Breaking stuff

I love the show Clean House. It serves a dual purpose, as both entertainment and dire warning (in a Scared Straight kinda way) not to become a pack rat.

In an effort to avoid becoming a participant on the show, I cleaned my backyard this weekend. I tossed anything I hadn't used in the last year, and then tackled the biggest challenge: my adobe chiminea.

I used that chiminea exactly once in the 6 1/2 years I've had it. It was at my house warming party, when my brother Brad and friend Joel fed it so much wood, flames actually shot out through the top. They thought that was the coolest thing ever, but I freaked out they were gonna burn my new house down. (Gave whole new meaning to the phrase "house warming.")

And so it sat in my yard, a giant eyesore. It weighed about 300 pounds, so I couldn't just throw it away, and no one wanted it (Besides, we couldn't even roast marshmallows in it, so who would want it?). This weekend, I finally figured out how to toss it, and I knew Mark would want to help if I asked him in just the right way.

"Hey Mark, wanna help me break something?" I asked casually.

His eyes lit up instantly -- he searched mine to see if I was kidding.

"Yeah, I do!" he shouted. "Duh!"

I handed him a hammer, this nifty pair of safety goggles and told him to follow me.


"What are we breaking?" he asked. "Do I get to break it, too? With this?" He waved his hammer around wildly.

I pointed at the chiminea. "We're gonna break that," I said. "It's too big to throw away whole, so we're gonna break it into pieces."

"Woo hoo!" he shouted, and went to work (although I didn't call it work, because he would've stopped working and started whining immediately). He even took off his shirt, so he could swing the hammer freely -- no sleeves to get in the way.

We broke it down into pieces really quickly. I showed Mark where to hit to crack it, and he smashed away. In a few minutes, the trashcan was full.

But Mark wasn't done. He kept smashing the pieces in the trash. He didn't know when he'd get another opportunity like this, so he made the most of it.

I finally stopped him after one too many pieces of adobe flew dangerously close to my head.

"OK, our work here is done," I told him. I closed the lid, and spent the next 15 minutes inching the trash can to the curb. Turns out adobe and sand are pretty darn heavy.

Mark, however, was no help. He had disappeared. He suddenly whooshed past me on his scooter, and I started laughing -- he was still shirtless, and still sporting his stylish black safety glasses. And was happy as a clam.

Overly optimistic

This is what naive, blind optimism looks like -- a lonely cell phone charger that connects to nothing.

It did connect to something at first -- the phone I purchased with it.

The phone was another tool in Mark's dia betes toolkit. He went to a birthday party on Sunday, the kind where you drop your kid off, and tell them to have a good time. For kids without dia betes, that's all there is to it. You warn them to be on their best behavior, to thank the host, to listen to the parent in charge, and then you leave.

For a kid with dia betes, you tell them all that, and then flood them with all this:

• Do you have your meter? Show me.
• Do you have glucose tabs? Show me.
• Do you have a granola bar? Don't eat it unless you go low!
• How many carbs are in a piece of pizza? In two pieces of pizza? (A small slice? A big slice?) In a piece of cake? In a chip? In a cup of diet soda? In a cup of regular soda in case there's no diet soda?
• How do you feel right now?
• Do you feel low? What should you do if you feel low at the party? (Tell Damian's mom or the snack bar you need a regular soda NOW!)
• Do you need to test? Go test right now. In fact, test right now and eat this granola bar.
• Wash your hands before you test, IT DOES TOO MAKE A DIFFERENCE!
  
• I don't care if you're not hungry, EAT THE GRANOLA BAR IF YOU WANT TO GO TO THE PARTY!
• Have a good time!

As you can imagine, that's a lot to put on a little kid. Or on to the parent who's hosting the party, and just found out there's some kid with special needs threatening to ruin her child's birthday celebration.

"Hi Gina, good to see you! Thanks for inviting Mark. Not sure if you remember, he has Type 1 dia betes..." And then, when you see the panic in her eyes, quickly adding, "No, you don't have to do anything special for him! If he acts weird, give him some soda right away; otherwise, he knows what to do, has a phone and can call me with any questions."

Which leads us back to...the phone. Or what was, for a brief moment in time, Mark's cell phone. The phone he took to the party, because I just felt better leaving him with some sort of lifeline.

I almost gave him my phone, but thought better of it. Instead, I bought him a single-use phone. I activated the phone, loaded up the minutes, and handed it to Mark with strict orders not to take it out of his pocket.

"Can I call you about anything?" he asked.

"Yes, that's what it's for. If you have any questions."

"Can I call to say you're crazy?"

I stared him down. "Do you want to go to this party?" I finally asked.

He nodded his head.

"Then don't call me to say that."

He agreed, and ran off to race go-karts.

The first words out of his mouth when he got home were, "Did you register my phone? Because somehow (I don't know how!), my phone fell out of my pocket (I didn't take it out!) and disappeared (it got lost on it's own!). I did NOT take it out of my pocket -- I didn't even open my pocket!"

That was the point I realized perhaps he's not ready for any more responsibility. And I thanked God I did not give him my phone.

"Go get your birthday money," I told him. "You owe me $25 for that phone."

But it wasn't a total loss. At least I still have that nice new charger -- and it even fits my phone!

Update: Mark climbed into the car last night and yelled, "Hey, I found the phone!" It never even left the car.

But I'm still holding his $25 as collateral, because I know he will lose it next time I give it to him!

Campfire

Saturday morning broke with the excitement of an upcoming Cub Scout camp fire -- the boys were looking forward to roasting hot dogs and s'mores. Unfortunately, it also brought with it the next round of this winter's weekly storms.

