A call for stricter imaginary gun laws
Milo and Morris are at the breakfast table, building guns. Morris hands me an attached assortment of building blocks. “Here’s your gun, Mommy.”
I aim it at him and start shooting. “Pew! Pew! Pew!” Then I shoot Milo. “Pew! Pew! Pew”
Morris: “But Mom, we’re your sons!”
Me: “That’s why I’m shooting love bullets.”
Morris aims his gun at me. “I’m shooting BOMB bullets.”
Me: “But I’m your mom!”
Morris: “Duck!”
I duck. He shoots over my shoulder. “Boom!” Then he looks at the cupboard behind me. “Uh oh. I broke a glass.”
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