Beer snob

While watching my 5-year-old nephew Johnny last night, I remembered I had to send off a quick email. Johnny stood beside me and watched me type.

He instantly recognized a word he saw onscreen.

"No," he said, then spelled it out. "N. O. No."

I smiled at him. "Good job, Johnny! Do you know any other words?"

He just shrugged. I pointed to another word and asked if he could read it.

He couldn't, but he spelled out each letter: "H. E. A. T. H. E. R."

"That's right!" I told him. "Do you know what that spells?"

He looked at me expectantly, so I sounded out the first syllable to prod him.

"Heaaaa..." I said.

"...feweisen," he finished. I burst into laughter.

"Did you just say 'hefeweisen'?" I asked.

"No, I said hef-eh-VI-sen," he corrected, using the German pronunciation. Not only does this kid know his beer, he knows the proper way to say it. I laughed out loud again.

"Your dad is going to be so proud of you," I said, and of course, I was right, Smed WAS proud. 

And I was very amused.

Public intoxication

Last weekend I took Mark to Scout-o-Rama. It's an event put on by the local Scouting council, and all the packs in the city sponsor activities. There was a zip line, rock climbing, archery, kayaks, and every other boy-centric activity you could think of. There was even a BMX bike demo at the end, which the boys loved.

Afterwards, we had dinner at our favorite restaurant, which has the best fish n' chips around. It's a local pub, more a restaurant than a drinking establishment, but I did draw the line when Mark wanted to sit at the bar.

I always opt for eating on the back patio, but the evening was a bit chilly. There was also a loud, raucous group of college kids out back, yelling and laughing and just generally having a good time. They didn't bother us, but the cold did, so we went back inside.

During our meal, we could hear them quite well. The waitress took our orders amid screams of "Chug! Chug! Chug!"

They were having a good time. It was even more evident when they finally left, holding one another up, and stumbling through the place. They were still laughing, very loudly, when suddenly, one very wasted girl stopped directly in front of us.

"Is that a Boy Scout?" she asked her boyfriend, very loudly, pointing directly at Mark in his Cub Scout uniform.

The boyfriend nodded.

She shook her head, befuddled, and yelled, "Well, then what's he doing in a BAR??" And with that, her friends erupted into a new round of laughter and ambled off.

Mark and I looked at each other and also burst into laughter.

"What's he doing in a bar?" Mark mimicked in a high, girly voice.

"This actually is a restaurant," I told Mark. "Just because she got all drunk in here doesn't make it a bar."

He nodded, and I quickly nudged him. The waitress was carrying in all their pint glasses stacked together, and I swear there were about 30 of them!

"Whoa," Mark said.

"Whoa," I repeated. And thought to myself maybe there are more appropriate places to take my kid for dinner -- at least while he's in uniform.

Christmas carols

It's almost Christmas, and Mark is in the holiday spirit. He's been sporting an increasing filthy Santa hat and singing Christmas carols non-stop for the past week.

Some of the songs bring me back to my own youth. Most notably is "Jingle Bells," which I remember belting out loudly and proudly just like my son -- "Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg..." Definitely not the version they play on the radio, but it's quite popular with the under-10 set. And what I love is how happily they sing it, as though they were the first generation ever to do so (again, just like we did!).

But Mark is not limited solely to timeless classics. He's also written some holiday ditties of his own. On the drive to San Diego, he serenaded me over and over again with a tune he wrote just for me.

He sang, "We wish you a beery Christmas, we wish you a beery Christmas, we wish you a beery Christmas, and a happy New Beer."

I just smiled and applauded. I was impressed with his rhyming skills and ability to hold a tune. I was equally impressed by his unrelenting enthusiasm, as he sang it over and over and over again.

And by the time I got to my parents', I had a curious craving for a beer.

Now this is more like it

One of Mark's daily chores is setting the dinner table. I'm never quite sure how it will look when he's done -- he always forgets the condiments, he often forgets the silverware or napkins, and sometimes he even forgets the plates.

But sometimes, like last week, he adds things.

I really appreciated the festive touch -- it definitely made taco night seem more exotic.

And I liked it much better than other nights when he's decorated my beer -- by adding a colorful straw for me to sip with.

Because let's face it, while I appreciate the effort and thoughtfulness of a good bendy straw, a cold beer is much better when chugged straight from the bottle. Which is exactly how I intended to drink it...

Right up until I saw that angelic, sweet little face smiling and waiting patiently for me to use the straw he lovingly placed in the beer bottle.

I didn't think it got any cuter than that face, until I sipped my beer from the straw, and the face broke into a gigantic smile.

So if you ever join us for dinner and drinks, don't be surprised if they come with a paper umbrella -- or a straw.

My son, the redneck

Today was my conference with Mark's teacher. It was before school, so Mark was off to Kid's Club for a little early morning playtime. That is, until I realized he had five unfinished math pages (and two spelling) left in his homework packet (all due tomorrow).

So I parked him outside the classroom instead. "Get to it," I said, handing him the packet. He was already grumpy about getting up early, and man, did this push him over the edge.

The conference went really well. I am happy to say that Mark's doing very well in class, and that the letter E (for Excellent) was liberally sprinkled throughout his report card. I was most happy to see those Es in the behavior sections--I don't think Mark's ever received an E for behavior or listening before!

But that wasn't my only surprise. Mr. Robinson showed Mark's improvement from his noun pre-test to his post-test. In the pre-test, he couldn't describe a noun. In the post test, he correctly identified it as a "person, place, or thing" and gave some examples. I scanned the sheet--he'd named his principal (person), San Diego (place) and beer (thing).

Yes, beer! My face turned bright red, and I sunk down a bit into my seat. I quickly flipped the paper over, hoping Mr. Robinson hadn't noticed it (duh, he graded it, OF COURSE he saw it). I said a silent prayer to the god of vices (Bacchus?) and hoped no others revealed themselves in his classwork.

I fumbled to change the subject. "Well, um, how's his writing?" I asked.

Mr. R told me what I already knew--Mark's got a lot of potential, but he's sloppy. (Hi, ring a bell?) He handed me some writing samples.

I scanned them, grateful to be away from the beer sheet. However, the blood instantly rushed back into my face as I read over a paper called "The Gun Day." It was a narrative describing a day he'd gone shooting with his Uncles Scott and Brad. It was descriptive, passionate, and completely false. (He's never held a gun in his life, much to his dismay.)

He should have called it "The Big Lie Day," which would've been more accurate. At least he was smart enough to include the line, "My mom did not go shooting with us, because she does not like guns."

Mr. R was so impressed with Mark's printing that I didn't have the heart to tell him the story was made up. I chalked it up to creative writing, although I will insist all future writings must be non-fiction, unless specifically noted otherwise.

I left the conference happy, very proud of Mark's improved behavior. I was all smiles, ready to congratulate him, until I saw his empty chair. The only sign of him was the backpack on the desk.

"Hmmm, he must've gone to the bathroom," Mr. Robinson said, but I knew better. I knew my little beer-swilling, gun-toting redneck was not on an innocent potty break; he'd skipped parole and was out playing with the other little hoodlums on the playground.

Which was exactly where I found him. I marched him over to the benches, where he sat on a time-out, fuming. I realized I'd probably star in his next writing sample, in a completely unflattering light.

Whatever. As long as he spells my name right (M-E-A-N M-O-M), I'm cool with it.