All Things Bright and Explosive

One of my sons is a planner. He loves to know what’s going on, and, even better, to control what’s going on. He has within himself all the promise of a creatively organized mind.

My other son is only a planner when he is imitating his brother. What he really is is a lover of fire and explosions and general danger. He has within him the ability to become one of the greatest arsonists the world has ever known.

Put the matches up just a bit higher, would you dear?

Since Bubs started school last week, I have been taking a little time each day to do a little preschooling type stuff with Stinky. He has one book that he adores, which is called Get Ready for the Code. It moves right at his pace– which means that we spent about 15 pages on the letter F. Which might seem extreme, but believe me when I tell you that that kid is an expert on the letter F. He knows what it looks like, what sound it makes, and how to write it.

One of the pages he did last week involved circling all the pictures in the row that started with the letter f. He did this easily, and then he reached for his red crayon. “Mommy, I think I am just going to make all the things that don’t start with f to be ON FIRE!!!” And then he proceeded to scribble bright red flames on all of the pictures of balls and skates and puppy dogs.

Be sure that I took advantage of this teachable moment to point out that fire and flames both start with f. And also be sure that I started right then contemplating where to hide the big red lighter.

Speaking of which, last night we grilled and when my sweetie was heating up the charcoal I heard Stinky say in a very disappointed voice, “the fire went away Daddy!” Bubba jumped in there with an explanation of how the charcoal would still be hot without fire, but Stinky didn’t care about that. He was just  mourning the loss of his beloved orange flames.

Someday, Stinky will learn to light matches, but hopefully not until he learns a healthy respect for fire. Because the gray hair? I can feel it sprouting even as I type.

In the meantime, he will have to satisfy himself with drawing pictures of flames and painting the occasional explosion and getting very, very excited every time someone has to blow out their birthday candles.

And I will have to satisfy myself with checking the batteries on the smoke detectors and praying he never learns to rub two sticks together.

No, dear, you may not join the Boy Scouts. Why? No reason . . .