Despite my best efforts to limit my son’s television viewing to the Disney Channel and PBS Kids, he started pointing sticks at people and making shooting sounds before he could talk. As he grew older, he chose particular sticks to be his “bammers.” He created toy guns for himself before he even learned the word “gun.”

This year for Christmas he had only one request: a marshmallow shooting gun. Apparently, the two soft suction dart guns he received for his third birthday do not make a sufficient arsenal.

I try to hide any toy catalogs when I bring in the mail, but my son intercepts me before I can sneak them into the garbage or my secret Christmas shopping pile. He skips over the pink “girl” pages and heads straight for the shooting devices – rockets, guns and slingshot contraptions. I was becoming concerned that somehow Sara the Pacifist had managed to produce a war-mongering, future ballistic missile expert. But on Saturday night, when we had dinner with some friends and their 2-and-a-half-year-old son, I made a comforting observation.

Of all the toys my son has to share, it was the Nerf dart gun that captivated the boy’s attention. He spent all evening aiming and firing, stopping only when my son demanded a turn.

I breathed a sigh of relief. My son is no different than every other little boy. Apparently, they are all bloodthirsty little creatures.

This week I saw a commercial for the holiday classic, “A Christmas Story,” in which Ralphie dreams of getting a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas. The poor child is tormented by nightmares of his mother’s voice screeching, “You’ll shoot your eye out!” – a phrase that was repeated by his teacher when he wrote an essay about Red Ryder at school.

My son’s letter to Santa was a 3-year-old’s version of Ralphie’s essay. He made sure his letter made two things very clear: He has been a good boy, and he wants a marshmallow shooting gun.

For good measure, he also insisted I help him draw a picture of Santa holding a marshmallow shooting gun. The Santa I drew while guiding my son’s hand looks a lot like a guy in a Santa suit holding an oozy – more a bank robber than Old Saint Nick. It was a little menacing. My son was very impressed.

As disturbing as it is to be repeatedly shot at on a daily basis, I find solace in the knowledge that all mothers of little boys become experts at playing dead. Hearing Ralphie’s mother screech, “You’ll shoot your eye out” makes me feel a little less alone. I’m not the first mother to worry about my son’s interest in guns, and I won’t be the last.

Just as I find little foam darts behind chairs and under beds, I will soon be finding dried marshmallow corpses in every nook and cranny of the house. I suppose a BB gun will appear on my son’s Christmas wish list someday.

Thankfully, I won’t be repeating the dreaded “You’ll shoot your eye out” just yet. I’ve never heard of anyone being blinded by a high-trajectory marshmallow.

Sara Frederick lives and writes in Lewistown. An archive of The Sara Beth Times is available online at www.sarabethtimes.com.