After the divorce several years ago, the boys and I were hiking maniacs. At least a couple of times per week we'd load up the two dogs and head out to any number of city, county or state parks in the area. And then we hiked ... and hike and hike. I can't believe the number of miles the boys were willing to put on in those days. But, in recent years, as the boys have grown older and more interested in their own friends and their own hobbies, we've hiked less and less. What a shame.

However, on Saturday, four of us dads took our first-year Cub Scout sons on a nature walk at a local university science center. While cool, it was a typical October day and nothing to complain about.

In late morning, we set out down the trail, to teach our sons a little bit about hiking and why the activity can be so fun. And it didn't take long for the kids to get into it. As soon as the trail tilted downhill toward the south and headed to the river the boys' excitement grew. And suprisingly they maintained a fervor for the next two hours. We found animal prints in the sandy beach along the river and on the trails in the woods. We stopped on the walking bridge that crossed the river and looked at the bird homes that were built into the cutbank a little ways downstream. And the kids scoured the ground for anything and everything that a 6-year-old boy would find cool. One of the true treasures, at least as far as Bug was concerned, was about a 12-inch femur bone that I found along the path near the river. It was a big, thick bone and must have come from a large animal. I guessed it came rom a cow, maybe a large deer. Bug was sure that it came from a dinosaur. ... We agreed to disagree, but regardless, he gripped that bone tight the rest of the morning, even on the car ride home. We finished the day doing leaf rubbings on the front porch of the science center, a good activity to bring down the boys' excitement levels a bit before we all headed home.

The boys weren't the only ones excited about their day. I, too, enjoyed myself immensely ... just getting outside and finding a place where the boys could run with reckless abandonment down the trails brought back a lot of fulfilling memories. It was a thrill to work with the kids to find deer and raccoon tracks along the banks of the river, and to assure them that, no, not even the bigger tracks came from bears.

And for just a brief moment, as we were all standing on the walking bridge that spanned the river, there was a lull in the boys' noise. As their sound faded, the urgent rush of the river, recently swollen by rain runoff, thundered in my ears, and just a little fainter was the sound of the tall grass swaying in the wind. I felt the cool, moist breeze hitting my cheeks and could smell the musty, wet leaves decomposing all around us. The bridge's metal handrailing was cool to the touch and the sky, although overcast, still contained a hint of a blue tint. ... And just for that brief moment, before the boys' joyful shrieks returned to cover-your-ears level, everything was perfect in the world. We were so far away from the everyday worries that drag us down, the impossible-to-keep schedules that run us into the ground and the chores that eat up minutes we should be spending doing something more important. The world seemed to stop and we were the only ones living in it. ... Wow, what a moment.

Yep, I know for certain we don't go hiking enough.

But then there's the other kid ... yeah, the Bug. It's not that he doesn't like school; it's just that he would much rather be at home playing with one of his friends or even playing by himself. He likes the social aspects of school and will readily tell me about recess and lunch when at the end of the day I ask him how school went. No, he doesn't do poorly in school; he'd just prefer to be doing something else ... er, anything else. And so it's the Bug's conferences that cause the trepidation.

Well, another fall has come and another set of conferences is done. As usual, Garrett's teacher had nothing but accolades for his work. And why shouldn't he, his first trimester in middle school and he's scoring a 4.0 gpa. ... That's right, As in everything from English to math to art. He's a joy to have in class; he's so thoughtful; he's so mature. ... I don't know how much it costs him every year, but whatever amount it is he pays his teachers, he's getting his money's worth.

And then ... actually, the Bug's conferences went well, too. He's on par with the rest of the kids when it comes to the language arts and excels in math, just like his brother. What he doesn't like about school, according to his teacher: running. Which should come as no surprise to anyone. But otherwise, when in school he works hard and shows a strong desire to please. He gets along well with other kids and loves the reading stations. ... Whew, survived another one.

In reward, last night, we all went out to eat at Red Lobster, which was Garrett's choice. Next up? McDonald's, which is Bug's choice. ... I guess, all in all, two meals is a small price to pay to reward their academic success. ... Now we await spring conferences.

Add that too an unusally high-stress day at work, plus trying to make two school conferences scheduled at two different schools across town and only 40 minutes apart, and by the time I arrived home at 8 p.m., I had a mind-numbing headache. ... I mean one of those I-can't-stand-the-lights kinda headaches. I was in rough shape. Thankfully, Bug went with his mom last night and that only Garrett, my nephew and Crazy G at home. So the noise level was dialed down a bit. But even then I managed to only eat dinner and shuffle my way to bed. I wanted to turn out the lights and watch football until I fell asleep. Garrett said he understood.

