While we were waiting in line for fireworks this afternoon, Gregg's dad reminded us of our favorite fireworks story. Gregg was a young boy and his dad had continuously warned him NOT to go near the box of fireworks with his lit punk.
As a young curious boy, Gregg did just the opposite. Too excited to see a box of explosives within just a few feet of him, he inched closer and closer. His punk ignited the entire box of fireworks. Everything went up in flames.
Fast forward 35 years. . . Gregg now has three boys of his own, two daughters and a nephew over for New Year's Eve. (In Hawaii, New Year's Eve is like 4th of July--times 10!)
Something fishy is going on in the driveway. The children all look incredibly suspicious. I call to the curious one and ask what's going on. "Nothing. . . really, Mom."
I don't buy it. "Please come inside, son. What are you really doing?"
"We haven't done anything. . . yet." His hands are holding a bunch of shredded up paper.
"What are you planning to do with the shredded paper?" (They were supposed to be outside throwing their poppers around.)
"We've been taking the powder out of the poppers to stick inside all of the shredded paper to make an EXTRA BIG ONE!"
Please pray that I make it through the night without a trip to the ER.
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