Pizza and Panic--SuperDads to the Rescue!

There are some things we never grow out of (fortunately, I think my shoes are finally some of them, but unfortunately, I doubt my favorite jeans are another). I think I will always love chocolate, Jane Austen movies, and holding my kids on my lap while reading story books, although eventually they have to sit next to me rather than on me.

There are certain habits I don't think I'll ever outgrow, though. I still hold my breath when I cross over a bridge, I must have Peeps on Easter and candy canes on Christmas (even though I won't eat them), and I pretend to cough during church so I can sneak the snacks I bring every week into my mouth.

But there is one thing I realized I still do, and it makes me feel quite young--only because I did it all the time when I was a kid. I came to this realization of my habit when a couple of weeks ago one of the 12-year-old Beehive girls I teach at church volunteered to bring the refreshments for our next activity. "My dad can just pick up some pizzas at Costco and bring them to the park!"

I laughed to myself as I e-mailed her parents (telling them they really could just bring brownies or something) and told them about an experience I had as a second-grader:

I'm sure it was the night before our school Christmas program (those were days), when I informed my father I had volunteered him to do all the scenery. Well, instead of handing out a panicky lecture (that probably came later), he just went out to the garage and pulled out some handy refrigerator boxes and 2x4's and built a life-sized camel and donkey, and a wooden manger we still use every year for our family Christmas nativity.

It would have been just a sweet, funny little story, except that the next day at church the girl's dad was telling us how some of our plans for the up-coming youth trip had just changed. We were taking about 75 people to Utah for our general world-wide church conference, and everyone would be staying with a few family members who had opened their homes to us all. One of the planned homes had fallen through, and they were looking for another place for a dozen of the 12-13-year-old boys and their leaders. So, of course, what did I do?

"Let me call my dad," I said. And five days later my parents had 15 boys and men sprawled on beds, couches, and covering the floor of their entire basement. And what, of course, did my dad say?

"We were happy to help."

I'm sure he and my mom really were. It probably helped that one of those boys was their grandson. But I had done it again, only this time, I wonder if my dad was wishing it were a fully functioning automatronic donkey capable of carrying Mary and Joseph to Egypt rather than a house full of boys and all the food, noise, smells, and chaos that entails. Surprisingly, or not, they used very little hot water (we are talking about teen-age boys on a trip without their mothers to tell them to shower), and left everything intact!

Thank goodness for people like that who pitch in in a pinch and come through in a crisis. They're the ones who really keep the world going round, and they even bring the pizza.

Oh, the Simple Pleasures of Life

Remember that show Green Acres where the big city attorney marries one of the Gabor twins with the thick European accent, and they move to the country to get back to the simpler life? OK, just checking.

On my son's birthday last weekend he wanted to go see some of his favorite cars. So, while our oldest son was off on a fabulous back-packing trip, and our other son was playing in a baseball game at the park, I took the birthday boy and his friend window shopping.

When we pulled up to Symbolic Motors in La Jolla you would have thought that the king of the universe was there giving out unicorn rides and chocolate covered cotton candy handmade by Elvis from the way the boys were screaming.

Well, a kid in a candy shop is nothing compared to these two boys in the car showroom. "A black Lambo! Look at the Lotus! Check out the red one! No way, (and here's the hyperventilation squeal) a blue and silver Bugatti Veyron!" Thank goodness for those powerful forcefield velvet ropes surrounding that car and the laminated do not touch signs on all the windows, or those boys would have hopped right in, had that thing hot-wired and taken it on the open roads for the Salt Flats in no time!

They raced around the store drooling at all their dream cars amidst a couple of other boys (apparently doing the same thing), a woman with a puppy (who fortunately kindly kept my daughter thoroughly entertained), a man seemingly actually buying a Bugatti (while his son, who looked completely bored, watched longingly at my enthusiastic bunch, and his dad chatted on the phone about doing the show Friday instead), and a few showroom workers with that expression of man, I hope that lady knows how much these cars cost when one of those boys puts a dent in it with their excitement (or maybe I confused that look with the look of seriously, can't she see we're actually trying to sell cars here--don't get your breath on those windows!).

I loved the comment, "My plan is to start saving now so I can buy one of these when I get my license," my son's friend informed me. "I only have eight dollars, though. I blew the rest on a convertible Lamborghinni remote control car. Why?! Why did I buy the Lambo?!" I suppose that question will haunt him forever, now.

The sheer joy of being surrounded by their dream cars was exhilerating, but the clandestine rebellion was the most exciting part--as the boys circled the showroom time and again they secretly touched every car--twice! Some of them more!

Their conversation said it all: "I'll never wash this finger again!" and "I went to the bathroom in the Bugatti store! Beat that!" Well, how could I? So, we settled for a trip to the ice-cream store next door and an afternoon at the beach house with the future President (who, it turns out, has a pretty good singing voice).

So, the day of simple pleasures would have to end with the birthday boy being surrounded by his brothers and sister and cousins and parents and uncle singing four verses of the Happy Birthday song (I know, huh), while eating our our own attempt at a custom Lamborghinni made entirely of chocolate cake and frosting with a side of Fiery Fudge tabasco ice cream. It may not have been an Aston Martin wrapped up with a bow, but I say "Beat that!"

As I was Saying...

I feel like I was just saying something about restraint and grandparents...

Crossbows, cannons, bunk beds--those are chump change compared to the granddaddy of garage projects. Yes, I'm speaking of the all mighty Pine Wood Derby Car.

I've gained great appreciation for those pre-fab kits you can buy at the craft store. Sure, they lack a little personality, but only a little, and put on a shiny coat of paint, add an army man, and it's a custom hot rod. Of course, my son's definition of "custom" makes my definition look like custom in the sense of customizing your Richmond tract home with brown carpet instead of beige.

But our latest true custom Pine Wood Derby car is nearly on par with my heirloom hand-made wedding dress.

When Grandpa was visiting, and my son asked for a little help on his car, well...you can imagine what followed. Yep, a couple of visits to the hardware store, two hours of math lessons on proportions, half a bottle of glue, and about a pound-and-a-half of sawdust later (and a few whispers of "he's making this all a little complicated"), what emerged was the fanciest sports car to ever hit a Cub Scout Derby track. Oh, yeah, it even ran pretty fast (as if that mattered when all was said and done).

There is something that happens when you give a boy and his grandpa free reign with a block of wood, a little imagination, a bit of determination, and a power sander Dremmel. Could that really have been how the Lord began--a little art project for school, or maybe even a Pine Wood Derby wood block, then asking his grandpa for a little help (that part's left out of the scriptures), and an afternoon later, the solar system?

Well, you know what they say, "home is where we train for the eternities." I can't wait to see what kinds of planets these guys come up with someday ( I hope one of them involves something to do with rivers flowing with chocolate and flowers made of snickerdoodles).

In the mean time, that "Best Design" certificate hangs proudly on the bedroom wall right next to the framed letter from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf--but that's another story.