Painting the town...

In my younger days, I used to paint the town red. This weekend, I painted it blue and gold instead.

Hollywood is mere miles away, and currently in the middle of its awards ceremony season. And though my ZIP code is not 90210, I dressed up my favorite little man Saturday night and hit the scene. We attended an exclusive awards ceremony which, like the Golden Globes and Oscars, included a fine dinner. It also included paparazzi, who ushered us toward the wall for photos upon arrival.





The venue was a bit smaller and more humble than the Kodak Theatre, however. (It was the gymnasium of a local church.) The dress was more plaid neckerchief than black tie, but the night's honorees were as proud as any Oscar winner, and their parents were even prouder.

This swanky soiree is also known as the Blue and Gold dinner, where the second-year Webelos bridge over from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts. It's a big d e a l for the Scouts and their families. If you think it doesn't sound all that exciting, just sit back -- I haven't even mentioned the flying arrows yet.

I was excited to attend the dinner. Because it included both dinner and a show, it totally counted as a night out on the town.

Mark was duly warned to behave, but apparently, I was speaking in tongues when I warned him. We'd been there for all of five minutes when I noticed him running wildly between the tables.

I caught him and set the perimeter. He was allowed to play at the back of the gym, where there were toys and games set out to do so. He nodded his head, as though agreeing to this plan, and I resumed my conversation with the other moms.

Not two seconds later, I turned to see my wild banshee son running along the back of the gym, clutching what moments before had been the backdrop for the family portraits. He had pried loose the weights along the bottom, and was waving a fistful of blue and gold balloons all around.

I was mortified, and hissed, "MARK!!!!"

He stopped short, terrified. He immediately let go of the balloons, and before I could scream "Noooo!" like a slow-motion movie sequence, they were gone. I watched them sail up toward the ceiling, and then fixed my sights back on Mark.

"What?" he asked, hands out to his side. "I didn't mean to."

I was going to ask what he didn't mean to do: steal the balloons in the first place, or set them free. Then I decided it didn't really matter.

"Behave!" I repeated. "Next time I talk to you, you will sit with me."

And before I could act on it, he was gone.

Next up was dinner, and then the main event. We watched a slide show of the second-year Webelos, and heard some very touching speeches from the families. The Scouts waited anxiously until it was their turn, and then each Scout walked up onto the stage.

"My name is ..." each boy said. "And I earned the Arrow of Light."

The auditorium then erupted into applause, and a man onstage shot an arrow into a haystack while the boy walked across a wooden bridge to become a Boy Scout. It was a really nice moment.

Unless you happened to be a first-year Webelo. Like Mark, who was sitting on the bleachers with the other boys from his den. I'm happy to report they were not misbehaving, but they weren't exactly paying attention, either. When I asked Mark later how cool those arrows were flying across the stage, he asked, "What arrows?"

They were paying attention to a couple of nearby little girls, however. The girls were very sweetly playing with their toy babies, putting them in their cradles and dressing them up. The boys were whispering, pointing and staring intently, and I began to fear for those little dolls.

Luckily, Mark glanced over at me just then, and I gave him the fingers-to-eyes-to-Mark "I'm watching you" gesture. He tapped his fellow Scouts and they moved up and away on the bleachers. The dolls were safe, for the moment at least.

Next up was cake. Mark returned with an enormous piece atop a glob of pudding. He was flying on a sugar buzz soon enough.

Our role as first-year Webelos families was to clean up after the party. So once the awards were given, and cakes consumed, we swooped in to start cleaning. Scout families are an industrious group, and I am amazed at how quickly the metal chairs were folded up, and the tables broken down and put away.

I called out to Mark, who was running around the gym all sweaty in a sugar-induced frenzy. We packed up our stuff and headed home. Until next year, I thought, when it's Mark's turn to become a Boy Scout, and my turn to be the proud, weepy Mom cheering him on.

But I guess we'll just cross that bridge when we get there.