Not Beach Camping

Because we don't have enough end-of-school activities overwhelming us (yes, that's sarcasm), Mark and I went camping this weekend.

We went on the new Boy Scout beach camping trip. I was stoked, imagining quality time with the sand, surf, my beach chair, and my glossy gossip mags, but my enthusiasm dampened when I received directions to the campground.

Turns out our "beach" campground was actually SIX MILES from the beach. In a canyon, surrounded by hills, oak trees, and meadows.

But my disappointment was short-lived. I'd actually been to this campground before, and loved it. It's beautiful, scenic and serene--just not...beachy.

We arrived at camp early Friday evening. Mark was the senior scout for the night, which meant supervising the tent setup. This is akin to herding cats--if cats had opposable thumbs and could put up tents.

I only had to put up one tent (mine), so I returned to the boys' camp afterwards because it's always entertaining to watch them work.

As I sat watching in the dusk, a bird flew over my head, wobbling and flapping wildly.

"That's a weird bird," I mentioned.

"It's not a bird," a scout leader answered back. I smiled, not comprehending, then jumped, startled, when I realized what he meant.

"A bat?" I asked. I expected wildlife out here, but bats? It was Malibu--I expected deer, raccoons, coyotes maybe--but not bats.

Once the tents were up, the boys climbed inside, wrestling and acting crazy. This was my sign to leave, so I said my good nights, and went off to my tent.

The stars were out, and I was amazed at how many there were. And the moon was gorgeous, a little sliver shining between a couple trees.

The scouts woke bright and early Saturday morning. Mark emerged from his tent wearing someone else's shoes.

"I found my next pair of shoes!" said the child who treats every camp out like a shopping trip. He looked at my frowning face and said defensively,  "What? Brian let me wear them."

The first activity of the day was making breakfast. Watching the boys cook is almost as much fun as watching them set up tents.

"Look how thick my batter is!" One scout bragged, barely able to stir the floury pancake mixture.

"I'm hungry," another scout said, flipping a pancake two seconds after he'd poured it into the pan. "I'm cooking mine fast, so we can eat sooner."

"Remember, if you flip 'em before they're done, they'll be doughy inside," a group leader told him.

"I like 'em doughy," the kid answered.

"Try pouring them on the side of the pan," another dad pointed out to his son. "When you pour one in the middle like that, you don't leave room to cook any others. It'll take a long time to feed the troop if you cook them one at a time."

When they were done, they invited the parents to eat. Moms and dads eat first, partly as a gesture of respect from the scouts, and partly because the boys descend on the food like starving locusts, devouring everything in sight. You never wanna go after the scouts, or you'll go hungry.

"Oh, these look good!" I said, planting a fat pancake on my plate. Two seconds later, the cutest little freckle-faced scout appeared, heading straight for the pancake pile.

"I can't wait to eat my Mickey Mouse pancake!" he told his friend. He reached toward the pile, then gasped. 

"Where'd it go?" he cried, scanning all the plates, then stopping on mine, which---gulp--held a sort-of mouse-shaped pancake. Crap, I thought, watching his sweet little face turn into an angry scowl. I immediately ripped off part of an ear shape, stuffing it into my mouth, hoping he wouldn't notice (of course he did).

After the long and equally entertaining cleanup, the boys readied themselves for a hike. All the other parents joined in, but I politely deferred because a) those scouts (or rather, scout leaders) are hardcore about hiking, and I didn't want to lag behind, holding them up, and b) the thought of having the campground all to myself was heavenly.

It was a good 80 degrees already, and Mark was wearing jeans. I patiently explained that it was hot on the trail, and he should put on shorts. Then, when he shrugged, I not-so-patiently yelled at him to go change. He returned wearing a pair of green shorts that are NOT his.

"Brian let me wear them," he told me. I wondered if Brian regretted his choice of tent mate yet. But Brian was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, so probably not.

"When are we hiking to the beach?" asked one excited scout, who apparently didn't get the memo on the location change. An older scout explained there was no beach, that they were hiking to the site where the TV show M*A*S*H was filmed. These words meant nothing to a 10-year-old.

No one could really agree on how far the hike was--word around camp started out as a two-mile hike. The hike evolved into two and a HALF miles, which yielded further discussion.

Scout 1: "One way? Or both ways?"
Scout 2: "Yes."
Scout 1: "Yes, what?"
Scout 2: "Yes, both ways."
Scout 1: "So it's a five-mile hike?"
Scout 2: "No, it's a two and a half mile hike. Two and a half miles there, two and a half back."
Scout 1: "So a five-mile hike."
Scout 2: "No, the word hike just refers to your destination. Then you double the distance."
Scout 1: "WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME HOW LONG THE HIKE IS???"

And that is why I opted out. Scouts measure their hikes in distance; I measure their hikes in hours. And I've never known them to come back in less than three hours.

I left ten minutes after they did, but not on foot. I pointed my car toward civilization, heading to the nearest grocery store, ostensibly to buy paper plates and cups (Mark and I forgot our mess kits). I headed for Malibu, which is a city of extremes; I saw both a shiny new convertible Ferrari and a homeless guy taking sanitizing wipes from the cart area.

When I returned to camp, gale-force winds had replaced the scorching, still air. One of the leaders' tent was threatening to sail away, so I grabbed the scout bucket and staked it down. That's when I noticed a gap in the scout's tent line--and saw the tent that was formerly there at the end of the meadow, smashed into a bush. It was threatening to blow further.

I dragged it back, staked it down, and staked down another tent shaking wildly. A fourth tent blew back so hard the poles snapped, tearing the rain fly. I felt like a real mountain woman, fighting the elements.

The boys didn't return until 2 p.m. I knew they'd be ravenous, and it went against all of my motherly instincts to not set lunch out for their return. But the troop leaders frown on that kind of thing, too--interfering mothers do not encourage independence, and scouting is all about making the boys independent.

