My Little Rambo

My sweet baby boy, (O.k. he's 9 now and not a baby, but even when he is 50, he will still be my baby boy!) loves guns. I hate them. But, I am willing to compromise and I am guilty of buying him a couple of foam dart guns. Those I can handle. The latest one that I bought him was for his birthday, and is one that holds 20 darts at a time and shoots them one after another none stop. It's actually kinda fun! Our (my) house rule is, that the darts can not be shot at anything that breathes. Furry or not. His dad bought him a gun the other day, but instead of little foam darts, it shoots hard, yellow, "not really foam" balls. Whips those balls out it does. Yesterday I was standing at the bathroom sink, getting ready to go to Tim's mom's birthday party. Landon was super excited and had ants in his pants. He asked no less than 3,223 times "Is it time to go? Is it time to go?!?!?" Drove me nuts. As I was combing my hair with my hands raised up, I heard a Rambo cry, a "POW!" and immediately felt a mind blowing sharp pain just under my rib cage on my side. I let out a scream that not only sent the cats running in all directions, but Rambo himself went flying out the door. As I lowered my hand to my body and felt the raising welt through my shirt, I knew I had been shot. What was I to do? What any other smart mom would do. I went to Rambo's room and got his 20 round bazooka and waited. And waited, and waited. When brave little Rambo finally came back, he stood outside the screen door and called, "Mom? Mom??? I'm sooooooory..... Mom. I didn't mean it, Mom. I love you, Mom. Can I come in, Mom?" My heart melted a bit and I put the gun down (hid it under the quilt on the couch) and took advantage of the rare moment that meant I was going to get to hug and kiss on my baby boy. But, even as wonderful as that was, when Rambo least expects it, he's gonna get the surprise of his life! Momma Rambo doesn't go down that easy.