Only a few minutes later, Garrett joined me to keep me company. He told me that he was bored, but I knew better because he's fine entertaining himself. Rarely does he need me around for company. I knew, in reality, he came to join me to keep me company and make sure that I was OK. ... It's not often that I get headache, especially one that severe.

Well, after about 10 minutes of me asking him what the graphics on the screen said about the football game or what the score was because I couldn't make any of it out, I thought he tired of me and that his generosity had worn out. He excused himself to go to his room. .. Alas, only a few minutes later, he returned.

"Here," he said, holding out my glasses to me. He evidently had found them on the entertainment center and set about fixing them as best as he could with tape. ... Grateful, I took them and slid them on my face. ... Not exactly the right fit, but it was enough to aid in watching the game and to assist in minimizing the headache. I was touched. ... Garrett has a big heart and it never ceases to amaze me how much he cares about others. I hope he never tires of his acts of compassion; they make him a good person ... maybe even the kindest, truest person I know.

But this morning, while I blissfully snored away with the dog on one side and the fat cat on the other, I was startled by the blaring of my phone. I sleepily reached for it and drug it to within two inches of my face so that I could read who was calling: "Garretts cell calling ... Garretts cell calling ... Garretts cell calling ... "

Yeah, better answer it ...

"Hello," I mumbled.

"Dad!" I could hear Garrett say on the other end ... and then: "whisper, whisper, whisper ..."

"Huh?" I grunted.

"whisper, whisper, whisper ..."

"What, bud?" I said. "Why are you whispering?"

"Dad ... do you have a high degree of mathematical intelligence?"

"OK, what's the question?" I asked, assuming that this was in regard to a math problem his mom couldn't help him solve from the night before.

"No, this isn't homework, Dad," Garrett said. "They said on the news that children born to parents with high levels of mathematical intelligence are more likely to be millionaires and billionaires. And mom said that you have a high level of mathematical intelligence!"

"Really?" I said fighting through the sleepiness. "Bud, what time is it?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to be rich!" he said with more enthusiasm than anyone should have at whatever time in the morning it was.

"Alrighty then ... I'm happy for you. To thank me you can use it to take care me when I'm old," I said, managing to finally focus my eyes enough to zoom in on the clock ... 5:46 a.m. ... ug-g-g-h-h. "But next time can you wait until at least 6 to call with the good news?"

"Sure thing, dad. Have a good day. I love you." ... click.

"Sh-h-h-h! Bug," I said, taking a quick look around to make sure no one heard him. "I'm not playing on my phone."

"Then what are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm just checking the score of the Twins game," I said.

"D-a-a-d-d!"

"Sh-h-h-h!" I said again, this time imagining the stares we might be drawing. "No really, it's OK because God is a baseball fan."

"Dad, that's not true," Bug said matter of factly.

"Sure it is," I said. "And he hates the Yankees too."

"Dad, God doesn't hate anybody," Bug said.

"OK, you're right," I conceded, "but he likes the Twins a whole lot more."

"That's not true, either," Bug said.

"Sure it is," I said. "God likes an underdog."

"Dad ... I'm going to tell Grandma that you were playing with your phone in church."

"Oh fine ... I'll put the phone away," I said, defeated. "But, you know, God doesn't like a tattletale either."

"Yeah, well he doesn't like dads who play with their phones in church either," he retorted.

"Touche, buddy, touche."

I'm sure that Monday night's much ballyhooed Vikings game and the Twins' dramatic 12-inning win last night gave many other parents the excuse to forego the regular bedtimes just to give the kids a chance to form a memory, a chance to experience something they may never see again. Or at least I hope it did.

It's no secret that sports have played an important part of my past and that sports server to bind our family together ... from Crazy G. on down. And so the boys got to stay up to see the endings of both Favre's legendary performance against his former team and to see the Twins' final regular season home game in the Metrodome, an improbable season-ending tiebreaker with division rival Detroit. I knew starting the week that the boys would get to watch both games, despite the small effect it may have on them the next day during school. I knew because I have very vivid memories of watching the 1987 Twins season unfold, games that I watched with my mom during my school years. And this week's sports schedule here in Minnesota was one a Hollywood writer couldn't have even scripted; there was no question the kids were going to get to take in those games.