The day was promising at first -- clear skies, and not much rain at all, until precisely 5:06 p.m. That was the moment I was heading out to the camp with my car loaded full of food, wood and other camp fire supplies. And that was the moment the skies opened up and rained down on our plans.

But we are not a group to be dissuaded. The den leader and his gracious wife opened their house to us, offering up a covered patio. I immediately turned around and headed home to get my "portable" fire pit. (Portable in quotes because the beautiful tiles around the edges make the pit pretty heavy.)

Mark helped me carry the fire pit out to the car, and then skeptically observed that it might not fit. After the first try, I agreed. But I am not one to quit in the face of sane, logical thinking, so with an Incredible Hulk-like roar, I hoisted that giant pit in the air again and crammed it into the back seat of my compact car with all my might. It fit, just barely, and so I pushed some more until I could close the door. Mark's eyes were huge -- I'm not sure if he was just surprised, or a bit frightened, at my determination.

Turns out the location change didn't bother the boys at all. They were just thrilled to be lighting a fire. The den leader taught them the right way to light a match (point down, strike firmly against the box, toss away from you) and then passed one out to each boy. They could barely stand the excitement.

"I lit a match!" one boy cried, triumphantly. I honestly think that was the best part of the evening for them all.

Then it was into the house to load up hot dogs on the roasting sticks. The boys crammed them on and made their way out to the fire, careful not to jab anybody. (I took away one fork with a paper plate wrapped around the base, which the boy was brandishing as a sword.) They held the dogs over the fire, and then, as 10-year-old boys are known to do, let loose with every wienie joke they could imagine.

Somehow, the bun-to-hot dog ratio was way off -- we used all but one pack of hot dogs, but had four packs of buns left. I think it had something to do with half the hot dogs "accidentally" falling into the fire. (Accidentally in quotes because each time a wienie fell, there was an appreciate round of "Whoa!" as they watched the wienie burn up.) My own son cooked at least four hot dogs, but I only saw him eat one.

After a game of Leave No Trace charades and a lesson on how to burn and fuse the end of a rope, the boys were ready for s'mores. Miraculously, not one marshmallow fell into the fire, like all the hot dogs did. (You could tell where the hot dogs listed priority-wise compared to marshmallows.) However, once lowered over the flames, most of them immediately exploded into burning, gooey torches, but the group of boys worked together, blowing them out quickly. The boys really dug that part.

With all the activities complete and the sugar running freely through their veins, the boys attacked the play set on the lawn. The rain, wet equipment and lone girl determined to take turns fairly and democratically on the swing, did not slow them down. They were like wild banshees clambering and climbing all over it.

The constant rain slowed us down a bit, but didn't stop us. The boys successfully lit a fire, managed not to burn the house down, and ran through the house with various smoldering hot food on the end of sharp-pointed long forks -- all without injury. And best of all, they had a blast doing it.

Which to me equals success. :-)

This is why I politely decline...

...whenever Mark offers to make lunch.

"I'm gonna have half a sandwich," Mark just told me. "Want me to make you one?"

"No thanks, I'm good," I replied.

"But I'm making turkey and peanut butter," he said, as though that would change my mind.

"Ewww!" I cried. "Together? That's so gross!"

"No, Mom, it's sooooo good," he said. "You should try it, the peanut butter really brings out the flavor of the turkey."

Before I could answer that, my gag reflex replied instead.

"Ack," I coughed. "No thanks."

But he was insistent, and offered me a bite. "Just try it, Mom," he pleaded.

So I did. And it tasted like...turkey and peanut butter. Together. It was about as good as it sounds, which is to say...not great.

"You're right," I lied to Mark. "It is pretty good."

He started beaming, and clapped is hands. Which completely made biting that sandwich worth it.

But I'm still making dinner tonight, no matter what he says!

At least his vocabulary's improving...

The other day, Mark was being silly before he got in the shower. He tugged at his boxers until they were riding kinda low.

"Look, Mom!" he said, laughing. "I'm a teenager!"

"Pull up your pants!" I teased him. "Nobody wants to see your bum!"

He laughed, and then said simply, "Cleavage."

I bit my tongue and refused to make eye contact. I knew if I looked at him, I'd start busting up, and would miss my teachable moment (in this instance, teaching good manners!).

"Do you know what 'cleavage' means?" I asked.

"Yes, it's a split down a rock," he answered. "We learned that in science."

So maybe I didn't have to worry. Maybe he was just assigning scientific names to body parts...

"Oh," I said. And then I walked right into it, and asked, "So why'd you say 'cleavage' then?"

He turned and wiggled his exposed bum at me.

"Cleavage!" he repeated, and ran laughing toward the bathroom.

It didn't take a scientist to realize he was not being so scholarly after all.

Yo Yo Ma

It's been one week exactly since Mark's birthday. One week ago today, I bought him a fancy dinner, wished him a happy birthday, and handed over an oddly-shaped present. Which he ripped open to reveal the lime-green toy pictured on the left.

Some people might call that toy a "yo-yo," but I call it something else. In the mere week Mark's had it, it's simultaneously become my new best friend/new worst enemy.

New worst enemy because my house has now gone from a quiet sanctuary to a giant target ready to explode on impact. Everything -- photos, pictures on the walls, the walls themselves, and my windows -- is under direct threat as my 10-year-old son wanders through the house, recklessly throwing the yo-yo in all directions.

New worst enemy because as much as my son loves it, he cannot keep track of it. In the seven days that he's had it, I've heard the words, "Where is my yo-yo?" no less than 7,365 times. And that's just when he's awake.

