So, I talked Hubs into taking Edinor with him out to the gun range the last time he had training.
I was supposed to go, too, but alas, I had the children that day, so it was a no-go. Darn. Husband keeps thinking if I spend more time out there, I won’t flinch like a giant baby when I look at his duty weapon. Ha! Little does he know, the pansy is fierce in this one. (Actually, we’ve been together for sixteen years in a month or so, so I think he’s seen the light. He is the mighty protector. I, uh, am not.)
In any case, I find it amusing that Husband has no qualms about taking a stuffed Tyrannosaur out to the gun range and snapping pictures, but he refused to have her wear bling. Tiny daughter and Husband are ganging up on me, I think. What’s with this lack of bling? And why shouldn’t a stuffed Tyrannosaur be bedecked in jewels? I’d want to be fully blinged if I were a stuffed Tyrannosaur that paraded around in a dress. After all, they have big heads and small arms. They have to compensate for that somehow, right?
Um, yeah.I don’t know where that came from, either.
So, without further ado, a series of pictures I’ll call: Little arms. Big Guns.
It’s almost as if she’s saying, “Nuuuh, nuuuh. Darn it, I can’t reach!”
(And no, Hubs is not as shameless as I am. I would’ve asked the boys to pose with the dinosaur.)