A Most Excellent Sneaker

A much younger John sneaking coffee.

I'm trying to pass John the last Oatmeal Pie without his sister taking notice.

"Here, John," I tell him. "You've got to be sneaky."

"I'm an excellent sneaker," he assures me.

He's had a lot of practice.

The Send Off

Dave and Tim are gearing up for a Boy Scout canoeing adventure.

Responding to an email from my friend Rachel, I wrote: Is it just me or does every mom heave an enormous sigh of relief when the guys and their gear finally make it out the door?


A large part of mothering -- and especially of mothering boys -- involves what I've come to think of as The Send Off.

It begins with pre-school and kindergarten -- you know, spiffy haircuts and new shoes. Then it's on to Cub Scout events and field trips, water bottles and sunscreen. You then advance to Scout Camp and vocations' retreats, backpacking trips and high adventure camp. The list grows long. The price tag inches up.

Mom bakes cookies, locates obscure items, dashes to Walmart for a few odds and ends (sunscreen, fifty feet of bouyant nylon rope, hat with wide brim). That will be $199, thank you very much.

In Mythbusters: The Camping Edition, I marvelled at the amount of gear these adventures demand. Honestly, I thought those days were behind us. Camp this year required a five pack of underwear and some tasty snacks. Done! No cha-ching! We now own it all!

And that is nearly true for general camping. But then we have specialty trips such as this canoe trip that, of course, will not involve a lazy paddle down a stream. No, they're starting in North Carolina and ending in Virginia, hitting class two and three rapids, portaging, purifying water -- the whole primitive camping experience. Fifty miles in three days.

I'll be spending extra time in prayer.

Through an act of the will, I'm putting all Worst Case Scenarios out of my mind and dwelling on what is true and pure and of good report and not on white water and giardia.

The Send Off  follows a predictable pattern. It begins with the initial excitement about the trip, moves into serious quartermaster duties, escalates to They can't get out of this house fast enough, ends with a kiss and a wave.

Mom goes home, brews a fresh pot of coffee, and surveys the debris field. Well caffeinated, she is happy to tackle the mess as long as it doesn't involve rifling through the broiling hot attic in search of some device we're just sure we bought the last time or, worse still, heading out to Sports Authority one more time.

Yes, Tim and Dave will be off canoeing, and we now own dry bags, a water purifying device, and a large number of items designed to wick. Wick -- that may be a new one for you. Wicking materials promise to dry fast and control odor. Where teenage boys and white water meet, these are valuable qualities indeed. Shirts, shorts, socks, and underwear are all armed and ready to wick at a moment's notice.

 As far as equipment goes, we're probably good until we hear rumors about a trip that involves spelunking or mountain climbing through an ice field. The headlamps we pick up for $2.00 at Mistah Harbor Freight probably won't cut the mustard in a cave. I'm guessing Walmart doesn't carry crampons or bottled oxygen.

Sometime in the not so distant future, I envision a different sort of Send Off. At the end of our family line we have this novel creation called a girl. There's so, so much that's awesome about girls in general and this girl in particular. And one of those awesome things is that I'll be on the other end of The Send Off.

Oh, I've attended my share of field trips and visited Scout camp on family night, but Scouting is predominantly a father-son activity (and one that I wholeheartedly endorse). In a few years, Ainsley will join what we call Little Sisters and off the two of us will go to ice skate and to camp, to do crafty things and to bowl.


I'm picturing Dave on the front porch handing me a steaming mug of joe and kissing his girls goodbye.

{this moment}

A Friday ritual. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Happy Weekend to you and yours!

Yo Mama

Invariably the Scouts return with a plethora of icky socks and a fresh supply of Yo Mama jokes. Among my favorites:


Yo Mama is so big I swerved to avoid her and I ran out of gas.

Yo Mama is so dull she went to the dentist for a bluetooth.  (Okay, so they say stupid, but it's not one our nice words)

Yo Mama is so slow it takes her two hours to watch Sixty Minutes.

Yo Mama is so old she sat behind Moses in the third grade.

