My children have selective memory syndrome. I've heard it's a common affliction. Yesterday, a firetruck went by on the main road, sirens wailing, and of course glued every boy in the house to the nearest window.
As the siren faded into the distance, one of my little cherubs piped up, "Hey Mom! Remember when the fireman had to come to our house because you set the kitchen on fire?"
This is not what happened.
I am surrounded by people who are closet pyros.
My husband, for example, once set his college dorm on fire twice in one semester. Once by lighting paper airplanes on fire and throwing them out the window - never dreaming the window beneath his would be open and the draft would suck that burning missile inside where it would land on a biology book and some drapes and cause much screaming and cursing as it devoured both. Once by writing something on the carpet in shaving cream and then lighting a match. (Of course, it goes without saying that if you are an administrator from Pepperdine University reading this, I am making the whole thing up.)
My father and his twin brother, when they were five, played with matches under the wooden bleachers at the local highschool and burned the whole thing down.
As we all know, my friend FOOL put his money in a microwave and burned it up.
I, on the other hand, have never intentionally burned anything. I've never played around with matches and wooden structures fifty times my size. I don't stash my cash in my microwave.
But yes, my stove did catch on fire and yes, the firemen were dispatched to put it out. What my children fail to recall is that the fire was completely their fault.
Because I had a gas stove. I turned on the oven to cook dinner. I opened the door to check on dinner and flames/smoke were everywhere. The cause, an amused fireman informed me, was the broiler full of match box cars parked inside a plastic fig newton container.
And my mom says I'm not living on the edge.