Ahoy, matey!

When Mark opened his closet yesterday, a pile of clothes fell out. He started to kick them back in, until I stopped him.

"Are those clothes clean or dirty?" I asked.

"Dirty," he answered. I reminded him they go in the hamper, not back in the closet.

He hesitated for a moment, glanced at me, then scooped them up so quickly it set off my Suspicious Mommy alarm.

"Hand them over," I said, and after another moment of hesitation, he did, with a huge sigh.

I unravelled the crumpled clothing. To my surprise, what looked like a pair of pants was really two HALF pairs of pants. That's right, the child who apparently fancies himself a tailor had sliced off one leg on each of the pants.

Well, perhaps slice is not the correct word. It looked more like he'd stuck the pants in the paper shredder, because they were raggedy and torn all along the bottom. Or maybe he'd used a serrated knife to cut them, instead of scissors. They looked like pirate pants, all ripped up along the bottom.

Then Mark did what he does best in these situations -- he got defensive.

"What?" he shouted, even though I hadn't said anything.

"What do you mean, what?" I answered. "What happened to your pants?"

Mark sighed. It's obviously a lot of work dealing with such a dumb mother all the time.

"I was out of shorts," he said snottily, surprised that I couldn't figure that out myself.

"So you decided to make your own?" I asked. "You thought I wouldn't notice these?"

"Never mind," he sighed, as if ending the conversation. "You don't get it."

Oh, but I did. I got it all right. And now he was going to get it, too!

"Throw them away," I said, handing back the pants.

He took them, and eyed me nervously. "You're not gonna yell?" he asked.

"Nope," I said. "But looks like we're shopping for new pants this weekend."

His face relaxed; he was obviously relieved.

Until I asked, "How much money do you have in your ceramic fish bank?"

"I have lots," he said proudly. "Probably like $20 or $30."

And then he realized where this was going. "Oh, COME ON!" he protested angrily. "I have to buy MY OWN PANTS?"

I smiled. And I realized why it's so important to give kids an allowance. Not to reward them for good behavior, but to provide them the necessary funds to (literally!) pay for their mistakes.

So if you're looking for me this weekend, I'll be easy to find. I'll be the one in the Target boy's department, picking out blue uniform pants with the sullen, mopey 9-year-old.