I know this probably sounds strange, but one of the most profound moments of my entire Christmas season happened while I was in the kitchen, making candy.

I make a mean peppermint bark. It’s basically crushed peppermint candies mixed into melted white chocolate, then broken into chunks after being spread out and cooled. I also add dark chocolate drizzle or chopped Andes mint candies to mine, because who doesn’t like a little extra chocolate with their chocolate?

In years past, I delegated the candy-crushing to my husband. Those little round Starlight mints are very difficult to break, and Donnie, with his greater upper-body strength, could always accomplish the task in no time.

But last week, Donnie wasn’t home and our guests were due to arrive any minute. I had no choice but to handle the pulverizing myself.

I placed the candies in a zip-top bag, and smacked it a few times with my heavy rolling pin. It barely flaked the edges off a couple of the mints. So I tried rolling the pin over the bag, pressing hard, and still—nothing. I realized that if this candy was going to be made, I had to mimic my husband’s actions and really put some muscle behind it.

So I did. I slammed that rolling pin as hard as I could onto one of the candies and watched it shatter into a hundred tiny bits. Then I moved to another, and another, and suddenly, it felt very satisfying, like doing something deliciously wrong.

And that’s when an experience at a therapist’s office came to mind. Years ago, while my husband was deployed to Iraq, I saw a therapist to help me through the experience. Next to her sofa was a basket of foam baseball bats. I asked what they were for, and learned that they were useful for venting anger; clients could use them to hit the sofa pillows to let out their angry feelings.

I laughed. I told her that I could not imagine doing that, or even needing to do that. It seemed so barbaric. She just smiled her quiet smile and said, “Perhaps that’s a sign that you, more than others, might actually need to do it.” And I thought her response perhaps indicated that I wasn’t the crazy person in the room.

But last week, as I smashed that candy, something clicked. And I knew exactly why she thought I needed a little “bat therapy.’ I also wondered why it took me 43 years to figure this out.

I began to put faces and feelings onto those mints. Bam! That is for the person who totally used me. Slam! That’s for the relative who is rude to my two-year-old because he doesn’t behave like she thinks he should. Crash! That is for the extreme poverty that is hurting my friend. Smash! For the person who lied about my family.

Oh, it felt so stinking good.

And that was the finest, most gloriously crushed peppermint I’d ever worked with—by the time I was done venting, some of those red and white chunks were reduced to pure powder. The resulting candy was probably the best-tasting batch I’d ever made.

I already run a small side business making birthday cakes. Maybe I’ll add a candy component to it as well: Kari’s Krushing Kandies, featuring Powerfully Pummeled Peppermint Perfection, or P4 for short.

Just know that if I ever show up smiling like a Cheshire cat, bearing a bag of P4—you’ll know it’s been a rough week.

Maybe making peppermint bark is the secret to world peace? Because if more people found positive ways to vent their anger, they wouldn’t have to hurt each other.

Thank God for my kids and the Christmas gift they inadvertently gave me. If it hadn’t been for their friends coming over, I wouldn’t have been rushing to make candy on short notice. And who knows how much longer this woman, who was raised to believe that nice girls didn’t act out, would’ve missed out on the delicious, peace-bringing release of physically venting negativity.

‘Tis just before Christmas, and here in my house

I hurry and scurry, like a fat little mouse.

The stockings are hung by the chimney, but bare—

Oh where did I put what I bought to go there?

The gifts are in hiding, all still unwrapped

Though I’ve worked my tail off and wish I could nap.

I’m a cleaner, a chef, a crafter and baker

Like all busy moms, I’m the Christmas-dream-maker.

But I’ve fallen behind, fear it won’t all get done

For I’m just one woman—not three, two, but one.

And I sadly display my most dreadful old trait:

I oft wait to do things ‘til I’m running quite late.

And this makes me crabby, my spirit not bubbly,

I’m scolding my kids and nagging my hubby.

For I need their help, but they’ve no time to spare,

They’re driving me crazy, I’m pulling my hair.

