Once in church my daughter, then about four, was being inappropriately lively. I whispered "Girl, you have ants in your pants." She stood up on the pew, yanked up her skirt, pulled down her bloomers and hollered "NO I DON'T!"
She's now seventeen, and does not like to have that story told. Nor does she like to be reminded that she had, at that age, a hat fetish. No one's hat was safe. She had to have it. On a high holy day, the bishop visited our little church in full regalia, and she snatched his mitre and put it on. He was, fortunately, a good natured man not terribly jealous of his dignity.