The other day my husband welcomed me home from the grocery store with this somber greeting: "Go look at your son." A million possibilities whirling through my mind, I rushed in to find 9-year-old Chandler sprawled across an ottoman on his stomach, bare-bottomed and teary-eyed. There on his behind was a red, blistered burn as big as an apple.
"What in the world happened?" I queried. "I burned it on the fireplace," replied Chandler. Scanning my brain for potential explanations as to why Chandler would have been near the fireplace with no pants on, I proceeded to my next question, "Son, how exactly did you burn your bottom on the fireplace?"
Here I must digress for a moment to provide a bit of relevant background information. Chandler and his brother Chance, 11, find it quite amusing to stand with their bare bottoms against the French doors leading to our backyard. As the sun warms their little behinds, their buns temporarily turn red. Apparently there's great fun to be had in seeing who ends up with the rosier tush. No harm done (apart from bottom prints on the glass), so no big deal, right? Yeah, that's what I thought, too. Back to the story at hand.
Now I know my son well, and in order to spare Chandler the effort of retelling his humiliating tale (no pun intended), I ventured a guess. "Chandler, did you figure that if the sun through the French doors makes your bottom red, the front of the fireplace might make it even redder?" I'd hit the nail on the head. My husband and I shared a knowing glance that said, "That's our boy."1