The tree’s still half-naked, there’s no wreath on the door

There are toys and clutter strewn all on the floor,

The bathroom is grimy, the dust bunnies run free

The laundry’s in piles straight up to my knee.

The Christmas dinner menu has not yet been planned,

And devoid of a manicure are my tired, old hands.

I haven’t yet thought of what I’m going to wear

Or what I might decide to do with my hair.

I still need to clean, to dust and to sweep,

To scour and scrub and oh yeah—to sleep.

But slumber’s for sissies and there’s no time for that.

I’ll have to rest vicariously through Max, my cat.

And I can’t help but question, as I do every year

Why I procrastinate, which kills all my cheer?

It’s not like the holidays show up by surprise—

I know that they’re coming, this I realize!

But yet I still behave like I had no real clue

Of the stress of December and all I must do.

I know it’s coming, I know what it requires

I shouldn’t act like I have unlimited hours.

But you know, when it comes to the end of the day

When Santa’s already zoomed in on his sleigh,

I forget all the craziness of the days before

And marvel and wonder at all that’s in store.

The best part of Christmas is seeing my boys

Smiling and laughing and playing with toys.

Reliving the magic from a child’s point of view

Is the most fun thing any adult can ever do.

And that joy is what’s remembered, for sure

I won’t recall all of the strife we’ve endured

No one will think about that dinner I cooked,

Or worry over how clean our little house looked.

Christmas isn’t about making perfection renewed

It’s not about the presents, the tree or the food.

But it’s about faith, and family and love

And a sweet little Baby sent down from above.

I tell myself that, sometimes minute-by-minute

As I look toward that day and the joy within it.

Because the spirit of Christmas will come and stay,

Nothing on Earth can ever keep it away.

After basking, at last, in that warm Christmas cheer

Comes a week full of peace that I always hold dear.

Beyond the festivities, a sweet time to rest

While the kids are lost deep in their toy chest.

Come Monday morning I’ll exclaim aloud

To lingering relatives and folks who still crowd,

“Go spend your gift cards, take off to the mall,

And dash away, dash away, dash away all!”

Then I’ll pick up the paper, the gift bags and bows

I’ll plop down, relax and prop up my toes.

And I might just crawl back to my flannel-sheet bed

To start resting up for the long winter ahead.

And now as I bring this work to a close

I thank you, dear readers, for heaven knows

How grateful I am for each one of you

Your support, your love, your feedback, too.

Before I go, one last thing I must say

As we rush ever closer to the holiday—

Merry Christmas to all, draw your loved ones near.

May God bless you and give you a Happy New Year.

As I prepare to celebrate Christmas, I’m noticing that this December feels different. It mostly looks the same, in that we’ve been attending parties and drinking eggnog and cuddling up with the kids to watch our favorite Christmas movies. Most of our traditions remain intact—except for the one where we go crazy buying presents for people who already have everything they need. My kids will still have presents to open Christmas morning, of course. But the chased-after extravagance of years past is something I no longer wish to pursue.

This year, I’ve become acquainted with poverty like never before. I knew that 80% of the world’s population lives on less than $10 a day. I’ve read that there are 163 million orphans in the world. But over the summer, two reality checks barged into my comfortable little life and shook me to the core. One was Compassion International, a great organization that works to alleviate poverty worldwide. The other is Pastor Ronald, a Ugandan man I’m now blessed to call my friend.

The orphan crisis in Uganda is shocking. Google it, and put a face to it by visiting Pastor Ronald’s Blood of Jesus Ministries website at www.bojmu.org. This primary school teacher and his wife have taken in 25 children, formed a makeshift orphanage and greatly struggle to keep everyone clothed and fed.

Yet when you see pictures of them, their wide smiles and bright eyes radiate a joy that is rarely seen on American faces.

It puts me to shame.

