Out of the Mouths of Babes

When I was very small, four or five years old, perhaps, my family decided to go on vacation for a week or so. This was not the first time we had gone away, not even for so long, but this time, I had a feeling, was different.

"But Mom," I said, "what if somebody tries to rob our house? We should booby-trap it!"

My mother assured me that the neighborhood constable had already been alerted and that the house would be perfectly safe, but she agreed to put a few of our more irreplaceable valuables in hiding. She probably had been doing that anyways, but it felt like progress to me. I decided to booby-trap my own room, at very least; anyone entering would find themselves struck with tennis balls, paperclips, and a child's ill wishing. I put a sign on the door that said "ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL" or something like it, and drew a skull and crossbones on the bottom. My parents smiled and told me I'd have to clean it all up myself when we got back.

We had a lovely vacation, and on our return, we discovered that our precautions had not been enough. The house had been ransacked; the bedrooms were disheveled and the public areas stripped of valuables.

Except for my room. My room was untouched, the door still shut, and even my inherited diamond ring was still right where I'd left it.

After that, my parents installed an alarm system.