The Lucky Winner indeed!

This past weekend was the annual Cub Scout event I've unofficially dubbed the Yo Mama Can't Help You race (also known as the Pinewood Derby). Luckily for me, Mark's got an awesome Cub Scout Patrol leader who's not only patient, but also has an impressive amount of power tools. Color me relieved!

Through a series of sessions, Mark's block of pine eventually morphed into a lightning-quick race car. During the first working session, Mark was only required to bring the block of wood and a design idea. This proved more difficult than it sounds.

"I'm gonna make a baseball!" he exclaimed, showing me his drawing of a half-baseball car.

"That looks very cool!" I told him. "But...it may be hard to cut that shape. You're starting with a rectangular block of wood, not a square."

"It'll work," Mark insisted, so I just nodded. This was not a battle I was going to wage.

In the end, he brought home a spiffy little number, with wave-like curls cut into it. He was very proud of it.

He still needed to attach the wheels, so I sent the car when he visited my family in San Diego.

"Have Grandpa help you put them on," I said. "Since...you know...I glued them that one time."

Mark nodded. He remembered how the overglued wheels had completely refused to turn. His car had inelegantly slid (not rolled) down the track into last place.

Of course, I forgot to tell Mark to bring the car back from San Diego, and he accidentally left it there. I told my dad to just spray paint it and mail it back, but my parents worried it would break in the mail, so they personally drove it up instead. (Have I mentioned I have the best parents ever?)

The day of the derby was filled with excitement. We visited the first station, registering and photographing the car.

"What's your car's name?" Mark was asked, and he confidently answered, "The Lucky Winner."



During triage (yes, there really is a triage station!), we found Mark's car was severely underweight. We tripled the weight of the car by gluing on weights, and Mark was ready to go.

In a self-fulfilling prophecy, the Lucky Winner lived up to its name! Mark easily won all four of his races, advancing him to the Final 16. He was working in the hot dog booth when I told him, and stopped taking tickets long enough to say, "Yay!" Then he went right back to work.



By the time the finals started, Mark was a bit bored. Like the good pre-teen he is, he'd disappeared with some friends who had scooters, older brothers and even (ack!) girls. I watched him casually ignore me when I called (more than once) to come cheer on his car. He was reluctant to leave his post with the cool big kids.

His car didn't place in the finals, but who cares? We were both thrilled that he'd even made it to the finals--he'd never gotten that far before. He had a car that wasn't square, wasn't glittery, and had moving wheels. And it only took us four years to achieve all that!

So in the end, although it has been the bane of my last four Januarys, Mark bid adieu to his final Pinewood Derby, and left on a high note.

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...

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.

Crossing the bridge

Yesterday was the Cub Scout pack picnic. It was exciting for two very special reasons: 1. Mark bridged over from being a first-year Webelo to a second-year Webelo, and 2. There was a loose dog in the park. (More on that later.)

Webelos are the transitional phase between being a Cub Scout and becoming a Boy Scout. And being a second-year Webelo just puts Mark that much closer to being a Boy Scout, which I'm not sure I'm ready for yet. He's still just a little Cub to me.

However...Mark is certainly not a shy little five-year-old anymore, growling and giving the audience the stink eye for simply looking at him. No, he's grown into quite the confident young man. And by confident I don't mean in the traditional calm, self-assured way. More like the class clown kinda way. He raised his hands, egging on the audience to cheer for him as he received his earned activity pins.


One happened to be for the Showman activity, and the guy next to me laughed at Mark and said, "He's certainly a showman!"

But Mark and his buddies took their senior rank in the pack seriously, showing those littler Cub Scouts how to really cross a bridge. As each of their names were called, they literally ran, skipped, danced and hopped across the bridge, and into their second-year Webelo status.



And then there was the dog...a well-groomed little Shih Tzu wearing a harness. He obviously belonged to somebody, but that didn't stop the Scouts from crowding around and feeding him hot dogs. One boy noted he probably shouldn't eat them, since hot dogs seemed "a bit cannibalistic."

"They aren't really made out of dogs," I told him, and he laughed.

While the younger Scouts engaged in water balloon tosses, mini golf, tossing footballs and frisbees, Mark's den befriended the dog. They made a makeshift leash from a uniform neckerchief, and later a balloon ribbon, then they scoured the park looking for the dog's owner. It was a friendly little dog, loving all the attention, and once the boys found him, they took turns carrying him everywhere. I don't think his feet touched the ground once. They spent the entire picnic playing with the dog, as they parents kidded each other about who was going to take him home.

(We never did find the owner, but one Scout dad volunteered to go to a few nearby houses.)

All in all, it was a fun, friendly picnic. It was fun to watch all the Cub Scouts cross the bridge over to their next level of Scouting, and to see all the proud parents (and even a little stray dog) cheering them on.

Go Cobra Patrol!

Mama said knock you out

Mark's Cub Scout den is in the home stretch for ear ning their Webelos badge. They had a couple more activities to review, and some oaths/mottoes/slogans to learn before the final pack meeting next week.

So during the last meeting, the den leader spent the time reviewing and explaining the Boy Scout oath. The boys repeated it line for line after him, and the leader stopped at each line to explain exactly what it meant.

