Paging Anthony

Mark asked me very excitedly today if I wanted to see his signature. Apparently, he's been practicing, in case he needs to sign any important papers.

"Sure!" I replied. I'm on board with any attempt at improving those chicken scratches he calls handwriting.

"It looks so cool," he confided. "It's just one letter. A giant letter A."

I stopped walking and looked at him. "Why an A?" I finally asked. "Your name starts with an M."

"I know, but I can't write M's very well," he said. "But I can write a cool A."

"But your name doesn't start with A," I repeated, as though it might suddenly make sense to him.

He just shrugged, and we kept walking.

And then, in light of the old if-ya-can't-beat-'em,-join-'em adage, I provided another solution.

"Maybe you can change your name," I proposed. "To something that starts with A. Like Aaron."

He lit up at that, and started bouncing around. "Yeah!" he shouted. "Or Anthony. I like Anthony."

I held out my hand to him. "Well, then Anthony it is," I told him. "Unless you're from New Jersey. Then it's Ant-ny. Yo, Ant-ny, let's go get some lunch."

I will really miss the days when he grows up and solutions aren't always so simple. But until then, Ant-ny and I certainly enjoyed our lunch.

Can I get a little help here?

I often say that my son spends 30 minutes trying to get out of doing a 2-minute task (like making his bed). Boy, did he ever live up to that yesterday.

I was unloading groceries from the car, which included breakables such as eggs and wine (staples in our household). They were in brown paper bags, which are environmentally-friendly but not nearly as strong as plastic bags.

Mark is not the most careful when it comes to "boring" things like carrying groceries, and I didn't want him to rip the bags. So I loaded up all three heavy bags and carried them gingerly to the front door. Once there, I rummaged through my pockets for my keys (in the dark), balancing the bags precariously. I managed to unlock and open the door, and get all three bags into the house unscathed.

Mark's task was far simpler. I asked him to bring his skateboard and helmet into the house. No breakables, no heavy lifting, no uneasy balancing. Piece of cake, right?

Except that it wasn't. Mark took his time (apparently helmets are very verrrrrry heavy) and the cats started inching toward the open front door. I set down the bags and closed the front door so they wouldn't escape. I left it unlocked for Mark.

Not two minutes later, I heard him calling me from the front porch.

"Mom, can you open the door?" he asked. I was in the middle of unloading the bags, and didn't remember his hands being that full.

His called out again, a little louder this time. "Mom! A little help, please!"

I kept putting away groceries. I wanted to see how long it would take him to open it himself.

His voice got louder.

"Mom! Please open the door!"

I was about to give in when his voice changed -- it sounded like he was inside. Then I realized he'd lifted the mail slot in the door, and was yelling into the house through it.

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. His hands were too full to open the door, but not to lift the mail slot!

Then the yelling stopped. Before long, there was a tentative knock at the door, then many not-so-tentative knocks, followed by another request for me to open the door.

"Mom!" he shouted, pounding on the door. "Can you PLEASE open the door for me?"

Before I could answer, he opened the door himself. He was carrying his skateboard in one hand and the helmet in the other. This had obviously impeded him from opening the door himself.

He was angry, and as he passed by me, he snarled, "Geez, you always say ask for help when I need it, but then you don't even help..."

I pointed to his helmet, and said, "You should've put the helmet on your head. Then you could've opened the door yourself."

I thought that was some pretty good troubleshooting, but instead of thanking me for the sound advice, Mark shot me the stink eye instead.

Oh well. I'm just glad he finally figured out how to get inside.