Can't Have Trust and Eat It, Too

Our 9-year-old is a good kid. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t sneak.

I couldn’t trust him at all. Things were going too well. And so came the whole looking-up-poop-on-the-school-computer-and-lying-about-it incident. Our son’s teacher sent home a letter detailing the matter. My wife and I asked the kid to come clean, said we wouldn’t get mad. We knew how to get the truth.

The kid said he didn’t do it.

That lie turned into another lie about his classmate actually doing it. And that lie led to our letter to the teacher, which led to our son trashing the letter, which led to our son lying about trashing the letter.

After my wife and I caved, unable to get the truth we knew how to get, the kid confessed. 

Then he asked if everything was better.

“No,” I said, standing firm as the boss here. “It’s not better. I can’t trust you. And that’s not good.”

The kid’s head fell.

“What if I make a chart?” he suggested.

My son loves visual tools to chart his progress. He recently charted the number of chores he accomplished leading up to the number of chores he needed to earn a video game. We’ve found that charting works with our kid.

“Charting our trust won’t work,” I said, still standing firm, still the boss here. “You just have to prove that we can trust you.”

He tried the head-fall thing again. Pathetic. Like I’d fall for tha—

“Fine,” I told him. “You can make a chart.”

For each lie the kid had told, my wife and I charged him one week to prove his trustworthiness. We charted out a month. Every day he proved to be trustworthy, we’d check off a box. After the kid had 31 boxes checked off, we’d trust him again. That was the deal.

I wasn’t worried about me. I’d make my son earn those days of trustworthiness. I was worried about my wife. She was the pushover -- she’d just hand over the days. I had to be the firm one, the boss.

The first day, I told my son he could mark off three boxes for his good behavior at school.

“Three boxes?” my wife exclaimed. “I thought he could only earn one box a day.”

“Give the kid a break,” I said, standing firm as the boss.

The next day, our son admitted to goofing off in class. He knows better than to goof around like that.

“I’m proud of your honesty,” I said, giving him a high-five. “Mark off five boxes on the chart.”

“Hey, Daddy,” my son said. “So really, all I have to do is do bad things and confess, and I can earn back your trust in, like, five days.”

I could see what he was doing, trying to get the best of me. I wasn’t falling for that.

Before I could fall for that, my wife overheard the conversation and intervened.

“We don’t reward bad conduct,” she said, “even if you confess. You’re supposed to confess.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, standing firm as the real boss here. “You have to still be good. From now on, if you’re bad and you come clean, we’ll only mark off two boxes.”

I was getting pretty good at this. My wife was good, too. She wasn’t the pushover I thought she was.

The next day, our boy finished his chart. He’d earned our complete trust back.

And then we caught him in a lie -- he’d falsified his trust chart, marking off more days than we allowed. Then he lied about doing so. Our kid was treating this like a game, and that stupid chart wasn’t helping.

“Can I make a new chart to earn your trust back?” the kid asked.

“No,” I said. “I can’t trust you. And that’s not good. No chart is gonna fix that.”

I didn’t know what to do. My wife and I talked it over. We decided to trust our instincts. No chart could dictate whether or not we could believe our son. We had to just trust him. And I didn’t.

It’s now been a month. My wife and I have been on our son like CSI, checking his every move, even when he stirs in his sleep. He’s not told one lie. He’s not been sneaky. He’s even been good in school.

“Have I earned your trust back yet?” my son asked.

I was firm, the boss here, and wasn’t going to give in like before.

“Heck yeah,” I said.

My son smiled. Then he ran off to his room to draw. I smiled. Then I shot over to the secret surveillance video bank in the office closet to see what the kid was really up to.

-May 2013

What's in the Basket?

I couldn’t figure out what to put in my 9-year-old son’s Easter basket this year. What I mean is -- the Easter Bunny fills up his basket with goodies, but my wife and I like to put something in there from us.

But what? It had to be good, but nothing to spoil the kid. After all, Easter isn’t about gifts. Not huge ones, anyway.

I remember the year I learned about greed. I was about my son’s age. My mom said she’d found the ultimate Easter gift for me, one that I’d particularly love.

I was intrigued. A gift I specifically would appreciate? My mom talked about it for weeks. I remember thinking it couldn’t have been all that good.