My favorite line was when the Scouts promised to be "physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight."

They all knew immediately what physically strong meant. But "mentally awake," ironically, gave them more pause.

"What does that mean, mentally awake?" the leader asked again, and more than one boy scratched his head.

Suddenly, the leader's son, Jonah, raised his hand excitedly -- he'd figured it out.

"Oooh!" he said. "It means you can't be knocked out, like in a fight. You can't be unconscious."

Which became my new favorite definition of mentally awake!

They also had a little trouble with morally straight. They weren't quite sure what "morally" meant, although one boy very smartly pointed out that it came from the word "moral," which he reminded them comes at the end of a story. The leader patiently explained what it meant to act morally, and the boys responded with a knowing, "Oh, yeah!"

However, when they broke up into smaller groups to practice reciting the oath, they quickly confused the phrases, which became "morally awake." And I had to stifle another giggle, because when one boy asked me again what that meant, all I could think of was, "You only have to be good when you're awake -- all bets are off when you're asleep." But I made sure not to say that out loud!

I'm proud to say that all the boys learned the Boy Scout motto, oath, slogan, handshake, and even the Outdoor Code. In no time at all, they were back to playing their favorite Ninja game, and then racing outside for snack and a quick soccer game.

Mark really digs Cub Scouts, because he likes hanging out with his friends. But sometimes, after lessons like this, I think I enjoy it even more than he does!

Something else I'm not good at

It's no secret that I am craft-impaired. I'm not a MacGyver type who can take a glue gun, pipe cleaner, cotton ball, and construction paper and fashion them into a homemade...anything.

I also know I'm out of my league when it comes to Pinewood Derby cars. But this past week, I thought I finally had a chance at the Cub Scouts Cake Bake and Movie night. Because unlike Derby cars, I've actually made cakes before, and some of them even turned out okay.

Of course, this wasn't really my cake to make. It was Mark's. So I put my control issues to the side and let him bake and decorate it himself. He wanted a happy face on his cake. He picked out three types of icing and a bottle of sprinkly stars for the hair. By the time we left, our cake cost $10, $4 more than the pre-made decorated Mother's Day cakes Mark was drooling over.

Mark wanted to bake one layer square and one round, so I bit my tongue and agreed. We placed the round layer on top, and I handed over the frosting knife which happened to "accidentally" spill at least four times. Mark was kind enough to dispose of the dropped frosting each time.

I thought his cake came out super cute. We plated it, wrote his name on it, and Mark named his entry "Mr. Happy."



However, upon arriving at the cake bake, I realized we were competing against professional bakers. How else to explain these cakes, which were supposedly made by even younger Scouts, with their dads? (Seriously, these dads are starting to make me look bad!)











I am seriously regretting my first impulse, which was to make the infamous kitty litter cake. I may sneak one in next year, even though Mark will have moved on to Boy Scouts by then.

It would totally be worth it!!

How (not) to camp

Last Friday was my chance to co-lead another Cub Scout meeting. It went a little better than the last time, but still had its challenges.

We were working on the Outdoorsman badge, commonly referred to as the camping badge. However, it's February, the local mountains are filled with snow, and neither my co-lead Liz nor I wanted to camp in the cold. So we came up with activities that prepared the boys for camping instead.

Liz and I explained that we were having a camp fire next month and cooking dinner over the fire. This simple statement was enough to start the questions rolling.

"Um, when is that?" one boy asked. "We might be busy that weekend."

"Yeah, I have to ask my dad first," another boy chimed in.

I assured them their parents already knew about it, and had confirmed they'd be there. Then I repeated that same statement eight more times for the other boys who might also have plans that weekend (even though they didn't know what weekend it was).

Liz explained that to hold a camp fire, we'd need food, j o b s and supplies. She stood at the ready to write down the list the boys came up with.

"Let's start with food," I said, and called on the boys to name food. They immediately answered s'mores, marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate. They answered that in various forms for about three minutes.

"Good, we'll have s'mores. What other food should we bring?" I pressed.

"Wine!" shouted one boy, and I told him, "I'm going camping with your parents!"

Eventually, our list included s'mores, hot dogs, and soup in a bag.

Next, we moved onto supplies.

"What will we need to start the fire?" Liz asked. This was met with answers such as wood, kindling, fires starter stuff, and wood again. "Oh, and newspaper!" one boy called out.

Someone suggested space heater, which we nixed when the boys realized a) there was no plug for a space heater, and b) a camp fire actually is a space heater.

They did agree that they'd need matches or a lighter, and at this point, the conversation broke down into claims of "I've started lots of fires before," "I've started hundreds of fires before," and "My dad always lets me light the camp fire." It took a few minutes to re-focus them on the activity.

The last list was j o b s. It read: fire starter, cookers, and "guys who throw wood in the fire."

"Good," I answered. "We'll have people to make the fire and the food. What about when we're done eat ing?"

They stared at me blankly. Liz asked, "What happens to all the plates and cups when we're done eat ing?"

