NO SCHOOL ON MONDAYS?

I guess you know the first day of school wasn't a rousing success if your second grader has a protest in the evening.  Just before bed Foghorn went to her art supplies and, after stealing my roll of tape, began busily working with paper, markers, and Popsicle sticks.  Soon I began to hear hollering and stomping.  I emerged from the laundry room to find her, clad in her Grandma-made fancy blue dress, marching back and forth across the family room, holding a sign aloft.

And in a booming voice that would have been perfect for a 1970 Vietnam protest, she was chanting, "No school on Mondays!  It's not fair!"  I suspect this was yet another Arthur-inspired event, as I had seen her watching one of the PBS show's episodes earlier in the day, in which the kids were protesting the opening of a fast food chicken restaurant.  She paused briefly in her march to make signs and plaster them on all my interior doors.

She tried to get me involved, even bribing me with a special "Every Monday Off" bracelet and necklace.

I had my own counter-protest in mind, though, and began roaming the house yelling, "Have school on weekends!  All year school!"  She didn't find me amusing.


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*  MEET THE INMATES - "FOGHORN"



   

FAREWELL TO SUMMER

Technically the season doesn't end for a number of weeks yet, but any parent (or student) knows summer really ends with the first day of school.  This morning I loaded my lumbering preteen onto the bus for 7th grade and an hour later loaded my second grader on another bus.  The Professor was droopy and draggy and still mumbling about the unfairness of school starting now.  Foghorn was cheerful and smiling and leaping and doing her version of Kung Fu at the bus stop (complete with bow and hands in prayer formation).  And I have hours of empty time.  Unfortunately I also have no clean socks in the house, an overflowing kitchen sink, and a dining room table loaded with unneeded school supplies, books, dvds, craft kits, and a kids' pilot hat.  Also somewhere on there is the electric bill which really should go in the mail today...




In honor of the first day of school, I give you...


THE 5 THINGS I'LL MISS MOST ABOUT SUMMER

1. The Kids - Believe it or not, when they're not fighting and not mouthing off at me and not destroying my home, I'm actually pretty fond of those two.
2. King's Island and Coney Island Rides - I'll miss you Adventure Express, Beast, Scrambler, and Tilt-A-Whirl.  Yes, Tilt-A-Whirl, I think I'll miss you most of all...
3. Sleeping Late - Never underestimate the power of sleeping past nine o'clock.
4. Staying Up Late - Never underestimate the power of knitting at one a.m. while watching television.
5. No Children's Activities - My children are far less scheduled than most of their peers with extracurricular activities, but nonetheless they have enough busy evenings during the week to get on my nerves.  During the summer we take a break from all that and I revel in the long, unstructured hours.  (Well, unstructured except for the structure I give them, but who doesn't prefer that?)

And it just wouldn't be right if the snark queen didn't also give you...

THE 5 THINGS I ABSOLUTELY WON'T MISS ABOUT SUMMER

1. The Inmates Sleeping in the Basement - They would probably list staying up until all hours watching Netflix in the finished basement and then sleeping there on the sofa beds as a highlight.  From the viewpoint of The Warden, who is trying to sit on the family room couch and do some meditative knitting, the constant screams and crashing sounds from below me start to grate on the nerves...especially at one a.m. (see number 4 above).
2. Sibling Squabbling - No, I have no fond memories of the incessant, nasally whine of, "Stopppppp!" from Foghorn every 10 minutes.  Or the constant interruptions to decide the remote control battle.
3. Sunscreen - From a cancer-preventing standpoint, sunscreen is one of the best things ever invented.  From a convenience standpoint, the crap sucks.  I'm compulsive about protecting their skin, remembering all too well those sunburns of my childhood where it hurt too much to wear clothing and sleep was impossible because I was burned all over as if I'd been rotated on a spit.  At the same time, I get so tired of smearing that stuff on, particularly with Foghorn, who resists the process.  It comes to resemble a greased pig contest.
4. The Total Lack of Silence - To quote the Grinch, "One thing I can't stand is the noise, noise, noise, noise."  'Nuff said.  If you need more info, see #2 above.
5. The Heat - I'm so not a hot weather person.  And I'm a big baby about it because I go from an air conditioned house to an air conditioned van to an air conditioned store, so it's not like I get the full fury.  I admit my whiny-pants behavior where heat is concerned, but anybody who has felt the humidity of a Cincinnati July knows what I'm talking about.  Then there was that heat wave.  Cincinnati tied the record, set in 1901, with 17 consecutive days over 90 degrees.  (We missed beating the record by one degree, I might add.)  I am, however, grateful I wasn't around in 1901 for that other heat wave, with no air conditioning and stuffed in a corset.