They were indeed hungry when they returned. They didn't even ask when they were gonna eat, they just asked how much they were allowed to eat.

"How many sandwiches can we have?" asked one young scout, a sandwich already in each hand.

"Until they're gone," was the answer. "After everyone gets a first serving."

After lunch and cleanup, the big boys returned to wrestling in the tents. The littler boys were still pretty squirrely, so a couple dads took them on another hike up to a water tower we could see in the distance. I sat around with the tired parents, talking and enjoying the afternoon.

Soon, it was time to eat again. Mark emerged from his tent, this time wearing two different shoes (neither his) and Brian's green shorts.

"Harrison let me wear his shoe," Mark said, by way of explanation. I'd actually stopped asking by that point.

The boys made chicken fajitas this time, which were fantastic. While they were cleaning up after, we had some visitors in the nearby meadow--a herd of grazing deer.

After dinner came the highlight of the trip for the boys--s'mores. Because of the fire danger level, we weren't allowed to build a wood fire--the boys had to settle for charcoal only.

Which was still enough heat to turn their skewered marshmallows into flaming torches. And that, along with devouring as much chocolate as possible, was really the whole point.

The sugar-fueled boys put on skits for our entertainment. They titled one "The Not-Beach Campout" and did a spot-on reenactment of the entire trip. I laughed so much, I couldn't stop.

The boys finally went to bed an hour later, not quite before their sugar buzzes wore off. I could still hear them laughing from my tent.

I was kidding myself if I thought there was any chance of sleeping in on Sunday morning. I heard the familiar call of "Troop 120, fall in!" at 7:06 a.m., and I knew I'd better get up and start packing. The boys may take forever to set up or clean, but they are highly efficient at breaking down camp.

They set a new record this time--we were in our cars, driving away, by 9 a.m. We left before the heat returned, tired but happy.

It was an awesome trip. Maybe not as close to the beach as we'd hoped, but great none the less. It was a fun group of boys, and I got to know a lot of parents I'd only known by name before.

And Mark got a brand new pair of green shorts out it.

"Brian gave them to me," he insisted. "He said he outgrew them."

I was tired from our fun weekend, so I just nodded. I made a mental note to wash and discreetly return them to Brian's mom next time I saw her.

And to remind Mark, prior to our next trip, that camping is really about the outdoors--and not so much about the clothes (especially other people's).

New Scout Outing

Mark went on a Scout camping trip this weekend, which he was not happy about.

"It's the new Scout outing," he whined. "I'm not a new Scout!"

"You're going as a leader," I said. "You'll teach the new Scouts."

"I don't wanna be a leader," he said, which is exactly why I sent him.

Mark needs the experience to rank up another level, but it's also good for him. He's great with little kids--babies and toddler boys LOVE Mark. He's also been a teacher aide for a kindergarten class the past couple years, so wherever we go in the neighborhood, five-year-olds yell out, "Hi, Mark!" He may not like it, but he's very popular with the little kid crowd.

I dropped him at the church before the camp out. Doesn't feel like he's been in the troop that long, but I guess it's been a while, because all the new Scouts were half his size. Seriously, they were tiny. And hyper. And moving non-stop.

What they weren't doing much was helping. They were supposed to load the trucks with camping gear, but two young boys passed by me, saying, "Come on, let's look busy so they don't yell at us." They shouted out "Who needs help?" then walked in the exact opposite direction of the trucks.

I noted proudly that Mark was actually helping. He carried some heavy boxes to the truck, then barked some orders at some smaller boys. Maybe he already does possess some leadership skills, I thought.

But that thought disappeared quickly as Mark and Sean drifted off toward the fence, searching for snacks.

"They ripped out all the raspberry bushes!" Mark yelled. "Why would they do that?"

"Maybe because the Scouts spent all their time eating raspberries instead of loading the trucks?" I yelled back.

"That's dumb," Mark scoffed. But he didn't give up--he and Sean walked the entire length of the fence searching for rogue raspberries.

Finally, the trucks were packed and the boys were ready. We loaded up the cars and headed off to camp--a regional park three minutes away. Hey, ya gotta break these new Scouts in easily!

The park is also about a mile from our house--Mark and I ride our bikes there all the time. I actually didn't worry once while he was gone--I knew in case of any diabetes emergencies, I could be there in a couple minutes (and there's even a fire station with paramedics across the street).

So off I went to spend the day with my friends and bottomless mimosas. I figured the Scouts weren't the only ones who deserved a fun day!

Mark did great. He managed his diabetes and the younger Scouts perfectly, but he was ready to come home first thing Sunday morning.

My phone rang just as I was leaving to pick him up.

"Come get me!" he yelled into the phone. "It's time to go."

He made it sound like the troop was leaving right then, but I knew better. When I got there, they were doing the "leave no trace" walk, where they clear the area in a line, picking up any trash. Of course, the Scout leaders keep on this all weekend, so there's never any trash left behind. Instead, the boys pick up way more interesting things, like giant sticks and rocks, which they toss or smack each other with. (I jokingly call it the "Leave No Sticks" philosophy.)

Mark was off on his own, not even pretending to pick up trash. He waved and ran over.

"Let's go!" he said.

"Not until you guys are done here," I said. "How was the camp out?"

"OK," he shrugged. "I'm hungry."

"Nice to see you too. How'd the new Scouts do?" I asked, nodding at the little guys.

"Terrible," Mark sighed. "They tried to get out of working the whole time. They didn't want to help out ever!"

"A Scout who doesn't want to work? A kid who shirks all responsibility? Doesn't sound like anyone I know!" I said, rubbing his head. I love his righteous indignation, especially when it's over stuff he does all the time!

As we drove off, I grilled him a little more.

"What'd you do during the camp out?" I asked.