The blank stares remained, so we gently suggested we'd need a clean up crew. The stares turned to wrinkled noses, and 10 boys called dibs on being in the fire starter group instead.

At this point, I noticed the room was growing louder. The cafeteria was filling up with Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts, and I panicked a bit. Usually, we're the only den holding a meeting before the big pack meeting. But there was a special bridging ceremony tonight, and before I could blink, the entire room was full. Our boys were completely distracted, and I doubted we'd get them back.

So we fed them instead. They scarfed down pizza, drank their juice, and shoved carrots in their pockets to avoid eat ing them. ("Make sure you check pants pockets carefully next time you do laundry!" I warned the other moms.)

Liz adjusted our activity plans, and we raced through the next activity. By now, the cafeteria was full of Scouts and parents, and our boys couldn't sit still. I took them outside with orders to run free for the next 15 minutes, until the pack meeting started.

They whooped with joy, and took off. Typical kids -- for all the planning Liz and I did, that was their favorite activity of the night.

Oh, well, things could've been worse. We could've been camping in snow!

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.

Yes, that is illegal

Thursday night was Mark's Cub Scout meeting, which focused on the importance of being a good citizen. The boys learned all sorts of citizen-ly stuff, like the difference between rights and duties. ("Rights are something you get, and duties are...um, something you have to do," said one smart Cub Scout.)

Mark was more concerned with bending the brim of his hat up and bugging out his eyes. He stopped every time the den leader mentioned jury duty, and pointed at me because I'm on call to serve this week. Which was fine, until the den leader further elaborated, telling the boys that everyone is entitled to a fair trial by a jury of their peers.

"Yeah, Mom!" Mark sneered, and I shushed him immediately. Embarrassed, I whispered, "I've got jury duty next week," so the other parents would realize I was a potential juror, and not a criminal awaiting my fair trial.

The boys also learned that some rights, while protected, aren't always appropriate.

"Who can name a right?" the den leader asked, and the boys eagerly waved their hands.

He picked one boy, who immediately lowered his hand and said, "Um, I forgot."

So he picked another boy, who correctly identified the freedom of speech.

"What does that mean?" the den leader asked, and the boy answered, "It means you're allowed to say whatever you want."

"Right," answered the den leader. Then he frowned, and asked, "But can you always say whatever you want? Or are some things maybe...illegal to say?"

This made the boys scratch their heads. They couldn't think of anything you'd actually say that might warrant arrest.

Until one boy's hand shot up in the air.

"I know!" he called out. Then he dropped his voice, and quietly said, "The F word."

All the other boys gasped, then nodded. Surely, this was a serious crime.

The den leader, bless his heart, nodded too, and managed to keep a straight face. "Yes, that is very bad," he agreed. "It's not appropriate, but it's also not illegal."

The other boys raised their hands, and each took his turn at giving roughly the same answer. Apparently, for Cub Scouts it's illegal to say the F word, a cuss word, a bad word or even a naughty word.

The den leader eventually pointed out the correct answer -- that we aren't allowed to threaten the rights of other people, as in saying we're going to harm or kill them. This actually shocked the boys, who asked, "Why would you tell someone you're gonna kill them??"

We also learned other important civic information, such as the days you should fly your flag outside. I thought that might include the Fourth of July, Veteran's Day, and maybe President's day. Instead, I was shocked to learn that acceptable days also include Mother's and Father's Day. (Not sure how you commemorate those days if your parent is from another country.)

Even though he spent most of the lesson goofing around, Mark was listening when the den leader described watering your lawn. He explained that because of the drought, we can only water our lawns on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. I don't know why that one struck a chord with Mark, but he chastised me profusely Sunday morning when I watered the back lawn.

"What day is this?" he asked me, accusingly.

"Hey, I only water the backyard once a week," I said. "If I don't do it now, I'll forget!"

He glared at me, until I explained that technically, I can do it any day, because I'm not using my other two allotted days. I'm actually saving the city water by only watering once a week. He didn't buy it, so I turned the sprinklers off.

And so we all came away from the lesson better citizens. I also came away agreeing with the boys on their points -- that bad words would be illegal (especially from the mouths of Cub Scouts) and that flags should be flown every day (just to make sure we didn't miss any important days).

I struggled a little with the watering one, but I'll survive. Because of course, if I forget, I'll still be protected by my right to a fair trial.

Let's just hope that jury of peers doesn't include any Cub Scouts.

S'more fun than you can shake a stick at

We have returned home triumphant from our first camping trip! We not only survived, we had a blast.

The campground was pretty much our speed -- it was not the middle-of-nowhere refuge I feared, but rather smack in the middle of a residential R.V. park. We had a whole hill to ourselves, with a communal fire pit and dining area. It even had a basketball court in the middle of it -- not exactly roughing it!

We arrived early yesterday morning and met the group. They already had a casualty -- one boy bloodied himself up pretty good crashing his bike down the hill, mandating a new "no bike riding down the hill" rule.

They also regaled us with tales of the local fauna. Apparently, a couple fearless skunks sauntered into the campground, putting everyone into a panic. The skunks refused to leave, searching brazenly for scraps, while the campers scampered about nervously, trying not to frighten or alarm the skunks. They were terrified someone would end up in a tomato juice bath.

