As I’ve mentioned before, the Man-Cub has a Christmas wish list about a mile long. One of the items on his list is- I don’t even know how to say this other than to just throw it out there - a gun.
And, when I say gun, I’m not talking about an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle, either; I’m talking about an actual hunting rifle, one that he can use when he goes with his father on their annual elk-stalking adventure.
And, I’m torn. Hugh already bought the thing and, every once in a while I catch him opening the closet where it is hidden. I can hear him whispering some gleeful anecdotes about all the good times they are going to have together ( said as he strokes the box lovingly although, he would vehemently deny that part) and, I get it.
I know that men, particularly men from our neck of the woods, love the hunt. There exists a rich tradition in hunting, our ancestors clear back to the times of the caveman were hunters. Fathers bond with their sons over this shit, seriously. And, I’m not anti-hunting by any means; the elk that Hugh brings home each year saves us a ton of money on groceries plus the meat is better for us than some processed beef but, still. I worry because; that’s what mothers do.
It’s what we have done since those very same times of the caveman; the only difference is that, back then, mothers had no cool shoe stores in which to shop away their anxiety over the fact that young Ugg was joining his father for his first hunt, they had to find other distractions like, inventing the wheel.
Anyway, this Christmas, the Cub will be getting his first hunting rifle along with an enrollment form for the next available Hunters Safety Class. In fact, he will have to complete said class before he is allowed to touch the gun which, I realize, might make it a little less appealing as a gift but, you know, safety first.
With any luck, I’m getting a prescription for Quaaludes and an IV drip full of chocolate.
And still; I'll worry.