Some people have grandchildren, I have a grandgun

Some people have grandchildren. This year I became the grandparent of a grandgun. I now have a grandgun, a grandpug, and a grandcouch.
When three of my seven children married, I’m sorry, but I did not want to be a grandparent. For some reason, I had visions (come on, admit it, we all have visions of something sometime). For me, this vision came in the form of me using a walker, wearing dentures. This flash of myself turned me off so badly, that an even worse thought followed, "If this thought turns me off so badly about myself, what might others think of me?" Because of this, all thoughts of grandparenthood went out the window, including visions of huge Thanksgiving dinners with countless nubmers of people running through my house breaking everything in sight. No, I was not ready for this geriatric step down yet.
However, like everything else they've ever done with their lives, the choice for being a parent would belong to my children, so as any good, eternally hostaged, bound and gagged mother, I pondered all of these things in my heart and kept my mouth shut.
But, lo and behold, much to my nongrandparenthood surprise, my children and I, for once, agreed. My children weren’t too excited to have children either! Was this because they had been a child of me, knew what it was like and couldn't imagine being a child of them?
Well, shortly after my son married his wife, they became the owner/parent of the cutest little pug you ever did see. In fact, I’ll bet my one hundred dollar bounced check against your penny any time that my pug is cuter than your pug. I even have the bumper sticker to prove it. So, I told my son and his wife to get me a wallet-sized picture of that darling little Daja for my brag book, and I crowned myself with my first jewel of grandmotherhood. How very multi-group satisfying this experience was.
Then my second child, my daughter got married. And shortly after she and her husband married, they bought the most genius-looking couches you've ever seen. How smart did that full-length couch and love seat look. And they were a set: Twins, in fact, made of the most excellent looking fake suede. So intelligent-looking were they that I yearned for a license plate frame that stated, Proud grandparent of a straight-A couch.
Then, last Christmas, the phone rang. Before I could even say hello, my newly married daughter blurted out, “Mom, guess what? Randy (her new husband) got me a twenty-two caliber gun for Christmas!” Her husband believes everyone should own a gun, and I do too: Everyone, except this daughter… and me. “Well,” I responded, “If I ever ask to borrow it, DON’T GIVE IN! I repeat, DO NOT LET ME EVER BORROW THAT GUN!” I mean I love peace and goodwill towards man, until no one cleans the house for three days straight.
And now, suddenly, I have a whole new different vision of life. Like the other day, I saw on the news that a guy was shot while walking along the local highway, so I emailed my daughter, “You didn’t happen to shoot that guy on the highway last night, did you? Just wondering, Mom.” I mean, I’ve never really grasped the idea of where real sanity ends and genuine insanity begins (what's even scarier is that not one professional in the field of sanity vs. insanity understands this either), so I’m left to wonder along with them. And then I wonder, what next? Hmm, maybe a grand…