We found a spot and set up our tent. We'd barely gotten settled when the pack leader announced it was time for a Scout bike ride. Off we went, 16 boys and 7 adults, braving the offroad trail. Mark, as he loves to do, had traded his bike to another kid, who promptly fell off it halfway down the first hill. Mark was not allowed to trade anything else for the rest of the day.

We soon intersected with a cystic fibrosis charity walk. The walkers were friendly, and patient with the mob of Scouts riding recklessly along the path, and the volunteers along the side eagerly handed water bottles out to Scouts and walkers alike. Mark fell back after the first hill, so I rode with him, and was kind of glad (the Scouts kept clumping up in front of me). It was a really pretty ride along the lake.

Back at camp, we ate lunch, and then the boys set off on their own adventures. There was a huge grassy valley behind us, which the boys were allowed to explore in groups. It was hilarious to see them pour out of the bushes, wielding large sticks and branches they swore they'd found on the ground. The biggest lesson I learned this weekend was that little boys are fascinated with big sticks.

And knives. A couple boys had brought their pocket knives, and their whittling chips (like a license that says they passed knife safety). Mark was bummed he didn't have his, and watched enviously as they lit into some pieces of wood. His envy evaporated when we realized one of the boys had cut his thumb pretty badly with the knife. Luckily, there was a fireman and an EMT among the Scout parents, and Casualty #3 was expertly bandaged up.

Soon enough, the Scout Master rallied the troops for fishing. The boys were brimming with excitement, eager to display their fishing prowess. They bragged about who would catch the biggest fish. Of course, a fishing pole is nothing more than a long stick, so that was exciting too. The poles soon became light sabers, and you know where that leads...miraculously, no one got hooked during the duels.

We descended onto the shore in full yell, thoroughly ruining the quiet solitude of the fisherman already there. The only creatures louder than us were the giant geese squawking on the sand. The boys promptly started casting all about them, and I can't believe we didn't end up with a Casualty #4.

I taught Mark how to cast, preparing to impress him with a mighty distance. Instead, the line dropped into the water right in front of me. "It's okay, there's a learning curve," I told him, though I never did master it.

We continued on like that for about ten minutes until a very nice gentleman showed Mark the correct way to cast. He looked over the line and said, "You don't have a weight on here -- you need a weight." I searched through the starter tackle box that came with the pole; it had everything BUT a weight.

Luckily, one of the Scout dads had an extra weight. He crimped it on, then gave Mark some bait cheese to mold onto the hook (I forgot our pretty neon food in the tent). The weight sure did the trick -- soon, Mark was casting twice as far as he had before. He was still crossing everybody else's lines, but now he was casting at least 10 feet out into the lake.

And here is the ultimate proof that Mark is my child:

Mark actually did a pretty good job of casting. He didn't do so well with the actual fishing -- he kept pulling the line in and casting again, but he was having a blast. He kept trying to "trade" fishing poles with another kid who had a gun-type fishing pole. (It was the same kid who he'd traded bikes with.) Instead of casting, you load the hook and line into a barrel and shoot it out into the water. It was pretty hilarious.




Soon enough, Mark grew bored. "Fishing is actually kinda boring when you don't catch any fish," he said, and I imagined a thousand fisherman nodding their heads in agreement. (I, on the other hand, was grateful he didn't catch anything -- I had nightmares all week about gutting and cleaning fish!)

Mark ran off to play with the other Scouts, and I returned to the circle of chairs back at camp.

"Did you catch anything?" a mom asked, and I shook my head. "Nothing but a little boredom," I answered.

"Yeah, fishing seems pretty boring," she said. "You just sit around doing nothing."

A nearby dad couldn't let that pass. "It's exactly what you're all doing right now," he pointed out. "Except with a pole stuck in the ground next to ya!" We had to agree he was right.

It was kind of overcast, which made everyone a little sleepy. The afternoon dragged on (not in a bad way), and seemed to last for 100 hours. At one point, a mom asked if we should start dinner, and another mom answered that it was only 2:30!

The dads and boys played and I was content to watch them until it really was time to start to dinner, and claim my spot on the dinner crew.

We cooked up about 80 hamburgers, 40 hot dogs and 10 boxes of mac n cheese. There were a lot of Scouts and family members, but we didn't even put a dent in all the food.

And what's the answer to too much food? More food! Or rather, s'more food!

The men could hardly wait to build up a campfire. As soon as dinner finished, they dumped a trashcan full of wood into the firepit and doused it with lighter fluid. They told the kids to stand back, tossed in a match, and watched a huge fireball erupt. The parents moved the circle of chairs toward the fire.

The Scout Master led the boys in a round of skits that we performed when we were little kids at camp! It was really funny. Here's my little star (resting his head on a football):

Soon enough, it was time for s'mores. Unfortunately, there was so much wood on the fire that you couldn't get even remotely close to it. It was like a wall of heat, and I came away from it with tears in my eyes. I think I ate more embers than marshmallow.