Of Two Minds

I was snuggling with John and Ainsley the other night and oh! if I could have captured their every word! They prattled on and on for fifteen minutes or so, mostly with Ainsley's running commentary about Disney World. On the divisive subject of It's a Small World, they were of two minds.

Ainsley: Sissy and I rode the Doll Ride. It was so special.

John: I didn't like it.

Ainsley: Mama, John's saying bad words!

If You Throw Up on a Fire . . .

Carpool continues to entertain.

Rachel, my carpooling partner, reports that John posed a riveting question en route to school yesterday: What would happen if you threw up in a fire?

We shared a laugh that John had hit on two topics four-year-old boys find fascinating -- vomit and fire. John later posed the same question to me and then went on to wonder would happen if he pooped on a fire. Quite a lark, to be sure. Even if I could set aside the risk of burns in a sensitive area, I'd rather not dwell on this one.

Little boys . . .  so very interesting. With Ainsley I'm discovering that, yes, there are differences. But, you know, with three older brothers, my girl's a bit of a changeling. I'll just admit it here: My blond-haired, blue-eyed ray of estrogen, sugar and spice and everything nice  . . . laughs at fart jokes.

Oh, she loves shoes and gaudy jewelry. She puts on a dress, spins around, and says, "I da princess." But her brand of humor?  Strictly low-brow.

Lego created quite the furor with its recent launch of Lego for Girls.  About a bazillion of us collectively responded, "Legos for girls? We thought those were already on the shelf. We called them Legos." Dorian writes about this here.

Legos are just one of the many, many toys and games that cross the gender divide. Then there are these: The Five Best Toys of All Time. In the parlance of the day, this is SO last month, but I thought of it again as I glanced out the window and saw Ainsley dragging a stick through the mud. Little boys and little girls find such joy in simple things - a pile of leaves, a new box, bubbles, a wiggling worm.

The five best toys of all time?

1. A Stick
2. A Box
3. String
4. A Cardboard Tube
5. Dirt

As we were walking into the gym last night,
John spotted a puddle.


"I just love puddles. I gotta jump in it," he told me. "I love mud, too."

Having two older sons, I know that some of these tastes will (and should) change. While pricey electronics top any teenage wish list, the older crew still appreciates some simple pleasures. Namely:

1. Fire
2. Danger
3. Waves

With all of these, bigger is better. Scouting is a great way to outsource the top two. One day girls and cars will pique the boys' interest. I'm happy to say that that day is not today.

Hand Prints and Children's Art

Dear Miss Rebecca -

Thank you for making my Christmas. The Christmas doormat is great (but no one's allowed to wipe his feet on it). The reindeer ornament? Too cute. And John's gingerbread house? Well, you teachers must have the patience of Job and a one very washable work area. My friend Rachel and I were oohhing and aahhing over our sons' creations.

Yes, both John and Ainsley produced the mother-lode of Christmas crafts this year.  Wreaths and bookmarks and ornaments and a host of other items that came wrapped and ready for Christmas morning. I squealed when I saw the wreath that Ainsley made.

John made a Santa wall hanging that reads:

Look very closely and you will see
That Santa's beard was made by me
Hang this Santa on the wall
To remember when my hands were small.

I read it and cried. Yes, I cried. The hand print art gets me every time. Mother's Day, Christmas, Valentine's Day -- if it involves a hand print and some over-the-top cheesy sentiment typed by the teacher, I fairly swoon.

Christmas morning I opened a bag with yet another little ornament -- a tiny wrapped box with a tag that read:

I took an ordinary box
As empty as can be
I filled it with a special gift
And wrapped it carefully

But please don't ever open it
Just leave the ribbon tied
And hold it tightly near your heart
Because ... my love for you is inside!

I bawled my eyes out. We have it on video.

You captured a slice of four-year-old John, a slice I will save and treasure. Thank you!

- Kelly

Sorry - We're Fresh Out

Boy Wonder: We're supposed to wear Christmasy clothes. Do we have any antlers?

The Gift of John

Dave is cruising to McDonald's with John in tow. John reaches into his pocket and pulls out ... a shock collar.

