This is what I woke up to this morning.
Bubba came running in with a small pumpkin with every hidden knife we own rammed forcefully through its core. Look mom! Daddy will be happy. And then after I explained that daddy would not, in fact, be happy, he shrugged off my concern with, It's OK mom, I am old enough to play with knives now.
I remained calm and explained why he will never be old enough to play with knives if I have any say about it. The Prozac must be working, because I did not obsess about what could've happened.
Time to find a new place to hide the knives.