The words "Watch this," when uttered on the Fourth of July, never bode well for those involved. Especially if those people have some of my husband's DNA.
Yesterday I caught my son walking upstairs with some duct tape. This generally means he has broken something or is going to duct-tape his sister's mouth shut. Neither possibility appeals to me, so I asked him what he was doing, where he was going, what did he need the duct tape for and why did he cause me to have a C-section 14 years ago?
He said he was building something.
Building something. Mmm hmm. Since I was fairly certain we'd gotten rid of all our plutonium, I figured that whatever he was building was probably harmless.
Later I saw him come downstairs with a bundle he was attempting to hide behind his back. Mothers are given the ability to see behind backs for just this very reason. Teenage boys are notorious for trying to hide things from their mothers because they know that whatever it is they are doing is going to raise their insurance premiums or cause them another ER visit.
me: "What do you have there?"
"Nothing."
me: "Wow, 'nothing' sure is taking up a lot of space. Now what is it?"
"Just some duct tape."
me: "Mmm hmmm. What's under the duct tape?"
"Sparklers."
me: "Sparklers?"
"Yeah."
me: "How many?"
"About 20" (which in boy-speak means somewhere between 20 and 3,000).
me: "Why?"
"I made a sparkler bomb."
The word "sparkler" didn't faze me. We've all played with them as children, waving them around, writing our names on dark nights in July. It was the word "bomb" that got my attention. My son was in possession of something he called a bomb. Plus, he is carrying around the double helixes of DNA contributed by my husband. That's two strikes against him.
I immediately called for my husband, which is what I normally do when our son is doing something I'm quite certain my husband has done or has attempted to do in his life. Meanwhile, my son is giving me the Rolling Of The Eyes, the Big Heaving Sigh and the ever-so-popular Why Do You Have To Know Everything I Do look.
"Mom, it's not going to explode!"
me: "Then why are you calling it a bomb?"
"Cuz I'm going to light it."
me: "And then it will explode."
"No, I don't know what it's going to do. It's kind of like an experiment."
me: "Riiiiight. So now you're a scientist. Sparklers, under pressure and lit up. I don't like it."
"You don't like anything."
He had me there. He's right. There's nothing I like. Nope, nothing. I ceased liking anything about the time my children learned to speak well enough to contradict me.
The reason for this is that I know my husband's Fourth of July history. Since our son is a carbon copy of his father, I know that there is much stupidity around explosive devices in his future. I am on the front lines here, to protect and serve. And to hand him over to his father so he can listen to his horror stories about what not to do with fire.
One Fourth of July my husband and his cousin Mark planted an M80 or M-something in a newly deposited pile of dog excrement. The fuse was lit, my husband realized it was a short fuse and yelled "RUN!" Hubby's cousin, instead of running the other way, turned in to the pile of dog doo just in time to see it explode and shower his face with ... well, you know. Another time he and his cousin (male, of course, like you didn't suspect that already) were having a war with bottle rockets. They lit them, aimed them at each other and fired. My husband won when he landed an exploding rocket into the nylon jacket his cousin was wearing at the time. The scars are still visible.
You can see that my son comes by this naturally. He really doesn't have much of a say in whether or not he does stooooopid male things with matches and exploding items. I'm just here to see if I can help him keep most of his fingers and/or limbs till he reaches adulthood and marries. Then I can pass him off to someone else.
And for the record, he did light the sparkler bomb. Apparently it was a big disappointment to him and his friend Amir because it didn't explode. All it did was smoke a lot. I'm sure he'll rectify that with his next bomb. He and his DNA donor bought some fireworks out on the Indian Reservation. I just hope he doesn't see a pile of doggy doo on the way home.[[In-content Ad]]