Yes, a shock collar. The kind a large dog wears. The kind that is connected to an invisible fence or a remote control held by owners hoping to keep their pet from becoming road kill. The kind that comes with a hefty price tag.

And we haven't a clue where it came from. So begins the interrogation. We have to move carefully with John. He clams up fast and no amount of cajoling or bribing or threatening will wring the truth out of him. We haven't resorted to water-boarding in the kitchen or a phenobarbital drip, but, then, he's not a teenager yet, is he?

Kidding!

Dave realizes the interrogation is going nowhere fast and  finally says -- very gently -- "John, did the dog take off the collar and hand it to you?"

John's eyes instantly brighten. He gives an enthusiastic nod and says, "Yes! Yes, he did!"

That's the ticket!

How do you restrain the laughter? He's lying, darn it! Stifle it, Kelly!

But I can't. Because this is John.

Last summer I walked into my sister's bathroom to find a suspicious wet trail going straight across the shower curtain. Gosh, I could write a novel about showers curtains and boys, except that it would be pure non-fiction or possibly a photographic essay with a scratch and sniff fold out.

But I digress . . .

Attempting to assume the best, I asked my sister if her dog had occasional accidents. When she said No, Jasper is fully housebroken, I moved to the next usual suspect -- our wonderful, brown-eyed bundle of vim and verve -- John.

"John, did you pee on the shower curtain," I calmly queried.

"No," he said in a solemn tone, "I peed on Jasper."

Yes, he peed on Jasper, the dog who likes to snooze next to the shower curtain. His aim being, well, not particularly precise, both Jasper and the shower curtain got the shower.

And I nearly split a gut laughing. Thankfully so did my sister. I tried to restrain mysef, really I did, but I just couldn't manage it.

So back to the shock collar . . . We gently get him to cough up the real story: He took the collar off the dog who was probably black but might possibly have been silver and it all happened yesterday or maybe not.

Helpful details, one and all.

A string of phone calls to various dog owning neighbors eventually leads us to our friends up the street who are so very grateful to get their rather pricey collar back.

Meanwhile John comes home from school and informs me that his teacher was out today.  "Miss Rebecca can break into a movie theater," John informs me. "She's really tough. Also she can sleep with the lights on."

You gotta be tough to handle a roomful of four-year-olds.

She's a good teacher, too. John seems to be picking up the alphabet nicely. "G is for grappling hook," he informs me. I swear, when I was a kid, G was for grape or girl or some other object much less thrilling than a grappling hook.

Tonight as I'm making dinner I hear Ainsley shrieking and spy John in the vicinity.  He reminds me of Sergeant Schultz from Hogan's Heroes: I know nothing! I know nothing! A little prodding produces a confession.

"I gave her a hurt hug," he finally tells me.

A hurt hug. Hmmmm. Yes, she's feeling the love all right.

And we are feeling the levity, the brightness, the occasional drama, and the endless parade of surprises that come our way thanks to this one-of-a-kind little boy who has graced our family with his presence.

No Bieber Fever in this House

Tim and Kolbe are adding Bieber Fever to each other's Christmas list. This book provides all the details about the teen who rocks, oops, I mean, nauseates our world.

All this reminds me of the time Amazon mixed up my order and a slew of Hannah Montana music arrived in the mail. In a houseful of boys? Just not gonna wash.

Spelling!

"ABC's," Ainsey says, spying this educational wonder. "I play with dat!"

Yes, sweetie, you can learn your ABC's with this. And your brothers have oh-so-thoughtfully provided your first vocabulary word.

Tim at Fourteen

Kind brother, good son, gift from God -- we're glad you're ours!

I'm Too Pretty To Do Homework

More news of young girls and fashion ... This one falls more into the category of inane, unlike the situation involving The Learning Channel which was nothing short of reprehensible. JC Penney has been taken to task for marketing a t-shirt that reads, "I'm too pretty to do homework so my brother has to do it for me."

To make matters worse, the description of the shirt on the JC Penney website reads, "Who has time for homework when there’s a new Justin Bieber album out? She’ll love this tee that’s just as cute and sassy as she is."