He lost it the very first day he had it, and started wailing about it non-stop.

"I've lost my yo-yo," he said melodramatically. "It's gone forever. My birthday yo-yo is gone."

"It's here somewhere," I told him. "I just saw you playing with it -- it hasn't even left the house."

He complained about it so much, I finally banned him from talking about it. I announced I did not want to hear the words "yo-yo" or "lost" together in a sentence again. In fact, he wasn't even allowed to mention "yo-yo" at all until he could use it in the sentence, "Hey Mom, I found my yo-yo!"

New best friend because as I just mentioned, Mark cannot keep track of it. He's constantly leaving it in random places, like behind the door (where his Aunt Mary found it) or under the chair in my office. I even found it under the cat once.

And wherever I find it, there's a kid on the opposite side the house yelling that he can't find his yo-yo.

So I've used this to my advantage.

"Make your bed, and I'll give you your yo-yo," I told him this morning.

"I don't know where it is," he said. "It's lost." (He's not one for picking up on subtly.)

"I know where it is," I said. "Make your bed and I'll tell you."

What do you know, the bed was made immediately.

And so, I've decided to use the yo-yo for the greater good -- meaning, Mark's room being clean, his homework complete, a set table before dinner, even dishwashing afterwards. Rather than being driven batty about it, I've embraced the lost yo-yo, and am starting to relish the times he misplaces it.

Because I know -- finally -- he will complete his chores immediately, after being asked one time, and one time only, and without complaint. And all I have to say to get those chores done is, "I know where your yo-yo is. I'll tell you after you clean the litterbox."

Who says only Jedi's can use mind tricks?

Exhausted (but happy)

Mark's birthday drew to a close last night. Some birthday celebrations are like a quick sprint; Mark's was more of a marathon.

We started on his actual birthday, when I let him choose the restaurant for dinner. He immediately chose Taco Bell, so I slowly and repeatedly told him he could go anywhere. I included restaurants with wait staff, multiple courses, and maybe even a tablecloth. But Mark is a simple guy who leans more toward dollar menus and swiveling chairs bolted into the floor, so Taco Bell it was.

The weekend brought with it guests and more celebrating. First, it was my brother Scott and his family. They filled our little house with kids, laughter, and a staggered bathroom schedule (7 people, one small bathroom -- gotta love those '50s homes!).

Sunday was party day! My parents arrived around 11 a.m. and immediately started heating up lunch. Apparently, the two-hour drive is not only time-consuming but hunger-inducing as well.

We packed up the kids and ditched the grandparents, explaining again to Mark it was not personal. My parents love a good party, but they prefer their guests a little older. Two hours of video games and boys running amok are not their idea of a good time.

The party was at a local video arcade. I watched as 13 boys walked into the arcade and their eyes glazed over (it was definitely a gender thing -- my nieces were immune). The video games transfixed them, hypnotized them, and I had to snap my fingers to get their attention and pass out the game cards.

And then they were off. They scattered into 27 different directions -- some toward the shooting games, some to car-racing games and some to laser tag. I watched them fly by me at breakneck speeds -- apparently, it is impossible to walk in a video arcade.

I hung out with my cousin for a bit, and with my friends. A couple moms lingered for a few minutes, but the good thing about boys this age is they're old enough to drop off for a couple hours. I told one mom I was sure that as long as those cards were working, there was no danger of any boys wandering away.

After an hour, the cards ran out, and the boys returned to the table, sweaty and red-faced from laser tag. They were not interested in lunch at all; instead, they spent the time mixing sodas into toxic sludge, and begging me to re-activate their game cards.

I spent the next 20 minutes repeating these sentences ad nauseum:

"Pepperoni or cheese pizza?"
"The cards will be re-activated after lunch."
"Root beer, Pepsi, or lemonade? You really want all three mixed together??"
"The cards will be re-activated after lunch."
"Cake or no cake?"
"The cards will be re-activated after lunch. I promise!"

And then, finally, when I thought they couldn't stand one minute more, I announced, "Now we'll sing 'Happy Birthday' to Mark and have cake. Then the cards will be re-activated!"

I saw 10 mouths pop open, so I quickly added, "You don't have to eat the cake, but you do have to sing Happy Birthday!"

Two minutes later they were sufficiently hopped up on sugar, and I released them back into the arcade. I didn't see any of them again until their moms showed up and dragged them away, protesting that they still had time left on their game cards. Three boys even managed to outsmart the two-hour time limit by slipping into the laser tag area. Their moms said good-bye, when someone announced another round of laser tag was starting in a frequency heard only by 10-year-old boys. The three wily boys were back inside in no time.

I grabbed the leftover ice cream cake and my exhausted young son and headed home. I seriously could have gone to bed right then, I was so tired from our weekend o' fun. But we still had one more celebration -- dinner out with my parents, Kathleen and Tim. It was a calm, relaxing, wonderful way to end a really great birthday.

Which I won't have to repeat for a while. Because, as my mom pointed out to Mark this morning, today is March 1st.

"Your birthday month is officially over," she said and he answered, "Dang!"

Until next year...

The music man

Last summer, Mark got a case of the boreds and quit drums. But after a five-month break and a new drum teacher, he's back to playing up a storm. He's really digging music now.

He's even branched out, instrument-wise. In addition to drums, he plays cello at school (so he says), and has a blue guitar he likes to strum occasionally. In an inspired moment, he grabbed the guitar, and started rocking a bluesy tune. He started singing, and spontaneously wrote his own song.

