I blame mobile Twitter for distracting me just enough so that I process the literal aspects of requests, but never their implications until we’re halfway committed to them. In this case, in a car on the way to the supermarket.

“Wait. Dry ice is dangerous. What are you planning on doing with it?”

“Othman is going to teach me how to make dry ice bombs.”

Othman is our neighbor, and he’s a really good kid, and Fury doesn’t get to see him all that much because they go to different schools andohmygodBOMBS. Sure glad I caught that one before it got out of control.

“So can I? I need three pounds.”

“That sounds dangerous. I will only get you two pounds.” Look, we can’t always be their best friends when we’re looking out for their safety.

We pick up the dry ice and head back home. By the time we pull into the driveway, Othman has already set up what can only be described as a mobile command center. Unless you’re a less family-friendly blogger, in which case you’d describe it as something akin to a mobile meth lab.

“Safety first, Fury.” I hand him a pair of dishwashing gloves and the face shield from my Dexter costume. Then they get to work. To make dry ice bombs, you need to first chip the dry ice into small pieces.

Then, you drop some of those pieces into warm water, because it’s fun and looks wicked cool.

Next, you fill a small bottle halfway with water and dump dry ice chunks into it.

Replace the cap, wait a few seconds, then…

KABOOOOOOOOOM!

I never cuss in front of the kids, but when that bomb went off and rattled everyone’s windows within a 300-foot radius? That deserved one. And that’s probably what the neighbors peeking out their windows said, too. I’m not kidding about the rattling windows. There are few things in life that exceeded my expectations quite like this dry ice bomb (the breakfast soufflés at Panera Bread are one – if you’ve never had one, get one now. They’re better than this post will ever be). Decibel-wise, the explosion was along the lines of an M-80. And from the looks of what was left of the bottle, it was probably just as powerful. I told them to be careful and if the cops came, just to play dumb. Then I went back inside.

Every few explosions, I’d peek outside to make sure I wasn’t going to have to do any tourniqueting or anything. When they ran out of bottles, they moved onto mini-bombs. You know those pods that the trinkets from the supermarket vending machines come in?

Well, they explode quicker than water bottles.

He didn’t need that pinky anyway.

Satisfied that the boys pretty much knew what they were doing, I went back inside. Of course, every time I heard a bang I listened carefully to make sure it was followed by laughter, not agony. After about an hour, the boys came back to the house, wet but intact. Fury handed me what was left of the gloves, and I heaved a sigh of relief, knowing that they were now engaging in a much more appropriate activity: a little Call of Duty – Modern Warfare 3.