My daughter is cute and sassy. We're not going out of our way to encourage the sassy part. It's coming along quite nicely on its own, thank you very much.  And we don't plan to tell her she's too pretty for homework.

Years ago, Mattel found itself in hot water after introducing "Teen Talk Barbie" who, among other canned phrases, would pout, "Math is tough!" I don't know how long she lasted, but Mattel had the good sense to delete one of the 270 sentences Barbie would randomly mutter and to apologize for offending the masses. (To be clear, Mattel apologized; Barbie did not).

Marketing is a fascinating field. I have pondered what goes through the minds of creatives sitting around a conference table trying to dream up the next Ferbie or Tickle Me Elmo, the next Trivial Pursuit or Twister. A while back I penned a post delving into those great minds that produced fake vomit, fart whistles, and alien test tube slime (all of which at least two of my children would flat out l-o-v-e).

Fashion is a world unto itself and teen fashion, well, I won't even go there. I gave up clothes shopping for nieces when they turned around nine and suddenly showed an aversion to Peter Pan collars and pinafores. I'd buy them jewelry or a t-shirt. They would thank me politely and, oddly enough, I would never see the item again. Can you say Goodwill? Even their mother began to strike out.

"You're clothes are cute," I remember my sister telling my oldest niece.

"I don't want to be cute," came the plaintive response. "I want to be cool."

I don't really do cool, lacking, as I have shared before, some genetic marker deemed fashionable. I strive for neat, and some days I pull it off nicely. With this wordy disclaimer, I still don't get some of what department stores throw the way of little kids. I get that increasingly younger kids are drawn to phrases that range from funny to mouthy, from edgy to lewd. But who buys these things? Presumably adults.  Parents, no less!

I took a few education courses at a local university. I was surprised at the level of angst and resentment many women felt about the opportunities they were discouraged from pursuing as elementary and high school students. They absolutely picked up a line of thought that said "Women can't do math" and "Women can't do science."

This was not my experience. Every math and science class I took in high school was taught by a woman; most were taught by nuns. Sister Helen O'Connel, Sister Evangeline Nestor, Sister Agnes Joseph Sun -- these women were smart, exacting, and every bit as formidable as their names. I came away from high school thinking that my only limitations were my own drive and initiative. Nobody told me I couldn't do math or science.

T-shirts shouldn't send this message either. And when they do, parents --drum roll, please -- shouldn't buy them. If anyone can do math, it's the accounting departments of huge retailers.

Boys' fashions are not immune to the trend. This piece on back to school t-shirts caught my eye as well. The author shares:

"I’m So Bored” spelled out the words, carefully crafted to look like the periodic table, on my son’s new t-shirt he received for his birthday. As a former chemistry teacher, I hated it —- excuse me, but a class where you have permission to light things on fire is not boring! —- but, of course, my son loved it. He giggled, “Yeah, mom, I hate school!”

For the record, he does not hate school. His teachers do an excellent job of keeping things fun and educational, yet here he was, playing into every lame stereotype. As I discovered when I went to return the t-shirt (mom’s veto privilege!), this shirt was hardly the worst example of boys t-shirts printed with obnoxious sayings. While a lot of attention has been paid to the slut-ification of little girls’ clothing, not much has been said about the dumbing down of boys' apparel.

“My brain hurts” reads one t-shirt with a picture of Bart Simpson and a math book. “Looking for trouble? You found it!” declares a shirt from Target. “If homework is work, then when do I get paid?” quips a boys t-shirt from Kohls. There's the ever popular “My favorite subjects are lunch and recess” shirt, and my personal least favorite reads “Let’s just skip school so I can start my rockstar training.” Yes, these shirts are funny, but I hate the message that t-shirts like these send to boys. School isn’t always a-laugh-a-minute, but it’s not supposed to be. It’s important that kids learn life skills, like reading and math, but equally as important that they learn they can deal with being bored sometimes and that hard things are worth doing, even if they aren’t super fun.

