The Day of the Ladybug

Last night, my son asked me to help him clean out his back pack. I do this occasionally anyway, so I was pleased that he was the one suggesting it for a change. There were lots of scratch paper to throw away and three days of sack lunches he had failed to finish. I was reproaching him about eating all of his lunch when I came across something that was a bit disconcerting.

In his blue folder, the "folder of secrets" apparently, I discovered a sheet that contained more than twenty names for common street drugs. Rock, ganja, and windowpane were just a few of the words that I read aloud. After reading each, my son told me the corresponding drugs: "Crack...marijuana...LSD."

At first, I admit, my heart was pounding. What was my eleven-year-old up to at school? How did my kid know these words; words I've tried to shelter him from for years. The answer is D.A.R.E..

I guess it's a good thing that he knows the different names of drugs so the next time someone asks him, "Hey man, you want some ice?" He can say, "No thanks," and possibly suffer from the ambiguity of the names of today's drugs and pass out from the sweltering, August heat. (thanks Richie)

I miss the day of the ladybug. When my son was four, he was obsessed with ladybugs. He would scream like a swooning girl in the front row of a Beetles' concert everytime he saw one of those little red specks on a blade of grass. I bought him everything ladybug: beanie babies, puppets and books. He couldn't get enough ladybug. Now it's: here a crank, there a crank everywhere a crank crank. They grow up fast, don't they?

I love you, Boots.