I have That Kid

For inclusion in the distinguished ranks of That Kid throughout history, where he may join the likes of Bart Simpson; Dennis the Menace; and Skipper, Bud and Cletis, I submit my son, S.

Yesterday G took the boys to the Other Ward's Independence Day breakfast at the stake center. Unbeknownst to his parents, S had raided the family fireworks stash and pocketed two smoke bombs. You would think this would be no problem. You would think people would keep any lighters, matches, magnifying glasses or other potential means of starting fire well out of reach of an almost-seven-year-old. Even a very tall almost-seven-year-old as S happens to be.

If you think that, however, you don't know what I know: There is no such thing as out of reach.

S wandered into the kitchen and found a lighter -- the long, skinny type you use to light a gas stove or a grill without its own ignition. I can just imagine his delight.

Soon the patriotic revelers were choking on smoke. He'd crawled under one of the tables to light that baby.

G says most people took it in stride. The bishop of the Other Ward was not happy and came to tell G he "had a problem and needed to take care of it." Wisely, G ignored him. Had I been there I would have been beside myself with embarrassment and probably would have dragged a screaming S out of there, swathed in smoke. Because I'm psycho like that. Fortunately, I was home making lemon meringue pie, instead.

Blessings on a dad who takes the kids out of the house while mom makes pies for the True and Living Ward Independence Day Picnic. Phooey on stuffed-shirt Other Ward breakfasters. Hurray for That Kid!