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.

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.

Mr. Speed

Just to keep life interesting, Mark had not one but TWO big projects to finish this past weekend.

Besides the mission, we also completed his Pinewood Derby car. Mark actually worked on this over Christmas with my dad, so the car was shaped, sanded and ready for paint.

It needed wheels, too, but I saved that for the Cub Scout dads to help with, since last year I nailed them in too far and the wheels wouldn't move at all. (In my defense, they also didn't fall off.)

Luckily, the scout leader held a workshop at his house. He emailed us saying he had a band saw, a circle saw, some other saws and a power sander. To which my mouth dropped open, because really, unless you're a carpenter, I didn't know why you'd have all those tools.

I quickly responded that yes, we'd be there. Based on last year's experience, I learned that "just" painting the car is still waaaaaaay outta my skill set. (This was also confirmed when the scout leader said Mark could prime and paint the car during the workshop, and I responded, surprised, "You have to prime it?")

The workshop was mostly me watching the dads expertly saw and paint the cars with their keenly interested sons. My son, on the other hand, ran away at every possible opportunity, preferring to play on the swing set. I reigned him in a couple times, so he could run the paint can over his car as quickly as possible before playing again.

I brought him back to help the scout leader nail the wheels in. Mark and I watched him nail the first one in, and I asked Mark, "Did you see that? Can you do that for the other wheels?" Before Mark could shake his head no, the scout leader pointed out this was the make-or-break part of the process.

"If you don't do this part right, the car won't run," he explained. I nodded as if I didn't already know that from experience.

"OK, just watch Mr. Koch do it, then," I told Mark. Mr. Koch said Mark could watch if he wanted, which Mark understood to mean he didn't have to watch. He ran off without even saying goodbye.

When the car finally dried, it looked awesome. Mark chose a metallic bronze for the top, with black sides. We took the car home, where he painted and added a driver (a gorilla with road rage) and some decals.

"What's your car's name?" I asked as he added the last few stickers.

"Mr. Speed," he answered. "No, Shiny, because of the color. No, the gorilla is named Mr. Speed, and the car is named Shiny." He smiled and proudly held up his finished car.




Mr. Speed was pretty fast, too. Here he is zooming right out of the picture.




And of course, Mr. Speed needed to park Shiny somewhere. Conveniently, there was a nearby mission with an expansive front lawn that worked out well.

Mr. Speed was the perfect Catholic convert, as he completely forgot the sermon between church and the parking lot, and cut everyone off while leaving Mass.



We had great fun rolling Mr. Speed across the dining room table. He suffered one minor mishap when he fell to the floor and the gorilla broke in half. Luckily, we had a leftover bottle of Krazy Glue left, so we fixed him up in no time.

Can't wait for the big race on Saturday. Zoom zoom!

Vroom vroom...

Occasionally, I feel bad that Mark's being raised by a single mom. I realize he loses out on "guy" things because, let's face it...I'm not an expert in things such as airplanes, cars, trains, video games, power tools, or other "manly" things. (But hey, Mark can gossip about celebrities with the best of 'em!)

This fact is most apparent in a little mother-humiliating exercise called the Pinewood Derby. Basically, you receive a square block of wood, a couple metal axles, four plastic wheels and instructions to turn said block of wood into a spiffy little race car.

For some people, that may be a fun challenge. I submit that those people are probably men, and most certainly have a garage full of power tools they use to do exactly that.

As you already know, I am not a man, and therefore the mere thought of transforming a block of wood into a race car is akin to creating a silk purse from a sow's ear. It's just not in my realm or any part of my universe. I simply looked at it and thought, "How the hell am I supposed to turn THAT into a car?"

If you think I'm being humble, consider last year's car. We had one day to shape and paint it, and here's what we came up with:

Yes, it's still a block. Yes, it's red, with blue glitter paint on it. Yes, it did have a Superman head glued on, so it looked like he was driving it (it's since fallen off). No, it didn't win any respect or any races, but it did win first place for creativity. (I credit Superman for that! And the glitter paint -- no other boy had that.)

This year, I was determined to do better by my son. I enlisted my dad, who's actually built Pinewood Derby cars before, and who was a wood shop teacher. I figured if he couldn't help, no one could.

I thought my dad would take Mark into the garage and emerge an hour later with a car. But I forgot that my father's a perfectionist, and that he's all about the details (skills Mark is completely unfamiliar with!). Instead, it took them almost two days to finish the car.

First, my dad gave Mark some Play-Doh to create a model of the car. My dad then drew the block on paper, and shaded lines to match the model, showing where he would cut the wood. It was pretty impressive.

My dad then took Mark into the garage. Sasha was visiting that day, and came rushing into the living room to tell me I had to come see something.

"Your dad is totally working Mark!" she cried. "He's sawing the car!" Now this I had to see.

Mark was indeed working hard on his car! He'd saw for a minute, then shake out his cramping hand, then saw another minute, then cough from the sawdust flying around. "Owww!" he'd say, shaking his hand, looking to Sasha and I for sympathy. My dad simply pointed to the car to make him focus.

Sash and I watched as long as we could without laughing. We escaped to the kitchen before we laughed out loud at poor Mark.

"I'm so glad Uncle Ralph's making Mark cut it, instead of using an electric saw," Sasha said. She told me a terrible story of her junior high shop class, where a girl cut off three fingers while using a table saw. "Who lets junior high kids use power tools?" she asked, appalled.

Just then, we heard the whir of a table saw in the garage! Sasha's eyes grew huge, and a horrified look spread across her face. "Uncle Ralph, what the hell!" she yelled, very concerned. We ran out to the garage together, where thankfully, my dad, not Mark, was using the saw.

Mark spent another hour sanding the car, and finally, my dad deemed it ready to paint. Mark thought my dad would hand him a can of paint, and Mark could spray away. He did not realize that painting, like everything else, comes with a lesson.

This time, my mom got involved, too. My dad showed Mark how to hold the can and spray evenly. My mom helped guide his hand as he sprayed two, then three, old egg boxes. Mark's from the Shortcut School of Learning, and was not much enjoying the structure.

Finally, my dad let him paint the car, and it turned out pretty good. I say "pretty good" because it was only the first coat. They let it dry and re-painted it three more times. Again, I was in awe of my dad's skills, and glad to have an expert around to help.

I think it was a really great experience for everybody involved (except maybe poor Sasha -- I think the table saw noise triggered some bad memories for her!). Mark got to hang out with my dad, my dad showed Mark patience and attention to detail, and I got a reprieve from the looks of pity when the other dads saw Marks glittery car. I would say it was an all-around win-win situation!

The only bummer was that we did, in fact, miss the Pinewood Derby, because we were in D.C. But I don't care -- we'll just use the car next year! And at least Mark now has one glitter-free car he can show off with his head held high.