The families, including mine, started heading off to bed. I could barely keep my eyes open, and Mark said, "Yeah, it's already 9 o'clock." Nine o'clock! On a Saturday night! And I couldn't wait to crawl into bed.

Our tent was on a slope, so I slept tilted down all night. But with the air mattress and comfy sleeping bag, it was really nice. I only woke once at night, when I heard a little critter scratching outside my tent. At first I thought it was the little bunny or gopher we'd seen earlier (wildlife!), but the scratching sounded a little louder than that. I rattled the tent to scare it off. I was about to rattle it again when I realized it might be a skunk. I ceased all rattling immediately.

I slept soundly through the night, until the honking geese woke us up at 6 a.m. The other families woke up shortly after, and I listened to them talking. One kid was acting up, and I heard his mom yell, "It's Sunday morning, I'm tired, I need coffee and a shower! BEHAVE!" I could second that emotion.

I tried to go back to sleep, but a group of boys decided to liberate a giant flying disc that had lodged itself in the tree above our tent. "Where's the whistling football?" one of them yelled, and I waited for it to hit our tent. Which it did, about three minutes later.

"You hungry?" I asked Mark.

He still hadn't moved. I asked if he wanted to go get some breakfast with me, but he just shook his head.

"Bring it to me," he ordered. "ROOM SERVICE!"

Well, you can guess how well that went over. I repeated his room service request to a nearby dad, who yelled, "Hey Scouts, Mark needs help waking up! Go help him! " I laughed my head off as all the boys, without hesitation, converged on the tent and started shaking it.

"WAKE UP, MARK!" they screamed, pulling him out. "WAKE UP!" I might just try that trick tomorrow morning.

After breakfast, we broke down camp. I took down the tent but couldn't figure out how to get it all back into the tiny bag it came in. (And I realized just how one mom showed up at camp with a tent but no tent stakes!)

Pretty soon, the car was packed and the bikes were tied on. I felt like I'd been up for hours, and the day was halfway done. I glanced at my cell phone -- it was 9:30.

And so we survived our very first camping adventure. We saw some wildlife (bunnies, gophers, hawks) but thankfully not all of it (the sign reading, "Mountain lions spotted in this area, no children allowed without an adult" made me kinda nervous). I worried Mark wasn't going to enjoy it, especially when he asked yesterday, "Why bother camping for just one night?"

But I knew he'd had a great time when he told me, as he fell asleep Saturday night, "Mom, camping's really really fun. Even if it is for just one night!"

Something's not right here

Last night I was racing home when I had a sad realization...my kid has a better social life than I do!

Take this week, for example. It was completely Mark-centric: we went to the Harlem Globetrotters, the Discovery Science Center, the Pink Panther 2 movie, drum lessons, Cub Scouts, skateboarding lessons, and the week's highlight -- Mark's birthday party tomorrow.

And his official birthday's on Tuesday, so I'm sure we'll do something fun to celebrate.

For myself, I did...well, usually, I'd say nothing (book club once a month is my big social outing), but this was an unusual week. I went to the movies! Called the babysitter and took three hours off for myself. It was pretty great. (I have now seen...well, one movie in the Academy Awards Best Pictures category.)

It's all kind of funny, really. Four years ago, I was just as busy, and planning just as many activities. But I was planning them for myself. In fact, exactly four years ago on Mark's birthday (before I even knew Mark), I woke up at 5 a.m. in New Orleans, on my way to the Zulu Parade. I had a beer in hand and beads around my neck by 6 a.m., and I was a happy girl.

So it's kinda funny to see how much my life has changed in those four short years. Nowadays I'm more likely to get a handful of Legos than a neckful of Mardi Gras beads. I'm more likely to eat pizza at a Cub Scout meeting than a four-course meal at Emeril's NOLA restaurant. And I'm more likely to be awake at 5 a.m. checking Mark's blood sugar level than I am to be checking my own blood alcohol level.

I guess kids really do change your priorities, huh? I can attest to them changing mine. I'm leaving work a bit early tonight because of my big Friday night out -- that pizza dinner with 11 squirrelly Cub Scouts.

What's that Bob Dylan always said? The times, they are a changin' for sure!

Gloria Gaynor was right--I did survive!

Last night was my opportunity to lead the Cub Scout meeting. I was more than a little nervous, but I'm happy to report that it went well, and there were no nooses involved.

My topic was What Makes America Special, which I thought would be a fairly easy lesson. However, I read through the book last week, and found there were actual achievements the boys had to complete, which limited me a bit. But hey, I always love a good challenge.

Since it was dark and rainy, I immediately eliminated the flag-raising ceremony (plus I didn't have access to a flag pole). I was a little worried because my final activities included a lot of talking and some writing, which I know from experience (with Mark) aren't the most appealing activities for 9-year-olds after a whole day of school.

But the kids were great!! They sat in a U around me, and answered all my questions about famous Americans (George Washington and Abraham Lincoln). They already knew my Presidential trivia (George Washington was the only President who never lived in the White House) and taught me some new trivia (Abe Lincoln carried notes around in his stovepipe hat).

