My Son the Smuggler

This morning Sean asked if he could take his T-ball portrait and team picture to school.

"I need to show them to my friends," he explained.

I nixed the idea because Sean is not what you'd call careful. I hate to be a killjoy, but I like those pictures and don't particularly trust that they'd return home unmangled.

Case closed, or so I thought.

As we were hustling out the door (Do we ever leave any other way? No.), I noticed two photographs lying on the floor. The same photographs we'd discussed earlier. I picked them up rather absent-mindedly and set them on the hall table.

Midway on our walk to school, Sean stopped and patted his shirt. "Wait," he said. "I need to go back home to get something."

Ding! Went the lightbulb above my head.

"Sean, are you looking for those T-ball pictures?"

"Well, I put them under my shirt, and now they're not there."

"Yeah, I saw them on the floor and put them on the table. Remember how I said you WEREN'T supposed to bring them to school today?"

"Oh, yeah."

You, sir, are so busted.