About two years ago, I bought Mark a model rocket ship to shoot off at a Boy Scout activity. But we ran out of time to build it, and it sat in Mark's closet a whole year.
Last year, we took it out of the box again. I saw all the tiny part and glanced at the detailed instructions, and I put that rocket back in its box. We decided I am not the person to help Mark achieve the goal of building a model rocket ship, but I promised him Grandpa or Uncle Scott would.
This year, I was determined to build that damn rocket. Mark collected his box and engines, and we drove up to Uncle Scott's house. I figured that a) he'd get a better built rocket if Uncle Scott helped him, and b) it would be a good male bonding activity for them both.
I was wrong on both accounts.
My first clue was when they dumped out the box and realized they were missing a part.
"Can't you just forget it?" I asked. "Is there any way to work around it?"
"Nope," Scott said, studying the box. "It's the piece that holds the engine."
So we did what any well-respected rocket builder would do--we went to the hobby shop and purchase another brand new rocket.
Forty-five minutes later, Mark and Scott started assembly. They spread the pieces out all over the table, then took the body downstairs to paint. They returned with a lime green rocket.
While the body dried, they started assembling the rest of the rocket. I sat in the kitchen talking to my sister-in-law, occasionally glancing at the boys. Uncle Scott was digging deep into his tool box, while Mark was staring deeply at the TV.
"Mark," I hissed, nodding at Scott.
"What should I do, Uncle Scott?" he asked dutifully.
Scott handed him the body and told him to glue on a wing. Mark did.
But when I checked in an hour later, they were still trying to glue on the wings. They'd used white glue and Gorilla Glue. Neither was working.
"Do you have any Krazy Glue?" I asked. "That stuff works on everything."
I know from experience--I've used Krazy Glue to fix broke plates, bike parts, furniture, garden gnomes, you name it. If it's cracked or broken, I'm Krazy gluing it--and if that doesn't work, I throw the broken stuff out because it's not worth my trouble. That's how much I love Krazy Glue.
"We're using Gorilla Glue," Scott replied, a little irritated.
"Gorilla Glue is the best," Mark said, as though I were a complete idiot.
"But it's not working," I pointed out.
"Because the paint is still tacky," they said.
"OK," I shrugged. "But Krazy Glue sticks to everything."
I could see I was bugging them, but hey, we were two hours into this project with no end in sight. Scott sighed, dug in his toolbox and retrieved a tube of Krazy Glue.
He applied a thin layer, and sure enough, the wing stuck! Not great, but good enough.
"Huh," Scott said. He handed over the tube and wings to Mark, who was still absorbed in the TV, and told him to get to work.
I helped Mark attach the wings, then Scott added an extra layer of white glue. Scott finished off the rest of work, which required finer motor skills or patience than I have. He gingerly attached the two tubes used to mount the rocket onto the launch pad, then slid the skewer out.
Three hours after they started, they had a rocket. The paint was smudged a bit, the wings were a bit off center, and the boys' hands were covered in various types of glues.
"There you go," Scott said, handing the rocket to Mark. "I don't know how they managed to make it so difficult--it's just a tube, but they really made it complicated."
"Thanks," Mark said. He grabbed the rocket as though it were a hot coal. "Bye, everyone," he called. "Thanks for lunch. Thanks for helping me with my rocket."
I said goodbye to Scott and Mari, then went downstairs to say goodbye to the kids. When I was done, I looked around for Mark, who was nowhere to be seen.
"Where's Mark?" I asked the kids.
"Outside," Grant said. Sure enough, he was sitting on the curb next to the car, rocket in hand. He couldn't wait to leave.
"Did you have fun?" I asked him on the ride home.
"That was the WORST afternoon ever!" Mark whined. "It was so boring. I don't ever wanna build another rocket again."
"It'll be fine," I soothed. "Juts think how much fun it'll be to launch it."
"I don't care," Mark said. "I'm done with this rocket. You never would've been able to help with it--you would've been sooooooo mad."
"I know," I said. "That's why I brought you to Uncle Scott's."
I wouldn't let him shoot off a rocket I helped with, anyway--I'd be afraid something would explode in Mark's face during the launch. I was grateful for Scott's help, even if Mark wasn't.
Mark was so grumpy, I just shut up. I turned up the car radio, and two minutes later, I started laughing when Elton John's song "Rocket Man" started playing.
"Hey, Mark, it's your song!" I said. "You're a rocket man!"
"No, I'm not," Mark said. "I hate rockets. I don't ever want to talk about rockets again." And with that, he snapped off the radio.
Wow, I thought. So much for the male bonding. And for rockets...
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