I was laughing and cheering him on. I clapped along to his singing, and stopped just long enough to record my son's first official composition. It's called "Gave My Dog a Bowl of Spaghetti," because as Mark explained, "That's the first line of the song."

Here's his masterpiece:

Gave My Dog a Bowl of Spaghetti
by M. Dinsdale
copyright 2010

I gave my dog a bowl of spaghetti
And he started to talk.
So I took him to the doctor
And I said, "Hi, doc."

Hi doc, hi doc, hi doc!

My dog rolled over and said,
"Scratch my belly
But you'd better hurry up
Cuz I'm going to the deli."

Then he stopped talking
And I guess he was done.
But while it all lasted
It was sure kinda fun.

I'm so proud of my budding musician/song writer! :-)

A decade ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

...a woman gave birth to a screaming, yowling baby boy with a head full of black hair and a healthy set of lungs. That baby cried and shook his fists at the world until someone wrapped him tightly in a warm blanket, fed him a donut, and turned on the T.V. And then, all was right in his world.

OK, just to clarify, that woman was not me, but that baby, based on the kid I know now, could have been Mark. It's how I imagine his first days, exactly 10 years ago today, Mark mad as a hornet until comforted with his favorite things (just kidding about the donut).

I may not have been with him those first few days, or even those first few years, but I was with him this morning. I nudged him awake, sang happy birthday (the version that says he looks like a monkey, and smells like one, too) and gave him the biggest birthday hug ever. I told him I loved him, and then I silently thanked another mother, the one that brought him into this world, and later, into my life.

Wherever she is, I know she's thinking of him today. Of that cute little boy she had, with the roundest chubby cheeks, and the longest eyelashes you've ever seen. No matter what was to come during the next few years, I know that she loved and cherished him that day. (I know that she still loves and cherishes him -- who wouldn't?)

It's funny, this split custody I share with that woman and a man I've never even met. They birthed and raised him for his first few years, and now relish memories I'll never know -- his first tooth, his first words, his first steps. And then he came to me, angry and unsure, proclaiming he already had parents and that I would never replace them. I agreed with him, and promised I would never try to. How do you replace the people who made you? I can't, not any more than I can replace the memories he had with them, the history he had before me.

And so I do what other parents sharing custody do -- I focus on what I have now, not what I missed out on then. I relish the time I have with him now, and hope the time he spent with his other parents didn't damage him too much. And I hope they do the same -- cherish their memories of him, and trust that I am doing the best I can to raise him into a man they can be proud of.

I pray for them, and hope their lives have progressed -- not that they got over losing a son, or moved on, but that they are in a better place than they were four years ago today, the last time they saw him. Because it's weird to share something so life-changing (a son!), so intimate, so grand, as a child, and to now celebrate the day of his birth so completely separately.

Maybe I'm over thinking it all, or getting too emotional -- it is my son's birthday, after all. Most mothers spend the day re-living that first day together with their babes snuggled close to their heart. I don't have the luxury of remembering Mark like that, but somewhere out there is another mom who does. I hope she treasures it, and him, as much as I do today.

It may be Mark's birthday, but I'm the one who received the best gift of all -- my son. Happy birthday, kiddo.

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!

Part-time job

Mark hit a new milestone this weekend -- he hosted his first non-relative sleep over! That's right, he had a friend spend the night, and it was a raging success.

The boys were both thrilled -- Mark so much so he even gave up his own bed. He's got bunk beds, but Sean took one look at it and declared he was sleeping in the bottom bunk. Mark took one look at all the junk he "stores" on the top bunk, and declared he was sleeping on the floor. I didn't care where anyone slept, as long as they did, indeed, sleep.

We ate pizza for dinner and then the boys ran off to play with their Tech Deck skateboards. They took a break from those and ran into Mark's room where I could hear laughter and suspicious thumping noises -- which I correctly guessed were stuffed animals and other inanimate objects being tossed about the room.

Mark couldn't wait to impress Sean with his mad DJ skills, so he cranked up my iPod and played "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" three times in a row. He and Sean discussed each song, and whether they could play it (Sean on guitar, Mark on drums). At one point, Mark yelled, "Ooh, I love this song!" and hit play. Sean smiled, said, "Ah, 'Help' by the Beatles," and I almost broke into tears. My son and his friend, able to recognize Beatles songs in two notes -- I was so proud!

Right about bedtime, they found a new toy -- an Air hog. It's a pump-activated foam rocket that they promptly aimed directly at me and tried to shoot off. Luckily, team work is not a strong suit for 9-year-old boys, and I was able to overtake them. I grabbed the rocket, the foot pump, and said, "Let me show you how this thing REALLY works!"

And so it was that we found ourselves outside at 9:30 on a Saturday night. The nearby shopping center was shining a spotlight through the night sky, and that quickly became our new target. ("Aim for the lights, Sean!" became our battle cry.)

Sean and Mark both stomped on the pump in bare feet with little success. I raised my leg and stomped with all my might, using my heel instead of my toes. The rocket shot straight up into the sky!

"Whoa!" the boys screamed. "I think you hit the spotlights!"

When the spotlights lost their luster, we tried shooting the rocket through Mark's basketball hoop. Mark succeeded in shooting it straight up, and then sending it down through the hoop. Sean stomped it up and then back down through the net.

Even though it was freezing cold, we were having great fun stomping on the Air hog. We finally stomped it so hard it landed on the roof, which was probably for the best, since it was pretty late by then.

The next day, the boys awoke and played Tech Decks again. I made breakfast, and the boys informed me that they were going to go for a pre-meal jog. They were serious, and didn't like it when I suggested they jog in the backyard instead.