I agree with the writer on all but one point -- the t-shirts aren't funny; they're moronic. "My brain hurts"? Falls flat with me, anyway.

Around here we use apparel to send messages, too - "My Dad Rocks", "Daddy's Little Princess", "Michigan Wolverines".

"I'm So Bored"?  Been there, heard that, don't need the t-shirt.

On Birthdays and Boy Humor

Birthdays around here begin in late July and continue through early November. Ainsley just turned two, and John hit four. Being so young has one pivotal advantage: Their birthday expectations remain low. Blissfully unaware that birthdays should have themes and that gifts can be expensive, they love the boxes as much as the presents and find joy in the simplest second-hand goodies. This year John wanted a castle cake that proved to be a little too much for my baking skills. The ramparts were crumbling, the walls were cracking, and John thought the whole thing just rocked.

Sweet and so easily pleased.

For the older boys, birthdays can be a little more complex. I blame all of this on a trend that began in the eighties or nineties. When I was a kid -- in the sixties and seventies -- birthdays were almost always simple affairs. You might blow it out for your tenth or your sixteenth, but for the most part, a birthday party meant inviting over the neighborhood kids. The birthday kid picked out the cake. We ran through the sprinkler, opened a few presents, and sang Happy Birthday. My parents snapped a few photos.


No ponies, no clowns, no magicians. There was usually a donkey present. We pinned a tail on it.

I have never embraced the growing trend to host over-the-top parties. I've never hired a pony, a clown or a magician. Since 100% of my kids' extended family lives elsewhere, we do have birthday parties, and parties, I have found, have certain unalterable requirements. Somewhere along the way some well-intentioned but very short-sighted individual introduced an item that has stymied and beset mothers for decades: The Gift Bag. Who dreamt up this infernal complication, I can't say. I doubt she is a mother. I believe she's currently residing in a witness protection program in rural Wyoming.

See, when I was a kid, the "gift" the guest received was participation in the party. Not good enough these days, not by a long shot. Oh, I've tried to buck the system, really I have. Sadly, The Gift Bag is here to stay.  Apparently, you can dispense with this as kids get older, but by then party goers eat a whole lot more. Things are a little simpler, but not necessarily cheaper.

If you're the hosting mother, The Gift Bag is just one more headache and expense. If  you're the mother of a guest, it's just one more collection of sugar and assorted stuff coming in your door. (I use the word "stuff" in its loosest sense. Believe me, I could generate a whole host of nouns far more fitting than "stuff," but I'd really prefer to keep this blog rated G).

Kolbe's birthday is coming soon to a backyard near me. In timely fashion, I brought in the mail and found The Oriental Trading Company catalogue.



Kolbe grabbed the catalogue and began a quick perusal. "Cool stuff for the gift bags, Mom," he shared with unbridled enthusiasm. "Fake vomit! Awesome!'

Yes, among their many products is fake vomit. A fun way to play harmless pranks, they assure me. Made of rubber, five inches long! A dozen for a mere ten bucks. Kolbe was transfixed and spent the next two days leafing through the catalogue until it was dog-eared and full of highlighted treasures.

Their other offerings include:

1. Alien test tube slime.
2. Fart whistles. New this year!
3. Wind-up crawling fingers.
4. Gummy flesh fries. No, that's not a typo. Great finger food, according to the ad. Watermelon-flavored and fat-free!
5. Whoopee cushions. Of course.
6. An item so gross I can't even bring myself to add it to the list.

No mother dreamt up the idea of gift bags, and, I promise, no mother sat around the conference table while forward-thinking product engineers came up with these items. Now boys? This is right up their alley. Of course these are the very boys who desperately wanted The Encyclopedia of Immaturity for Christmas last year and who think any joke or skit that involves underwear is classic humor.

Kolbe's birthday will roll around. The gift bags will be purchased and filled. Since I am close friends with the mothers of Kolbe's classmates, the bags will not include some of the more off-color items. But after contemplating fart whistles and fake vomit, suddenly Whoopee cushions sound rather tame and, strangely, almost wholesome.