"I taught the new Scouts about first aid," he answered.

"Cool!" I said. Then I noticed a weird little circle on his wrist and asked what happened.

"Oh, I burned myself," he said.

"In the camp fire?" I asked, inspecting his wrist.

"No, with a magnifying glass," he said. "I was showing the new Scouts how to start a fire."

I stared at him, confused.

"I started a fire with the magnifying glass," he explained slowly, like I'm an idiot. "I started it on my arm."

I wondered who the real idiot was.

"Did it hurt?" I asked, because I had no other responses.

"Yeah, it hurt!" he said. "It was FIRE!" He shook his head at me.

"Then, uh..." I started. "Maybe you shouldn't start fires on your body."

"Sebastian said you can't burn yourself with a magnifying glass," he said. "But I told him you could." He smiled, happy to prove Sebastian wrong, even at his own expense.

"And how'd you sleep? Were you warm enough?"

"No!" he said, shivering. "My sleeping bag was freezing!"

I pointed out his tiny backpacking bag was rated to 40 degrees, and it was only 60 degrees that night. He scoffed at me. What did I know, I slept in a warm, comfy bed all night--not roughing it like the tough Scouts.

As we drove out of the park, we saw two great blue herons--they were gorgeous. Giant, gray, unmoving, standing about four feet tall in the fields. I stopped the car to watch them.

"Did you see any other wildlife?" I asked, hoping the local coyotes hadn't ventured in too close.

"Some squirrels," Mark said, shrugging. "Oh, and a chicken."

"A chicken?" I asked. I've seen tons of birds in the park, but never a chicken. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said. "It was outside my tent all night, clucking."

I looked at him doubtfully. "You sure it was a chicken?"

He rolled his eyes and said, "You don't think I know what a chicken sounds like?" And then he started clucking, to show me he did.

I still stared at him, silent.

"Fine, maybe it wasn't a chicken--maybe it was a rooster," he said, and then, I swear to God, he started clucking in a deeper voice!

I lost it, and started laughing. I hadn't realized how masculine roosters sound until just then.

"Whatever kind of chicken it was, it bugged me," Mark said. "It clucked outside the tent and kept me awake the whole night."

"Did Isaac hear it?" I asked. I figured it it bothered Mark, it bothered his tent mate, too.

"No, Isaac slept right through it. He said he was a light sleeper, but he slept through everything!"

"Huh," I said, pulling into the church parking lot. I really didn't know what else to say.

Soon enough, the boys had unpacked the trucks, and I was free to take my grubby young son.

"I can't wait to get home," he said. "And I can't wait to sleep in my own bed tonight!" He smiled, thinking of all his creature comforts.

I didn't remind him he'd been gone a mere 24 hours, not 24 weeks. I also didn't say that for all intents and purposes, he'd pretty much camped in his own backyard. He enjoyed acting like he'd spent weeks out in the wild, so I just let him.

Because hey, at the end of the day, he did go camping, and I did get a much-needed night off. I got to hang out with my friends, laugh, and even go to a movie. All this complaining was a small price to pay for that.

"I'm glad you had a good time, Mark," I said. "And I'm proud of your leadership skills."

He scoffed again. He couldn't answer me, because he was still thinking about something far more serious--the giant killer chickens (or roosters) outside his tent.

 

This dinner had a lot of merit

Last week was the big Court of Honor for Mark's Boy Scout troop. They have three a year, but this was the formal one after summer, when the boys work hard to rank up and earn merit badges.

The boys are supposed to look their best, wearing their Class A uniforms, including the sashes with all their merit badges sewn on. Apparently, none of Uncle Brad's two-hour lectures about tucking in your shirt or looking your best have stuck, because Mark looked like a hot mess. His shirt was untucked, his sash kept falling down, and his neckerchief was rolled up too high and flapping around at his neck. At one point, he was asking the troop leader a question, and I could Mr. Lane's hand instinctively straightening Mark's sash and neckerchief. I just sighed.

Mark's patrol was selected for the color guard, and did a great job. Mark carried out and presented the troop flag. He treated his task quite seriously, ensuring the flag was perfectly straight.

There was a slide show running on a big screen throughout the ceremony. My favorite picture was of the boys who went on the Sequoia camping trip this summer. The boys and leaders were huddled into a big ball of smiling, happy Scouts, goofing for the camera. In the background was a small speck, but I couldn't tell what it was. Luckily, someone circled the specked and added a very simple label: "Bear!"

And it was that very moment I vowed Mark would never camp again! (Well, maybe not in bear country...which happens to be all of California...so maybe he can camp at the beach...no, let's just be safe and keep it at NOWHERE. NO TIME. EVER. AGAIN.)

The boys had their own tables--I'm not sure if this was by their choice, or the parents' choice, but it worked out well for all of us. It was fun to sit with my friends and not next to a squirrelly boy.

The table decorations consisted of small wooden statues fashioned into the Scout hand sign, and mini Snickers bars strewn about. I wandered by Mark's table a few times, silently moving my fingers over an imaginary device. This is our shorthand sign for "Did you bolus?" and Mark's response is always the same--a confident, annoyed nod, as though he had indeed taken care of it, and then a frantic scrambling to pull the insulin pump out of his pocket and really bolus.

Dinner was actually pretty good, even if Mark had a hard time sitting through it. He kept running around the room, getting in to whatever he could. As I was returning to my seat, I heard him yell, "They took my plate again? That's the third time!" Apparently, Mark couldn't sit still long enough to eat his dinner, was keeping the kitchen busy washing all his dishes!