While we ate, the boys discussed weighty issues, like the importance of breakfast meats. (We had none.) They decided bacon was their favorite, but the best would really be one type of meat stuffed with another.

"I would take steak and stuff it with sausage, and then stuff that with bacon, and then stuff that with ham," Sean said. "Then I would take all of that and stuff it in my mouth!"

The boys rushed outside to play and shortly came back with arms full of lemons. They decided to make lemonade and sell it at their own stand.

It took about three cups of sugar and 20 lemons, but they got it right. They decided on a price per cup (one dollar) and I talked them down to a more reasonable 50 cents. Then they took their sign and pitcher to the street.


They were only outside for five minutes before they sold their first cup to a really nice teenage boy. He told them he used to sell lemonade when he was younger too. He took a few sips and reached for his wallet, but then thought better of it.

"I was gonna buy a second cup, but it's kind of strong," he told me apologetically. I reassured him it was fine.

Buoyed by their success, Mark added another item to the menu.



"I'm gonna hand out flowers to the ladies," he told us. I told him that was some good customer service.

All in all, they sold five cups, including one to Sean's dad who came to pick him up. They each cleared two bucks and were very excited.

And I was pretty excited, myself. Partially because it was such a fun weekend, but mostly because Mark had such a blast.

He had so much fun, in fact, that he's already plotting his next sleep over. I better go get the Air hog rocket down from the roof.

And the answer is...

Skinny jeans! Doesn't matter what the question is, the answer is always skinny jeans.

Apparently, there's nothing a kid today won't do for a pair of skinny jeans. I used to think Mark was a little obsessed about his skinny jeans; he had a black pair that he wore religiously every weekend (both days), and when he outgrew them, I thought he was gonna cry. He insisted they still fit, even though he could no longer button them.

Luckily, he had another pair of blue skinny jeans waiting in the wings. They were still a size too big, but he dug a belt out from under his bed, rolled up the cuffs and proclaimed them perfect.

I recently learned it's not just him. Turns out the entire fourth grade is obsessed -- and we're just talking about the boys.

I realized this the day I picked Mark up in the nurse's office.

"I got a purple mark for behavior today," he told me, proudly.

"Good job!" I answered.

"What does he get for a whole week's worth of purples?" his friend Kyler asked me.

"I dunno," I said. "How about lunch and a movie?"

"I get a pair of skinny jeans," Kyler told me. Mark and his friend Moises gasped out loud -- Kyler's mom instantly became the coolest mom alive.

"If you get a week of purples, I'll buy you a pair of skinny jeans," I promised Mark. Mark immediately turned to Moises with a big smile on his face. Moises had to pull out the big guns.

"My sister has four pair of skinny jeans!" he told me, holding up five fingers. He named each color jeans she had.

Mark couldn't believe somebody was so lucky.

"Four pair," he said, shaking his head as we walked out of the office. "I would have to be good for..." he started counting up fingers, then eventually gave up. "Forever!"

I agreed. And while skinny jeans are not my favorite look, I think a new pair a week would be a small price to pay for good behavior.

Even better, they'd be an awesome carrot to dangle over his head when he was not behaving. I could totally imagine myself threatening, "One more call from the prinicpal, and I'm taking those skinny jeans away!" And I know that Mark would immediately jump back into line so as not to lose his beloved couture.

Hmm. Maybe I need to go shopping tomorrow...

The doctor is in

Because of his dia betes, Mark spends a lot of time in the nurse's office. That, and the fact his initials are MD, have convinced him he is a medical expert.

He's quick to self-diagnose using his extensive medical knowledge. So when the office staff called yesterday to say he was ill, I wasn't surprised. (He always waits until the nurse goes to lunch; it's easier for him to con the busy office staff into calling me.) He looked okay to me, though; he was horsing around with his friend Moises when I found him, but changed to a sad, sickly expression when he saw me.

Mark had a fever, which he told me in a hushed voice was "99.1." He sounded like he feared immediate death or spontaneous combustion.

"You're supposed to be 98.6," I told him. "You're only half a degree hotter than you should be."

He replied the way he always does when he doesn't like my answer. "I thought you weren't good at math," he said.

Over dinner, he told me how all of his class was really sick. He said the teacher's daughter also had a temperature, but hers was way higher than his.

"She was burning up," he told me. "Seriously -- she was 330 degrees!"

"Wow, that is high," I agreed.

"Yeah," he said. "That's hotter than boiling water! Mr. P had a fever too, but his was only 108, so he wasn't too bad."

"What'd they do for her?" I asked.

"You know, the usual. She wore an ice pack on her head all day long. And they cut her bangs, because they were really long."

I didn't know haircuts lowered fevers.

"Wow, glad you aren't that high," I told him.

"Yeah, I was at lunch. I was like 150. But I feel better now." He tucked into his tacos eagerly, all traces of fever or sickness dissipating. "Wanna play football after dinner?"

I assured him I did, but didn't want him to relapse. He said, "Yeah, I don't want to get sick again. I should stay inside." He picked a more mellow indoor activity instead, beating his drumset in the garage for a good 30 minutes.

Ahhh, only a few more months of flu season left.

All you need is love

Valentine festivities began in earnest last Friday at Mark's school. He remembered that morning he had a class party, and that he needed 35 signed Valentine's cards in the next 10 minutes -- and of course, he couldn't find the class roster. I wished him luck finding the roster and scrawling his name somewhat legibly 35 times in a row.

He made it with just seconds to spare. Away he went, cards spilling from his hands, running off to school.

I imagined he'd come home with 35 similar Valentine cards. But when I picked him up, the teacher handed me a plastic bag full of candy.

