Today after school I turned my back for one minute, noticed "it was too quiet" and found Zack sitting outside pounding an aerosol can with a hammer and a screwdriver trying to find out what was inside and how it emitted that wonderful chemical cocktail room spray "Caribbean Escape."
Squatted down right outside the door and laser focused on his task, he reminded me of my brother and I using a similar tactic to crack open orphan coconuts.
There may or may not have been a machete involved.
I'd like to think my parents were too on top of things to leave us with a machete.
I stopped Zack before what I imagine was going to be mid-scale chemical explosion and redirected his attention to something super special that he loves more than science -- I brought him to the kitchen and wordlessly pointed at the floor.
His eyes lit up, and I nodded.
Yes, yes you can swiffer, I told him, and hugged myself with realization that in this one single day I both saved my son's life and I would have a clean floor.
Before I could get too smug I tiptoed over the wet floor and hid Zack's hammer and screwdriver above the refrigerator, behind the leftover Christmas candy, saying a silent prayer that I might remember -- for once -- where I put them.
