I am a girl

Yes, I am a girl.  I grew up playing dolls, cash register, and I LOVED my Barbies.  I have a vague memory of playing some sort of hero pretend game with my cousins.  I was vine women, because my squirt gun was green.  I tolerated the game.  Usually, the boys were good, and would let me play Barbie if I heroed up for a bit. He-Man and She-ra might have been the greatest toy invention.  My brother and I could play for hours.  In the end, I would find my dolls to dress.  Yes, I am a girl

So, there are things my boys do I don't understand.  I do not understand how or why the penis is a handle bar that must be held on to.  Don't get it, never will.  I know more about trucks and the types of trucks the I ever knew before or ever wanted to know.  It's a truck, does it matter what kind?  Apparently it does.  Heaven help me if kinds of cars matter someday.  

For the past year and a half I have been struggling with EVERYTHING being a gun.  I tried to stop it.  I has countless discussions about how awful guns are.  Deals were made.  Threats were made.  Begging was done.  Not matter what I said or did, guns appeared.  Those duplo blocks turned into guns.  Then of course we had yard stick guns, finger guns, pencil guns, toy drill guns, chair guns, and giraffe guns.  When the floor lamp turned into a gun, I knew for the sake of my house Santa could be given the green light to give a gun.  Happiness.  I felt great.  Now I had only one gun instead of countless guns to worry about.  Well, until February.  Then we discovered how to make a bigger gun with Legos.  The finger gun is always handy.  Even a set of gears somehow turned into a gun.  I have battled the issue.  The other day at lunch, I had no choice but to wave my serender flag.  Colton, the 2 year old, picked up his Cheeto and said, "Gun...bsh, bsh."  Really?  I don't understand.  Yes, I am a girl.