"What's all this?" I asked incredulously.

"From our party," he explained. Each card had candy attached, and some even had full bags of candy. (A few parents, knowing about Mark's dia betes, sent sugar-free candy -- I immediately welled up at their thoughtfulness.)

"When did Valentine's Day turn into Halloween?" I asked, shaking the giant sack of candy. "When I was a kid, all we got were cards!"

"They had cards back then?" my little joker asked.

The story was the same at my parents' house. My nieces and nephew were scarfing down candy.

"I've got a bearfull of candy!" Grant yelled, and showed me a paper bear that was, indeed, brimming over with sweets.

"What did Liam give you?" Nathalie asked her younger sister, Gabi. Gabi sorted through the lollipops and hearts and came up with a chocolate-covered cookie on a stick. It was heart-shaped and covered in sprinkles.

"Liam likes Gabi," Nathalie explained.

"A chocolate-covered cookie?" I said. "Heck, Liam LOVES you!"

Nine-year-old Gabi shrugged. The day before, another admirer ate a piece of paper that had touched Gabi. Cookies were so ... third-grade.

"What about you, Mark?" I asked. "Any Valentines in your class?" He gets really embarrassed about mushy stuff like girls and love, so I had to tread lightly.

"No," he answered. "But ooh, look, Fun-Dip!"

We separated the candy from his cards, reading over the signatures. One had a car on it, and read, "Take the lead, Valentine!"

"Here's one from Danica," I said. "Did she cross out 'Valentine' on everybody's card?"

"No, just mine," Mark said. "I sit next to her in class." Apparently, proximity to Mark did not inspire warm fuzzy feelings in Danica.

On Sunday, my parents gave us cards and certificates for ice cream cones. That's when Mark began to really appreciate Valentine's Day, and what it symbolized.

"I love ice cream!" he shouted. I figured hey, as long he showed love for something, it was a start!

Mark gave me a hand-written Valentine, which made me giggle and weepy all at once.


I gave Mark a new book. It had a built-in microphone so you could record yourself reading the story. Which is super cool, unless you are a very loud person. Like me.

I played the recording in the kitchen -- it was screaming back at me. "Is it too loud?" I asked my mom, who was standing in the next room.

"Not if you listen to it from here," she answered. Then she started laughing, so I went to re-record it. I got it right the third time, when I held the book, arms outstretched, as far away as possible, and whispered.

Mark and I spent the day at the zoo with our friend Nicky, then headed home to attend a dinner party with my best friends. We all passed out chocolate and Valentines, drank wine, and laughed a lot.

And so, even though my Valentine's Day wasn't the least bit romantic, it was completely filled with love. I spent the day with my favorite people -- my family and friends. I lavished them with love, and embraced the love they all sent back.

Maybe not what St. Valentine originally envisioned for his day, but I like the Beatles' vision better anyway. They had it right; all you need is love -- and love is all you need.

Mystery solved!

This week, Mark finally figured out how to improve his behavior at school. Unfortunately, it's only a temporary solution.

"I got a green mark in class today!" he announced proudly when I picked him up from school yesterday.

"Good job, buddy!" I answered. I was very proud of his good behavior.

"Yup," he continued. "That's my third one this week."

That stopped me. My math's not good, but things didn't add up here.

"Um, you've only been in school one day this week," I reminded him.

"No, I haven't!" he replied.

"Yes, Monday was a holiday, and yesterday, you were out sick," I said. "How did you get green marks when you weren't even there?"

"I dunno," he shrugged. "But I did. Three in one week -- woo hoo!" And then he ran off.

I let him. Three green marks in one week is a record -- actually being in class to earn them is just a technicality. I could keep harping on it and make us both miserable, or I could accept it and live off the high for a few days. (Or at least until next week...)

I think you know which route I chose. :-)

And the winner is...

I grew up with three brothers, in a neighborhood of all boys, so I'm not often shocked by boy behavior. Sometimes, though, I am surprised.

One of those times occurred recently, when Mark shared a proud moment from school.

"Guess what, Mom?" he asked. "I won the contest!"

He sounded so pleased that I smiled, immediately proud of whatever he'd accomplished.

"That's great, Mark! Which contest?"

"I have the stinkiest feet at school!"

...and I immediately recoiled in horror.

"You what?" I asked, hoping I'd heard incorrectly.

"The stinkiest feet," he repeated. "Mine smelled the worst out of all my friends."

"Did you all smell each others' feet?" I asked, and silently prayed the answer was no.

"No," he scoffed at the ridiculous question. "We smelled each other's shoes. Kyle almost fell over when he smelled mine."

And that is the difference between boys and girls, I thought. It had never ever occurred to me to smell my friends' shoes. (Especially after they'd worn them!) The other difference in gender is that if a girl had been voted stinkiest feet, I think she'd come home in tears, not puffed up with pride.

But Mark took his victory seriously. He refused to take a shower, leery of losing his title. I, however, insisted, and told him he would lose a lot more if he didn't clean those feet immediately. As he laid in bed afterwards, he saw another benefit to being the smelly feet champion.

"Hey, Mom!" he called out. "I figured out why I don't have bedbugs in my bed!"

"Oh, yeah?" I asked (I hadn't realized this was even a possibility). "Why not?"

"It's because my feet smell so bad. It scares the bed bugs away. Isn't that lucky?"

"It is," I agreed. I smiled at him, as he rolled over happily and fell asleep.

I'm not as proud of his smelly feet as he is, but hey, if it keeps the bedbugs away, can't be all that bad, huh? It is cheaper than an exterminator, after all.