And as an aside, that’s why I’ve been so annoyed by this whole “Occupy” movement. Those miserable-faced people sitting around whining have no clue about how blessed they are. No clue at all. They moan about being the 99%, when the reality is that compared to the rest of the world, they are also part of the wealthiest 1%.

Wouldn’t their passion be better spent on actually helping somebody in need? I want to shake them and say, “Go dig some wells in Africa. Feed street children eating out of landfills in Cambodia. Do something instead of trashing public property and whining about how bad you’ve got it! Because even in your self-made, dirty tent cities, you are living in freaking luxury compared to the real 99% of the world.”

The Occupiers don’t have to be there—they can pack up and return home. If they struggle to find a job, our country has an infrastructure to help support them. The real 99% of the world live without these options. And there are so few of us wiling to give up our pursuit of comfort and entertainment long enough to even care.

I spent most of my life in that category of people. As a teen, I overheard a respected pastor comment on organizations that help the very poor. He said he never contributed to them because the plight of the impoverished was the result of corrupt governments, and his donation couldn’t fix that.

I subconsciously internalized his opinion, and kept my eyes shut to this particular reality until God forced them open last summer. Now, poverty has a face, many faces, all equally precious. Now I know about Haawa, and her desire to become a doctor so she can help the suffering of her people. I know that Tony is an outstanding student with big dreams of a better life. And I’ve been personally prayed for by sweet little Violet—imagine how humbling that feels, to know an orphan is praying for you. And because of what I know, I can’t just nonchalantly blow $5 on a latte when I know that money could provide 50 cups of cooked rice to fill their bellies.

So that is why this Christmas is different. The holiday has always been about giving, but like Ebenezer Scrooge, I’ve seen the truth about myself and am compelled to make my giving truly count for something.

I keep thinking of another favorite reformed holiday villain. “And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?”

Every morning in December, I enjoy a laugh as I look out my front window and see our 8-foot-tall inflatable Santa flattened on the ground. It’s just so funny to see the jolly old man face-planted in the dirt, quite realistically reflecting the way I feel at the end of every December day—totally, utterly deflated.

All this merry-making is exhausting, don’t you know?

Decorating my yard with an assortment of giant inflatable Christmas characters isn’t quite my first choice in holiday décor. If I had it my way, the house would be elegantly trimmed in white lights, draped in real evergreen garlands entwined with yards of lustrous ribbon, accented with oversized, antiqued ornaments. My front porch would feature topiaries in urns, with sparkly baubles on their branches; my front door’s wreath would project an equally beautiful grace.

But a couple of years ago, my father-in-law gave us several blow-up lawn characters, and my children love them. They simply adore them. So how can I say “no” to their annual pleas to blow them up? Zach and Eli engage in great debate every year over which ones we’ll display—because even though I can’t say “no,” I can’t bring myself to allow all of them to appear at once.

This year, Santa, Snoopy, and a snowman snow globe won. I guess they are kind of cute, in a kitschy sort of way.

Of course, it’s rather hypocritical of me to call those lawn ornaments kitschy after doing what I did to my outside refrigerator. Yes, like all proper middle-class Southerners, we have an outside fridge parked on our carport. Most call it the beer fridge, and ours has occasionally hosted an adult beverage or two. This extra refrigerator came with the house, and the main reason we kept it is that I wanted the freezer space for stocking up on groceries at case lot sales at the Fort Gillem commissary.

But now the commissary is closed, and I can’t afford to stock up anyway, so except for when we fill it with leftovers at the holidays, our “beer fridge” usually sits empty.

Enter Pinterest.com, also known as “Crack for Crafters.” I would say go there at once, request an invitation to join, and dive right in. But for anyone with even one creative gene, Pinterest proves highly addictive. I’ve already led too many friends astray down that burlap-strewn, glitter-sprinkled, creatively destructive path. Perhaps someone will start a 12-step group for us soon.

When I saw the refrigerator snowman on Pinterest, I just had to make one for myself—immediately, if not sooner. I originally planned to decorate the fridge in my kitchen, but then I recalled the wisdom of choosing my battles as a mother. It’s hard enough to keep the toddler-boy away from the Christmas tree; I knew Jonah would dismantle my snowman daily if he had easy access to it.

