Mommy Guilt Redemption Eludes Me

How do you know when your “mommy guilt” has gotten the best of you? When you knit your son a Christmas stocking, and he tells you to give it to the cat.
Last year, I wrote about how I guiltily “fast-tracked” a Christmas stocking for James by buying some premade felt ornaments and gluing them on a felt stocking I whip-stitched together. This stocking took me a few hours to make, compared to the many, many hours I spent sewing sequins on Ethan’s Christmas stocking. James’s stocking had the same glittery impact as Ethan’s, but deep down, I thought it was a sham.
Then, in October, I saw a pattern for a knitted stocking, and I had to buy it for James. The stocking took a few weeks to knit, compared to the few hours I spent on James’ first stocking. The amount of time I put into this project helped me write off my mommy guilt.
I confidently presented the stocking to James, anticipating his face lit up with joy over my effort. But instead of “Wow!”, I got “Eh.” What’s wrong? “Don’t you want this stocking instead of your old one?” I asked. “No,” he responded. “You should give it to Molly.”
I had gotten it all wrong. James didn’t care how many hours I put into a project, he just wanted a glittery stocking like his big brother’s. I should have left well enough alone.
So, Molly, what do you want for a stocking stuffer?

Have You Seen This Skunk?

Recently, our household has undergone a major tragedy. Someone has gone missing.
But before you start checking the news for Amber alerts, let me tell you who the victim is—a stuffed animal skunk whose name is Skunkers.
Skunkers 1 and 2 became a part of our family a few months ago when we dined at McDonald’s. Ethan and James each got a Happy Meal, which also happened to be the home of a stuffed animal skunk. Of course I let them take the darling creatures home. Ethan and James named their skunks Skunkers, played with them intensely for a few hours, and then tossed them in their rooms’ stuffed animal heaps.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t until Skunkers 1 went missing that I realized he how important he was to James. Their fun times came to an end when we bought our new couch.
See, we not only got rid of Couchy to make room for Mr. Couch. We also got rid of a recliner, which, unbeknownst to me, was the home of James’ skunk.
A week ago, James tearily accused me of my crime. I was sitting at the dining room table working on my lap top when he approached me. “Mommy!” he said. “You got rid of Skunkers!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Here’s Skunkers,” I said, pointing to a stuffed skunk laying our living room carpet.
“That’s Ethan’s Skunkers,” he explained. “We played a game with both skunks and I put mine in between the cushions of the recliner and now you’ve gotten rid of the recliner so now he’s gone!!!” His balled-up fists pressed against his eyes to stop the flowing tears.
I swallowed down my panic. “James, I’m sure you didn’t leave Skunkers in the recliner. He will turn up. In the meantime, why don’t you play with this skunk?”
“No!” he said. “That’s Ethan’s skunk. Mine is gone!”
Over the past week, I’ve hoped James’s accusations were wrong, but Skunkers 1 has yet to appear. So now I’m putting out own version of an Amber alert, asking that if you happen to see a skunk that looks like the one in the photo, please send him our way. It will make one mommy—I mean boy—very happy.

Slipping Past The Issue

I promise to teach Ethan how to tie his shoes ... as soon as he grows out these slip-on ones.

A Detour Down Memory Lane

Last weekend I went on scrapbooking retreat at the Holiday Inn in Estes Park. I’m woefully behind in assembling my scrapbooks. In fact, on this retreat, I focused on finishing my now-4-year-old son James’ baby book.
On Sunday afternoon, I regretfully packed up my gigantic scrapbooking bag and hit the road to go back home. I thought I was on highway 36, which takes you back to Denver, but after a few moments of driving I wasn’t so sure. The road went south instead of east. Unfortunately I had to drive quite a few miles on the narrow, winding road before I found a good place to turn around.
The road leveled off and on the left-hand side was a sign for Lily Lake. I pulled into the parking lot before the little alpine lake. Mt Meeker and 14,000-ft. Long’s Peak were reflected in its still waters.
I had been here before. When Terry and I moved back to Colorado in 2004, we tried to make up for lost time in the Chicago flatlands by going up to mountains as much as possible. On one of our weekend outings, we came here to picnic and stroll around the lake. Here’s a photo of me, almost three months pregnant with James, and then-2-year-old Ethan, taking in the gorgeous scenery.
So much in my life has changed since this photo was taken, but this place looks exactly the same.

