"Well, like I told Max... I was trying to cut my way through your wire because I wanta get out." - Steve McQueen

So, finally we're finishing the construction (groan) under the deck. Construction under the deck wouldn't be so bad if I were only 12" tall. But then The Mrs. would complain. I digress.

As The Mrs. always says, find the right person for the job. The right person in this case is The Boy. I know that there are many laws and probably some international treaty that would call using child labor a crime. Fortunately, most of those don't call the use of child labor by parents a crime. For those that do, the following is a complete and utter work of fiction. The photos are a work of Lucasfilm. Not real, if I have to do jail time. I can't do jail time, I'm just too pretty. Anyway . . .

For those of you who remember, I've been building an escape tunnel an enhanced insulation and drainage zone under the deck. The deck doesn't have much room. It's as packed as the all night insulin store (meaning it's sweet, so there would be a raft of hypoglycemics in there) after a concert by The Carpenter. It used to be The Carpenters, but, you know.

As it is, I figured we had one two three four five wheelbarrow loads of dirt to move under there. Enter . . . The Boy.

The Boy has several attributes for work of this type:

• He is short,
• He thinks I like him,
  
• He can be motivated by fear,
• I can convince him that the work he's doing is actually some sort of elaborate play scenario,
• He is MUCH smaller than me,
  
• He is motivated by sugar, and
• He is four.

If you haven't yet read "Management for Dummies," you can send the $14.95 to me directly, because beyond that, there isn't much more.

So, I sent my little catspaw (not a great episode of Star Trek, but, you know, taught me that word) off, heaving bucket after bucket of freshly excavated dirt into the great crevasse from the excavation caused by the poor construction techniques of the former owners of Casa Wilder, Cletus and Ma Kettle.

That worked for wheelbarrow number one.

For wheelbarrow number two, I broke out the beer. Root beer. Like I waited for him to start my beer. Sugar and a four year old is a great combination. Sort of like giving an addict the fix they want. I'm not proud of it, but the dirt got moved.

For wheelbarrow number three, I had to break out imagination. The bucket was a roller, and he was building roads. That worked for a bit. Started to get old about halfway through. That's when threats come in handy. As a coach, I could make him do laps. As a dad, I could send him to bed. The power of authority flew through my veins like logic through Jennifer Aniston's brain. That, though, worked pitifully. He just cried.

So, I jumped in under the deck, and had The Boy deliver dirt to me. Bright idea, but, the first bucket came back full, the second half full, the third, well, it took 15 minutes to get the third back.

Finally, I did what Dads always do. I finished it myself, while The Boy frolicked like a poodle with a porkchop in his filthy, dirt covered clothing.

So, later that night, I got my revenge. I had him rebuild the engine in my Ford Explorer. Blindfolded. If I can make do with a Play-Doh clutch, I think it's going to turn out to be quality work.