Yes, right now I'm enjoying this empty house.  (Well, it's as empty as a house with two cats, two dogs, and a husband with a home office can be.)  And I'm enjoying the structure of knowing when my hours of quiet will be (and arranging any work involving concentration accordingly).  It won't be any time, though, when the thrill of solitude will wear off, much as the sleeping late thrill did back in June.  Then I'll return to bitching about getting up early, dragging kids to activities, and packing those damn school lunches, not to mention the daily torture of homework helping.

But for this moment it's nice to hear birds singing.  Have they been doing that all along?

   

THINGS TO DO IN CINCINNATI - ON A BICYCLE BUILT FOR TWO

I don't know where Foghorn got the idea, although I suspect it came from Arthur.  It wouldn't be the first time inspiration came from that source.  One night last week she came bopping into the kitchen saying, "Mom, I have a question.  And I hope you won't think it's too hoi polloi."  Once I closed by gaping mouth, I asked where the hell she got that from.  Arthur, the cute little cartoon aardvark on PBS.  And I'm willing to bet it was good ole Arthur who turned her on to tandem bicycles.

Whatever the source, she had broached the subject with me a couple weeks ago and I investigated renting one.  A free afternoon with pretty weather and an available tandem bike at Loveland Bike Rental combined to make for a perfect mother-daughter outing. 

 

The Little Miami Bike Trail is a rail trail, meaning it has been converted from disused railway lines into a biking and walking trail.  It has 78 paved miles of trail running from Newtown in the south to Springfield in the north.  My personal favorite part of the trail is the Loveland Bike Trail, located in the city of Loveland, Ohio, about 20 miles northeast of downtown Cincinnati.  It was here that we stopped at at Loveland Bike Rental and procured our tandem bike.  The bike rental has reasonable rates, in this case $15 for an hour, and offers both traditional and recumbent bikes, as well as trailers and helmets.

From the parking lot we had the option of going north or south on the trail.  From past experience I knew that I personally preferred going north, towards Lebanon and Morrow.  South would eventually take us to Milford, but I knew we'd only be biking a couple miles and I find the first few miles north more scenic.  We strapped on our helmets and then tried to solve the puzzle of how to get two people on one bike when one of the person's feet didn't touch the ground when sitting on the seat.  We finally figured out the best way (and most unflattering) was for me to straddle the bike, then tilt it sideways so Foghorn could climb aboard.  Once she had her behind on the seat, I was able level the bike out, hoisting her up. 

Much to Foghorn's dismay, she discovered that putting her feet up and letting me do all the work was not going to be as easy as she expected.  Funny thing about tandem bikes -- if I pedal, her pedals rotate, meaning she can't just rest her feet on them and go along for the ride.  There were occasional jerky moments when it felt like the bike was changing gears and it took me awhile to realize it happened whenever I pedaled too fast and Foghorn's feet slipped off.  This was my first time on a tandem bike and I was a little nervous about maneuvering something that was as long as a Cadillac.  I remember all too well renting one of those little trailers that hook on the back of a bike when The Professor was a toddler and trying to ride along the trail.  It pulled constantly to the right and he frequently yelled for me, meaning I tried to look behind me and then got wobbly and almost tipped over.  We won't go into when he threw his cup out the back, unbeknownst to me until a passing cyclist informed me...  Amazingly, the tandem bike proved to be no harder than a regular bike, with the small exception of impossible u-turns.