My brooms are not safe

I try to expose Mark to as many cultural events as I possibly can. "Try" because what interests me (live music, wine tasting) doesn't always interest him (monster truck rallies, sporting events), and vice versa. Throw in his short little attention span, and you'll see why sometimes we just spend the weekend at home.

This week's festivities included a trip to see "Stomp." I thought Mark might dig it because a) it's loud, b) there's no talking in it, and c) he's a drummer, so I thought he might like the whole percussion aspect. I was right on a and b, anyway.

Mark was really into it at first, sitting on the edge of his seat. Then a very tall lady with a very squirmy kid sat in front of him, and he couldn't see. Luckily, our row was half-empty, so he moved a couple seats down from Vic.

About halfway through, the Stompers went crazy. They literally had a wall of metal items, and were swinging back and forth pounding on them. It was LOUD. So loud, you could actually feel the rhythm, not just hear it.

I peeked over at Mark to gauge his reaction. "He's sleeping," Vic told me.

Well...I didn't pay $40 for my kid to nap, so I immediately instructed Vic to poke him. (The theatre was dark, I'll give him that, but it was like sleeping next to a busy train station.) He sat up a bit, but soon slumped down again.

Pretty soon, the Stompers were tossing and beating paint cans, big and small, and pounding giant inflatable inner tubes. I was about to tell Vic to poke Mark again, but he was actually awake and watching with interest.

At the end of the show, I asked if he'd liked it.

"It was okay," he shrugged, not overly impressed. I vowed to spend the money on a babysitter instead of a ticket next time.

But what a difference a day makes. It's been two days now, and Mr. I-hate-Stomp hasn't stopped playing everything in sight. This morning I even saw him voluntarily pull out a broom to sweep. Before I could recover from the shock, he was sweeping, then pounding, then sweeping again rhythmically. He was re-enacting the Stompers and their brooms.

He also experimented with his mints tin, and pounding on the side of his bed. He spent some time this morning clapping, whistling and snapping, and then pounding the floor with some drum sticks.

I'd usually yell at him to stop making such a racket, but this time I did not. I was actually glad to hear all the pounding and shaking; it meant he was awake for more than I gave him credit for. And it meant that even though he pretended to sleep, he'd actually enjoyed the show after all. Which is what I really wanted.

(But I'm still leaving him home with the babysitter next time!)

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.

A birthday miracle

Mark's behavior at school has taken a turn for the worse this year. Nothing major, but lots of little irritating get-in-trouble incidents resulting in one unhappy Mom.

I had to take action. I'd tried incentives and positive reinforcement -- none of it worked. I had to threaten him with something really drastic.

So I pulled out the biggest gun I had. I threatened to cancel his birthday party.

That sure got his attention.

Behavior in Mark's class is measured daily by color cards, in this hierarchy:

• Purple -- Excellent. Had a great day!
• Green -- Good. Where everyone starts the day.
• Yellow -- One warning.
• Orange -- Two warnings. Lose a recess.
• Red -- Disciplinary action taken.

Prior to our talk, Mark's behavior chart was littered with yellows and oranges. I hadn't seen a green mark in months. I told him that he had five weeks to improve -- if he didn't earn 10 green marks during that time, there would be no party.

"We'll still celebrate your birthday," I assured him. "We'll go to dinner, you'll get cake and presents. But I'm not shelling out money for a party unless your behavior improves. I don't expect you to be perfect, but you've got to try harder!"

And so began the long march to the party deadline. He earned two green marks the first week, one the second week, and one the third and fourth week. Things were looking grim at the beginning of this week.

I was buckling under the pressure. I wanted to stay strong and follow through, but the guilt was killing me. I was beginning to wonder what kind of rotten mom withholds a birthday party from her kid.

Luckily, my friends kept me strong. Jill reminded me that above all, I must stay consistent and hold true to my word. Kelley reminded me that I hadn't set the bar all that high -- only 10 out of 25 days. I expected him to be good less than 50% of the time, she reminded me, only two times a week. That quickly brought back my resolve!

Mark, as usual, blamed his behavior on everyone but himself. One day a kid talked to him, and made him go to yellow. Another day he was late for class because his shirt was all wet and the office wouldn't give him a new dry one (he neglected to say it was wet because he slid through puddles at lunch). He started the fourth week by telling me he was going to get green marks every day, but before I could cheer him on, he added, "Then I don't have to behave at all next week."

"That's not how it works!" I said, as my plan came back against me.

So when this week, his last chance, started, he was panicked. He had only five green marks, and five days left. He was desperate to earn that party.

"Mom, you need to hypnotize me," he told me Sunday. "Tell me to be good everyday, then wake me up."

"No, you have to be good on your own," I told him.

He went to Plan B. "OK, I'm going to do it," he said. "I'm going to get a green mark everyday. Do you think I can do it?

"Of course!" I replied. "I KNOW you can!"

But secretly, I doubted it. He'd only earned five green marks in the previous month -- there was no way he could get five in one week. I found myself plotting with him.

"You're focusing on not being bad," I said. "You need to focus on being really good instead. Do something super good so you move up to purple -- then, if you get in trouble, you'll just get moved down to green." (Never imagined those words would come out of my mouth!)

I still doubted it could done, but he surprised me! On Monday, he got a purple! I was so proud, I told him that counted as two greens. He was up to seven now...

Tuesday he came home with a green! (There was a small blip when the vice principal called to say he'd gotten in trouble at recess. He still justified the green mark, saying, "But I was good in class!" And I had to concede that was the deal.)

On Wednesday, he brought home another purple, bringing the total to 10. He'd earned his birthday party with just moments to spare.

