Mother-Daughter-Weapon Bonding Time
There weren’t many females at the indoor shooting range last Saturday; and by ‘not many’ I mean none—other than me and my mom. She was happier than a Pollock on Paczki Day that I was home this past weekend and willing to go shooting with her.
When we got to the range near opening time, four lanes were already full with men a glow from heightened testosterone. My mom (in her baby pink ear protectors) and me (in a bright colored plaid button up that screamed the-only-thing-I-hunt-for-are-sales) only stood out just a little bit.
Once geared up, my mom clipped the brown paper target to the automated dry cleaner rack gizmo and flicked a switch to send it about 10 feet back, then we loaded up the magazines. Handling bullets next to my mom felt so strange; it was like orchestrating a drug deal while on the phone with her talking about dinner plans, or to be more realistic to my teen-hood it was like telling her I was going to Tori’s house and going driving with pals around Birmingham instead. #wildchild
I was nervous from the second we walked into the range room. My ear protectors did little to keep me from wincing every time a shot was fired, and the flying shells from the guy in the lane next to us had me on edge too. The mechanics of firing aren’t difficult, but mustering up the courage was. Even with the right stance, hand positioning, ect., I was loaded with nerves.
Firing a gun for the first time is like your first sip of alcohol + first night of college + first time diving head first into a pool wrapped into one. I was all adrenalin high, nerve wracked and slightly guilt-ridden for feeling like I was letting Ruff McGruff down. But holy moly is a gun a friggin’ powerful machine. There’s just no way to fully appreciate the force and danger until you experience the noise, kick back and smoke when you fire the last bullet.
We took turns firing through a full magazine, reloading and then swapping spots. Her aim was pretty good, and mine a little better. I struck closer and closer to the ‘bullseye’ each time, until finally hitting spot on twice.
We didn’t stay long before moving on to more typical mother/daughter bonding activities—like lunch and tombstone hunting—but you can bet all the camouflage in that store that I showed off my bullseye to the dude in the lane next to me. Nothin’ like a pony tailed, 5’2” newbie’s success to yank the plug on your growing testosterone pool; and nothin’ like firing guns with your mom to celebrate living closer to home.
When we got to the range near opening time, four lanes were already full with men a glow from heightened testosterone. My mom (in her baby pink ear protectors) and me (in a bright colored plaid button up that screamed the-only-thing-I-hunt-for-are-sales) only stood out just a little bit.
Once geared up, my mom clipped the brown paper target to the automated dry cleaner rack gizmo and flicked a switch to send it about 10 feet back, then we loaded up the magazines. Handling bullets next to my mom felt so strange; it was like orchestrating a drug deal while on the phone with her talking about dinner plans, or to be more realistic to my teen-hood it was like telling her I was going to Tori’s house and going driving with pals around Birmingham instead. #wildchild
I was nervous from the second we walked into the range room. My ear protectors did little to keep me from wincing every time a shot was fired, and the flying shells from the guy in the lane next to us had me on edge too. The mechanics of firing aren’t difficult, but mustering up the courage was. Even with the right stance, hand positioning, ect., I was loaded with nerves.
Firing a gun for the first time is like your first sip of alcohol + first night of college + first time diving head first into a pool wrapped into one. I was all adrenalin high, nerve wracked and slightly guilt-ridden for feeling like I was letting Ruff McGruff down. But holy moly is a gun a friggin’ powerful machine. There’s just no way to fully appreciate the force and danger until you experience the noise, kick back and smoke when you fire the last bullet.
We took turns firing through a full magazine, reloading and then swapping spots. Her aim was pretty good, and mine a little better. I struck closer and closer to the ‘bullseye’ each time, until finally hitting spot on twice.
We didn’t stay long before moving on to more typical mother/daughter bonding activities—like lunch and tombstone hunting—but you can bet all the camouflage in that store that I showed off my bullseye to the dude in the lane next to me. Nothin’ like a pony tailed, 5’2” newbie’s success to yank the plug on your growing testosterone pool; and nothin’ like firing guns with your mom to celebrate living closer to home.