There was a raffle during the ceremony, and every Scout won a prize, which they immediately took to the table, opened up, and started using on each other. This wouldn't be a big deal at most kid's raffles, where the prizes are harmless, but this is the Scouts. Mark won an outdoor camping saw made of a thin, serrated wire with handles at each end (the perfect tool for a serial killer). And indeed, Mark was wielding it like a serial killer. He was also trying to saw everything in sight, including other kids' arms. I was appalled, and only a little less so when I saw another kid with the same prize doing the same thing. The rest of the boys were using their outdoor camping gear prizes to irritate one another, in the way only rowdy, hyper boys can do. One boy, who'd won a compass, realized his prize was worthless in this department, and just resorted to punching the boy next to him.

I fought every maternal instinct I had to scream, "What are you boys, CRAZY?" Instead, I zipped my lip, and walked away. (But only after I made sure no one was being choked by a camping saw.)

Then it was on to the awards. The boys who'd earned merit badges during the summer were called up to receive them. Most boys went up to Scout camp or the local Sea Base camp to earn their badges. Mark, who spent five weeks of his summer at Sea Base, brought home a whole bag of badges--15 in all! I was super proud and a little guilty at how much work he'd done. (I didn't realize how much work those badges involved--at one point, Mark was grousing about how he felt like he was in summer school. To which I answered, "You're welcome! Your school smarts aren't withering and atrophying over the summer.")

The parents lined the walls like paparazzi, waiting to photograph their boys. But the boys have short attention spans, so it was like a game, seeing how fast you could get off a shot or two before the kids escaped the stage.

I actually got a pretty decent shot, considering this was last year's proud moment:

Well, at least his shirt was tucked in then.

Mark also earned another rank, moving up to Second Class Scout. He earned a spiffy new badge for that as well.

Somehow, I missed that there was a giant cake for dessert. I found out when my diabetic son (who'd also gorged on the mini Snickers) appeared at my table, frosting smeared across his darling little face, and dumped something into my lap. Turns out it was his disconnected insulin pump.

"My site came out," Mark said, brushing away cake crumbs. "So here's my pump."

Mark was not at all concerned that he was no longer receiving any insulin. But this is my worst nightmare, especially since I never carry around extra supplies. (Note to self: Start carrying around extra supplies. Especially to Boy Scout events, since their motto is "Be Prepared.") But it turned out to be the best worst case scenario, since we were only a mile from home, and the ceremony was ending.

There was, however, one last raffle left, with two winners. Two boys would take home gigantic fancy fishing poles. The first winner was Mark's friend Josh, who was so excited, he leaped up from the table screaming, "It's me, it's ME!" He immediately ran to the stage, while the troop leader said into the microphone, "Josh, the pole is in the BACK of the room! Go to the back, Josh!" Josh turned, ran to the side of the room, made a left, ran the perimeter of the room, and finally made it to the back to claim his prize. It was hilarious.

The next boy who won was Calvin, who'd been the boy leader of the troop until just recently. He'd just earned his Eagle award, and was equally thrilled to win a fishing pole. When they called his name, he jumped straight up on his chair a la Tom Cruise, and hefted his arms into the air victoriously, screaming, "YESSSSSSSSS!" Also hilarious.

And with that, the dinner ended. I collected up my scattered, tired, and inexplicably sweaty kid, and all of his badges. With all those badges, I see a lot of sewing in our future (well, maybe Auntie Michelle's future?? ;-). Mark may not have been the picture of comportment at the dinner that night, but he'd worked hard all summer, and boy, was I ever proud of my Scout!

School Bored Meeting

Mark's Scout Troop is working on the Citizen in the Community merit badge. One requirement is to attend a community meeting, so the Scout leaders picked a school board meeting.

I attended a meeting in May, and seriously thought I was going to go insane from the boredom. So I warned Mark beforehand it's a little...slow.

"Oh," he said, and nodded knowingly. "So I should bring something to play with."

"No, no toys," I said. "You have to sit there and listen. I'm just telling you it will be incredibly boring, so you're prepared for it." And suddenly, an image of the crying room at church popped into my head. My mom dragged us there when we were little, but made us actually listen to the sermon--no playing around like the other kids. Complete. Torture.

We got to the meeting right at 5, but it was already full! The guard directed us to the overflow area in the cafeteria where we could watch the meeting on a big-screen TV.

The boys sat down and immediately started arm-wrestling. I did my best mom impression, shushing them, and pointed to the screen.

"You're going in there as soon as there's room," I told them. "Pay attention!" They started  arm-wrestling again, just a little quieter.

There were 50 other families there, all carrying bright neon signs. I asked what they were protesting, and a mom told me, "Nothing, we're here to support our charter school."

The first order of business was a retiree; I think he got an award or something. After shaking hands with all the board members, the chairman suggested he go celebrate with his family (i.e., free up some chairs, buddy!).

After the retiree's family left, a guard came back and announced there were 12 seats available. The charter school mom gathered up her supporters--about 40 of them--and headed out. Maybe they don't teach counting at the charter school.

The room grew much quieter after that. Even our Scouts, now 10 of them, settled down.

I watched the charter school lady appear onscreen at the podium. I still don't know what she was there for--she didn't ask for money, or to prevent any budget cuts--she just wanted to talk about the school while all the other parents waved their homemade signs. Which they did, for the allotted three minutes. And then they left. The take-away lesson I got was that school board meetings are for saying your piece, then splitting. Seems kinda...selfish.

More seats were freed up, 5 to be exact, the guard said. I grabbed my Scouts, then gave up my space, since I wasn't earning a merit badge and they were. I returned to the overflow area so I could play on Facebook and not be rude during the meeting.

The meeting finally ended, but the boys weren't quite done--they still had to interview the school superintendent. I was a little worried about what they would ask, but they did great! They asked why the board closed 5th grade camp ("Come on, tell the truth--was it really a fire hazard or just budget cuts?") They asked why the board would close nearby schools, and what'll happen to those affected students. They asked about classes that were cut, and if the band program was safe (it is, hooray!).

