I wanted my children to be afraid of the canister on my keys. I didn’t realize how well it would work

“I’m gonna die!”

The scream ripped through our tiny home, shattering the Saturday morning quiet. I dropped the dishrag and ran into the living room. Raylee’s face was covered in tears, his eyes squeezed shut and red welts spreading across his face. The pepper spray lay at his feet. He kept screaming, loud enough the neighbors could probably hear him.

Panicked, I called 911, my entire body shaking as I held him in my arms, trying to calm him and talk to the operator.

“Put him in the shower,” they said. “Rinse his face with cold water. An emergency crew is on the way.”

I had barely gotten him in the shower when they pounded on the door like a SWAT team on a takedown.

Raylee’s voice was shrill, terrified, screaming over and over, “I’m gonna die.”

I left him in the shower to let the EMTs inside. This is all my fault. He’s scared and hurting. I did this.

The irony of being shot with pepper spray wasn’t lost on me. Safety without guns. Guns are not my thing. My thing is clumsy and skittish, a scary movie watcher who doesn’t park in parking garages because every murder ever happens there! Except, I got a job in downtown Little Rock and parked in a parking garage every single day, life.

Toby wanted me to carry a handgun, but I said no. Honestly, whoever attacked me would probably kill me with my own gun. So, I carried pepper spray on my keyring—a bright yellow canister with a red button. When at home, keys were on a shelf high above curious hands. At least as high as a 5’ tall person coming home from work could comfortably reach.

More than once, both children asked me what the red button was for. And I told them, “It’s to kill bad guys. Do not touch it.”

I wanted them to be afraid of it. I wanted them to never, ever touch it.

This Saturday morning, my curious 4-year-old decided to push the red button.

The EMTs were in the bathroom with Raylee. They tried to soothe him while rinsing his face.

He was still screaming at the top of his lungs, “I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die!”

They kept calm, “You’re going to be okay, buddy. You’re not going to die.”

I stood in the doorway, feeling like the worst mother ever. After they finished and Raylee was wrapped in a bath towel, I held him in my arms while they packed their gear.

“How did he get pepper spray in his face?” they asked me.

I explained to them that I had told both children not to touch the pepper spray because it was to kill bad guys.

They laughed and left.

Even though I was scared to death, you should have seen Raylee’s face all scrunched… actually, you couldn’t see his face because his mouth was opened so wide while screaming.

It’s easy to weaponize fear, whether it’s to scare children away from strangers or to stop them from pressing a button. Sometimes it backfires because kids are curious.

I can laugh about it now.

The laughter stopped a week later. There was a knock at the door, not the urgent pounding of the EMTs, but the steady rap of a DHS investigator who basically interrogated me about how my son had gotten pepper sprayed.

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