I still have my Homer Hanky and can remember those chilly fall evenings, longing to be at the Dome so that I could see my heroes Kirby Puckett, Dan Gladden and Kent Hrbek in person. Of course a trip for playoff baseball wasn't in the cards for us back then, and so I learned to be content enjoying the game on our couch at home, a tub of popcorn in our laps and a dream that our little group of won't-quit ballplayers could overcome the odds. Heading into the week I hoped that by giving the kids the chance to watch Favre lead the Vikings to victory and our "Little Engine That Could" Twinkies close out the Dome in style that I could give my own kids some similar memories. ... I think we can say: Mission accomplished.

My sporting memories as a youngster were special, but I think last night may have eclipsed them. Gathered around our livingroom television, Crazy G., the boys, my nephew and I shared the highs and lows of the Twins' 12-inning instant classic. Capping it all was a jubilant celebration when Carlos Gomez did his belly slide across homeplate to extend the Twins' season and give the Dome a fitting finale. The boys and I were jumping around the house, high-fivin' each other and giving great, big bear hugs. And then there was Crazy G. in the middle of it all, cheering just as loud and smiling just as big as any of us. It took a good 45 minutes for us all to settle down after the win and it must have been 10 p.m. when the boys finally drifted off to La-La Land. I hope the boys look back and treasure the moment as much as I already do. ... And to the boys' teachers: If they're draggin' a little today, I hope you understand.

This morning I recieved an enthusiastic phone call from my mother: "I've got four popcorn orders!" she shouted into the phone. She had just come from her twice-per-week exercise session with the ladies at her church and while there she made the rounds. Evidently four of her co-excercisers have ponied up to buy popcorn for Bug's Cub Scout fundraiser.

Today marked the beginning of sales for area Cub Scouts and the importance of the sales can't be discounted ... to the pack or to the individual Scouts. Money from the popcorn sales go to fund the pack's activities and the kids know the more they sell the bigger reward they get. Ergo, if it's important to one of her grandchildren, it's important to Crazy G.

We received the order forms Tuesday night and she's been rarin' to go. This is nothing new, of course; she showed as much enthusiasm for helping Garrett out with his Scout fundraisers. But this year Crazy G. is part of the household and she feels even more vested in Bug's fundraising success. And I'm sure that it'll work. In previous years, she showed no fear about going with Garrett to sell door-to-door in our hometown. And I imagine this year she'll want to take a shift with the Bug going door to door in our neighborhood, which I guess is now her neighborhood.

I am not in a position where I have to sell things, but I'm convinced that using little, old ladies with their grandsons dressed to the nines in their Cub Scout uniform has to be successful. I mean, really, if Crazy G. and the Bug came to your door could you turn them down? ... Hmm, I think I'm on to something ... (NOTE TO SELF: Talk to area business schools ...)

Last week the kids in Bug's first-grade class were required on their share day to bring an item that began with the the same letter as the first letter of their name. Predictably, Carter brought a sack of Matchbox and Hotwheel cars. But another little girl - whose name also begins with "C" - brought candy. In fact, she brought two pieces of candy for every child in class. And that did it ... that was the first volley in this share day gamesmanship.

So on their share day this week, the kids were supposed to bring two things that rhymed ... you know, a cat and a hat or a bear and chair. (Side note: Garrett suggested Bug could bring a daisy and something crazy, the latter being their grandmother. But please, let it be known, that after stifling a laugh I admonished him for saying it.) The Bug happened to be at his mother's house last night and after several hours of difficult discussions, they finally settled on Carter bringing candy and ... well, they graciously waited until dad called to say goodnight for me to fill in the blank for the second item. ... Needless to say, finding something reasonable to bring to class that rhymes with candy is a challenge. But this was about 9 p.m. last night and I wasn't about to drag this conversation out any further with a child that should have already been asleep.

The next logical question, of course, was what kind of candy I needed to go find. But thankfully the Bug had already outsmarted all of us: After school he had went to the grocery store with Crazy G. and he talked her into buying him a bag of that pick-a-mix Brach's candy. Turns out, she didn't know it at the time, but she was an unknowing accomplice to the Bug's devious plan to bring candy to school for his share day. The devious 6-year-old had played all of us all day long. That was the candy that just happened to make its way to school today.

So the Bug headed off to school today with his bag of treats to share and, coincidentally, I sent a pop bottle top with him as the rhyming component of the assignment. The candy he picked out was those little hard candies that taste like certain pop flavors ... such as root beer, orange, Dr. Pepper, etc. So I figured that he could bring a bottle "top" with his "pop" candy. ... I know, I know: It was a stretch, and I'm sure Bug's teacher probably raised an eyebrow, but heck, I'm pretty sure that the ryhming lesson was learned. ... Now I just have to hope that the little girl doesn't top Bug again this week, or otherwise this share day one-upping could get ugly in a hurry.