YouTube To The Rescue

It’s an ambulance!

No, wait, it's a robot!

Actually, it’s a mangled mess.

The next time your son hands you some plastic parts and asks you to transform them, don’t despair. Go to the YouTube web site and search for Transformers. You’ll find hundreds of videos, such as this one, which will show you, step by step, how to transform the robot, Bumble Bee, into a Camero.
Yes, there are people out there whom spend their free time filming themselves “transforming” cheap plastic toys from China.
And, as a mother of two sons obsessed with Transformer toys, I am eternally grateful to them.

An End Of An Era

Terry and I hung this dinosaur poster up in our main-floor bathroom almost four years ago as a potty-training aid for Ethan. We hoped having something interesting for him to look at while he did his business would make potty training process go more smoothly. Looking back, I think the M&M’s we gave as rewards had a more positive impact than the poster. But, since we didn’t want to jinx our success, we kept the poster up, just in case. Then we forgot about it until a few weeks ago, when I realized my both kids have been potty trained for more than a year.

My, how time flies.

Duty Calls

When your kid hits a milestone, then, dog gone it, as a parent you drop everything to help him or her achieve it. You may have read this post about how, during Ethan's karate lesson, I knit in the car while James watches a video on the portable DVD player. Since then, two things have deconstructed this scenario:

1) James got bored of our video library;

2) One time when my husband was in charge of James during a karate lesson, he brought James’ bike and got him to ride up and down the sidewalk of the strip mall where the studio is located.

Now all James wants to do during the karate class is ride his bike. I wish I could knit during this time, but I can't because listening to a kid whine about wanting to ride his bike while trying to knit negates the mental health benefits of "me time."

But, at least now we have a shot of getting both kids riding on bikes so we can take family bike rides.

Hey, I got to dream a little while I'm walking up and down the sidewalk of a stripmall.

A Piece Of Mind

When my niece, Josie, was born a year ago this week, I had quit knitting. As much as I wanted to be a knitter, I didn’t have the stamina to follow through on any of the projects I had started, and would deep-six half-knitted sweaters into plastic tubs.
Then I discovered some great knitting blogs, and my desire to knit rekindled. Via blogging, I found the Interweave Knits magazine web site, which features a lot of free patterns. I found a Cabled Raglan Baby sweater pattern about four months ago, and I had to make it for Josie. I actually finished it in time for her first birthday this Thursday.
Even though the sweater has a ton of mistakes, I’m still proud of it. I got comfortable with some techniques I had never done before, like knitting in the front and back of a stitch to make an increase, and using double-pointed needles to knit the sleeves.
While accomplishing those techniques kept me motivated, what really got me to finish this sweater was the peace of mind I felt while knitting. Even when I sat in car outside Ethan’s karate studio with a cranky 4-year-old, once I started knitting I could forget all my worries and relax.
So there will be more baby sweaters in my future, and not just because my sister-in-law is due with a baby girl in October!

Kicked Out

As a stay-at-home-mom, it’s disconcerting to not be home a good chunk of the day. But for three days last week, James and I were homeless while the contractors we hired installed our new energy-efficient windows and door. (Ethan, thankfully, was in summer camp all day.) Trying to find five hours worth of activities a 4 year old would approve of got old fast. It didn’t help, either, that it rained two of those days, so the zoo or a swimming pool weren’t an option. One day James and I went out to lunch, killed two hours at the WOW children’s museum, and, out of desperation to extend the outing one more hour, ended up at a coffee shop so I could re-caffinate and console a grumpy James with a treat. But, finally, the contractors pulled their giant white truck out of driveway. James and I are happy to reclaim our newly improved domain.

That's What You Think

Three afternoons a week, I’ve managed to produce some “me” time. While Ethan is in his Taekwondo class, James and I sit in our car in the parking lot. James watches a video on the portable DVD player while I work on my knitting. I have 45 minutes of fight-free, step-and-fetch-it free time to do something I want to do. It makes my blood pressure go down several notches.
The other day, Ethan skipped out of his class and noticed my arrangement. “You knit the whole time I’m gone?” he asks. “How boring is that?”
Someday, he’ll understand.

