Matt stood there with that deer-in-the-headlights, oh-no look on his face. I stood facing him, arms akimbo and with the demeanor of a drill sergeant. It was Christmas and he was 7 years old. He had his new Red Rider BB gun shouldered, the muzzle of which was two inches from his now laughing little sister’s forehead. He had pumped up the BB gun and had delivered a poof of air to her forehead. He knew this was the death knell of his BB gun ownership.