Just to the left and over my shoulder I could faintly hear the rythmic thud of the aluminum fishing boat washing up against the wooden dock as the waves came ashore. And coming through the same window was a cool breeze that carried the unmistakable smell of a north-central Minnesota lake in autumn.

On my right, the Bug was snuggled as securely as he could be into my armpit and the dampness in his hair smelled of the lake, which he had been playing in only some hours before. And above me, in the cabin's loft, I could hear Garrett's almost-imperceptible re-setlling noises as he turned over and over trying to capture just a little bit more light to continue reading his newest can't-put-down novel, "The Lightning Thief."

Completing the setting: The small radio alarm clock next to me played the soothing tones of classical music, of which the public radio staion overnight DJ knew more about than I could ever hope to learn.

After a day full of late-summer fishing, horseplay in the brisk lake, site-seeing walks, delicioulsy decadent food from the grill and a ton of laughs shared with my a few of my dearest friends, I could not have asked for a day to end more perfectly. As I slowly drifted in and out of that glorious place between sleep and consciousness I wondered if I had ever been so content and if I would be ever again. ... If there's a place in this world I'd rather be more so than at Bob's cabin ... I have yet to find it.

"I don't," I said.

"Well, OK ... why do you give me and Bug money every year to buy mom birthday presents?"

"Because she's your mother," I said.

"Yeah, but you guys aren't even together," Garrett persisted. "You haven't been together in years."

"I know, but your mother deserves a birthday present from you and I'm not going to let you guys pay for it with your own money," I said.

"But, why?"

"Because it makes you happy," I answered.

"But does it make you happy?" he asked.

"That's irrelevant, bud. I do it because you guys deserve to be able to give your mom a present and not have to ask her for the money to do so. ... I do it because it makes you happy.

"But you don't have a lot of extra money."

"That's not the point either, buddy," I said. "It's just something that a dad should do, OK? You'll understand when you get older."

"If you say so," he said with a shrug of his shoulders."But thank you anyway."

"You're welcome kiddo," I said.

"Dad ..."

"Yeah, bud?"

"And thanks for doing things that dads just gotta do, OK?"

"Yep," he said.

"OK, what was that?" I asked.

"Well, we played recess outside ...," he said.

"And?" I asked, prodding for more information.

"Oh, and we ate lunch ... chicken nuggets," he said, with a large smile because nuggets are his favorite food.

"OK?" I asked, hinting one more time that I was digging for something a little more substantive.

"Nah, that's about it," he said.

"Really?" I asked. "You didn't do anything else? You didn't study any math? You didn't read any books? You didn't learn anything?"

"Well ... ye-a-a-h-h," he said, giving me the "no-duh" look.

"Well, then ... why do you only tell me about lunch and recess when I ask about school?" I asked.

"Dad ... you asked me if we did anything fun ..."

"Good, dad," he said full of sunshine. "We couldn't go outside today because it was raining, but we got to go to the SMART room. It had a whole bunch of stuff to play on, like monkey bars and stuff. That was fun."

"Thank you," I thought silently to myself, "no signs that he's upset."

I usually check in with the kids after school, but today I was a bit apprehensive about what mood the Bug might be in. Unfortunately this morning before school we had one of those blowout discussions that just ruin a morning and I had been sick to my stomach about it all day. But, thankfully, kids are far more resilient than we parents are and by this afternoon the Bug must have forgotten all about our terse conversation. Meanwhile, I stewed about losing my cool with my son for seven hours.

I know I blew it: I mean anytime an adult finds himself in an irrational angry conversation with a 6 year old, they've obviously screwed up. Making matters worse, Bug was wore out from a weekend trip out of town and Dad was wore out from dealing with two sons who had expressed less-than-desirable behavior in the car all the way there and all the way back this weekend. So, to set the stage, my iron-willed and highly emotional 6 year old was tired and Dad, who put up with his share of shenanigans the past two days, faced off several times about getting ready for school this morning. And then finally the Bug wanted to test me this morning by demanding that he get to sit on the side of the car he wanted to regardless that his seat was on the other side. That's when Dad slammed down the hammer on the discussion with more force than usual. ... Que the puppy dog face and the waterworks. ... Bottomline? It was an ugly morning and even uglier ride to school.