Stuffed Animals Have Feelings, Too

“Mommy!” said James.
“Whaaat?” I replied, his angry face snapping me out of my “need-some-coffee” daze.
“Eppa is mad,” he said. “He said, ‘grrr, grrr’ to me today.”
“Why is Eppa angry?” I replied. Eppa is James’ beloved mint-green stuffed elephant. He’s very plump and cuddly, and usually does’t give off an angry vibe.
“You promised him a cake for his birthday, and you haven’t made one yet,” said James.
Oh, yeah. James, whom is suffering from birthday withdrawal, has decided that it is imperative that all his stuffed animals celebrate their birthdays. First on the list is Eppa, whom, according to James, is turning 6 years old sometime this week. I promised to make Eppa a cake last week, but never got around to it.
But now that I know how badly I’ve hurt Eppa’s feelings, making a cake is No. 1 priority in my life. I sit down with James to consult my The Complete Step-by-Step Cooking Class Cookbook to find the perfect cake for Eppa. But then we stumbled on the cookies section, where James saw picture of gingerbread cookies. “That’s what Eppa wants!” he said.
I inwardly cheer—making cookies is easier than a two-layer cake with frosting. James and I get to work—I measure out the ingredients, and he takes the measuring cups and dumps them into the bowl. We get the dough mixed up and then I roll it out and punch out mini-gingerbread men with the cookie cutter.
After we bake the cookies, we put some on a plate and sit Eppa in front of them. We sing Chicka the Chicken’s version of the “Happy Birthday” song and chow down on some cookies.
Next Saturday, according to James, is Panda Bear's and Polar Bear’s birthdays. I hope they are as easy to please as Eppa.

A Meal

We munch on a pear.
Baby hands bruise the flesh and
Juice stains his lips sweet.

Just another lunch,
Soon to evaporate like
White clouds in the sky.

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An Act Of Mercy?

I used to think that once my sons moved past the baby stage and started sleeping through the night, I would be more energetic during the day. But I was wrong--now my body now is programmed to waken off and on during the night and be tired by mid-day.
Apparently my body craves sleep so much, I’m able to fall asleep in public. That’s what happened to me the other day at the chiropractor’s office. After doing some physical therapy, I laid down on the roller table. Under the vinyl top of this contraption is a roller that runs up and down your back, mildly stretching it. It’s not the most comfortable bed, but I guess being prone is all I need to fall asleep because after three minutes, I was out. The roller is supposed to stop after 10 minutes, but this time it didn’t and I slept for 30 minutes.
Finally, a staff member woke me up to see the chiropractor. It took me a few groggy moments to realize what happened. “You looked so comfortable, I wanted to give you a blanket and pillow,” joked the chiropractor.
Good one! I think I'll bring my own for next week's appointment.

I'm Outnumbered

My sister and I live in different worlds. Along with having two girls of her own, she watches my brother’s 3-year-old daughter. She spends her days helping my nieces find a purse that coordinates with their princess shoes and getting Barbie’s house ready for a fabulous pool party.

I’m sure it’s extremely annoying to hear Hannah Montana say she is going to save the world for the millionth time, but least I can relate to girly stuff. After becoming the mother of two boys, I’ve soon discovered that there are certain things I don’t get. This verse of an Offspring song, Come Out And Play, sums it up:

Hey—man you talking back to me?
Take him out
You gotta keep ’em separated.

Most days I anxiously wait for Ethan to ask James, “You want to wrestle?” What starts out as a playful tussle turns into a free for all. It doesn’t stop until I yell, “Time Out! You, family room! You, kitchen—and I mean NOW!”
You would think that getting the crap beat out of him by his big brother would make James choose a different activity, like play dough or trains. But as soon as he catches his breath, he hurdles himself headlong into Ethan, vainly trying to knock him over. I guess that’s because, according to James’ preschool teacher, boys learn to “communicate” with each other through physical interaction.
Whatever the theory, after 30 minutes refereeing, my left eyelid starts twitching and I begin counting down the seconds until it’s appropriate to have a glass of wine.
Leave it to a man to find a better way to deal with all this testosterone-fueled aggression. My husband recently came up with this ingenious game for the boys to play. One stands at the top of the stairs and rolls a ball down to the other, who tries to catch it with a garbage can. Turn-taking, hand-eye coordination, gross-motor skills—it’s all there. Has he been watching Noggin between client meetings at work?

It irks me a little that I didn’t think of the game. But, no matter. On days when balls whiz past my head, and my living room has turned into an impromptu wrestling ring, I'll take all the help I can get. Right, Molly?