Anyhow, even the most craft-impaired can manage this project. Simply cut the snowman’s features from colored cardstock and apply them with masking tape. The whole thing takes about 30 minutes. You could decorate any solid white door in this manner for a quick, festive accent. I even saw someone make smaller snowman features and apply them to alternating white kitchen cabinet doors—not that I would have the time or patience for that.

So if, like many of us with kids at home, you find your Christmas décor trending more towards kitschy than elegant, maybe add a Frosty the Fridge to your home this December. He coordinates ever so well with an eight-foot Santa and friends.

And speaking of friends, while I might sometimes yearn for a more elegant holiday decorating scheme, our crazy, colorful décor always makes people smile. And even I can admit that smiles and laughter are worth much more than quiet nods of stylish approval.

Last week, I told you guys that post-holiday depression was something I didn’t get this year. I was too busy enjoying my week of downtime to worry about the holidays being over.

It was true when I wrote it. But, as is often the case, whenever I say something hasn’t affected me, darn if Murphy’s Law doesn’t sneak up and smack me with it when I’m not looking. My mood has bottomed out this week, so please forgive me if this column reminds you of Winnie the Pooh’s clinically depressed donkey friend, Eeyore, moaning his way through the Hundred Acre Wood.

The fact that I emerged from the holidays more closely resembling Eeyore’s pudgy self isn’t helping matters one bit.

Because this week, it’s back to normal life. The relatives have all gone home and my husband is back at work. The kids and I have resumed our homeschooling, with all its ups and downs. The leftovers are gone, so it’s time to start that diet again and figure out where to fit in the exercise I ignored the past two months.

Whee—a diet! Exercise—how delightfully sweaty. I can hardly wait to embrace thee.

The calendar blatantly shouts that it’s January, but I just don’t feel like it should be yet. I don’t particularly enjoy the way time speeds up with each passing year, and I’m just old and crabby enough to grumble about it.

I feel like my brain’s an obese pole vaulter, standing there trying to figure out how to heave itself over the bar into the New Year and it simply doesn’t want to attempt the leap.

Because winter break wasn’t long enough—it can’t have been, because I’m still tired.

I want to throw an old-fashioned tantrum, demanding another week of chilling out with my Barnes and Noble Nookbooks and a cup of peppermint mocha. But I know that is not going to happen.

Maybe I’ll feel better when the Christmas tree is finally put away? I had a harebrained idea to leave it up an extra week to celebrate one final Christmas event, a traditional Ukrainian Christmas Eve meal on January 6th. I know that probably sounds strange, but that’s how we homeschooling moms roll. We’re constantly on the lookout for opportunities to create living lessons.

I chose this event because it honors the memory of my grandparents and introduces the kids to part of their heritage. My grandfather’s parents were Austrian-Ukrainian immigrants and January 7th is when the Orthodox Church celebrates Christmas. We’ve never marked the occasion with a meal before, but in my crazy, Martha-Stewart-ish pre-holiday state of mind, cooking yet another huge family meal sounded like a fun idea.

Tradition states that 12 dishes are to be served, to represent Jesus’ 12 apostles. A kolach, or braided bread crown, serves as the centerpiece of the meal and represents eternal life. Other dishes include beet soup, or borscht, varenyky – potato filled dumplings – a fish course, cabbage rolls and sauerkraut.

Ahh, can’t you just see my sons’ faces beaming with pure delight when I tell them they’re having sauerkraut, cabbage and beets, all in one dinner? Maybe the traditional jelly doughnuts for dessert will make up for it.

We’ll see how it goes before deciding whether to give this event a permanent place in our holiday lineup. Maybe it’ll be fun extending Christmas, or maybe I’ll find I’d much rather just put it all away on New Year’s day and call it done.