Eventually I got him into the school and headed to class and I even received my goodbye hug, albeit one without much enthusiasm. And that made me sad, for a long time. Yes, even I knew he probably forgot about the bad morning as soon as he sat down at his desk, but I couldn't. But, thankfully, this afternoon confirmed my suspicions: The Bug was just fine and Dad was the one paid the price for the bad morning. ... Time and time again, I am reminded it just doesn't pay to lose your cool with your kids.

Turns out that the gym teacher is making the kids do some running in class and evidently the Bug's trip around the track didn't go so well yesterday. On the way to his mom's house last night he was in tears thinking about returning to gym class today, and repeated encouragement from his mother that all we cared about was him doing his best was not enough to relieve his concerns.

"But my best isn't good enough for her," the Bug blubbered out between sobs. "She'll make me start over if I don't run the entire track."

Evidently as the night wore on and the Bug grew even more tired, the drama only heightened.

Now, it's been a while since I've been in first grade so I don't pretend to remember how far we were made to run. And I doubt that the gym teacher is trying to train these first-graders for the Olympic marathon tryouts. But I can't help but feel a little empathy for my poor little feller. I mean, the kid is stuck with his father's genes and, you know, we Brookses aren't exactly built to be runners. Let's put it this way: If we were cheetahs, we'd die an agonizing death on the savannah while we watched the gazelles run by. Although I was in several sports when I grew up, and running is part of the conditioning for any sport, it was size and strength that allowed me to excel in contact sports, not my running prowess. And the Bug isn't outrunning his father's genes. So I'm sure the idea of running the track isn't very appealing to him as he sees many of his classmates zip by him.

This morning I wished he could do what I did when those tiny runner showoffs would lip off to me as I plodded along the track. I'd wait until the next mandatory weightroom session and drop what I was benchpressing on their scrawny chests. Then, I would leave it there until they apologized. But, alas, I'm pretty sure that they aren't dragging first-graders into the weightroom for Bug to exact his revenge.

So, on the way to school this morning I gave the Bug the best pep talk I had and wished him luck.

"Just be glad you're not a cheetah, buddy," I said, as he got out of the car.

"What does that mean, dad?"

"Nothing, bud," I said. "Just go do your best."

But it was a bittersweet milestone because even as the Bug embarked on his own journey, doing for the first time an organized activity that was centered on him and not his brother or dad, Garrett stepped off his scouting path. Last February, Garrett had risen through the ranks, graduating from Cub Scouts into Boy Scouts after some minor trials and tribulations to get there. He did so alone, with all nine of the Scouts who were in his den dropping out before they got to the Boy Scout level. I was proud of his perserverance and hoped that he'd enjoy a long and fruitful Scouting adventure. But, alas, he decided that for now his Scout career has run its course.

Meanwhile, the Bug was so excited to begin his own adventure that I thought he was going to pop. Even an hour later, as he was settling into bed, he couldn't stop chattering about building Pinewood Derby cars and driving soap box cars. His enthusiasm even inspired me to appreciate the weekly Scout meetings rather than dread adding just one more thing to our already busy schedules. His smile and genuine joy over belonging to his own club was infectious.

During the meeting I was explaining my feelings of regret over Garrett deciding to hang up his Scout uniform to another veteran Scout parent who has gone through a similar situation: an older son quitting just as a younger son gets going in Scouts. He imparted to me that he too was disappointed with his older son's decision until he experienced the fun he had with his younger son at Scouts. For the first time, he was doing something that was specifically for his younger son and not something that was for the older kids and the younger boy was just included in the activity. He said he quickly learned to view it as being about spending time one-on-one with his younger son.

The talk served as a revelation: Sure, I would love Garrett to continue on his own Scouting path, but I'm not going to let that taint the joy of witnessing Bug go through this new experience.

"Really?" I said. "What were you doing?"

"Well, there is this bee hive in a hole and so we poured water in the hole to drown them. But it didn't drown them; it just made them mad. And we got stung," he said matter of factly. "And then when that didn't work, we went back and stuffed a bottle of water down the hole on top of the of the nest. ... And we got stung again."

"Wait, wait, wait ..." I said. "Let's back up: So you two brainiacs took a beehive and stuffed it into a hole in the ground?"

"No, no, no, dad," he said. "The beehive already was in a hole in the ground."

"Oh, OK," I said. "Let me start over: So you two brainiacs find a beehive in a hole and decide to try to drown the bees. And you get stung ..."

"Yep," he said.

"So you think that felt so good that you decide to go back to stuff a bottle into the hole and you get stung again?"

"Yep," he said.