At first Foghorn was unsettled by the experience, since this bike was much bigger and the seat much higher than her Disney Princess model.  There was the added fact that I could pedal much faster than she ever could on her own and the combined speed and lack of any control over the bike's movements on her part left her chattering nervously behind me, despite my assurances that I really did know what I was doing. 

Once we came to a good compromise speed the ride became purely enjoyable.  Our portion of the Loveland Bike Trail runs parallel to the Little Miami River and is wooded on either side, providing wonderful shade with the trees at their full leafiness.  There are mileage markers every half mile and benches about every mile or so, allowing for the occasional break when little legs got tired or my co-pilot found herself in need of a juice box. 

The wonderful thing about the Loveland Bike Trail is the wide variety of people you see and the equal variety of activities.  From babies to senior citizens, there is something for everyone.  You get the hardcore cyclists in Spandex, as well as the casual bikers like us, who coast almost as much as they pedal.  You have the stroller pushers and the stroller riders, the dog walkers and the inline skaters.  And as you peek through the trees at the river, you can see the fishermen and canoeists enjoying the water. 

After half an hour, Foghorn and I started back so we could return the bike on time and she lamented the fact that we only had an hour to ride, it was so much fun.  I agree and it's definitely something we'll have to do again.  I will offer you one word of warning on the tandem bike.  Getting off was no easy thing.  The problem was that Foghorn's handlebars were directly behind me and rose a good 6" above my seat.  On a normal bike I simply swing my leg around backwards to exit.  On this bike, however, the seat was a little higher than I'm used to and then there's that extra half a foot of metal sticking up in the back.  I discovered, at 5'4", my legs weren't quite long enough to successfully swing over those handlebars.  I discovered this when I attempted it, in full view of a dozen people...and failed.  I caught the leg of my crop pants on the handlebars and fell with a thud, the bike falling on top of me.  It might have gone unnoticed if I hadn't let out a loud, guttural "oomph" as I hit the ground.  I pray I don't show up on YouTube. Just the kinda thing that could go viral.

While you're in the area, you can check out the other things downtown Loveland has to offer including Nisbet Park, restaurants, antique stores, and, my favorite, Loveland Sweets, an adorable little ice cream and candy shop.  A tasty way to replenish any calories you burned off while biking.

The Loveland Bike Trail is located in the heart of downtown Loveland.  The parking lot is on Railroad Avenue, next to Nisbet Park and Loveland Bike Rental.   Directions from the Loveland Bike Rental site can be found here.

If you'd like more information on the Loveland Bike Trail, please check out the links below.

*  Loveland Bike Rental.

*  Great trail map covering the portion from Newtown to Lebanon.

*  Loveland Bike Trail.


(Note that once we left downtown Loveland we didn't come across any garbage cans along the roughly two miles we rode.  Shelters and stops with bathroom facilities can be found on the map linked above.  Please plan ahead with a grocery store bag or backpack.  It's such a pretty trail.  Please don't litter.)


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*  THINGS TO DO IN CINCINNATI






 
 

SPENDING THE SUMMER WITH NANCY DREW

1965 Nancy Drew

Every summer since 1981, I've pulled out my hardbound copy of The Clue of the Broken Locket.  My Nancy Drew obsession began that June when I was 11 and although for mystery content Carolyn Keene was soon supplanted by Agatha Christie, I still get a nostalgic thrill when I return to River Heights.  The Clue of the Broken Locket is the only book remaining from my childhood collection.  In the last decade, however, I've gotten into the original Nancy Drew volumes, which began in 1930.  (They were given an update starting in 1959, so the original stories have a much different feel, with a ballsier Nancy and, unfortunately, sometimes appalling racial stereotypes.)  Applewood Books put out reprints of some of the original titles and other well worn antique copies have been procured for me as Christmas presents.  While I like the original volumes and enjoy reading them, they don't have the ability to transport me back to my preteen years as the updates do.