My wish for the New Year is simple: that my money, time and energy would extend enough to cover the demands of my to-do list. At the moment, it feels like that’s not as simple as it sounds.

But as I tell my kids, moping and whining isn’t going to get me anywhere, and heaven knows they’re looking to me, as always, to set the tone for our family.

So as moms everywhere have done for ages, it’s time to be the grown-up and quit pouting. I need to give myself a swift kick in the pants, and pray for grace as I grab my family’s hands and we all jump into 2011, together.

I read an article yesterday about conquering post-holiday depression. Seems like quite a few folks suffer from a real sense of letdown after the big Christmas celebrations are over.

Psychologists attribute this to several causes, including the abrupt ending of the festive atmosphere leading up to Christmas. Other factors include a “morning after” realization that one has spent too much money, eaten or drank too much. Some attribute it to getting back to normal, when the extended family goes back home and everything is quiet once more.

Then again, I could hand you a list of people whose favorite part of Christmas is dropping their relatives off at the airport.

I feel bad for people struggling with depression this week, but honestly? I am about as far from depressed as one can be at the moment. I’d even call this feeling elated if it wasn’t so darn peaceful.

Last week was fun, but I have to tell you: this week is one of my favorite times of the year.

Is that a sign of growing older? I don’t know. All I know is that as our family has grown, each year has become busier than the last, and it all tops off with an amazingly hectic holiday season. So this last, low-key week of the year feels like my real Christmas present.

Because there’s nothing to do. How amazing to have nothing to do! I awoke on December 26th five pounds heavier but feeling ten pounds lighter because all the craziness was over. Another fun, delightful, busy Christmas was behind us. The kids were occupying themselves with their new toys, and the fridge was full of yummy leftovers. I didn’t have to worry about cooking anything, and the fact that we enjoyed an unexpected snow day just made slothfulness all the more appealing.

I slept in til noon, had leftover breakfast casserole and fruit salad for brunch, then goofed off for a few hours before taking a long, late-afternoon nap with the baby. We microwaved leftovers for dinner, and I didn’t bother getting dressed all day long.

Yeah, I must be getting older because spending the whole day in my pajamas is pretty much my current definition of heaven.

Monday was basically a repeat of Sunday, and I hope to squeeze another lazy day into this beautifully blank week. There is no schoolwork. No practices, meetings or rehearsals. The house is still relatively clean and I get to enjoy my Christmas tree without feeling guilty for taking the time to just sit there and look at it—something I barely had a moment for leading up to the holiday.

Nobody’s expecting me to start a new diet program yet. So I can kick back with the remaining peppermint bark and read a magazine. Or I might get really crazy and read a whole book. I’m almost afraid to say it, but that old friend, Boredom, might decide to visit at some point, and I actually look forward to his arrival. Because I haven’t seen the ol’ chap since I first became a mom almost 13 years ago.

Seriously – how can any busy mom not love this week?

The article I read about post-holiday depression suggested exercising to make yourself feel better. Hey, endorphins are pretty awesome and if you’re up to it, go for it. As for me, I don’t plan to lift more than the baby, or walk farther than the length of my house until January 2nd.

Because then it will be time for dieting, and fitness, and back-to-school. And meetings and practices and classes and all the other things that keep us moms on overdrive 51 weeks of the year.

I say we’ve earned this week of downtime, and I for one, am taking full advantage of it. Won’t you put on your softest, warmest pajamas, grab a mug of hot chocolate and join me?

And don’t you dare skimp on the marshmallows!

1. First, we have a picture of Zach and some friends at our annual gingerbread house decorating party. It’s become a fun tradition that we all look forward to. Donnie says that next year, we’ll have a contest for the best house, to keep the boys decorating a bit longer. Zach’s “tent” was especially minimalist, but the boys were anxious to go play football on the front lawn!

2. A collage of pictures from an insanely crazy photo shoot, trying to capture one of Jonah for the 2011 photo calendars I make every year for the grandmothers and myself. I especially love the one of his big ol’ foot! (Definitely click on this one to see it bigger!)