It wasn’t. It was a light-up skeleton pen. I think I let out an “Ahhhhh, what the—” when I saw it in my basket on Easter morning, even though I loved to draw and I adored anything to do with monsters, skeletons and ghouls. Maybe my mom’s set-up led me to believe it’d be something like a new wing in the house just for me, with an indoor swimming pool and a skate park.

It took me a full minute after seeing the pen before I could fake excitement. I hoped my mom didn’t catch my initial disappointment. She was so eager for me to get that gift. My plan was to never let her find out what I really thought.

“This is the best gift ever,” I lied. “I love it more than Christmas.”

I reminded her daily how highly I thought of the pen, went out of my way to use it in front of her.

After spring break, when I went back to school, one of my friends, Joey, bragged about the motorcycle he got for Easter.

“You got a pen?” Joey asked as if I were kidding. “You gotta tell your parents who’s boss.”

He put me through a “here’s how you get good things” boot camp. I learned to ask for fast-food money instead of sitting down with my family for meals. I learned to leave my room so messy that my mom would have no choice but to clean it up for me. I learned that saying thank you was as bad as telling my parents I didn’t need anything else from them.

I went along with Joey, but I’d never treat my parents with such disrespect. However, at Joey’s house, I watched how his tactics pleased his parents. Joey got what he wanted, and his mom and dad were thrilled to spoil him. His parents were happy like my mom was happy to give me that skeleton pen.

Maybe I could please my parents by telling them to get me a motorcycle. I’d be happy.

I found my mom in the kitchen. Joey tagged along to witness my metamorphosis.

“Hey, Mom,” I began. “Um . . . Do you remember where you got that pen? Joey wants one, too.”

I just couldn’t do it. I tried. I really tried. But I couldn’t be greedier than I already felt. Joey punched me in the arm, reminding me to stick to the plan. I couldn’t. So Joey did it for me, telling my mom she owed me a motorcycle after insulting me with that lame pen.

I was going kill Joey. But first I ran up to my room to hide.

After my mom sent Joey home, she came up to talk to me. I hoped my bedcovers, having shielded me from many night monsters in the past, would surely save me from facing a disappointed, hurt mother.

Could you believe it? The covers didn’t protect me. My mom talked right through the sheets. I begged for forgiveness, promised I’d never be greedy again.

My mom forgave me.

And this year, as I loaded up on stuff for my son’s Easter basket, I thought about that promise. I was acting greedy all over again. I put all the stuff back on the shelf, save a few items.

On Easter day, my son’s tiny, almost empty basket looked great. It did. There was plenty in there. Well, it wasn’t about quantity. It was about quality. By quality, I mean it was the thought that counted.

Evidently, it was the thought that counted. My son couldn’t have been happier if we got a new wing in the house just for him, with an indoor swimming pool and a skate park. He only wanted us to hide more eggs for him to find.

We did egg hunts all day. That night, my son finally confessed.

“Daddy,” he said, “I have to admit -- I was hoping the Easter Bunny would’ve hid my basket a little better. I’m nine years old now and I can—”

“You’re a great kid,” I interrupted. “If I could get you a motorcycle for Easter, I would.”

My son assured me that he didn’t need a motorcycle.

“That’s a relief,” I said. “Because the second you feel we owe you a motorcycle, you get nothing.”

-April 2013

Coffee Head

I had nothing to worry about. The caffeine in that coffee I drank before bedtime wouldn’t keep me awake. I’d get to sleep in good time and be well rested before a very busy day of work to follow.

As I loaded that single-serving K-Cup canister into the coffee machine, my wife insisted the caffeine would not only keep me awake, but that I’d keep her awake. She had work the next day, too.

“You have nothing to worry about,” I assured her, “If I can’t sleep, I’ll give you one of my famous head rubs.”

For your information, I’m going to patent my head rubs. It’s not your everyday method. It’s the world’s only head rub that offers subtle, yet complete relaxation for a tired, yet stressed-out wife of mine in an era of over-produced head rubs.

That’s my pitch for the patent board. Too wordy?

My wife knows my process is one of a kind. That’s why she gave me the okay and turned in.

She was asleep before I began. Even the thought of my head rubs put her out. However, I was wide-awake. But it wasn’t the coffee. It was everything on my plate the next day that made me anxious.

I had to get my son to school in the morning. I had writing deadlines to meet before going into work. I was stressed, had many mysteries to solve like, Where the heck have I seen that actor from that TV show tonight?

My brain was drowning. I wasn’t going to sleep any time soon. But I had nothing to worry about.

