Not me.

The Husband wrangled with a corner of the yard for several years.
He had removed a rock garden and tried many seasons to get grass to grow there.

A day or two after sowing new seed and setting up the sprinkler just so, I heard a small ruckus outside.
"Can you describe the ruckus?"
Why, no.  Not really.  All I know is it was something made me go to the window to see what was up.
When I got there, I spied some kid backing his bike out of The Husband's newly sewn mud patch.
I breathed a few cuss words before recognizing the kid as one of the good kids from church.

Funny how when something bad happens and it's someone you know, you can shake it off as an accident so much easier than when it's someone you don't know.

So The Husband wouldn't be surprised or terribly upset, I called him at work and warned him he'd find tire tracks in his new grass and that this nice kid from church had run through it by accident.  He shrugged it off and concluded he was never ever going to get grass to grow in that corner because clearly fate would never allow it.

Having said all that, this post is not about The Husband's grass.
This is about the kid.

Because this kid is a perfect age to play with my boys, and if he's riding his bike in our neighborhood, that means he lives near enough to hang with the guys.
The next Sunday at church, I walked up to this boy intending to find out where he lives.
"Hey," I greeted him cheerfully, "I saw you riding your bike past our house a couple days ago."
"Yeah," he replied, "I didn't do that."
"What?  Didn't do... What?"
"That bike track in your garden.  I didn't do that." 

With that, he pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared.

I was so stunned, I forgot to ask where he lived.