Mark asked about middle school sports, and whether they would be cut next year (no! It's been budgeted for the next three years--woot woot!). Another kid asked why they had to do P.E. when it was soooooooo cold outside. I thought to myself, "Man, that is definitely a California kid if he thinks 50 degrees is too cold for P.E.!"

I was actually very impressed by the questions--they were well-thought out and very relevant.

Until the last kid raised his hand. He was indignant that there are different standards between the genders during P.E.

"How come the girls don't  do the same stuff in P.E. as the boys?" he asked. "Like, say the  boys have to do 60 sit ups, and the girls only have to do 10. It's not fair!"

I cringed and sunk into my seat. Turns out the little rabble-rouser was none other than my own kid.

"What?" said the school board member. "There aren't different standards, thanks to Title 9. We will check into that," she said to the superintendent, who nodded in agreement.

And with that, the meeting ended. I popped Mark lightly on the head, and asked why he sold out the girls like that.

"You'll never get a date that way!" I told him, and his friend Jonah burst out laughing.

"So?" Mark said. "I don't care!"

"You will someday," Jonah told him.

On the way out, the boys high-fived each other for getting on TV. Jonah fretted that the camera caught him yawning several times. Mark said he and Sean flipped their hair every time the camera panned over them.

I was just proud they behaved. Of course, the minute they stepped outside, all bets were off--the three younger Scouts took off running through the empty parking lot toward my car.

"Why are they doing that?" asked Jonah's big brother, Ben.

"Because they're spazzes," I said. But I didn't mind. Every community needs a few indignant, high-fiving, hair-flipping, sleepy citizens--and I'm happy to share mine.

Boy heaven

This weekend was Scout-o-rama, which is basically a Boy Scout carnival. Each local den or troop puts up a game booth specifically targeted toward boys (think flying objects, building weapons, and lots of sharp wooden spikes).

Mark's group was in charge of the water balloons. I figured they'd host a balloon toss, which shows you what a...girl...I am. Here's what they actually used to "toss" the balloons:




That's right, they built a catapult! Two of them, actually, so they could launch the balloons at each other. It was awesome!

Mark remembered the balloons at the last minute. He wanted to bring them along, even though they were still in the bag.

"They wanted us to bring them already filled," I told him. "You think there's gonna be a hose just lying around at the park?"

Which proved point 2, that yes, I really am a girl. Because here's what the ingenious Boy Scout dads had built:




Yup, a whole water balloon filling station! It's amazing what you can do with a wooden horse, some PVC pipe and a little imagination. I did tell Mark to fill the balloons from the side, however, after watching one poor kid stand directly in front of the faucets. When the balloon slipped out of his hands, he got a crotch-full of cold water.

We brought along my nephew Johnny, too, who can't wait to become a scout (he's got a couple years to go). He and Mark had a blast. Their favorite activity was making marshmallow guns out of PVC pipes. They loved crawling through a dark tunnel maze, although Mark only went through it four times. Johnny went though it one more time, but decided to stop and relax halfway through. I had to send Mark in to flush him out. ("He was just sitting in there!" Mark exclaimed.)

They also shot water rockets into the air.



Had tug of wars.


Tied knots.


Ran a relay race 6 times each.





And sawed off pieces of wood.



The only thing they didn't do were the zip line.

Mark played a rousing game of dodgeball, and Johnny joined in for a bit. But they were playing against much older scouts and I knew where that was headed. Sure enough, even with Mark protecting him, Johnny eventually got smacked in the head by a ball. He toughed it out, leaving the game peacefully, until he got to me and immediately burst into tears. Poor little guy. But after hugging and consoling him for a few minutes, he was ready to move on to the next activity.

It was a pretty great afternoon. The boys came home tired, sweaty, and talking about what they were gonna do next year.

I can't wait.

Did I earn a merit badge, too?

This weekend, Mark went on his first Boy Scout camping trip. Which meant I also went on my first Boy Scout camping trip.

I was a little nervous. First of all, I've only camped once since college. I am old now, and less inclined to think of sleeping on the ground as an adventure.

Secondly, when camping in college, we always packed beer first. Anything after that was incidental or a nice surprise ("Oh, sleeping bags! That was a good idea! Who packed those?"). I'm an adult now, so alcohol is no longer the number-one priority like it was for my college self. But now I'd have to actually learn how to pack for a real camping trip.

I packed, all right. And wondered if maybe I'd overpacked. Because this was how many bags I had, and only two of them were Mark's:





Mind you, this was an overnight camping trip. Here in the city, close to provisions. We weren't even in the desert or mountains, or some other remote location. I have no idea how we'll pack any more gear in my little car for an extended trip.

We arrived at the Boy Scout camp, and the boys went to work setting up. I went to lunch with my friend Liz (I told you, this was city camping!).

I returned to set up my tent, and immediately ran into problems. The little O rings with the tent stakes wouldn't stick in the mud. The stakes were only about an inch long, which didn't seem to work. My tent also wouldn't stand up after I threaded the poles through, so I jammed the pole ends into the dirt for stability. It didn't work.

The troop leader sent over four Scouts, who figured out what was wrong in about 30 seconds.

"You put these little rings into the tent poles," one boy told me. "But they're all full of dirt--that's weird."

It wasn't the last time that weekend a Boy Scout would prove smarter than me.

"Um...well, that's my fault," I stammered. "I...kinda...shoved the poles into the mud." God bless those Scouts, not one of them laughed. They patiently dug the caked-in dirt out.

They got my tent all set up. My home-away-from home looked pretty good.




"Did you bring a mat?" the troop leader asked, and I nodded. I didn't tell him it was actually a queen-size air mattress.

Unfortunately, my air pump was powered by the cigarette lighter in my car. Which was parked about 300 yards away. I'd have to pump it up in the parking lot and sneak it back to my tent. I inflated the mattress, and realized there was no way I could discreetly deliver it to the tent. I slung it on my back, and refused to make eye contact with any Scouts. I didn't fool anyone.

