Flamethrower, or Why I Don't Drink

Last night, Jack had to work and Claire-Adele had her boyfriend over for dinner. Claire-Adele, Roberto, the Boy and I ate outside on the deck and chatted until it became dark.

"Let's get some candles," I said. Claire-Adele ran inside, picked out her favorite candles from my collection and put them on the table. Before I had kids, I was a bit of a pyro. I gave up my addiction to fire after Claire-Adele was born, but I've slowly started back again with my old habit.

The Boy and Claire-Adele started bickering over who would light which candles, when the Boy talked about camp. Claire-Adele and Roberto were both interns there this summer.

"At camp we made a flamethrower out of Pam," the Boy said. 

"Those Teen Expedition kids are the wildest," said Roberto.

"I can imagine," I said.

"Can I make a flamethrower out of our cooking spray in the backyard?" the Boy asked. He was asking in a natural, normal voice, as if he were asking for ice cream for dessert. He wasn't being a sociopath, either. His dream employers are NASA, SpaceX or JPL. The Boy was in rocket club for the past three years, and according to him a rocket is nothing but a "sustained, controlled explosion."

"No," I said.

"Why?" he asked.

"It hasn't rained since June and the grass might catch on fire," I said. "Plus it is dark out and you might not see what you are going to burn."

"How about the kitchen?" he asked again.

"No," I said. "You might set the house on fire."

"How about if I do it over the sink?" he said.

"No, you might catch my orchids on fire." 

"Oh," he said. "Okay." He went off and did something else before I could ask him to load the dishwasher.

If I had a glass of wine or beer with dinner, I might have said at this point. "Oh my fucking god, are you crazy?" The kid was perfectly serious and thought it is rational to want to start a fire in the house. I remember reading somewhere that the teenage brain has some serious gaps while it is being pruned and rewired for adulthood. Someone did a study and they asked a group of teens if they would rather do something dangerous and potentially fatal versus something mildly disgusting, like choose between swimming in a pool with sharks or eating an earthworm. The teenagers actually had to think about this. The answer was not obvious as it would be to sane adults.

So here I am, last night confronted with my son's own rational-irrationality. To him, making a flamethrower in the middle of the kitchen seemed like a perfectly normal thing to do. If I flipped out, he would have thought I was the crazy one.