Hard Times, They're A Coming

Ok, dishwasher, listen up. I’ve got some tough news for you. But before I share the bad news, let me just thank you upfront for all the hard work you’ve done. When our fancy-schmancy dishwasher died on us after only a year of work, I wasn’t sure that getting a used dishwasher via Craigslist was the right thing to do. After all, we need a dishwasher that is willing to run at least two to three cycles a day. (I bet you’re wondering how a family of four can eat so much food. It freaks me out, too.) I just wasn’t sure you’d be up for it.
Well, you’ve proven me wrong. We’ve worked you hard this past year—loading you up with dishes at least twice a day—and you keep chugging along. There was that time your front door got misaligned and we couldn’t shut you properly. I thought I was going to have a heart attack at the thought of washing all those dishes by hand. But Terry managed to fix you and we haven’t had a problem since.
So now that you know how deeply I appreciate you, let me tell you the bad news. We’re going to have to use you more than ever now. The economy is pretty bad, and while Terry’s work is going well, I need to pay credence the advice I read on those frugality blogs and spend less. One of the easiest expenses to cut is going to restaurants or getting take out. So that means I’m going to be cooking more, and you’ll be washing dishes more. I’m not too happy about it, either, but we need to be adults about it. Whining will get us nowhere.
I know that this is a lot to ask of you, especially since you are in your twilight years. But, I’ll be honest with you. I cannot—I repeat—cannot—do this without you. Let’s keep this awesome partnership going strong!

“Why couldn’t have some never-at-home bachelor bought me?”

Hello, Again

'Tis the holiday shopping season, as my mailbox groaning with catalogs attests. I get too many to look through, so many end up in my recycling bin.
But I came across one that I’m going to keep. It’s the Gaiam Living catalog, which sells products to make your life greener. Actually, as much as I love “green” products, the only reason I’m keeping this catalog is for the Pug on the cover.
I fell in love with this Toy breed while I was an assistant editor to Dog World magazine. When you work at a magazine that covers all things dog, it’s hard not to pick a favorite breed. My editor had an oil pastel of Rottweiler that an ex-boyfriend drew for her. The managing editor owned a miniature Collie. Those breeds are fine, but compared to a Pug, they do nothing for me.
What’s so special about Pugs? Their fur is short, soft and thick. When they wag their tails, their whole bodies vibrate. They are small enough to tuck under your arm, but big enough that they don’t look like a drowned rat when wet. And just try not to look into those soulful eyes.
Unfortunately, due to office politics, I had plenty of time on my hands wax poetic about Pugs. My boss wasn’t a great manager, so instead of teaching her underlings the ropes on how to produce a magazine, she kept most of the work to herself, and busied us with “busy” work. It was disappointing because I was just out of college and impatient to start my career.
On one particularly boring, frustrating day, I brazenly cut out some photos of Pugs and taped on the inside cover of my day planner. My editor wouldn’t have been too happy seeing me do arts and crafts on the job, but I was tired of worrying about what she thought. I just needed to keep the farce going while I looked for another job on the sly.
Those taped-down Pugs got me through a stressful time in my life. Looking at them on my cold, soggy Chicago subway rides helped me get my mind off whether my boss would figure out that my “dentist” appointment was really a job interview. Or if the job I really wanted would come through. Their sweet, furry faces always put me in a better mood.
Looking back, I can see how silly it was to worry about moving on from Dog World magazine. I did move on, and have had enough ups and downs to know that having a career is not what I thought it would be. And after six years of motherhood, I've realized it's not all it's cracked up to be either.
So that’s why I’m holding onto this Pug cover. Looking at it is a tried-and-true method to making me smile.