1934 Nancy Drew

I occasionally feel dippy at 41 years old curled up with my teenage sleuth.  Then again, my sister (beloved Uncle Chester) also pulls out her childhood mysteries, in her case the Trixie Belden series.  She had tried Nancy Drew and couldn't stomach her.  Nancy was too prissy, too feminine, too well coiffed.  I, on the other hand, had tried unsuccessfully to find satisfaction in Trixie Belden.  She was too tom-boyish, the locales too rural and ordinary.  It became abundantly clear to me one day, probably as I was harping on Chester's tarnished silver earrings, why my sister and I sometimes mix like oil and water.  She is a Trixie.  I am a Nancy.





While one would hardly look at me and think "fashion plate," compared to Chester's Rosie O'Donnell style I look like Anna Wintour.  Chester, like Trixie, dresses for comfort.  If she's not leaving the house you generally find her in a sloppy oversized t-shirt and ragged shorts (and sometimes braless, leading to a mad dash for an undergarment if the doorbell rings).  I, on the other hand, have to be dealing with a nasty bout of illness not to put in earrings.  And when I have my full load of silver jewelry on, Chester frequently frets that if I fall in a body of water I'll sink like an anchor.

Depression-era Nancy in her roadster.

Chester wants a car that gets her from place to place.  If it's a pretty color and has nice interior, that's a bonus.  I, on the other hand, would be thrilled to have a roadster like the Depression-era Nancy or, even better, a snazzy convertible like 1960s Nancy.  When my mother and step-father owned a couple acres in rural Ohio, my sister loved to pick berries in the weedy area in back of the garden.  She naturally gravitates to sheep barns and Amish communities with their neat farms.  I'm more comfortable with room service and carefully manicured parks. 

Dog-eared originals.

When I first started reading Nancy Drew, we lived in the Cincinnati suburb of Oakley.  The houses on our street were from the 1920s or earlier and sat squeezed together on small lots.  My father was employed by the Cincinnati Water Works and since my parents were divorced, my interaction with him was sporadic at best.  Perhaps it's the fact that Nancy Drew's life was so unlike mine that she became such a a role model.  While I was chunky and unsophisticated and totally lacked confidence, Nancy was lovely and stylish and sure of herself. And her father was a wealthy lawyer. 







I suppose sometimes we read to feel a connection with someone who is like us.  I read Erma Bombeck and Shirley Jackson for this reason.  They aren't the mothers with all the answers, residing in perfectly clean homes and raising impeccably behaved children.  Their lives are like mine.  Their husbands are sometimes schmucks and their kids are sometimes mouthy and they often wanna go hide somewhere, preferably with a stiff drink.  I can relate to them.

Applewood reprints.

Then, sometimes, we have the need to read about people who aren't just like us.  They are smarter or prettier or more accomplished.  They have the money or status we lack  They have grander ideas and the drive to bring them to fruition.  They have the answers, while we're only full of questions.  Maybe the fact that a big ole clunk like me can find a role model in an 18 year old fictional character is a little pathetic.  Then again, some days she's just what I need.












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TWO SIDES TO EVERY PERSON

The Warden and Foghorn

Okay, sometimes I think I give the impression that my eight year old daughter, Foghorn, is nothing but a loud-mouthed, crude psychopath, destined to blow something up and/or make her living swinging from a pole.  Those are all possibilities, but today I also give you the other side.

Last night Foghorn had spent a chunk of the evening making up cheers involving how wonderful mom is.  (Usually something involving how I'm the best and her brother is the worst and her father is a jerk).  At some point she presented me with a lovely pink heart cut out of paper with "I Love You" printed in the middle.  Seeing the affection showered on his little sister inspired The Professor to go cut out a bunch of paper hearts and present them to me.  He then continued mindlessly cutting out paper hearts, dozens of them, while watching Pokemon (and leaving all the bits of paper all over the couch).