"Ahh ... yeah," I said. "Well, I'm speechless ... guess I'd just better count on Son No. 2 for my new retirement plan, eh?"

"Yep," he said proudly with a stupid grin on his face.

Within the past week, several people have asked whether we truly do call my mother "Crazy G." ... And the answer is yes. I suppose this is what happens when you're the youngest of eight children: You never grow out of being an irreverant brat. ... But seriously, mom's nickname was borne out of love, not out of disrespect.

As long as the boys have known her, mom truly was their "crazy" grandma, the one known for doing and saying outlandish and quirky things. Being the boys had as many as six or seven grandparents and great grandparents alive at the time, we needed a way to distinguish between them. They all got nicknames and this is the one that stuck for mom. It's never meant that the boys or I don't love her; quite frankly, it's quite the opposite. Her eccentrics have only served to endear her to us, and those who come in contact with her, even more. And so, to answer the question for all of you: Yes, we do call her Crazy G. and, you know what, if you asked her I bet she'd be proud.

And while I could entertain you for a fortnight with stories about our beloved matriarch, I'll leave it at this. I can't imagine having been raised by someone whom was stronger in her faith, whom loved her family deeper, whom would give more to a stranger, whom has their priorities in life more in line or whom lives their life more fully. She is an inspiration, and yes, one fine hot chocolate-maker.

"No, bud, not yet," I said.

"How come?"

"Ahh ... because it's 7:15 in the morning, buddy."

"But Garrett's already gone."

"I know and we've been through this before; Bubba starts school a half hour before you do," I said. "Finish your cereal and then go brush your teeth and then it'll be closer to when we leave for school."

"Oh, OK, dad."

---------------------------

"Dad! ... Can I go to school now?" the Bug asked. "I've finished my cereal and I'm done brushing my teeth."

"No, Bug. We can't leave yet."

"Why?"

"Because it's only 7:30. Go watch your Batman cartoon. It's just starting. When it's almost over we can head out, alright?"

"Oh, OK, dad."

---------------------------

"Dad! ... Can I go to school now?" the Bug asked.

"No, buddy," I said. "You've only been watching Batman for like five or six mintues."

"Oh, OK, dad."

---------------------------

"Dad! ... Can I go to ..." the Bug started.

"Bug ...," I said. "It's only been like five more minutes. It's probably like 7:45."

"Oh, OK, dad."

---------------------------

"Dad! ... Is it time yet?"

"No, Bug. Just a couple of more minutes."

"Oh, OK, dad."

---------------------------

"OK, Bug, it's about five to 8; we should head out for school."

"Bug?"

"Bug? H-e-l-l-o? ... Hey, buddy, we gotta head out, OK?"

"Ahh, dad," he said. "Do we have to go now? Batman's not over ..."

"Yes, this is he," I said a little hesitantly.

I generally enjoy talking with readers, but the ones I am concerned with are the callers who already know my name. Give me the callers who are pissed off about something we wrote or are outraged that we didn't cover something they thought we should have or are convinced that we have a political bent to one side or another. ... Yes sir, give me those calls all day. They just want to vent at a warm body and any editor usually will do. But ... when the phone call begins with them already knowing your name, you know that you likely stepped in a proverbial pile of dog poo.

"You're the one who writes the parenting column for the paper?" the caller continued. "You had one in just recently?"

"Yes," I said. "I did write that."

The column she was referring to started out as a blog post. It was the story about Bubba taking a dive in his friend's pool with his cell phone still in his pocket. It was never meant to be a parenting column for print, but the Life section editor was in a jam an needed a fill-in. I gave him permission to search previous SLAYB posts and he decided he wanted to use that one. Unfortunately for me, I wasn't crystal clear what I had written in that post.

"Are you aware that you made a mistake in it," she said in what can only be described as a shrill tone. "Actually, two mistakes ... you made two mistakes: You misused the word "bring" twice in the article," she added, getting shriller.

And then it struck me: "Oh crap, I've got an English teacher on the line and she's accusing me of a misusage." The sweat started forming on my brow. ARRGH! ... Of all the dreaded calls I take, the former English teacher calls are the worst. They are the most unrelenting readers we have - as they probably should be - and they are usually correct that I've somehow errored.

"Yes, it's possible, I made two mistakes," I said. "I have to be honest: I wrote that column a little while ago and am not that familiar with it. If you say I misused the word 'bring' twice, then I probably did."

"Well ... do you know the difference between "bring" and "take?"

