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.

Drum lessons by Dr. Seuss

Mark temporarily quit drum lessons last summer due to a bout of apathy. He was more interested in horsing around than playing drums, so when the instructor gently suggested I might save myself a few bucks by discontinuing lessons, I hung my head in shame, and did exactly that.

But I'm no quitter, and I determined my son wouldn't be, either. What kind of message was I sending by saying it's okay to quit something just because you're bored? (If that was the case, I wouldn't know any gainfully employed people!) Besides, we have an expensive drum kit that I gave up my garage for, and my sacrifice will not be in vain.

I did give Mark a few months off, though. We focused on soccer, which took up a good chunk of the fall, and gave me a chance to find a new instructor. I figured maybe Mark just needed a new challenge, teaching-wise.

Last night was his first lesson. The new instructor was great: funny, easy-going, but not too much so. He kept Mark on task, even when Mark was distracted by a nearby fancy electronic drum kit. He asked Mark to play along with a couple songs, which Mark did wonderfully. The only blip came when he asked Mark to read the music notes, and Mark forgot some of them. (I wasn't surprised, he's hardly practiced at all since last summer.)

But there was one moment when I knew that Mark and the new teacher would get along famously. The teacher reviewed the notes, but then said, "Now I'm gonna show you the cheater's way to remember them. I'm gonna teach you the right way to read them, too, but just to get started, I'll teach you this shortcut."

Mark's eyes lit up at that.

"You are preaching to the choir," I told the instructor. "This boy is all about the shortcut, and the cheater's way!"

And he was -- Mark did great! The teacher taught him to hit the drums based on the sounds they make: boom for the bass and high hat, chip for the high hat, bap for the snare and high hat. He wrote them out as musical notes on paper, and added a legend with the corresponding sounds. Mark was playing three, then six, different lines of music in no time.

"That's right!" the teacher said. "Boom chip, bap chip, boom boom bap chip! Now do it again." And he repeated himself enthusiastically, playing air drums along with Mark.

At one point, I started cracking up, and they both looked at me. I apologized, explaining that it sounded like Dr. Seuss to me. ("Boom chip, bap chip, boom boom bap chip" -- it just stuck in my head.) It reminded me of the Tweetle Beetle battle from the book Fox in Socks.

Instead of being offended, the instructor smiled and said, "Yeah, it is kind of like that!"

When the lesson ended a few minutes later, everyone was happy. The instructor was impressed by Mark's timing and ability to pick things up quickly, and Mark seemed sufficiently challenged. (He was also thrilled to play the electronic drum kit.) I was just happy to get him back into music.

Who knows if all the love and enthusiasm will last. Probably not, when Mark realizes he'll have to start practicing regularly again. But at least for last night, all was good in the drumming world.

Songs you know by heart

My mom's accused me on more than one occasion of winding Mark up before bed. Although I'd like to deny it, it's true.

I don't mean to rile him up. We start out very calmly, reading bedtime stories together on my bed. It's my very favorite time of day, our cuddle time. Mark looks so cute and innocent, all into his Calvin & Hobbes stories. But sooner or later, something triggers my silly button, and we toss sweet tranquility out the window.

Last night was just such a night. We read about poor Calvin, paper-thin, having morphed into a two-dimensional character. He was blowing aimlessly in the breeze.

"You know who he looks like?" Mark asked.

"Yup," I answered, and then burst into my favorite Flat Stanley song. (Yes, there really is such a thing -- we saw a musical about Flat Stanley, and the best thing about it was this song, which drives Mark insane because it gets stuck in his head and he can't get it out.)

"Where in the world would you go to
If you could really go to
Anywhere in the world!"

But rather than smile or applaud, my under-appreciative audience wailed in protest, "No, Mom, DON'T!"

Which of course translated to "Sing it again!" in my head. So I did.

I was cracking up, really enjoying myself, when the little rat pulled out the big guns.

"Mini sirloin burgers..." he sang, and I immediately rolled away, hands plastered to my ears.

"No!" I screamed. "Not that song! You know I can't get that song out of my head once I hear it!"

To which he smiled and repeated, "Mini sirloin burgers -- HA!"

It was like fingernails scratching on the blackboard. I could already hear the soundtrack in my head, stuck on an infinite loop, and knew I'd spend the rest of my night humming about mini sirloin burgers (against my will).

"Where in the world would you go to --" I started.

"Mini sirloin bur -- " he sang back.

"If you could really go to..."

"-- gers -- HA!"

"OK, OK, truce!" I pleaded. He smiled triumphantly, and curled back into the pillows.