3. Another collage I made to share on Facebook. Man, I love these boys!

4. The night before Christmas, when the boys got their annual gift of new pajamas before bed. I think they were probably praying that it wouldn’t be pajamas…

But, they were good sports about it when they discovered it was indeed, new PJs!

5. Zach and Eli attack the stack under the tree. I love Eli’s expression. I am the one in fluffy pinkness behind him. That is about all you will see of me first thing Christmas morning!

6. I thought Jonah would really have fun this Christmas, but he was pretty much unimpressed by the whole thing. Just give him a bottle and let him be. He did enjoy the boxes, wrapping paper and bows, though!

And he did enjoy digging stuff out of his stocking…

7. Now the fun part: the videos! The first one is of them unwrapping their most wished-for gifts:

Christmas Morning 2010 from Kari Apted on Vimeo.

And then, we tricked them. We’d wrapped that big box and told them it was there to block Jonah’s access to the tree (and it did work just beautifully for that!). But little did they know it held the gift I’d convinced them they were not getting, the one they wanted most of all: Kinect for the Xbox 360!

Untitled from Kari Apted on Vimeo.

8. Then it was time to get started on Christmas dinner. What is this creature on my stovetop?

Did you have any idea brussels sprouts grew this way? I didn’t til I saw this stalk of them at Trader Joe’s. And then I had to have it. (And they were good, by the way!)

9. Here is something you rarely see in this neck of the woods: icicles at Christmastime! We had a bit of a white Christmas and the snow was so beautiful…while it lasted!

10. And finally, our inflatable Santa the morning after. Pretty much depicts how I felt, too!

To see more Top Ten Tuesday lists, and to make your own, visit Amanda!

The following year, my big boy was almost two!

And we had our first family portrait taken together!

Now, before I say another word about that, if you are a relative of mine, don’t automatically assume I’m talking about you. Chances are, I’m not. And even if I am, you’ll never know it. So just go ahead and tell yourself, “She’s not talking about me. She’s talking about those other crazies, those nuttiest of nutbars on the other side of the family.”

Now that I’ve added that disclaimer, I will say that I believe that in many instances, the above sentiment is true. How grateful I am for God’s gift of friendship.

Today, I got to enjoy this gift by hosting my kids’ annual gingerbread house decorating party. We invite a handful of friends over to decorate psuedo-gingerbread houses made of graham crackers and it’s a lot of fun. Today the kids ended up playing football on the front yard most of the afternoon. Our party has grown a little each year, and if it grows any more, we’re going to have to get a bigger house.

Which would be really cool in and of itself, but I digress.

I have to be honest: part of me has been dreading this Christmas. I’m not usually like that, but (without going into detail) some issues with extended family members have cropped up, and all the “not-knowing” how it’s going to turn out was stressing me out, in a really big way.

Because I just don’t do conflict. I hate it. When I was seeing a counselor, during Donnie’s deployment to Iraq, I asked her about the basket full of foam baseball bats that sat next to the sofa in her office. When she told me they were for clients to use while working out their anger, I laughed. I told her I just couldn’t imagine needing to whack something with a foam bat to express anger.

She said that was probably proof that I, more than most, needed to do just that.

Hmph. I’m still pondering that one.

Anyhow, I won’t lie — the stress this December killed my joy. Just killed it. I kept trying to resurrect it, for the kids’ sake. Because that’s what we mamas do. We “fake it til we make it” because we want our kids to have childhoods full of happy memories. We want to make everything good for them.

But my heart was so not into the holiday planning. It just felt like work, tons of work, and for what? Did anyone even notice or care what goes into being a “happy” hostess through the holidays? I didn’t believe they did.

But today, I was reminded that it really doesn’t matter. What matters at Christmas is that God shows up.

He showed up 2000 years ago in a manger. And He showed up in my kitchen today.