Foghorn got into the heart-making as well and ran into the dining room where I was typing to bestow upon me increasingly elaborate hearts accompanied by cheers.  As her grand finale, she appeared butt naked except for a heart taped over her crotch like a fig leaf, doing her cheer, and shaking her bare behind.  She then handed me the heart with an evil laugh and I grasped it by its edges and placed it on my desk. 

Today, the Professor and I were gone for a couple hours picking up his schedule for 7th grade and scouting out all the classrooms at his new school.  While he and I were off standing in line to pay school fees and trying to get his locker combination to work, Foghorn was home with her father and decided to pass the time with some artwork.  I came home to an impressive, and touching, array of heart-themed items made just for mom.

Sometimes the girl does tickle me.  And she's not really so bad.  To paraphrase Norman Bates, "A girl's best friend is her mother."


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*  MEET THE INMATES -- "FOGHORN"


*  MEET THE INMATES -- "THE PROFESSOR"



 

SO MAD I COULD KNIT

I have often heard people, mostly on television, talk of finding stress relief in exercise.  Sadly for me, a brisk walk or workout with weights merely leaves me sweaty, hungry, and irritable.  I searched for stress relief in meditation as well, imagining myself as Dalai Lama-like in my peaceful bearing.  Didn't happen.   I have that inner-Rahm Emanuel problem and getting interrupted by screaming children in the middle of my meditation just left my blood pressure higher.  It is possible to find stress relief in pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream.  Sadly, this comes with the cost of looking like you ate a dairy cow...or two.

Doggie cross-stitch in-progress

So, what is a mother to do to clear the day's stresses from her mind, lower her shoulders from under her ears where they've been crunched all day in anger, and smooth the creases from her forehead?  Hmmmmm....I suggest a little crafting.  I've done more than my fair share of needlepoint and cross-stitch, particularly when making dog and cat themed items for the League for Animal Welfare's craft tables.  I've dabbled in latch hook rugs (a little too dull for my taste) and knitting looms (a little too limiting).  The favorite crafting meditation for me has been crocheting, which I've been doing for a good 30 years.

Yes, I learned pretty young.  I come from a crafty family, with both sister and mother outstanding in their own disciplines.  Fortunately, for gift-giving purposes, we all have different areas of expertise, and it's unlikely my sister and I will ever give my mother the same Mother's Day gift.  And my mother is the quilting queen, while my sister and I are nearly hopeless with a sewing machine.  It makes for a nice exchange of handmade goods over the years.  Even with a mother to dump my projects on (I mean give to), I found that I crocheted far more than I could possibly pass on to one poor woman, so I began making afghans for Project Linus.  There's nothing like blissing out with some yarn sliding through the fingers while watching television to melt the day's tensions like Ben & Jerry's ice cream on a summer day.

In the spring, though, I became obsessed with the idea of learning to knit, thanks mostly to the SouleMama blog.  As I read her daily postings, as well as years of archives that I'm still working through, I found myself itching to get some needles clacking.  (Besides, ever since I had my children, crochet hooks have reminded me of the big instrument they used to break my water.  Hardly a memory to relieve stress.)  The problem was, I had tried knitting before.  Granted I had been in high school, but I was already a fairly proficient crocheter at the time.  Knitting, on the other hand, just didn't seem to come naturally to me.  My mother had tried knitting around the same period and never quite got into it either.  And my sister, who has a closet overflowing with ribbons from county fairs, as well as the Ohio state fair, didn't get into knitting either.  My teenage attempts utterly failed.