I thought about watching a movie. Or maybe finishing that book I was reading. Maybe I could work on meeting those writing deadlines -- that’d be the smartest way to use my time and energy.

I got out of bed without waking my wife, made my way down the hall toward the office. Then I ignored the office and went to the TV to watch that movie. That’d help me sleep. See, I had the power here.

Watching the movie only stimulated my mind. It was this thing about zombie robots from another dominion. Don’t judge it. It had a very relevant social commentary. In fact, I found uncanny similarities in this book I was reading about the Dust Bowl of 1930s Middle America. Did you know that heavy winds carried dust all the way to the East Coast?

It wasn’t long before I’d switched from the robot movie to the Dust Bowl book. But then the book reminded me of that Dust Bowl documentary I’d recorded on my DVR that I hadn’t seen yet. So I set the book down, returned to my TV and cued up the doc. I couldn’t stick to one activity. I was wasting time.

I had nothing to worry about. I had the power. I decided not to waste more time. I’d work on meeting those writing deadlines.

I went into my home office and fired up the computer. First things first -- I checked my e-mail. I came across some funny videos. Has it occurred to anyone else that people don’t really tell jokes anymore? Current events used to bring out the best joke tellers. Now we just send a link to a funny video.

I turned my efforts to an Internet search for breaking news about the decline of good old-fashioned joke telling in America due to the advent of viral videos. Before I could peruse my Google results, I realized again I was wasting time and, more importantly, not getting sleep. I had to get my son to school in the morning. I had those deadlines to meet before going to work. I had to figure out where the heck I’d seen that actor from that TV show I’d watched earlier that night. Was that guy in the new Bond movie?

Why’d I drink that coffee? What an idiot. I don’t even drink coffee. Not often, anyway. I’d lost the power to sleep. I woke my wife and told her my problem. She wasn’t happy, did the whole told-you-so thing, but said she’d give me a head rub to help me fall asleep.

It only helped her fall asleep. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep.

And then I fell asleep. And then my alarm screamed at me to take in the morning. And I couldn’t wake up.

Everything between my ears throbbed. My mind was in a fog. My wife was up and out the door, which meant I had to get going, too. I had that kid to get to school, those deadlines to meet, that job to work. If I could just get myself out of bed, my feet would do the rest.

I had nothing to worry about.

Two jammed toes later, I found the kitchen. I opened the cupboard and searched for the coffee. But my head hurt so much I couldn’t see. I let my hand do the rest of the work. Please, no mousetraps.

And there it was -- the K-Cup coffee box. And also the answer I desperately needed -- that actor was in a stupid cereal commercial! My mind could finally rest.

But I couldn’t rest, not until I found what I needed. I dug into that K-Cup coffee box for the antidote to my sleepless night . . .

I’d consumed the last cup of coffee last night.

I really had nothing to worry about.

-March 2013

WINNING!

I’m not one of those competitive parents whose kid has to win at everything. I’m the parent who just doesn’t want his kid to lose.

So when my 9-year-old boy was playing handball with friends and losing royally, I wanted to step in and save him, call “cheating” on the other side, help him play better by playing for him.

But I couldn’t intervene. Instead, I ended the handball session, telling my son we had to run a family errand. Then I took him to the store and bought him a handball.

At home, we worked on his handball game. I set up a rigorous practice schedule to follow -- a two-hour session, six days a week for three straight months. Next time he played, he wouldn’t suffer a loss.

Problem: After the first day of practice, we never got around to practicing again.

Last weekend, some of my son’s friends asked if he wanted to play basketball. My kid begged to play. I told him we had family errands to run.

My son was all frowns. After his friends left for the park, he asked what was so important that we had to do. I explained that we didn’t have to do anything and that I just made up an excuse to save him from humiliation.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

“Son, are you even good at basketball?”

“Yeah. I play at school all the time. And I really wanted to play with my friends.”

He was hurt.

We caught up with his friends at the park just in time to play. The kids picked teams and decided that the first team to reach 20 points would win. I chomped on my nails as the players took to the court. I thought about turning away so I wouldn’t have to see my son lose. But I couldn’t help it. I watched.

He was actually pretty good. He even sank a jaw-dropping three-pointer. I didn’t think he could throw the ball that far, let alone make the shot. Then he made more amazing shots. It was “Ripley’s Believe It or Not” right before my very eyes. I called for a time-out, pulled my son aside.

