Our Little Squirt

Squirt gun.
It was the first break in the arms embargo at our house. When my son was little, he was told that there would be no guns in our house, toy or otherwise. Which was not my personal edict, but one that I acknowledged was probably a worthwhile bit of prohibition in the raising of a child in Oakland, California.
Not that I didn't have my share of squirt guns as a kid. On the first warm day of spring, the neighborhood would troop as a mass to the nearest five and dime to arm ourselves for what would be a long, hot summer. Models that scream out of that haze of memory include a clear blue plastic replica of a Luger. Not much in the way of soaking potential, but deadly cool looking and wasn't that really the point? The other one that made a lasting impression was the sub-machine gun, which was even cooler for two main reasons: It held a boatload of water in its hollow stock and came in matte black. This was the real deal, the squirt gun that could easily make the transition to playing war games once the leaves began to fall and water play was discouraged.
Each year there were attempts to get us to try some new apparatus designed to drench one another. Wham-O's Water Weenie was one of these. The Weenie delivered on its claim to shoot water amazing distances and have a name that made it instantly impossible to discuss with its target demographic. Because the truth was if we were going to go the route of not having a gun, we could opt for the heavy artillery like the hose, or the deadly charm of a water balloon all tied off and tossed directly at the intended target.
Fast forward to the battery-powered Entertech squirt gun I had in college that made no attempt whatsoever to distinguish it from a real automatic weapon. With exchangeable clips and shoulder strap, this was the water weapon I had dreamed of as a kid. A younger kid.
But when it came time to toss water at one another once I was a father, I was stuck with that moral conundrum. And when the rainbow colored Super Soaker series hit the market, suddenly my wife's resolve faded. Everyone had them. Everyone wanted them. Even my son. And so the ban was lifted, and we spent the next six or seven years buying whatever new and more efficient way of delivering blasts of wet to victims suspecting and otherwise. Eventually, each one of these would live out its useful life and then was stuck in a barrel we left in the garage. Perhaps we hoped that we would eventually find the time and patience to rehabilitate them, but when May arrived, we knew where we were headed. Not to the garage. We were going out to buy a new squirt gun.