Fast forward to 2011.  A year or so prior the aforementioned sister (known around here as The Inmates' Uncle Chester) took up knitting herself.  After the classic beginner's dishcloths were handed out to female relatives, she went on to knitting socks.  And they actually worked.  She made countless pairs of wool socks and one sock in particular, if left on the floor, proves irresistible to my hound dog and it has had chewed holes mended more than once.  What the heck?  If she could do it, I said with all the little sister arrogance I could muster, I could do it.

Armed with a couple sets of knitting needles, a hunk of acrylic yarn from my stash, and the book Stitch 'N Bitch by Debbie Stoller, I began.  (Given my personality, how could I not choose that book as my guide.)  My first attempt looked like something my hound dog had gotten hold of.  Somehow my stockinette stitch square had these holes in it and got narrower and narrower as it neared the top.  When I had only four stitches left on the needles, I knew I was doing something wrong.  That's when I hollered, "Thank God for YouTube!"  Countless online tutorials got me through the basics and then to some more complicated stitches, although my technique still needs a lot of work.

Is it just me or does that one on the right have nipples?

I began by making (what else?) the classic dishcloths.  I have a good eight of them now and they actually work quite nicely for scrubbing pans.  From there I graduated to blocks, making 9" x 9" squares in various stitches that could then be pieced together for a Project Linus afghan.  I tried to make a sweater for my hound dog, but, as is typical of me, I didn't bother to measure her, assuming the largest size in the pattern would fit her nicely.  It wasn't until I was halfway done that I realized it would never fit around my barrel-chested dog's body.  Unravel, unravel, unravel...  I say it like a mantra.

St. Jimmi rockin' her new sweater.

I did finally find an excruciatingly easy pattern, all in garter stitch, and thought the results weren't too bad.  In my previous attempt at the more complicated dog sweater pattern, I discovered my armholes need serious help...

I've finally gotten to the stage where knitting doesn't involve constant furrowing of brow as I hunch over instructions in my lap and constant unraveling.  I'm still slow, ungodly slow, but I've always been a slow crocheter as well.  But since I'm knitting for joy and not as part of a production line, who the hell cares?  I now have a new meditative craft!  I knit and purl and watch television in a kind of haze.  Certain types of programming work best.  Movies or shows that are intricate and have to be looked at constantly are no good, as knitting involves frequent glancing at the needles.  And I don't want the late news invading my happy meditative-space-with-yarn.  Old reruns of The Mary Tyler Moore Show and All in the Family are good.  The Partridge Family and The Brady Bunch transport me to my happy place all by themselves, so adding a little wool just improves the space.  Pawn Stars really works as well.  Thanks, Chumlee!

I'm still lacking enough confidence to put my works out into the world.  ("Out into the world" does not include giving to my mother, who thinks anything I do is brilliant.  Yeah, she's that kinda mom, bless her.)  I'm currently working on an afghan in bright blue yarn that seems to be shaping up pretty well and could just be my first knitting effort to be passed on to Linus... 

And so, tonight, after the children have gone to the finished basement for one of the last before-school-starts sleepovers on the sofa beds, I'm gonna relax in my wooly happy place.  I got the disc of Inglorious Basterds from Netflix today.  I've already seen it once, so it falls into that doesn't-require-too-much-concentration viewing category.  What?  Quentin Tarantino doesn't sound meditative?  Okay, maybe it's not light and frothy, but there's definitely an argument to be made for the feel-good power of watching Nazis get their comeuppance.





If you're interested in making the dog sweater, the free knitting pattern can be found here (you'll need to sign up for a free Lion Brand account) and you can see my notes on Ravelry.  The blue afghan is from the Project Linus website and the free knitting pattern can be found here.