Blind As A Bat

Last Tuesday was a first: I went to a doctor appointment with no kids because both were in school!! How cool is that?
I felt particularly high over this because it would have been extremely brutal to bring my rambunctious boys to this appointment--my annual visit to the optomologist to get a year's worth of contact lenses. As anyone with bad eye sight knows, visits to the optomologists are tedious--lots of waiting while I try my best to read an eye chart, not to mention more waiting for my eyes to dialate so the doctor can test for glaucoma. I can safely say is not a suitable environment for children under 6 years old.
Not having to worry about my boys tearing up the waiting room helped make this rather stressful appointment a little more enjoyable. I've worn glasses since I was 7 years old, so, as you may guess, my eyesight is horrible. If it wasn't for the cutting-edge plastics used to make eye glass lenses, my glasses would make "Coke-bottle" lenses look flattering. I'm sure that I am legally blind. It's amazing that my optomlogist hasn't gotten me arrested for trying to drive home from the office in my contact lenses.
Anyway, I digress. So I settle in the waiting room, hoping to read the latest Newsweek until the nurse calls me, but bam! he calls me in right away. I scurry into the doctor's dark office and sink into the chair behind my torture device, the ominous robot-looking machine that determines how blind I am. I take out my contact lenses and take a deep breath for the nail-biting test that has plagued me since childhood--faking 20/20 eyesight.
I cover my left eye and read the letters--"A O Y K E."
"Good job!" says the assistant, as he flashes up even smaller letters for me to read. "Y ... O ... D ... E ... K," I say.
"Great!" he says. "Can you read this?"
As I expected, the third line of letters are smaller and blurrier. Now it's time to get creative. The first letter can be either a Y or a K, but since the last line I read started with K, I choose Y. "Y ..... O .... D .... E ..... P????"
"Great!" he said, sounding truly impressed. "Now cover up your right eye."
I go through the same routine for my right eye, and then the assistant puts stinging drops in my eyes to dialate them. "You can wait in the lobby until the drops take effect," he says.
Darn! I have my contacts out, but only have my prescription sunglasses with me--I'd rather not sit in the lobby with those on. Plus, I brought my knitting, and feel rather foolish trying to knit with my sunglasses on the waiting room.
But, so be it. With no kids in tow, I am so trying to multitask. I'm never able to knit with them running up to me every five minutes needing me to turn on the DVD player, refill their sippy cups, or cut up an apple. Here I am, completely alone for the first time in weeks, and I am going to make the most of it.
So I pull out my knitting and start to rip out stitches from a botched fingerless glove I'm trying to knit. I'm glad that's all I am trying to do, because once the drops take effect, my eyesight blurs and I might as well have my eyes closed.
I do this for about 10 minutes, and hope the doctor calls me because this Cinderella's clock is going to strike midnight very soon. Translation: I need to pick up Ethan from school in 30 minutes.
Thankfully, the doctor calls me into his office and goes over my eye test results. "Your eyes look great!" he says. "You're seeing 20/20 in your contacts!"
After having my eyesight diminish year after year, I feel the weight of his words. I would love to celebrate my stable eyesight with a Starbucks latte, but duty calls. Ethan is waiting.
I hurry to the car, and am thankful that traffic is light because the dialation has not worn off, and things are still blurry. I feel a bit nervous about driving, but, hey, it's a straight shot from the doctor's office to Ethan's school, it's not like I have to read street signs or, God forbid, merge onto the highway.
I manage to pick Ethan up in one piece, and then it's off to get James from preschool. I stop at home and put on my regular glasses before I get James. I didn't realize what a mistake this was until I'm at the door of James' preschool and another mom gives me a second look. Oh, shoot--I look high, don't I? I want to explain the situation, but hold my tongue. Fact is, between successfully driving around town with dialated pupils, plus the good news I won't be needing a cane any time soon, plus being kid-free for almost three hours, feeling high isn't quite off the mark.

There Is No Schmautism About Autism

My son Ethan has autism, but it's not obvious to people who don't know much about the disorder. I inwardly cringe when I try to explain to folks how autism makes my son have a difficult time staying focused on a task, become hyperactive, and, when he is in social situations, act super silly. Those traits make him sound more like a brat than someone with a disability.

When I read this excerpt from comedian Denis Leary's upcoming book, Why We Suck, all my worst fears about people's perceptions of Ethan were confirmed. Here is the excerpt, from a chapter in the book titled "Autism-Schautism":

"There is a huge boom in autism right now because inattentive mothers and competitive dads want an explanation for why their dumb-ass kids can't compete academically, so they throw money into the happy laps of shrinks . . . To get back diagnoses that help explain away the deficiencies of their junior morons. I don't give a [bleep] what these crackerjack whack jobs tell you - yer kid is NOT autistic. He's just stupid. Or lazy. Or both."

All I can say is, I wish it were that simple, Denis. I would give anything for Ethan's lifelong disability to be a figment of my imagination.