"Roughing it tonight, huh?" one of the Scout leaders asked with a smile on his face.

"I'm still new to this," I answered. I was making quite the impression on the Scouts.

The boys spent the afternoon completing activities. I took advantage of our location and the busy schedule and went to get a haircut. When I came back, I asked if I could help out. The troop master shook his head, and told me the boys run the camp, so they'd be cooking. I was beginning to like Scout camp.

The boys did, in fact, run the camp and meals, and did a great job at both. The new Scouts learned a lot, and the older Scouts were very patient teaching them.

Dinner time rolled around. The Scouts cut up potatoes, onions, carrots, and bell peppers. Then they put them in a foil packet, slopped on some raw hamburger, and folded them up into "hobo pockets." The name seemed especially fitting, since we were camping right next to the railroad tracks.

Mark made the newbie mistake of putting too much hamburger in, shaped like a big meatball. He added his pocket to the others balanced precariously over the fire, but it took almost an hour for his pocket to fully cook. .

"It's like food Jenga!" one Scout observed, as he carefully pulled a pocket from the bottom of the pile. Everyone groaned as another pocket fell into the fire.

Next up was the campfire. We were treated to Dutch-oven cobbler (fantastic!) and skits that went on forever, and sometimes ended without a punchline. We solemnly retired a few old flags, which flamed up pretty high and freaked us out a bit.

Finally, we retired to our tents. I slept great on my air mattress.

I awoke early the next morning to boys yelling, "Wake up, Scouts! Time to get up!"

I waited a few minutes for Mark to call me on the walkie-talkie and tell me his blood sugar number, but he never did. I got up to find him.

I approached the group, and was greeted by the Troop leaders. One offered me a cup of espresso (ooh, fancy camping!), which I gladly accepted. I looked around for Mark, and another leader told me to put my blinders on.

I didn't understand at first, until I saw this:




That's right, s'mores for breakfast! Breakfast of champions. I just smiled. I wasn't going to be the buzzkill mom who ruined the camping trip by lecturing them about nutrition.

I still didn't see Mark, and I had my suspicions on why not. I approached his tent, and saw this:



That's right, my slacker kid was still in bed. I told him to check his blood sugar and get up. Then I told him he was missing out on s'mores for breakfast, and how often does he get those?

Even that didn't motivate him. I sent a couple of his friends to wake him up. Jonah stood at the tent and politely tried to convince him out of bed. Sean handed me his marshmallow skewer and ran to jump on Mark. I could see the tent shaking from the commotion, but still no Mark.

I went to the tent and dragged Mark out. I dumped him out of his sleeping bag, and we were laughing uncontrollably...until the Troop leader appeared, and quietly but firmly told Mark his mother shouldn't have to drag him out of bed. He told Mark to get up and get dressed, which Mark did immediately. I mumbled "Sorry," and went back to my side of camp, where I wouldn't be a bad influence any more.

The boys made a second breakfast of pancakes and Dutch-oven french toast. (I got a Dutch oven for Christmas, and can't wait to try out some of these recipes!) The boys broke down camp afterwards, and although the Troop leaders offered up volunteers to break down my tent, I did it myself. I like a challenge, and putting the tent back into its tiny little bag was a good one. It beat me last time we went camping, but I wasn't going to let it beat me this time--I made it fit!





All in all, I have to say Scout camping was pretty fun. I'm looking at it as a dry-run, a chance to see what I need or don't need for next time. Here's what I came up with:

• More blankets/jackets. The wind was chilling, and I will remember next time that the outdoors are cold.
• I need a mess kit for myself. Mark did not want to share his with me, and only lent me a spoon and bowl when I threatened him with cleaning the cat litter box for he next six months.
• Mark needs a metal mess kit. Putting a flaming hot hobo pocket on a plastic plate--not a good idea.

• I may need a smaller sleeping bag, since my warm, fluffy one filled half the gigantic duffel bag above.
• I definitely need a battery-operated air mattress pump so I can discreetly inflate my mattress inside my tent. I'm glad the Scouts enjoy roughing it, but this Diva needs her beauty rest.

All in all, it was a blast. The Troop leaders were so friendly, and really welcomed me. They were as patient with me as the older Scouts were of the younger Scouts.

As the lone female, I tried my best to stay out of the activity and just be an observer, not an intrusive mom. And even though I offered to help, the leaders made it clear the boys were to do all the work. So I got to spend the afternoon reading, relaxing, and enjoying the camp. I could definitely get used to that!

I'm actually kinda looking forward to the next trip...

Travelling circus

Being a Boy Scout mom is almost as fun as being a Cub Scout mom, and it's equally entertaining.

Mark had a troop meeting last night. He was very excited to go, and I stuck around so I didn't miss any info about the new Scout outing next weekend.

The adult Scout leader welcomed the boys and gave them all sorts of information. He told them about upcoming trips, including white water rafting, which he sold as being super fun, mostly because the boys were almost guaranteed to fall out of the raft and into the river at some point. He promised there would be water fights, and they'd shoot each other in the face the whole time with squirt guns. And oh yeah, he added, the river would be ice cold, so they had that going for them.

He wasn't exaggerating about ice cold river water, because the next thing he brought up was how they'd wear wetsuits to keep them warm. And with the thought of being pelted by ice cold water to the face, I was out of the rafting trip.

The next adventure they discussed was the weeklong camping trip in the redwoods, which actually sounded like fun. They'll drive to San Francisco and camp by the bay the first night.
The next day, they'll take BART into town and ride the streetcars, go to Ghiradelli Square and walk to Chinatown.

"Yeah!" one of the young Scout leaders interrupted. "And just so you know, guys, you can buy a Samurai sword in Chinatown for only TEN BUCKS!"