“What’s going on, why are you so good?” I asked as if there was some trick he was pulling.

“I play at school every day, Daddy,” he answered.

I told him to keep it up. He was great. He even played great defense—blocking shots, grabbing rebounds. My son’s team was destroying the competition.

And then, in less than a few minutes, the competition struck back. A 13-4 lead became a meager 13-12 lead. My son was missing easy shots. He practically dusted off the ball, scrubbed it clean and handed it to the defenders.

The other team took the lead, 14-13, and talked some serious trash. They stole the ball from my son, laughed in his face. One player pushed my kid to the ground. Ouch! That really hurt. The other team ran off with the ball and scored the winning shot.

My son had scraped his knee and was in serious pain. He tried to be tough for his friends and walked it off. I so wanted to step in, but I didn’t want to embarrass him more by coddling him. At least the game was over and we could go home before any more damage occurred.

But then the kids wanted to play hide-and-seek. I didn’t get a chance to say no. The kids chose my son to be it. That made matters worse for him, limping around the park, all his friends hiding from him.

It continued to get worse. We somehow ended up at our house for video games. We were short one controller. The kids decided that my son would have to sit out. And my son just let it happen. I couldn’t let him suffer any longer. I was going to intervene this time, whether right or wrong.

Instead, my wife ended the misery, telling the kids it was time for them to go, that we had family errands to run. Wow, those kids must’ve thought, that family sure runs a lot of family errands.

I thanked my wife for rescuing our child, for saving him from more losing, more pain.

“I didn’t do it for him,” she said to me. “You looked like a wreck over there. I couldn’t take it.”

“Daddy, I’m okay,” my son added. “I don’t care if I lose. I let them win because they get mad when they don’t. And I don’t care about not playing video games either. I can play whenever I want.”

Then he told me he’d missed those shots on purpose and that he was happy to be it in hide-and-seek so someone else wouldn’t have to do it. I was proud to have such a thoughtful kid.

We played a video game together. He killed me. Evidently, he was through with charity work.

-March 2013

Val-ANT-ine's Day

I’m guilty -- I haven’t done anything really thoughtful for my wife in a long time.

On the Sunday before Valentine’s Day, she woke up from another nightmare.  She said that in her bad dreams I’m usually there, not doing anything really thoughtful for her.

“What?” I exclaimed. “I do really thoughtful things for you all the time.”

I couldn’t let her think I wasn’t husbandly anymore. I went to my desk and listed a bunch of thoughtful things I could do for her, to be appropriately executed on Valentine’s Day.

Meanwhile, my wife went to the kitchen to surprise our 9-year-old son and me with breakfast.

“Ant!” she shouted from the kitchen as she prepared the meal.

“What?” I asked. “We don’t have an ant. Not in over 10 years of living in this house.”

“Well, it’s here,” my wife replied. “And here are another two . . . three . . . more.”

I went to the kitchen to check it out. She was right. We had ants.

And even though we never had a reason to own ant spray, I kept some handy under the sink . . . for close encounters. I grabbed the can, sprayed the line of the pests.

“That looks like all of them,” I said.

“That’s not all,” my wife said. “Because if we have a few, then we have more. And if we have more, then that will be all. This breakfast I’m making and all our food -- you can kiss it goodbye.”

Our son heard the commotion, came in, saw the ants, freaked out. He grabbed a bottle of glass cleaner. “Let’s rock!” he shouted, and then he lit up a line of crawlers near the toaster.

“No!” I yelled. “That glass cleaner’s expensive. It’s the kind that doesn’t streak. Besides, we can’t just keep wasting spray on surface ants. We gotta get poison, get them to bring it back to their nest.”

“And how long’s that gonna take, Daddy?” my son asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “No more than seventeen minutes.”

“Seventeen minutes?” he exclaimed. “This kitchen isn’t gonna last seventeen seconds.”

He was right. I went back to spraying the ants with my ant spray. When the can was empty, I used the expensive glass cleaner. At least it didn’t streak. Eventually, I ran out of that, too. And ants kept coming.

“That’s it, game over,” my son cried. “Game over.”

“Are you finished?” I asked him.

“Maybe you’re not up with current events,” he sulked, “but we’re getting killed here, pal.”

The ants were now crawling on my wife and kid. My wife said I needed to think about her and our son, not just the kitchen.

Fine. I pulled my family out.