The fact that Leary devoted a whole chapter in his book to autism shows how this disorder has confused and scared so many people. One reason for the confusion is that autism has gone from a specific disorder to a "spectrum" disorder. When my brother was diagnosed with autism in the 1970's, it was a fairly rare disability. Only about one in 1,500 kids were diagnosed with autism then, and those kids usually ended up in a mental hospital for the rest of their lives. That's what happened to my 33-year-old brother: he can't speak, he needs 24/7 supervision, and spends his days in an adult day care facility.

Then by the 1990's the rate of kids being diagnosed with autism skyrocketed to 1 in 150 kids.
That's a pretty scary leap in statistics. How do you explain it? Obviously, autism runs in my family, so I can confidently say genetics plays a role.

Another reason for the increased rate is that doctors began to expand the definition of autism to include kids that are "higher functioning." These kids have normal intelligence and a fairly good command of language, but still have the core deficits that make up autism, which are impaired reciprocal social interaction, impaired communication, and restricted, repetitive behaviors, interests and activities.

I didn't buy the spectrum argument when Ethan was first diagnosed. I went to the evaluation thinking he wouldn't be diagnosed because he didn't remind me of my brother. I was shocked to hear that yes, in fact, Ethan and my brother do have the same disability, but they are on different points of the spectrum. I didn't want autism to be a "spectrum" disorder because I did not want that label for my son.

Now I'm very grateful that doctors have expanded the definition of autism because it has provided Ethan with access to services--speech therapy, occupational therapy, behavioral therapy--that he otherwise probably wouldn't have gotten. These services have helped Ethan flourish. When he first started occupational therapy, he didn't have the fine motor skills to hold a pencil. Now he draws and colors pictures of dinosaurs, his special interest.

More importantly, these services have boosted Ethan's confidence. When a children's book author and illustrator visited Ethan's school last week, Ethan introduced himself as a "fellow artist," and asked him about certain drawing techniques. If I had taken Denis Leary's parenting advice, Ethan wouldn't have any self-esteem and would probably end up a school troublemaker instead of a budding artist.

As disgusting as it is that Leary is trying to make a buck by ridiculing disabled children, it is giving the autism community an opportunity to speak up and educate folks about this complicated disorder. Better understanding will only make it easier for kids with autism to thrive and become productive members of society. Isn't that what all parents, including Leary, want?

Scrapbooking Getaway

Paper, scissors, glue.
Used to nail down memories.
This is such hard work.

No, really, it’s true.
I must have two days alone.
No kids are allowed.

Scrapbooking retreats
What a wonderful excuse
For mommy downtime.




Have a wonderful weekend, everyone! For more haikus, click here.

Way To Burst My Bubble

Hind sight is 20/20. As a parent, I really don't want my boys to make the same mistakes I did. A biggie for me is college--I want them to go there with an actual plan, and not just cross their fingers and hope it works out. I mean, I spent how much money to get a degree in English??

Needless to say, I take Ethan's interests almost as seriously as he does, hoping that one of them will eventually turn into a "career." Right now, Ethan is consumed with dinosaurs. He has a vast collection of plastic dinosaurs that he uses to reinact bloody encounters between meat eaters and plant eaters. He also has a small library of dinosaur books, from which he has memorized vital statistics. Did you know, for example, that a T Rex is 40-ft.-long from nose to tail and has two claws on each hand?

When Ethan and I watched the Denver Museum of Nature and Science's latest Imax movie, "Dinosaurs Alive," I was curious to see if the film would push Ethan's interest in dinosaurs beyond just playing with plastic ones. The movie mixed computer simulations of dinosaurs attacking each other with footage of paleontologists working in the Gobi Desert and New Mexico. All the scientists interviewed in the film got into dinosaurs when they were 6 years old. Plus, according to the movie, paleontology is a burgeoning field--only 2% of dinosaurs that lived have been discovered. That bit of information really got the wheels turning in my head, because it's always good to get on the ground floor of a growing field.

I was happy to see Ethan enraptured throughout the film. When the lights came up in the theater, I asked Ethan if he liked it. "Yes!!" he said. I tried to tamp down the hope in my voice when I asked, "Do you think you'd like to be paleontologist?"

"NO!!" he said.

His emphatic answer made the whirring contraption my head come tumbling down. "Well, why not?" I asked.

"They work too hard," he said. "They have to sit in a car for a long, long time. Then they have to sit in the dirt, in the hot sun, looking for bones."

I have to admit, he's got a point.