Remember when . . .

you were seventeen and all it took to have fun was some extra time, some planning skills and maybe a little cash? Who needs parents, permission or a voice of reason?

Summer vacation ends this weekend and Andrew is none too happy about his loss of freedom. So what does he decide to do? Have a dance. Yeah, a dance. At our house. In the backyard.

I found out about the party when I overheard he and his friends hooking up the details. I heard words like, strobe lights, smoke bombs, three hour mixes on the ipod, construction tape, 300 glow sticks . . .and I asked are you planning something? To which he told me he was having a dance at the church parking lot. It was going to be totally cool and so far 50 people were coming.

Is the word crazy entering your mind yet? Cause that word came to my mind right before my eyes bugged out. I tried to explain to him that you can't just have a dance in the church parking lot without permission - for pete sakes it's Thursday night and they do their stake meetings on Thursday nights. We do have to live here after all. Cops busting up an unchaperoned party at a church parking lot. You can't live down a story like that your whole life . . .

I convince him if the neighbors will concede, and he gets their permission, he can do it here.

I know what you're thinking . .

Who's crazy now?