In the front yard, I discovered where the attackers were getting in. And I found what looked to be their nest and took it down with a few kicks.

“Someone’s gonna have to go back in there and get the rest,” my wife said.

“Oh yeah, sure, with those things running around?” my son bellyached. “You can count me out.”

I volunteered. My wife looked at me in awe of my heroics.

“Look,” she said, “We appreciate this. Now, I know we’re all a little strung out of shape, but we just can’t afford to let one of those things in our bedroom. I have enough problems sleeping as it is.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” our boy said, “I guess I was a little obnoxious. Thanks for being so brave.”

As I turned my attention toward our dwelling, my wife told me to wait. She wanted to go with me.

“No, you’re staying here,” I said.

She gave me a kiss, said she loved me. I said I loved her, too.

Then I took her to the garage for some ant-killing gear: weed remover and wasp repellant, duct tape for body pick-up, paint masks to protect us from airborne poison. Before entering our house, I told my wife, “Remember: short, controlled bursts.”

Our son kicked the door open for us. We went in with spray cans blazing. When I got to the wasp repellant, my wife’s mask couldn’t protect her. I gave her my mask then got back to killing crawlers.

I pulled apart the cabinets, got to the crawlers in the walls. When I looked back at my wife, she was struggling to get my mask on over hers. I helped. Her girlish grin was unmistakable.

In the end, we won. At night, my wife was still smiling. I asked, “You gonna be okay to dream?”

“Oh yeah,” she said. I seemed to have proven my thoughtfulness for her. Yes!

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean I was free from doing something really thoughtful for her on Valentine’s Day. So I tucked her into bed. And I got back to that list of thoughtful things to do for her.

-February 2013

Eye Love You

Living with boys will drive you crazy. My wife knows -- she’s got our 9-year-old son, our 3-year-old male beagle and, last but certainly not least, me.

We don’t try to make her crazy.

“You’re all so loud,” she said one day. “Between the sound effects and the made-up words to songs and the howling and the barking. That doesn’t even include the noise from the dog.”

“I thought you were a huge fan of my song work,” I said.

“You know it drives me nuts,” she responded.

“But I love you,” I told her.

“And that’s what I hate most,” she said. “You never take responsibility.”

Okay, so I could see we were driving her slightly mad. I decided to give her a break. I told her I’d take the kid to his eye exam that afternoon so she could stay home for some peace and quiet.

“Is that bad that I’m not going, too?” she asked.

“It’s just an eye exam,” I said. “It’s really no big deal.”

But it was a big deal to our son. He didn’t want to go. He feared eye appointments.

Great, now I’d have to deal with this all by myself. I had to be persuasive with the kid, make him feel comfortable, convince him that an eye exam is really no big deal.

“Get in the car,” I said. “We’re going.”

At first glance, the eye exam machines looked like something out the “Terminator” movies, and my son didn’t feel any better about what the doctor was going to do to him.

“It’ll really be okay,” I said. “It’s really no big deal.”

The eye doctor put my son at ease -- initially, anyway.

Then the kid got silly. When the doctor asked him to look left, right, up and then down, my son became a comedy act.

“I roll my eyes at my parents all year long just to practice for this,” he joked.

The doctor did that puff-of-air test in the eye.

“Did you spit on me?” my son asked with a giggle.

While waiting for the test results, the doctor showed us a computer-generated eyeball.

“Is this thing like Google Earth?” my son asked as the doctor explored deeper into the eyeball like he was looking for a destination on our planet. My son’s awesome humor kept coming.

At the end of the check-up, we learned that my son’s eyes were in great health. And that was that.

“See,” I said when we got in the car to go home. “It’s really no big deal. Easy.”

But then at home, my wife asked, “When was the last time you had your eyes checked?”

“Me?” I asked. “I already went. I’m good.”

“You may be good, but when did you go?”

“I went only four years ago. My eyes feel fine. It’s really no big deal.”

“Again,” she said, “not taking responsibility, like usual.”

“But I love you,” I said.

I knew what was coming next -- she’d claim I was setting a bad example for our son. And then my son would turn my “It’s really no big deal” words against me to get me to go to the stupid eye doctor.

“They’re your eyes,” my wife said. “Do what you want.”

“At least my eyes are perfect,” my son added.

What was this? They could care less about my health.

I called the eye doctor for an appointment. He’d care about me.