We happy danced all around the house, until it struck me I now had a big party to plan. I panicked a little bit then.

"Good job!" I told him. "I'm so proud of you!"

And I was, too...right up until the next day, when I got another call about bad behavior from the vice principal. Two in one week, an all-time record!

But that's Mark, in a nutshell -- he simultaneously hit his best and worst week in behavior all at the same time. I'm still a little leery about whether that merits a party, but I promised, so I'll live up to it.

And now I have to come up with another reward for him to earn starting next week...send 'em my way, I'm open to all suggestions!

Cash incentive

Molding and shaping a kid takes a great deal of work, and even more patience. Because I spend most of my day working full-time, commuting between work or Mark's extracurricular activities, feeding a child who's a bottomless pit, and late-night blood-sugar testing, patience is the one thing I am most often lacking.

As a result, some important things in our household (such as homework) take a hit. Mark's attitude toward homework is much more casual than my own. His attitude plus my limited patience results in more arguments than I'd like to admit.

I turned to my wise friend Kelley for help. She came back with some stellar advice.

"Pay him," she said. "You keep telling him that school is his job, so pay him for it."

"Pay him?" I asked.

"Yes. Instead of allowance, pay him for his homework. If he does his job, he gets paid. If he doesn't, he pays you," she explained. "Make homework his responsibility, not yours."

It was so simple, it was genius. Mark is all about instant gratification -- the whole allowance-once-a-week model doesn't work for him, anyway. Mark's used to being poor all week, then blowing his entire allowance in a single purchase. But what Kelley was proposing -- money every day -- would work. I raced to the bank and brought home a fat wad of $1 bills to pay him with.

It's been about three weeks now, and it's totally working! There have been a few blips, where Mark actually paid me when he didn't finish his homework on time. But mostly, he's earned his daily dollar. Now, when I pick him up from kid's club, he greets me with, "I finished my homework!"

Yesterday he showed me his homework, and went over each page he'd completed.

"Good job, buddy!" I said. I hugged him, then praised him lavishly, telling him how proud I was, and how I'd known he could do it.

He just smiled and waited for me to finish. When I did, he held out his palm, smiled, and said, "There's a better way to thank me." He wiggled his fingers expectantly and waited for the dollar I owed him.

I immediately burst into laughter. Apparently, the Kelley Incentive Plan is working.

Maybe a little too well.

Post-race post

Well, the Pinewood Derby is officially over, and while Mark didn't place in any of the top spots, it was still a resounding success. His car looked good, the wheels turned (but didn't fall off) and it wasn't a square block.

We arrived at the park early. There was a three-step process to complete before you could actually turn your car in to race. Mark ran to the first station, Pictures, and scrawled his info illegibly on a card. "What's my den name?" he asked, as though he had no part in naming it.

"The Cobra Patrol," I reminded him. He promptly scribbled "Cobra Control."

"PATROL," I corrected. "Not 'control.'"

"Whatever," he answered, then wrote his car's name was "Shine," the phonetic spelling for "Shiny." Or maybe it was the French pronunciation, who knows.

It was on to the second station, triage. Mark weighed his car, which was underweight. We glued on weights until it hit the 5 ounce mark, then took it over to the final weigh-in/check in station. Final weight: 5.05 ounces.

"It's a little overweight," the man told us. Taking off a weight would bring it in under, so he sent us back to triage to get some holes drilled into it.

I watched sadly as the man drilled five holes into Shiny's beautifully-painted underbelly, but it didn't bother Mark. He was more interested in the handful of stickers he'd swiped from the check-in station.

It was back to check-in, where Shiny made weight and was placed on a large wooden table full of cars. There were some really creative cars -- one kid showed me his car, shaped like a hot dog. I saw a pencil car, a tank, a dragon, and even a bobsled car with four bobsledders in it. They were so cool!

We had an hour to kill until the first race, so Mark ran off to play with the other scouts. I helped our den with the concession stand, first rolling hot dogs, then working in the booth.

Mark took turns working in the booth as well. He couldn't stand it -- in addition to the hot dogs, chips and drinks, the table was loaded with boxes of candy. It held every kind of sour, sugar-dipped, neon-colored candy possible. If Mark couldn't eat it, he could at least be close to it, and help other kids choose their cavities -- I mean, candy.

I did kick him out at one point, however, when he tried to charge a mom $1000 for a hot dog. He wouldn't give up his post until I bought him a Charms Pop, and then he took off without telling anyone, leaving the cash box wide open on the table. Luckily, the Cub Scouts are an honest group.

Mark's first race went well; he scored a respectable second place, and quickly followed with a third place. That was in races 17 and 18; Shiny didn't race again until Race 73, so Mark ran back to the park where his friends were all wielding giant sticks.



I found him an hour later, all sweaty and dishevelled. "We're playing battles," he informed me. "Right now the Russians are battling the Native Americans. Guess who's winning?" I guessed incorrectly.

The races went quickly, and soon it was time for the finals. But before that started, the Pack Master reiterated one of the Scouts most important mottoes: Leave no trace. He sent the Scouts around the park to pick up trash, and each Scout returned with one piece of trash and seven big sticks.

"Wow, there's nothing boys like better than throwing rocks and collecting big sticks, huh?" I said to Mark, pointing out the obvious.

"And looking at dead animals," he added. Which reminded him about a dead squirrel somebody had seen. He ran off to find it.

The day finally ended at 3 p.m. Mark and I climbed onto our bikes, swerved around a group of menacing geese, and headed home, exhausted. It's a lot of work racing cars and selling hot dogs, but it was a blast.