Next, we moved on to being a good citizen. Each boy told me one thing he'd done that week to be a good citizen. They also named people who serve America. The first answer was Army guys, and the next three answers were "That's what I was gonna say." With a little coaxing, I got some other answers, including Army guys ("Somebody already mentioned that"), OK then NAVY guys!, National Guard guys, and even Army nurses. (The Army was a very popular theme.)

We talked about what would happen if people were not good citizens, and the discussion turned a little dark.

"If there were no firemen, then the whole Earth would burn up."

"If there were no Army men, the bad guys would kill us."

"If there were no trashmen, we would live in houses filled to the very top with trash, and it would stink, and then we would get crushed to death and die."

"Good examples," I said. "Maybe we can think or some things that aren't quite as...destructive."

Next we moved onto identifying state trees, flowers, birds and flags. Upon mentioning the states, one boy told me he could sing the names of all 50 states in alphabetical order. Now this I had to hear! So he sang it, while the other boys followed along with their lists of states. It was pretty impressive!

The last activity was the writing one, where the boys had to write three things that makes America special to them. I kinda lost them here, which I knew would happen. There were some more great answers -- national parks, the people, freedom. And there were some kind of random answers -- again, the National Guard ("You really like the National Guard, huh?" I asked the little guy who'd answered all the previous questions with that), video games, even a story about a cousin's belly button. Oh, and one kid wrote down "violence" which I'm pretty sure wasn't so special, but then he drew lines all through it, and wrote "NO violence!'

But in the end, it went surprisingly well! I survived unharmed, and the boys weren't completely bored to death. Even my own kid participated and behaved, which doesn't always happen (he was repeatedly threatened on the way there!). I was sweating it for a bit in the beginning -- but in the end, we all survived.

And I'm just grateful the activity didn't involve knives, power tools, nooses or rope whips!

That was knot fun!

Mark's Cub Scout meetings always prove very entertaining. Last night was no exception.

The boys worked on knot-tying. They each got a length of rope and strict instructions not to tie said rope around their necks. Of course, they immediately did just that.

There were also some Boy Scouts present -- older brothers who'd been recruited for their knot-tying abilities. But instead of teaching the younger boys, they scampered around the room, jumping on and off a target on the floor.

The dads leading the activity lined the boys up. One had a long rope, tied to the end of a bag. He showed the boys how to loop the rope around their elbow and hand, then swing it gently, tossing the bag at the target. The Boy Scouts were dodging the bag, and one mother suggested THEY be the targets -- "Moving targets are more fun to hit!"

The father said that wasn't a good idea.

"Why?" the mom asked.

"Because the bag is full of ROCKS!" he answered.

So it was agreed that the (non-moving) paper target on the ground was, indeed, good enough.

The boys took turns hitting the target. After the first kid threw the bag, the dad realized the "wall" in front of them was really windows. "OK everybody, go line up on the other side of the room!" he said. "We're throwing toward the chalkboard instead!"

Mark did really great -- he hit the target dead-on the first time, and came pretty close the second time. (As he was wrapping the rope around his arm, I noticed his arms were FILTHY -- seriously, they were black with dirt! I was mortified -- he'd washed his hands before dinner, but obviously not his arms.)

After the target toss was over, the boys moved to a table. The Boy Scouts had stopped scampering and started teaching. Unfortunately, they'd forgotten which knots were which.

"...And that's how you tie a double-knot," ended one Boy Scout.

"No, that's a square knot!" corrected another.

"No, a square knot looks like this...Hey Dad, how do you tie a square knot again?"

The dad came over to teach the life-saving knot (sorry, I can't remember the technical name!). You use this knot to create a loop to toss at someone who's drowning, and pull them safely to shore. After watching the boys' loops fall apart numerous times, I realized I was probably gonna die if I fell in the lake.

Next, the dad placed some chairs upside down on the desk and asked who'd ever watched any Western movies.

The boys stared at him blankly; no hands raised.

He tried again. "I mean, cowboy movies...who's ever seen a cowboy movie?"

This time all the hands shot up, along with a chorus of, "I have! I did! TONS of them!"

The dad smiled. "OK, good. You know how the cowboys always tie up their horses? Well, we're gonna tie our ropes like that now. Pretend the chair is the hitching post, and you're tying up your horses."

The boys loved that! They tied their little hearts out, until one of the chairs fell off the desk.

"You just crushed your horse," I told one boy. He shrugged and ran off with his rope.

Then it was time for another reminder NOT to tie any nooses around your necks, or you would be on a time-out in the corner with the Boy Scout who'd already done so. There was a quick release of nooses around necks, which was followed by a new reminder NOT to whip the ropes all around. I'm beginning to think Cub Scouts is kind of a dangerous activity!

The last activity of the night was to perform a magic trick with the rope. One Cub Scout demonstrated this by crossing his arms and grabbing the opposite ends of his rope with his arms still crossed. He then slowly pulled the rope through his arms, and we watched the rope pull into a knot.

The boys LOVED that! They immediately stopped the nooses and whippings to try.

The poor dad leading the activity looked wiped out by then. "Is it time for snack yet?" he pleaded, so we put him out of his misery and called snack time.

