For all posterity:
A few weeks ago I was minding my own business, watching a little television one afternoon. Zach stormed into the room with an indignant, and somewhat disappointed look on his face.
He walked right up to me and asked, "Mom, are you smoking?"
I was taken aback by his accusation. How did he know? I thought I hid it so well. Am I going to get grounded? No really, what in the world was he talking about?
I said, "Zach, of course I don't smoke. Why would you think that I smoke?"
Then he laid the evidence out before me. He held up a cigarette butt and gave me a tsk-tsk kind of look. I was shocked and asked him where in the world he got the cigarette butt. He returned my shocked gaze with one of his own and told me that he found it in our backyard. For all of you who do not live in Las Vegas, the yards are about as big as your pinky finger.
I vehemently denied that I smoked the cigarette and then told him never to touch those nasty things and get it out of my house. Yet, I still had to convince him that it was not me that smoked the cigarette.
At least he knows it is a bad thing to do, right?