"Ahhh, what fresh hell is this?" I thought to myself. Now, I don't dislike English teachers and I don't have a horrible story about a persnickety English teacher scarring me for life because I left my participle dangling in senior high English. (Actually, I'm quite found of my senior high English teacher because he was able to convince me at 14 years old that Beowulf was somehow meaningful to my life.) So, nope, all of those scars, thank you, have come at the hands of former English teachers who have an abudance of time and can spend a couple of hours exploring the morning paper for errors. And that is why I've been conditioned to dread the former English teacher call.

"Yes, I do know the difference between 'bring' and 'take,'" I said. "I evidently made two mistakes and I apologize."

"This is one of the hardest parts of my job: I spend countless hours trying to make my students understand the difference between 'bring' and 'take.' And in your article, you write that your son forgot to 'bring' his phone from his mothers and that he forgot to 'bring' his phone to school. Don't you mean your son forgot to 'take' his phone to school and 'take' his phone from his mother's?"

"Ahh ... sure, I imagine I did mean that," I said, interested in the new twist that a current English teacher was berating me. "Again, I was wrong."

"Well, good. I was hoping that you knew the difference and I just wanted to make you understand how difficult it is to teach English to students. ... And then they bring something like this to me and say, 'What about this?'"

"I agree. That's unfortunate and I imagine it does make your job more difficult," I said, the pain behind my eyes growing. "Again, I made a mistake. I do that once in a while."

"OK, then. I just wanted to make sure you knew the difference between 'bring' and 'take.' You know, students read your newspaper," she said, with just a hint of softness creeping into her tone. "Normally, I like your articles so much; I agree with your attitude toward parenting. Keep up the good work."

Ahh, OK then ... did I say how much I like taking calls from current English teachers?

Yep, that's right, if I ever thought life previously was hectic in our household on a school morning ... I was so, so wrong. Now this year there's five of us trying to get ready for our days and Dad still is the field marshall, so to speak. Oh sure, my nephew is ... well, let's say, capable of getting himself out the door, but let's be honest: He is still an 18-year-old young man who needs a kick in the rump some times. And, yes, Crazy G. manages her own affairs. But, regardless, we're all still learning a brand-spankin' new morning ballet routine none of us has experienced.

And so our fall begins ... and not unwantedly, I might add. Yes, I have extolled the virtues of summer, but anyone with children can probably speak to the comfort that the arrival of school provides. Sure, I want the kids to enjoy their break and have the flexible summer months to run, play and even sleep in late. And I can't deny that there is a certain decrease in the stress during the summer. However, I'd be lying if I said I didn't find the strict organization required to run our household comforting. I know this routine; the kids know this routine; and we've just gotten better at it over the years. Yes, there's a certain freedom to the lack of deadlines and the flexibility of summer, but the rigidity of the school months brings its own advantages. Bed times become non-negotiable and I don't find myself having to provide constant entertainment to children who are "bored." The activity of school does its job to wear off that youthful energy and by the time Dad enters the equation in the evening, I get the good times of helping with homework, making dinner, getting the baths/showers done and putting them down to sleep. There's just less turmoil as the little troopers are so tired they don't have the fight in them they do on a normal summer's eve. During the school year, even the weekends seem more enjoyable. By the time we get to Friday night, the boys are ecstatic about just watching a movie and eating popcorn in the comfort of our little livingroom. And a board game that whiles away a Saturday afternoon becomes an event rather than something that's just more preferable than some other summertime activity.

Does this mean I don't enjoy summer and the perks it offers? No, absolutely not. It's just that this time of year serves to remind me of the benefits to structure and organization when you're raising kids. And, this year, I can't help but think that we're going to need all the structure and organization we can muster ...

So that'll make myself, the two boys, Crazy G. and my nephew, in addition to the trusted family pup and two cats. ... Well, and that's not counting when the neighborhood kids aren't hanging out at our house. Throw them in and there could be 10 or more of us in the house at a time. ... Yikes, this should be interesting.

The night we found out for sure that Jared was moving in, I looked at Crazy G. and said, "Well, you've always loved The Waltons ... now you're going to get to live it."

The Waltons, for you Generation Yers, was a popular TV show on during the 1970s and early 80s in which multiple generations of a close-knit family all lived under the same farmhouse roof to get by during The Great Depression. Packing that many people into a farm house obviously made for comedic and tender moments, alike, and the show exploited that. ... Now I kinda feel like that's what we've become ... a modern-day Walton family.