The boys dropped their ropes and ran to the snack table. It was my turn, so I'd brought Pirate's Booty, Go-Gurts and Fruit Falls (flavored water pouches with only 2 carbs).

They devoured the Go-Gurts immediately. I watched one little guy shotgun three yogurt tubes in a row. "My tongue is numb," he told me after the last one.

He then implored, "Can I have another one?"

"Ask your mom," I said. "I don't want you to get a stomach ache!"

She said no, but I saw him downing another one later.

Another kid handed me his drink and said he didn't want it. "It tastes like mucus," he told me.

"OK, throw it out then,"I said.

But I obviously didn't give him the reaction he wanted, because he repeated himself, very slowly. "It tastes like muuu-cussss!"

He didn't realize I have an 8-year-old of my own, and these things don't phase me. "Then throw it aaaaa-waaaayyy," I replied, with the same inflection.

And so ended another fun den meeting. The kids cleaned up the room, collected their ropes and headed home for baths. And I headed off giggling, and checking off another skill Mark completed in the Cub Scout book.

Cub Scout Caroling

Last night was Mark's Cub Scout pack meeting, where I am proud to say, Mark earned his very first Scout badge--the Bobcat badge!! He's now officially a Cub Scout, and can recite, on command, the Cub Scout promise and the Law of the Pack.

It was a pretty cool ceremony. Twenty-eight boys earned the badge (all first-year Scouts like Mark). They climbed onstage, circling around a fake campfire and logs. After reciting the Boy Scout promise, the pack master (leader of the pack? I'm still learning the lingo) invited the parents onstage, too. We congratulated our boys, pinning their new Bobcat pins onto their hats. Then we handed over their badges, and badge cards, and hugged them. I was so proud of my little Scout!

Then it was time to go Christmas caroling. You know those old-fashioned postcards that show Christmas carolers in the snow, all decked out in warm clothes and scarves, singing from songbooks in hand? Well, we didn't look anything like that. This was definitely not a Currier & Ives moment.

To begin with, the only snowflakes in sight rained down from a giant inflatable Santa snow globe on someone's lawn. The closest we got to winter weather was the light dew on the grass. Secondly, most carolers in our group were only about four feet tall, wearing shorts, Cub scout shirts and maybe, occasionally, a sweatshirt. (Mark sported a new white one a size too small that he'd found earlier on the playground.)

Our group consisted of parents, who sang the carols by heart, and Cub Scouts, who did not. They had a song sheet with the words to help them (but no lights to see them), and one mom accurately noted that kids only know the songs by heart if they've watched the animated Christmas shows starring Rudolph and Santa. I begged to differ, saying the kids did know Christmas carols, they just know the honked-up, offensive versions about killing Barney the dinosaur, or jingle bells, Batman smells. (I warned Mark beforehand I didn't want to hear those or any other versions on our walk!)

The first house we came to was aptly decorated for the holiday. They owned the aforementioned inflatable snow globe, and the house was trimmed in festive lights. The porch light was on, and it seemed an inviting choice for our first song.

Which is when we learned the next difference between postcard depictions and real-life caroling. In the postcards, the singers always had an appreciative audience. In real life--not so much. The occupants never even came outside! It didn't deter us, though, as the boys sang their hearts out, and a couple ended with a flourish, sliding across the lawn on their knees, waving jazz hands.

Then it was on to the next house. The door was open, and through the screen, we could see two yappy dogs. The kids started singing, the dogs started howling, and once again, the homeowners refused to acknowledge us. The good thing is, I don't think the kids noticed!

We had better luck at the third house. They heard us down the street, and the two occupants came outside. They looked nervously at the mob, at the boys jumping over the hedges and on the lawn. But they were encouraging, clapping and waving at us. The singers basked in the adulation, then readily moved on to the next house.

And so it went, Scouts serenading empty houses. Finally, someone suggested moving across the street, which had more porch lights on. So we herded the boys to the other side.

Where we were infinitely more successful! This time, we picked only houses with Christmas lights, figuring since they celebrated Christmas, they would appreciate our yuletide spirit. Most doors had glass panes in them, and we could see who was home by the flickering blue TV lights. We sang carols at five or six different houses, to elderly couples, a young family, even a woman whose husband scooted down the hall when she answered the door to the mass of Scouts. People were surprised, a little unsure what to do during the song, but I think overall, they appreciated the effort. (Have I mentioned there are few things cuter than little boys in Cub Scout uniforms? They just look so darn sweet, although Mark would die if he heard me say that!)

We were on a roll, and thought we were gonna end on a high note. However, at the last house, the homeowners not only refused to come to the door, they actually turned the porch light out on us! (Bah humbug!)

But it didn't bother the boys. It just meant they could return to the school--to hot chocolate and cookies!--that much faster.

It was a really fun night. It was great to celebrate Mark's first big Scout achievement, and to connect with all the other Scouts and their parents. It was also fun to celebrate with the neighborhood, even if they weren't as into it as we were. But mostly, it was just fun to be together as a family, and celebrate our third Christmas together.

It is beginning to feel a lot like Christmas!

Whittling away again in Margaritaville

My friend Jill always says that motherhood is not for sissies. She is soooo right!

