first child was a boy and he had no guns. I wouldn’t allow it. This wasn’t a huge problem because he was a kid who was obsessed with cars and cooking. While other 4 year-old boys carried around guns, he carried around a copy of Nigella Lawson’s How To Be A Domestic Goddess, weighed down with post-it notes marking all the cakes he wanted to make (and eat).
I felt a bit smug about this. No weapons in MY HOUSE. War and violence are discouraged. I had a friend with a son the same age who tried a similar approach before waving the white flag. “I don’t let him have guns and so he just chews his toast into a gun shape and shoots his sister” she sighed. I made sympathetic noises while feeling morally superior. My child isn’t drawn to mindless violence. My child is drawn to baking.