Everyone seems to be excited about this prospect, well I guess except for the Bug ... and probably rightly so. Crazy G. loves the thought of getting to know another grandchild on such an intimate level. Garrett thinks that by having his older cousin in the house he'll have an ally when his little brother is annoying him. And I like the fact that I will get to spend some more time with my godson whom, unforunately I haven't had a lot of time with since he was a youngster. ... But then there is the Bug, who probably has the only legitimate complaint. The Bug not so voluntarily gave up his room so that Jared would have somewhere to call his own. I'm getting the boys a bunk bed to put in Garrett's room and Bug's toys and books will be going into the family/rec room downstairs. In reality, the Bug very seldom is in his room, and so it made the most sense that he give up his bedroom. But reasoning isn't working in this case. The Bug just feels straight put out.

Seizing on the moment, I tried to use the discussion to explain to the boys that we'll all probably get a little squeezed when Jared moves in, but the benefits of being part of a family who takes care of family will pay dividends down the road. ... I put my fair share of watching The Waltons in when I was a kid and I saw that the good often outweighed the bad. I just hope that my children can get to a place where they realize that family taking care of family is more important than feeling a little crowded at home. And I hope we have as many happy endings in the coming months as there were on the show.

The Bug attended Vacation Bible School for the first time and I've held my breath all week waiting for a call from the church. The call didn't come, but I can only imagine how the week went. I can picture the Bug debating with the teacher whether it was really possible for Moses to part the Red Sea, whether Jesus actually fed all those people and whether Jonah could truly live inside a whale's belly. Yeah, he's not real shy about questioning the adults in his life.

Now, I probably wouldn't have been half as nervous had we not started Monday morning with the lady who was registering the kids blurting out, "Oh, sure, I remember Carter from school." Later, in the car again, Garrett told me that she was a substitute teacher at the boys' school. ... Ahh, really? She's a friekin' substitute and she knows my son by name ... ohh, Bug.

I suppose that I shouldn't worry anymore than I did on a normal school day, but you know, the stakes involving Bible school seem so much higher, the possible faux pas seem so much more plentiful, the land mines so much larger for a free spirit like the Bug. And I'm sure that all of it was captured for the Big Guy to review when he got home from a hard day of solving the world's problems. ... at least that's the way I'm imagining it.

I won't shirk all responsibility because I do carry my phone in my front pants pockets and that leads to the problem of reckless dialing. But after owning this thing for a year I might suggest to manufacturers of cell phones to discontinue the making of open-face phones. I mean, did you not product test these things?

Yesterday, I inadvertantly pocket dialed two of my brothers during the day, both of whom were then treated to scintillating conversations about work with fellow editors. And then they paid me back in full with harassing phone calls last night. Man, you gotta love family.

But seriously, my key lock is correctly set and the entire concept of the key lock is to prevent the very thing from happening that happens all the time. I regularly receive phone calls from friends or family members who ask, "You called and didn't leave a message. What did you want?" My usual response is, "What do you mean, 'What do I want?'" To which they immediately respond, "Ahh, you pocket dialed me again, huh?" To which I immediately respond, "Ahh, yeah, I guess I did ... sorry about that."

Sure, those calls once in a while lead to something good: Sometimes it's a friend I haven't talked to in a while or a family member who repeatedly tells me I should call more often. And then we use the opportunity to catch up, which is not necessarily a bad thing.

But then there are those calls that just get me in trouble: Like the time I pocket dialed my sister at 1:45 a.m. and all she could hear was bar noise in the background. The call ignited her imagination and she immediately thought something was wrong with Crazy G. Not good. ... And then there was the time I pocket dialed someone whose number I was sure I had long ago deleted from my phone list. ... Let's just say it was ... uncomfortable.

What's even more frustrating is that when I want to use my phone the key lock actually prevents me from doing just that. You punch the key to unlock it and then you have a fraction of a mili-second to begin your next action or the key lock is reinstated and you find yourself in this endless loop of pushing the OK button to unluck, try to begin, unlock, try to begin, unlock, try to being. .... ARGH! It's enough to drive me to ask my oldest son to take my phone into the pool with him. Honestly, is there a more frustrating feeling than wanting to use your phone and it won't let you? If the key lock is so damn successful when I'm trying to use my phone, how is it so damn unsuccessful when I'm not trying to use my phone?

Being I am locked into this phone for another year I feel compelled to apologize in advance. If I have your number in my phone, it is likely that sometime during the next year I will call you, er, ... well, my phone will call you and I won't be on the other end. This is not a poor pratical joke and I'm not deliberately trying to force you to listen to another editors planning session. Please don't take it personal; it's just that my phone feels compelled to dial you to punish me.