The room immediately burst into simultaneous cheers (from the boys) and groans (from the parents). One of the moms reassured us that that the boy was actually trying to inspire the other Scouts, and not just freak out the parents. I remained unconvinced.

And with that, the informational portion of the meeting was over. The boys jumped out of their seats, and began doing...I don't know what. Two boys began jumping over the chairs, while another did an impressive Roger Rabbit dance.

The older boys stood in a circle discussing something, and shoving each other, while our younger boys, also in a circle, knocked each others' hats off.

"I'm waiting for them to start the toe-stomping game," I whispered to my friend Liz, who nodded in agreement. She noticed the boys each had a piece of paper.

"Are they supposed to be doing some activity?" she asked. "Are those the instructions?"

I wasn't sure, but a moment later, an older Scout rounded up our boys and herded them outside. Liz and I watched as a group of older boys outside grabbed on to a rope. We thought they might be doing a tug of war, but then saw they were forming a giant circle with it.

I noticed some other parents completing paperwork. I realized those were probably permission slips for the new Scout outing, and asked if we should complete them as well.

"Yes," the mom in charge told me. I waited for her to hand us the slips, but she said the boys had them. We realized those were the papers the boys were holding earlier. Liz and I also realized at the same moment what condition the papers would now be in.

"Let's go get the papers before they lose them," she said, and we hurried outdoors.

The Scouts were in full swing with the rope activity. And I literally mean full swing, because as we left the auditorium, Liz almost got clocked by a group of them flying toward her with their rope circle.

We braved the blacktop, heading toward our boys, and I realized that a) we were the only parents out there not in uniform, and b) we were the only women out there.

This fact did not go unnoticed. The adult Troop leader intercepted us ("Moms trying to ruin the fun at 11 o'clock!"), but we told him we just wanted the permission slips from the boys. He let us pass.

I was surprised to find our boys still had the permission slips. I was not surprised by the condition they were in. Mark reached into his pocket and tossed this to me.



The other slips were folded up tightly or equally crumpled. We couldn't help but laugh. We completed the forms and turned them in, and the woman in charge laughed just as hard as we did when she received them.

The meeting ended shortly after that, and to Mark's dismay, there were no cookies, like after Cub Scouts.

"What, no snickity snack?" he cried. I shook my head sadly.

"Rip-off," he grumbled, forgetting he'd just spent 90 minutes having a blast.

During the ride home, I asked him what the rope activity was all about.

"I have no idea," he confessed. "I really don't! They told us to hold the rope, and then half of us let go. And the other half fell down! It was HILARIOUS!" He couldn't help snickering at that.

So, he had no idea what was happening, but he had fun. Turns out, Scout meetings are pretty much like any other day for Mark.

Blue and Gold

A couple weekends ago, Mark came to a bridge, and he crossed it.

It wasn't just any bridge--it was the bridge to Boy Scouts, where my little boy took one more giant leap toward growing up. My only consolation is that this activity still has the word "Boy" in it, so I can pretend for at least a few more years that he's still my little guy.

It was actually a two-night process. The first night, he and his Webelo patrol officially became Boy Scouts at the big pack meeting. As the younger scouts looked on, Mark and the other Webelos crossed over the bridge, and were met by Boy Scouts. The Scouts removed the Webelos' neckerchiefs, and replaced them with a spiffy new green Troop 120 neckerchief. As the crowd roared, the Webelos saluted and melted into the troop of Boy Scouts.

I walked Mark up to the stage, then watched him walk up the stairs alone. I'd like to say that when Mark's turn came, he addressed it with all the respect and dignity the moment deserved. But you know Mark, and as he always says, "That's not my style." Where most of the boys walked solemnly across (one boy even stopped mid-way to reflect on his experiences), Mark instead threw his arms in the air, raised the roof, and bobbed across the bridge. He nodded his head as though he were a rock star, which he kind of was, because everyone laughed. He loved it.

It was very sweet, poignant, and comical all at once, just like my kid. I started to get a little teary until Mark raced past me and my congratulatory hug, eager to get out to the customary post-meeting cookies and punch.

But the next night was the even bigger celebration--the Blue and Gold dinner. The boys crossed the bridge again, but this time they earned their Arrow of Light instead of a neckerchief.

To earn the Arrow of Light, Mark and his buddies completed numerous activities over the past two years. Mark learned all about first aid, showmanship, nature, woodworking, and properly using tools, just to name a few. He planned emergency escape routes and worked on a bike. He made a Pinewood Derby car and learned about computers.

The boys filled their Webelos ribbon with pins, offering up endless amusement to their parents as they did it. They rightfully earned their Arrows of Light, and we were all thrilled to celebrate!

My whole family came up to the dinner. They feasted on tacos, and congratulated Mark. Smed lectured Mark on wearing his uniform properly, and Scott teased him good-naturedly. My nieces and nephews ran wild with the Cub Scouts, chasing balloons through the gym.



My mom seemed pre-occupied with where she would sit, but I couldn't figure out why until she finally asked, "Where are they going to shoot the arrows?"

I pointed to the stage. "The man stands behind the boys and shoots the arrows into that haystack as they cross," I told her.

She immediately looked relieved. Turns out she thought the boys were going to shoot arrows through the gym. I assured her she was safe; the archer was a grown man with good aim.

At one point, Mark and his friend Kyler turned and ran from one end of the gym to the the other, weaving through the tables and zipping dangerously past diners shifting their plates out of the way. I was mortified, but also getting a cold, and couldn't yell at Mark to stop.

So I did what my mother would do...I shot him the evil eye, and willed him to stop running. And from across the gym, he felt that look boring into his back, because suddenly, he turned, stopped on a dime, and raised his hands up in his trademark "What?!?" gesture.