He started back on the story, "And then Calvin said --"

"Anywhere in the world!" I whispered.

And was promptly smacked in the head with a pillow.

So much for providing a calm, relaxing wind-down time before bed at my house.

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!

Mission Impossible

There's a Cub Scout mom that is seriously the most creative person I've ever met. Need a song about the Pinewood Derby? She's written one. Need a skit about saving the environment? Check. Need trophies or certificates made out of a few pipe cleaners, some broken crayons and an old dot matrix printer? Done. She can do it all, with the barest of supplies and the shortest possible notice.

Suffice to say, I am not that mom.

I have been dreading the mother of all craft projects -- Mark's California Mission -- for five years now. To me, it represents a time to show just how few craft skills I have, and how unlucky my poor son is to have such an artistically-challenged mom.

Along the way, friends have kindly given suggestions. But just saying the words "Build it with sugar cubes" doesn't really help me. I can use all the sugar cubes I want; at some point, I'm gonna need a blueprint to give it shape. (Never mind the fact I have a son with dia betes, a sweet tooth and no self-control -- using sugar cubes is just asking for trouble!)

The next suggestion, which I thought was awesome, came from my niece Hannah, who offered to sell her mission to Mark for ten bucks. I yelled, "Sold!" at the exact same moment Mark scoffed over the high price. Then he reminded me he was supposed to build the mission himself, not buy it from someone. (Sure, he picks that moment to finally learn ethics.)

The last suggestion, which I ultimately took, was to buy a kit. A kit! I beamed. Maybe Father Serra was smiling down on me after all. Maybe Mission Day wouldn't be the most embarrassing day of Mark's young life after all.

We bought a kit of the Santa Barbara Mission. In fact, we didn't just buy the kit, we bought all the cool little accessories that went with it: farmers, corn, a wheel barrow, palm trees, a pond and fountain, even little gravestones and crosses for the cemetery. Things were looking good!

Until this weekend, when we actually put the mission together. We followed the steps precisely: glued the paper pieces onto cardboard and cut them out. This proved a little difficult for tiny fourth-grade hands. I helped by cutting out 25 doors and windows, each of them threatening to rip and ruin at any moment.

Then we glued the pieces together. Again, I tried to let Mark do it all; this was his project, I was just offering encouragement. (At one point, I ran out of both patience and encouragement, and asked Mark, "Wouldn't it have been easier to just write a report about the mission?" He snapped back, "Yes!")

But there's one frightening moment in time that you sometimes see with alarming clarity: that make-or-break moment when you envision everything falling apart quickly and permanently. That moment came when Mark and I tried gluing the mission walls together with white glue. They simply wouldn't stick, and the whole chapel wobbled. I made an executive decision, telling Mark to stop immediately and walk away.

We resumed the project after a quick trip to Jo-Ann's Fabrics. We came home with armfuls of glue, every kind you can imagine. Those walls were going to stick one way or another.

After about four hours, we had a freestanding building and a base covered in plastic grass that kept shaking off on the floor. Mark and I were exhausted, but relieved.

Sunday morning was painting day. We carefully carried the mission outside and spray painted it with a sand-textured tan paint. Our biggest impediment was getting the cap off the paint can; that sucker would not budge. I finally smacked it against the garbage can, and it broke off in 15 pieces. Mark looked at me, puzzled, and I just said, "Sometimes ya just gotta use brute force." (I learned later the caps are child-proof, and you simply have to pinch them off.)

The paint was a huge improvement! The mission went from looking like a paper model to...well, looking like a real mission!

"Time to raise the roof," I told Mark, and he obligingly lifted his hands in the air repeatedly and made an "ooh, ooh!" noise. He brought them down long enough to affix the roof to the chapel.

Which left us with one final question -- how to attach the mission to our grass-covered base? I was pretty sure the glues we had wouldn't work, so it was back to Jo-Ann's for advice. We returned with a hot glue gun, which did the trick nicely.

And then came Mark's favorite part of all: laying out the accessories. He was very excited to place them, though I warned multiple times not to Krazy Glue his fingers together. To which he responded by rolling his eyes, sighing, and accidentally dipping his finger into a puddle of Krazy Glue.

I finished gluing the last few pieces while he tried prying the hardened glue off his fingers. "Wow, this stuff really sticks!" he proclaimed, to which I responded by rolling my eyes and sighing.

Finally, after approximately 8 hours, $90-$100, and five different types of glue (white glue, glue sticks, rubber cement, two bottles of Krazy Glue and a hot glue gun), we finished. And though I am biased, I think it looks AWESOME.