Last night Mark had a Cub Scouts meeting. I was more than a little worried when I read the emailed agenda:

Weds., Nov. 5th: Whittling. There's nothing more enticing to a boy than a sharp knife!

Did you hear that momentary silence? That was my heart stopping.

I realized this is the difference in parenting styles of fathers vs. mothers--no mom I know would actually give her son a knife and permission to carve stuff up with it.

But I went along with it. The more I resist, the more likely Mark is to grow up a knife-obsessed psychopath (or, at the very least, a bad chef who can't properly handle knives).

The dad in charge did a great job teaching knife safety--how to open a pocket knife, how to close it, and how to safely whittle away a bar of soap. I felt better until his older son taught the boys about the "blood circle." He waved his closed knife in an invisible circle to show how far apart the kids should sit from each other for safety. I'm glad he used a closed knife, but I'd have preferred something a little more soothing than "blood circle"--maybe "safety circle"?

Then the fun began. The boys went to the tables, where they received a bar of soap, instructions for whittling a polar bear, and a wide berth. Mark whittled away at his bear, which evolved into a fish, then a seal, and finally, into a race car. He couldn't stop carving away at it.

The kid next to him also started with a bear, but whittled away his soap until it was as big as my thumb. "Look!" he shouted. "I made a chair!"

The boy on the other side of Mark whittled a really good polar bear, but he wouldn't stop either. The boys realized this might be their one shot at using a knife, so they refused to give it up. They just kept shaving away the soap pieces, making miniature versions of...well, not polar bears.

I stood behind Mark, showing him how to hold the soap and knife. ("Grip the soap," I said. "I don't want to see any fingers!") He rolled his eyes and ignored me, silently wishing me away. (I could almost hear him thinking, "You're a bad mom! A very BAD mom! TO THE CORNFIELD!")

He grunted and pulled the soap away from me--he clearly did not want help. I realized maybe a small cut would teach him more about knife safety than my words ever could.

And so I let him whittle. The dads were very helpful without being nervous or overbearing, so I took my cue from them. One dad even remarked that if a boy did bleed, the other kids could earn their first-aid badges. I thought that was a fine example of making lemonade when life hands you lemons.

I watched Mark's soap disappear down to a tiny car, which he placed into a soap box he pronounced the garage. He parked it between a tiny white chair and a polar bear. And when he ran off to the sink, I quietly slipped the knife into my pocket and breathed a sigh of relief.

"We did it!" a dad proclaimed. "I can't believe we got through the activity injury-free!" I smiled--I wasn't the only nervous parent after all.

At the end of the night, the kids got snacks, and the parents got a spreadsheet of future activities. I scanned the list and immediately found the one we're doing next--watching T.V. Sure, it's a sub-step of the "Getting Information" activity, but I don't care. Watching T.V. doesn't require a "blood circle."

Which is more than I can say for whittling...

Scouting for a new hobby

I did it, I took the plunge. I may regret it, especially come camping time, but Mark is now officially a Cub Scout.

We signed up at a parent's meeting on Wednesday night, and attended our first pack meeting last night, where Mark was most excited when the pack leader announced there were snacks afterwards.

I thought the whole uniform idea might be a show stopper--Mark really hates wearing one to school. Before I handed over any registration fees, I explained that if he joined, he had to suck it up about the uniform.

"I can just wear a different hat," he told me, watching a couple Scouts run past us.

"No, you can't. The uniform is the SAME for every kid--including the hat."

"Well, I can wear a different--"

I stopped him. "No, you can't! You wear what the other kids wear. Or you don't join."

He thought about it for a minute, looked at the boys chasing each other around, laughing, and said, "Fine."

I shouldn't have worried. We bought the uniform today, and he had it on before we even left the parking lot. He was so proud of his new blue shirt with all the patches, and happy that the shorts hit his knees. He loved the neckerchief with the metal bear slide holding it in place, although he thought the bear looked more like a wolf. He even loved the hat, except when I insisted that Cub Scouts do not wear their hats backwards.

I'm still a little nervous about the whole thing. I'm more of a hotel kinda camper than a tent camper, and I really worry about camping with his diabetes. I worry that we'll camp somewhere cold, and his insulin will freeze, or somewhere with bears, and I won't have any sugar in the tent for those terrible nighttime lows. Or that we'll have some kind of medical emergency out in the middle of nowhere. I guess I shouldn't stress so much--a couple years ago, a guy with diabetes climbed Mt. Everest, and he survived (but I bet his mother was a nervous wreck the whole time!).

I also know he'll eventually want to go camping without me--but who will count his carbs, or check his blood sugar at night? Who will treat him if he's too low to treat himself? In the three years that I've had him, he's never spent a night away from me, unless it was at diabetes camp, where they checked his blood sugar constantly. I guess I'll do a lot more camping than I ever wanted to.

And I'm a little worried about all the adults wearing scout uniforms. I commend them for being actively involved in their child's hobby. But I'm afraid I will end up a den mother or something, in a similar uniform, and khaki is definitely NOT my color. I'm all for insisting that Mark wears his uniform, but I'm not much into the idea of one for myself...