And like the Grinch — his heart and mine about three sizes too small before God filled ‘em up — tonight mine feels ready to burst out of my chest. And it’s all because some sweet, wonderful ladies came into my home and made me laugh. They listened, and talked, and ate and giggled, and loved.

And as I lay beside my baby Jonah tonight, nursing him to sleep, I couldn’t help but cry from gratitude over the the precious peace I received today. By opening my home, I opened the door to my Christmas gift. If I get nothing else this Christmas, I am content. I feared that family tensions would ruin Christmas for me — and who knows, by Saturday night, that just might be my report. But I’m ready to face it now, I’m ready to take what comes, with grace and with strength.

All because my dear, dear friends came and brought to me the gift of God’s love, wrapped up with a smile, and they left it here. That spirit I sought for, longed for, but couldn’t claim for myself? I still feel it surrounding me, like a warm, minky blanket.

Oh, how I thank God for the blessing of friends.

How do you know there are boys in the house? When weapons top the list of wished-for Christmas toys. A few years ago, I wrote about how we were living with a reincarnated Ralphie, the star of the classic movie “A Christmas Story”. But instead of Ralphie’s requests for an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle, we were pelted with pleas for the N-Strike Longshot CS-6, a Nerf dart gun as long as my son Eli was tall.

My mother-in-law indulged her grandsons with those special Nerf guns, and it ended up being a good purchase. Unlike most toys, they’re still played with today, and other varieties have been added to their arsenal through the years. Ralphie is back this year, as my third-grader, Eli, has the newest see-through Nerf rifle on his Christmas wish list. And my seventh-grader, Zach, is asking for more advanced weaponry: an Airsoft gun.

For the uninitiated, Airsoft guns are similar to the weapons used in paintball games but without the paint. They’re the modern version of Ralphie’s BB gun, and shoot plastic pellets at medium to low velocity. They look an awful lot like real guns, which makes some parents a little leery of them.

Zach was introduced to Airsoft guns over the summer at a friend’s birthday party where a group of young teens got together in a huge field and played war games directed by the boy’s father. Zach had so much fun that he is asking for the same type of party to celebrate becoming a teenager next month. I still don’t know if he’s going to have an Airsoft party, or even if he’ll find a gun under the tree, but I know it would thrill him to receive one.

I don’t have any personal objection to kids playing with toy guns. That’s probably not very politically correct, but I’m not exactly the most PC person on the planet. As a retired Army sergeant’s wife, and the mom of three boys, two of whom really hope to serve in the military someday, we have a healthy respect for firearms.

Both my boys will be taking marksmanship classes next year as part of their homeschooler’s 4H group, and my husband will help coach them. After last week’s incident at Ingles on Salem Road, I’m thinking I might like to learn how to shoot a gun myself.

If you somehow missed the news, a shopper was robbed at knifepoint at 8:00 at night while getting out of his car at Ingles. The criminals didn’t realize they’d targeted someone with a handgun and a concealed carry permit. One of the perpetrators died almost instantly from a gunshot to the head. The other criminal fled from the scene, and last I heard, they still hadn’t found him.

I hate hearing about anyone dying, because criminal or not, that was somebody’s son, somebody’s brother. But I can’t deny a feeling of justice being served when the criminal becomes the victim. And as someone who often shops alone in the evenings, in a community seemingly more rampant with crime with each passing week, I’d like to know that I could defend myself and my children similarly if I had to.

Of course, anyone who robs me will be sorely disappointed. Hopefully my clunker of a minivan would clue them in on that before they dared approach me. I rarely carry cash, have no credit cards, and if it’s before payday, you’d be lucky to find enough on my debit card to buy a loaf of bread. Even the vast majority of my jewelry is fake.

Still, I might just add a girly little handgun and shooting lessons to my Christmas list.

I never really thought I’d say that, despite being the only girl in a house full of guys. It isn’t too often that their overwhelming “male-ness” rubs off on me, and guns were their domain. But these days, in this neck of the woods, Mama Bear might need to consider getting a little more ammunition to defend her cubs some day.