From the Mouth of John

John, feeding his oldest brother a few good lines: Tim, say John John is the coolest. Tim is a nerwed!


John, demonstrating his amazing spelling skills: Mama, I want a W O S T N and that spells donut!

John at play: Mama, watch while I dwive my montster twuck over Cwifford.

John at church: I'm going to light a candle. It's for Henry.

John and his sister: Ainsey, I love you sooooo much!



Yes, age four is a mixed bag.

Don't, ahem, Go in Your Sister's Teapot

If you want intelligent, pithy, and honest writing, head over to Betty Duffy's corner of the blogosphere. If I had the time, I'd link to a post or two or ten. Her take on the sheer craziness that is sometimes (oftentimes) motherhood leaves me saying again and again, "Yeah! What she said!"

Here she writes about discerning a motto, a motto that would capture life as a busy mom and inspire her in her vocation.

We are a week and a half into summer. The transition has been the smoothest one yet, this despite the fact that I'm up to eyeballs in various pursuits and that a fever/sore throat virus is slowly winding its way through the ranks.

But the weather has been blistering hot. And we've had a few memorable moments -- among them, Ainsley staring with delight as she squeezed every last drop of baby shampoo onto the good couch and an unidentified toddler peeing in Ainsley's teapot. Yes, that's right -- peeing in Ainsley's teapot.

If you haven't read Rachel Balducci's book How to Tuck in a Superhero, get yourself a copy. Among the many messages that are both funny and spot on is her list of Rules I can't believe I had to make. Rules 1, 2, and 7 are classics:

1. Boys, you must never crawl into the trunk of someone's car.

2. Never shut your brother in a refrigerator.

7. Do not hogtie your brother and drag him across the yard even if he claims he is having a blast.

Of all the rules I never imagined I would be forced to enact, Don't pee in your sister's teapot has to take the cake. Before I had kids, I never even said the word pee. I remember having fits with my high school students, especially the girls, when they'd use the P word. "'Mrs. Dolin, can I go to the restroom?' is perfectly acceptable," I'd tell them. "Nobody needs know what you're planning to do in there." Eventually this became something of a joke. A few of my favorite students adopted the English slang and would ask, "Mrs. Dolin, can I go to the loo?" We laugh about it to this day.

But then along came my four cherubic children. It's an earthy, earthy life with diapers and potty training and boys who just plain love potty talk. All the synonyms and euphemisms for, ahem, going to the bathroom suddenly seemed a bit cumbersome and just plain fussy. Go to the bathroom didn't quite cut it when a third of the family was in diapers and some nameless male members of the household found an inexplicable thrill in using the great outdoors. Half the things one customarily does in the bathroom didn't, in fact, get done anywhere in the vicinity of the bathroom.

So now I occasionally say pee. But I still never thought I'd be talking about it with regard to my sweet daughter's tin teapot with the painted pink flowers.

Don't pee in your sister's teapot. Oy vey. OY VEY! Reminds me of the day not so very long ago when I barked at one of the kids for using bad words and the word in question was mustard.

Oh, the depths to which we descend.

A month or two ago -- during those unendurable weeks when Catechesis was in high gear and soccer and baseball were overlapping -- I had a long conversation with my friend Amy. Our talk boiled down to one pivotal question: Why is it all so hard?

I'm not lazy, I shared. But I just wonder why it's all so hard.

In Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, we close each year by celebrating Pentecost. We review the gifts of the Holy Spirit. We light a candle and discuss each gift. The children choose which gift they want to receive. For the past several years I have asked for fortitude.

Our family in on day four of the Novena to the Holy Spirit. Today we read about fortitude:

By the gift of fortitude the soul is strengthened against natural fear and supported to the end in the performance of duty. Fortitude imparts to the will an impulse and energy which moves it to undertake without hesitancy the most arduous tasks, to face dangers, and to endure without complaint the slow martyrdom of even lifelong tribulation.

In Betty Duffy's search for a motto, she writes:

"We serve others especially if they didn't do it for us, because that is what Christ does."

