Between their faulty genetics and my necessary referee‑style parenting, my children developed their own challenging personality traits. Each stunt arrived with epic proportions. My bad‑ass geniuses pulled things that surprised even me — and I thought I had seen it all. After surviving my own life, I assumed I was immune to the fear‑factor level my kids operated at. I was wrong.
We lived in a very rural part of the county. Full of red‑necks who made their own rules. Small‑town justice at its core. It was safe — the kind of safe I had yearned for. I had survived chaos of my own questionable choices. Surviving three children, however, hadn’t been on the map.
Rural = red‑neck farmers. Red‑necks = guns.
Every house had several. We didn’t lock the doors, but there was a .22 leaning against the doorframe. Pickup trucks had gun racks as standard equipment. So when my kids asked for BB guns, I didn’t hesitate. They were BBs — what harm could they cause? We had safety rules, common‑sense ones, and they were followed exactly.
Until the day they weren’t.
Ben was in the yard practicing target shooting — normal. He waited until the last second to use the bathroom — also normal. But as he ran inside, he placed his loaded BB gun on the table. Bad, but not catastrophic.
Then Rowan walked in.
His autistic mind didn’t register danger. He saw a BB gun on the table as an invitation — a real‑life video game. He picked it up, aimed, made a shooting noise… and then figured out how to pull the trigger.
Yes, I know. I should have been watching him better. But Rowan was stealthy, and my back was turned while I was making dinner.
The first shot startled me. I spun around to see Rowan aiming directly at me. I had missed the memo on how to disarm an autistic child who thinks he’s playing a game. Hearing the commotion, his brother and sister ran in and immediately ducked for cover.
I don’t know how many holes ended up in the walls before his step‑brother came in from behind and took the gun away.
A huge rule had been broken: never leave a gun on the table, especially a loaded one. Luckily, nobody got hurt. My walls, however, were riddled with BB holes — a permanent reminder of the day Rowan thought life was a video game.
Those holes? I never covered them. Now even my house sports tattoos.
Mother of three and survivor of indoor ballistics,
K.