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*  YARN, ART, AND A FABULOUS WEIGHT WATCHERS CAKE RECIPE


   

THINGS TO DO IN CINCINNATI - CINCINNATI GOLF CENTER MINI GOLF

 

In the shadow of the Eiffel Tower at King's Island is The Cincinnati Golf Center.  Since I'm a person who doesn't know a putter from a nine iron, I paid it little mind until I was left today with the unexpected closing of my destination with The Inmates and was desperate to find an alternative activity.  During a lunch at Applebee's we debated possibilities and finally decided on the divide-and-conquer method.  Foghorn would be left home with her father while I took The Professor to an activity and afterwards we'd switch.  The Professor's choice was mini golf.

A quick Internet search for a good mini golf in the general area led me to The Cincinnati Golf Center.  Located about 25 miles from downtown Cincinnati, it offers a learning center, driving ranges, practice greens, and a pro shop.  It also offers two 18-hole mini golf courses, which is what interested us.

We paid the $12 admission in the pro shop and were told we were welcome to play both courses.  Whether this is standard policy or only offered because it was a slow day at the end of summer, I'm not sure.  Either way, I thought $6 per person was reasonable and we gathered up our putters and golf balls and headed out.  We declined the scorecard since my ultra-competitive son gets testy if he doesn't win and we find it better to keep things as loose as possible.

The mini golf course is nicely maintained and beautifully landscaped with rocks, flowing water, bridges, and lots of trees providing shade.  This course avoids the common obstacles like hit the ball through the open barn door or land the ball in the clown's mouth.  These holes count on twists, turns, hills, sand traps, and water hazards for their challenges.  Most of the time we were lucky to score under three strokes (although without a score card we never knew the par for any given hole).  I must brag, much to my son's disgust, that I scored the only hole-in-one of the day.

The first 18 holes were extremely pleasant.  It was in the mid-80s, but the humidity was down and the trees provided welcome shady spots.  The Professor talked about his proficiency in math and science and tried to put his skills in geometry and physics to use in planning his shots.   Trouble didn't start until the second 18-holes, when my son lost some of his mojo and his frustration started to show.  The more frustrated he became at his poor aim, the worse it got.



As often happens with The Professor, this led to extreme surliness.  I asked what his problem was and got a snarly, "What do you think?" in return.  I told him to just do his best, that this was supposed to be fun, and he retorted with, "You just don't get it."  I replied that I didn't get it, so he needed to tell me in a direct manner why he was acting that way.  That's when he went on a sort of existentialist rant, then asked me the unanswerable such as "Why is this song playing?  Why was I born into this time?"  I finally lost all patience and told him I didn't have the energy for this crap and he needed to just tell me what the hell his problem was.  That's when I got my favorite answer:  "I don't know."  (Fans of Bill Cosby will recognize this as evidence of brain damage.)

The next couple holes were spent debating whether it was my grouchiness that caused my children to act up or if it was their acting up that caused my grouchiness.  He then went on to asking about changing other people's behavior (which I informed him was impossible and he could only change his reactions to their behavior).  He then asked, sounding more and more like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, "Then why bother to hate a person if he can't change the way he acts."  I tried to explain that he (the hated person) could change his own behavior, but we can't make him change.

We found ourselves at a stop, waiting for the family of four in front of us to finish the hole, and this just gave us more time to discuss our reactions to the behavior of others.  And I tried to argue that, despite what he said, it was possible to get some control of our reactions to other people or to situations or to falling short of our own expectations (which tends to be his biggest problem).  By this time we were boiling hot and thirsty and I told him if he wanted to quit we didn't need to finish the course and he said he'd had enough.  Just then the mother in front of us asked if we wanted to play through and I explained we'd already done 18 holes, so we were ditching this one because of the heat.  As I walked past she leaned towards me and said, "By the way, we agree with everything you were saying."   I didn't realize I was being overheard and only pray I  kept my foul language in check.

If you'd care to go Cincinnati Golf Center for mini golf, I'd highly recommend it (assuming you go with someone other than my son).  It's located on Columbia Road in Maineville, just south of King's Island.  Hours and directions can be found at their web site here. 

More photos of the mini golf courses can be found through my Flickr account here.

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*  THINGS TO DO IN CINCINNATI