And at first it troubles me, because Christ and his ways are not always on the tip of my tongue. Jazzy slogans are easily recalled and easily dismissed, but Christ, and his ways, are a challenge to recall, but impossible for me to dismiss.

At the same time, with a little reflection, I can see that, yes, years have passed, and I have been doing the service, because it's my duty, for people who don't really return the favor. And I have done it, at times well, at times poorly, for one reason alone: because I love Jesus. I really do ...

Betty describes a type of martyrdom, sometimes called white martyrdom. We don't die, but we die to ourselves again and again. That's motherhood. That's sanctification. That's fortitude.

Mistah Harbor Fweight

I hope Ainsley turns out to be a Mama’s girl as we have a houseful of Daddy’s boys.

Last night John had reached his limit. He was tired and grouchy and headed for bed. En route to La La Land, John spotted Daddy tinkering with the bathroom sink. You can forget about all plans for slumber when there are tools in use.

The boy who had been wailing and whining was suddenly smiling, perched atop the toilet, making robot fingers with Dave’s ratchet set.

“Wanna help us bix it, Mama?” John asked. “Get some tools. We bought them at Mistah Harbor Fweight.”

Mistah Harbor Fweight.

For the uninitiated  -- you fortunate few -- Harbor Freight is a deep discount tool store that for some with a mechanical bent might more accurately be known simply as crack. Yes, it’s  that addictive.

Dave and John have enjoyed many a trip to Mistah Harbor Fweight. We have a plethora of free flashlights to prove it. Their latest trip snagged a trap for the mysterious rodents drilling holes in our backyard.

“We bought a jail for da mouse,” John informed me. To his delight, we netted the mouse on the first try.

So Dave dismantled the sink as a contented John sat nearby, played with tools, and chatted. At 10:15 Dave held out a pair of Spiderman slippers wondering if they fit John. Seems they needed to make a quick run to the Hard Work Store (a term Kolbe coined years ago).  Alas, Mistah Harbor Fweight was closed. So John, outfitted in Spiderman slippers and Batman jammies, took off with Dave to the Big Box up the street. There John enjoyed trying out the riding lawn mowers and building another memory of time spent with his favorite person.

The Good Scissors

So we had teacher conferences in the pre-school the other day. That probably sounds serious, but it was simply a nice chat about John. His teacher shared two minor concerns: John doesn't seem to distinguish colors very well, and he hasn't mastered the use of children's scissors.

I have wondered if John is partially color-blind. Time will tell. Not shocking -- it runs all through my family.

About the scissors...

It would seem that John's lack of dexterity lies strictly in the realm of children's scissors. Hand him my razor sharp Fiskars and there's no job too big for the nimbled-fingered John. I have no fewer than three data points (still coming down from the science fair) to support my hypothesis:

1. As I was finishing up a phone call, I saw John dashing out of the room with the good scissors. I followed him into my bedroom where I spotted him hiding under a blanket.

Note to John: If you want to be truly incognito, act naturally. The whole "blanket-over-the-head-behind-the-chair"? Not working so great for you, bud. Might as well post it on Facebook. Maybe it's time to adjust the m.o.?

There John sat utilizing the good scissors to open a nifty Space Shuttle that I think Dave intended as a future birthday or Christmas present.

2. This morning Ainsley's Mylar balloon got a face-lift courtesy of John and the good scissors. Hacked to pieces, it was.

3. This afternoon John appeared at my side with an unwrapped oatmeal pie -- ambrosia to the Dolin children -- and told me, "I opened it with da scissors by myself."

The boy can cut when he's so inclined.

Full Disclosure

Valentine's Day poses a bit of a dilemma for a nine-year-old boy. There's the lure of the candy, of course, but then one has to contend with all that distasteful business about Love.

In designing his Valentine's Day bag, Kolbe left no room for confusion.

Translation: P.S. (I don't really love you. You are just a friend.)

That Lovin' Feelin'

As we are wrapping up Valentines. . .

Me: Is this one done?

Kolbe: I just have to finish drawing the guy with the nunchucks.

Funny I don't recall this being a part of my childhood Valentines.