Warning: Here is the recipe for Trouble.

This recipe is for Trouble.  Beware because it can double in size very quickly.

Ingredients:
Wesley or any 11 year old boy
Basic or Intermediate Computer Knowledge
A parent's cell phone number
A laptop computer
Internet access
Blanket
A hiding spot.

Mix Wesley, a blanket, a laptop computer and internet access.  Let the mixture stew for ten minutes in a corner or other hiding spot under the blanket.

Uncover to find Trouble in the form of a boy who registered with Ebay and won an auction feature a large bulk lot of plastic green Army Men.

Mr. Trouble now finds himself in charge of land maintenance (aka lawn mowing) this weekend to pay off the auction that Mr. Trouble's mom had to pay.  

Warning: When one of your kids becomes a smart aleck, the other is sure to follow.

Me as Dr. D

You know I thought since Wesley has slipped effortlessly into the role of Agent P to my Dr. Doofenshmirtz, I'd be spared with my other child, Regan.

Regan as Agent P

Oh but God has a warped sense of humor or the very least, has it in for me.

Walking into my bedroom last night, the strobe night light from Regan's room illuminated the floor for a second.  I screamed like a Dracula victim when I spied a snake resting near my bed.  After I pelted the reptile with shoes, I peeled myself off the closet door when the snake failed to move.  I discovered Regan planted her plastic but live looking snake.

The next episode was getting into the shower only to find Regan had coated the shower floor with conditioner.  Apparently she was practicing for the rubber dinosaur Olympic ski run and I should have been more careful (her words and Dave's unspoken thoughts) I don't know how I will explain the large bruise on my ankle or my posterior.  However, I am open to suggestions.

The final straw was flopping on the bed and onto a miniature car show featuring Hot Wheels cars in various states of condition from the wheel-less to the new car that was purchased this past weekend.  I am also open to suggestions for a good chiropractor.

I am now trying to invent a Turning a Deliquent into a Nice Child-inator.

Warning: Don't play hide and seek in a funeral home.

Yes, this seems to be a no brainer.  I won't go into details but suffice to say, Wesley will not be hiding under any furniture in a darkened room in a funeral home in the near future or distant future for that matter. 

PS He is fine and actually did not see anything except my angry face.

Warning: You should not argue with your parents during a bleeping tornado warning.

This past Friday around 2:00 a.m. I woke up to a huge thunderclap followed immediately by a flash of lightning.  Usually I sleep like a baby during thunderstorms so it was very unusual for me to be roused out of la-la land.

Then the phone rings.  It's Dave's friend who tells that Channel 2 news is broadcasting that a tornado is cutting a swath of destruction down toward our house.  Regan is already awake holding a passel of stuffed animals.  Dave runs to get Wesley out of bed.  It is important to note that Wesley sleeps on an elevated bed with a complete desk underneath.  The following is the of gist of the conversation:

Dave:  Wes, get up.  We're going to the basement.
Wes:  Leave me alone.  I'm sleepy. 
Dave (a bit more impatiently): There's a bleeping tornado coming our way.
Wes (who is a bit more awake):  Really? Where?  (At this point, Wesley hangs down from the bed and presses his face against his window)
Dave (who by now is nearing anger implosion):  Get your bleeping bleep out of bed now. 

Dave pulled him out and threw him down the stairs with me.  Regan is crying and not because of the impending tornado but the fact her stuffed animal collection is uncovered.  Wesley is grunting in anger and plops down across the basement near the only window.  He promptly tries to fall back asleep as I pull his skinny bleeping bleep off the window seat and to the secure part of the basement. 

While I'm throwing pillows over the top of Wesley, he grumbles that it isn't fair he can't sleep because of this and he wants to complain to someone (me).  I am tempted for a moment to pile more pillows on top of him but I abandon this to catch Regan as she makes a break for the stairs for her stuffed animals. 

In the meantime, Zack moseys into the room and plops down on my pillow, yawns and falls asleep.

Dave, the luckiest bleeping guy, is still upstairs listening to the weather.  Why does he get to face the tornado and I have to deal with the kids?  This is so not fair.

Three minutes later and no tornado, the all clear is sounded and Regan runs upstairs.  Wesley throws off his pillows, moaning about how I ruined his life by throwing pillows on him for no reason.

I envy Dorothy.  I would have liked to visit Oz.