Boys will be boys?!, din-din

Y'all, don't you think I have been wonderfully zen about the child-escapees and the FBI? I think that overall, I really took and have taken things quite well. Then there was the iPad snake, some assorted fibs, the end of grounding and the start of school. All's well and good, right? And then there was the "utility sock."

Yesterday, Jack went ape-shit when he couldn't find a pair of socks that suited his fancy. There was a concurrent spaz-out about not having an exact-replica green t-shirt and short-sleeve navy hoodie that some Wild Kratt wears, and in attempting to assuage his immersive-character guilt (who is he? Daniel Day-Lewis?), Tom went to J's sock drawer to help.

"Jack, what is in this very full sock?"

"Dad, do not look in there. It's my private utility sock." --please keep in mind his age; 7 and change; this is not some nutso pubescent story

"Hmm, OK, Jack. Well, here is a pair of matching socks."

Meanwhile, to me: "Em, you better investigate that 'utility sock' at some point. It shakes in a weird way."

Me: "Is it all the coinage from his bank."

T: "No, not a shaking like that. Like some object. Is it drugs?"

People, please.

Me: "Thomas, go the eff to work."

T: "Ok."

Fast-forward to this evening. T recalls the suspicious package in J's upper right drawer and investigates the sock. What does he find? Eight boxes of matches and a handful of nails. Jesus H, people, don't we deserve a basic week of non-WTF'ness?

For a full twenty minutes, J swears that he did not put the matches and nails in the sock. Finally, Oliver was like, "not only did he put those in the sock but he lit the matches downstairs."

Longer story less short, it comes to pass that Mr. Pyromaniac has lit six matches, blown them out, run them under the faucet (so responsible, yes?) and then thrown them away. What he was planning to do with the rest, I dunno. I get the interest in fire. It's cool. But really. And the nails? Who the eff knows. After a come-to-jesus, T asked if J had anything else he'd squirreled away. Out came a Swiss Army Knife. Y'all, my god. Is it any wonder I drink a bit of wine each night?

All I could do was hug my baby (who would never hurt a thing EXCEPT via rampant curiosity himself accidentally), basically make him swear on his life he would stop lying and then go cook dinner. I made a nice marinade for some fresh tuna, cooked some brown rice in mushroom stock and shelled and cooked some fresh lima beans. I LOVE lima beans, could eat 'em by the bushel. T is infinitely less enthused so I basically did get to eat the bushel.

Say it with me: It is ALWAYS something.