My eight year-old daughter had never fired a (non-Nerf, non-water) gun before today. She’s expressed interest in shooting before, but she’s so petite that any standard or ‘youth model’ rifle was far too long for her to shoot even from a bench. I recently picked up an ATI VK-22, a mil-spec AR lower mated to a .22lr flattop upper, and we discovered that it fits her arms perfectly when the stock is fully collapsed. This morning I gave her the gun safety lecture for the umpteenth time and then hovered behind her as she diligently blasted tin cans at ten yards. And then the rifle’s bolt carrier tore itself to pieces.
Like a large segment of the population, I’m a divorced dad. Not by choice. But one of the things you learn in divorce is that you don’t always have a choice. This weekend was “visitation weekend,” that once- or twice-monthly ritual that single parents go through to see their kids, when they live a-ways away from their children. Because of the distances involved, that means a road trip, with a side order of kid involvement. Bring on the gun education!