Front of the mission

The farm side of the mission.
Perspective was not our friend: notice how much larger the corn is than the people, and the people are larger than the doors into the chapel.

The cemetery side of the mission; graves and the giant gravedigger, who again can't fit through the door.

But of course, this proud smile made all our hard work and stress completely worth it:


But mostly, I am just grateful it's all over. I explained to my friend Edra that my five years of worrying is finally done. Once we deliver it to school unharmed, I will breathe the biggest sigh of relief ever.

"Yeah, I bet you're relieved," she answered. "No more worrying." She poked at the bell tower and added absentmindedly, "At least, not until next year, with his science fair project."

My stomach sank, and my heart stopped beating for a minute.

Maybe Hannah has one of those she can sell us.

Mark the mountain climber

After a week of crazy rainstorms, we were ready to get outside in the sunshine this weekend. So when my cousin Kathleen invited us on a hike, we jumped.

We drove up to Rancho Palos Verde to hike down to the tide pools. Unfortunately, it was high tide and the pools were completely covered, but that only slowed us down a little.

We first drove to the very top of the road. The view was spectacular, even though the sheer cliffs dropped suddenly. There was no safety rail, and I'm terrified of heights, so I kept a safe distance. Mark did the same, and though he tried to play tough, I could tell the edge made him nervous. Especially when a much smaller kid went racing toward it.

"There's a humongous cliff right there!" Mark warned him. "You better slow down!"

I just smiled at Cautious Mark. He doesn't visit much.

We headed down the mountain to the trails. We sent Tim and Mark down the trail first, and when we got down a bit, we saw them perched on a tiny overhang. I almost had a heart attack immediately.

"Tim will keep him safe," Kathleen assured me, but I was more worried about the path I was standing on -- it was a foot wide and had a 150 drop to the pounding ocean below.

I tried to watch the boys traverse the path back to us, but it was so nerve-wracking, I couldn't look. I was afraid my nervous energy might freak Mark out and make him slip.



Once they were safely back on the trail, Mark scampered away. He climbed the mountain to our left, a massive wall of crumbling red clay and dusty rocks. He scooped up every rock he could find and heaved it off the cliff. (I've learned that in Boyland, there's absolutely nothing more satisfying than throwing rocks.) I watched and tried not to cry out nervously every time he stepped too close to the edge.

Kathleen and Tim strolled down the trail, and I stood back as Mountain Goat Mark climbed the mountain. He was having the best time.

"This is the most exciting day of my entire life!" he called out to me, brushing red clay off himself. I just smiled. His happiness was infectious.




Pretty soon we made it down to the beach. Mark was thrilled to see the entire beach was made up of rocks -- he immediately started chucking them into the sea.

I was thrilled to see the waves. From the top of the cliff, they didn't look that big, but from the beach, they were enormous. I swear, they must've been 10-15 feet high, continuously crashing against the shore.




We watched wave after wave breaking against the cliffs, and marvelled at them. They never slowed down -- the bay was white and foamy from the constant rough water. After watching the waves for a good 40 minutes, we hiked back up the mountain.



Mark threw rocks at the mountain on the way up, and I warned him repeatedly to be careful. He sighed, "Oh, Mom, stop worrying!" and I stood there for a moment, silently agreeing with him. I would've stood there longer, if not for the sudden sharp pain in my shoulder.

I saw Mark cover his mouth in horror. "I didn't mean to do that!" he shouted, as I watched the offending rock bounce off my arm.

Kathleen corrected him, calling out, "What you meant to say was 'Sorry, Mom! Are you okay?' Right?"

"Sorry, Mom, are you okay?" he echoed. I assured him I was, but that he'd better start running. He complied.

Kathleen, Tim and I made our way up slowly. I was enjoying the beautiful view, and Kathleen and Tim were following Mark's example, and throwing rocks over the cliffs.



When I reached the top of the hill, I was greeted by my moments-earlier hyperactive son doing this:



"Let me in the car," he begged. "I need some warmness!"

Since sunset was only a few minutes away, we decided to wait and watch the sun go down. It was as beautiful as we'd imagined it would be.




Mark was exhausted from all the running and lifting/throwing rocks. I was just content with such a great afternoon, and grateful at how much fun Mark had.

Kathleen and I thought he'd whine about the steep path, but instead he had embraced and enjoyed it.

"We have to come back here again, Mom," he said sleepily from the back seat.

"We will," I promised. "We will."