He didn’t have any openings -- not for a while, anyway. But I set a date. My wife and kid were happy for me. I was actually happy, too.

“When’s the appointment?” my wife asked.

“June,” I said.

“That’s four months away!”

“Not this June,” I told her. “The June after.”

“June of 2014!”

“But I love you,” I said.

I wasn’t lying.

-January 2013

Zombies, End of the World, New Year

First there was the threat of Y2K, where the world as we knew it was going to end because all computers, which controlled the planet, weren’t going to rollover from ’99 to ’00. Then there was Dec. 21, 2012, the last day of the Mayan calendar and thus, doomsday. And finally, there was the Zombie Apocalypse on Dec. 22, 2012, the doomsayers’ way of killing us off if we survived the end.

Well, it’s 2013. We made it.

It all came upon us so quickly. When the end is that near, life seems so short. I had put the End of the World in my calendar. I didn’t want to miss it. I wasn’t sure, though, if I should categorize it as “personal,” “home” or “work” since the end of the world really applies to all categories.

I set it as an “all-day” event. My 9-year-old son asked me to skip work that day so he could be with his parents for the End of the World. As luck would have it, I had no more sick leave or vacation days.

On the day, I hoped the End of the World would at least hit before I had to go to work so I wouldn’t have to work another shift. A friend told me the world would most likely end right as I clocked out. That made sense.

My son kept his mom and me close that Friday morning of Dec. 21. It was a somber time.

But the end of the world came and went. Life continued.

Next up -- the Zombie Apocalypse, and this, unlike the End of the World, wasn’t going to be as easy to dodge. That Saturday morning, my son informed me that no one was out front. Apocalypse!

“No one is ever out front,” I reminded him. “They’re in front of a computer or TV screen.”

Then I announced that the kid and I had Christmas shopping to finish. My son was against going out among the zombies but assured me, with a st- st- stutter, that he wasn’t af-f-f-fraid. He said it was better if we stayed in. He repeated that he wasn’t sc-c-cared. It was just too cold outside, he said.

And then he put on his Davy Crockett hat.

“Alright, Daddy,” he gave in, “let’s go do some zombie battle.”

Zombies were everywhere.

I was wrong: Those people were just mindlessly glued to their iPhones like me.

But as the day wore on, those mindless people looked more and more mindless. And they were asking for our minds. Rather, they chased us, repeating “Brains!” I just assumed we were near Comic-Con.

I’d taught my kid all about Davy Crockett, how he killed a bear when he was only 3, how he and his rifle, Ol’ Bess, never backed down from a fight. And while the kid had his own Davy Crockett coonskin cap, he didn’t have any sort of Ol’ Bess to take on brain eaters. The best we could do was . . . “Run for it!” I yelled.

We took cover at, what my son called the World Famous Diane Camper Christmas Party. For those who haven’t yet experienced a Diane Camper Christmas party, they are, according to my kid, “more world famous than our parties because more people fit in Diane’s house than in ours.”

It was the perfect place and time to live life like it was 1999. Diane and her husband, Bones -- a doctor, not a magician -- offered food, activities, “Star Trek” impersonations and occasional medical attention if injured in a party game. Zombie-bite treatment, however, was questionable, according to Bones.

The place was so packed my son thought the world was actually all there in Diane’s living room. Someone opened the back door to let in some fresh air. They let in some zombies instead. Diane got bit.

“Bones!” I yelled.

“Brains!” he yelled back. He became one of Them. And They were everywhere.

The problem with trying to live life to the fullest when you’re being pursued by zombies is that it’s hard to have fun when you’re on the run, ducking tons of clawing bloody hands and teeth. In hindsight, I suppose we could’ve had a little more fun with the chase. But when isn’t there regret in hindsight?

Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays. And hearing the song with those words reminded my son and me that Mommy was home alone. It’s amazing what I boy will do to save his Mommy -- my son got us home in one piece, with our brains and all. And Mommy was fine.

When I woke the next morning, I realized, No, it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a scary story either.

No, according to my son’s journal, we’d actually lived this crazy adventure. We apparently fought off the zombies using “potty words,” a 9-year-old’s defense in every tight spot. And now we can finally live every moment like we’re at a World Famous Diane Camper Christmas Party, and enjoy it this time.

Wouldn’t you know it? A new end of the world is already upon us. The Big Asteroid deflected off some space junk and is headed our way within the year. This time it’s all doom and gloom.

-January 2013