I pointed my index finger straight at him, then turned and waved it in a "come here RIGHT NOW" movement. And he did! He actually walked across the gym, head down, and apologized. Not only did he apologize, but Kyler came over and did, too! They walked away like the little gentlemen they are being trained to become, and I giggled to myself, then rushed off to tell my Mom I'd stopped Mark running from all the way across the gym--silently! She was so proud.

Then it was time for the ceremony to begin. Mark's patrol leader said some very nice words, congratulating the boys on their hard work. The boys all crossed the stage to light candles in the Arrow of Light symbol. The patrol leader called all the parents up on stage, to receive an Arrow of Light pin for our contributions (i.e., driving the boys to all the meetings). Mark whispered something frantically as I walked up, but I couldn't understand him. It sounded like "Grandma wouldn't even let me cough!" which didn't make much sense, since my mom was safely ensconced among all the other family members.

And then came the big moment. Each boy walked up to the microphone, and had his moment.

"My name is Mark, and I've earned the Arrow of Light," said one brown-haired little scout in glasses, of whom I am particularly fond. I'll admit, I teared up a bit at that, and even more so as he solemnly walked across the bridge. Behind him, the archer shot the arrow, and then Greg, the patrol leader, met Mark on the other side of the bridge, hand extended. They shook the secret Cub Scout handshake, smiled at me and my camera, and then Mark took his place with the other scouts. I was one proud mama.



The ceremony ended with the traditional candy lei, which the boys loved, and gift bags. Mark also received his arrow, and treated it with the utmost respect it commanded.



"I'm so proud of you!" I told him for the 720th time that night. "But I'm a little surprised you walked across the bridge so seriously."

"Grandma wouldn't let me!" he immediately shouted. "She was staring right at me, and she shook her finger right before I crossed. She shook it when I coughed, too--she wouldn't even let me cough!"

And suddenly, I understood what he was trying to tell me on stage. My mom is a super-proud, super-loving grandma, but she doesn't tolerate misbehaving children. I bit my tongue, stifling a giggle, and realized the apple didn't fall far from the matriarchal tree in our family.

Before I could even get back to the table, the massive cakes had been cut and doled out. All the children except Gabi were covered in frosting and chasing the balloons even more frantically. They were riding a serious sugar high.

So we packed up our stuff, and I bid Pack 206 a sad farewell. I'm not too sad, because I know I'll see most of the parents at Boy Scouts, as their boys move up. But still, Mark spent three fun years with the pack, and he loved every minute of it.



But as they say, onwards and upwards. Mark's thrilled to be a Boy Scout. "Now we aren't gonna the big kids in the pack anymore," he told me. "Now I'm just gonna be a little fish in the big pond."

But he smiled when he said it, and I knew it didn't bother him the least bit.

Scout's honor

This weekend was a hub of activity, and I'm sad to say, not much of it centered around me. Instead, it was focused on Mark, and his journey to manhood.

Or rather, to Scouthood. On Sunday, he spent his last weekend in front of a table hawking mistletoe (the pack's big fundraiser for the year). As always, it proved highly entertaining.

Mark was joined by four other Scouts from his den. Although the table was on a low-traffic part of the street, they still managed to reel in every person walking by.

"Mistletoe!" they shouted to the potential customers standing one foot away from them. "Get your mistletoe for only one dollar!"




As proof that people really are good and just, almost everyone stopped. They looked into the earnest eyes of those young scouts and purchased a bag of mistletoe.

The boys worked as a team to draw people in.

Jonah yelled, "Buy 200 bags, get 1 free!" Surprisingly, there were no takers.

Daniel expertly called out to passersby, and drew in quite a few. After one laughing couple left, he came over to ask if the boys were allowed to joke with customers, and his mom assured him they were.

Sebastian kept the table well-stocked with merchandise. And Mark did his part as well, giving customers the sad little puppy dog eyes we'd practiced in the car on the way over.

"Would you like to buy some mistletoe?" he asked one man passing by. The man kind of shook his head, but before he could take another step, Mark said in his saddest, most-innocent voice, "Please?" Sold!

There were moments of squirelly-ness, since our salesmen were only ten years old. A bout of the ninja game erupted, and the salesmen were instructed to stop karate-chopping each other, which almost never happens at other sales venues. They also tried stomping on each other's toes quite a bit.

One person bought multiple bags, which pleased the boys immensely. "That was our most profitable sale yet!" they told the lady.

Another lady bought a bag and held it above her head. "Does it work?" she asked, and five boys immediately scooted back, horrified that she might actually try it on them. Her boyfriend loved that, and asked them very seriously, "What do you do with this?"

The boys stammered and giggled nervously, shoving each other to the forefront to explain. They hemmed and hawed, refusing to answer or say the word "kiss." The man pressed on, until finally one boy said, "That's all I'm gonna say about that!" and the other boys nodded silently in agreement. It was hilarious!

But that wasn't all the fun for the day. Mark will move up to Boy Scouts soon, so he attended his first Boy Scout meeting as well. I learned that the troop is very active, and will, quite possibly, give me a heart attack. The boys will go camping, hiking, rock-climbing and even white-water rafting.

Our little boys practiced by rappelling down from the gym ceiling. They were harnessed in tightly, which they quickly realized limited their mobility. Watching them try (and fail) to run while hobbled was priceless, and my friend Liz immediately said she was going to buy some harnesses for our boys.

There were two Boy Scouts helping strap them in, and the first asked how tightly they were supposed to cinch the harnesses.

"Until it hurts," said the second Scout, and I realized that being in the Boy Scouts for Mark will be like having 70 big brothers. I fell in love with the troop right then.




So stay tuned...Mark may be aging out of the Cub Scouts and all the fun stories that go with it, but never fear, here come the Boy Scouts. And after watching last night's activities, I know the funny stories will continue...