I picked up Sweet Daughter from daycare this afternoon, stopped to get gas before running to the library, and then home to start dinner. I finished filling the tank, put the gas cap back, gave it a twist, grabbed my receipt and hopped in the Family Truckster only to see Sweet Daughter looking like her heart was broken, with tears streaming down her face, as she heroically tried to stop sobbing.
“Sweetie! What’s wrong? Are you okay?!!?”
::: sniff ::: sniff ::: SNIFF! :::
“It’s just that I’m a little sad (sniff) because I can’t go to the gun range until I’m seven, and I’m (sob!) ONLY FOUR AND A HALF!!!”
Her dad and I don’t talk guns much. I didn't think we talked about the range in front of her to the extent that she would think it was some sort of mecca. We certainly don’t have the time we’d like to spend at the range (I haven’t been since the beginning of the year), and so I don’t know WHERE she gets if from. It must be genetically encoded somewhere in her DNA.
Anyhow, I did my best to console her with the fact that when we go to Charlotte in less than two weeks, they’ll have a range there, just for kids. She'd better bring her piggy bank.