During the summer of KeenanKeenan aka: Kman
Age: 14
"Special" Qualities: Door slamming, stomping and eye rolling (can do it all in one impressive motion).
Best Qualities: The softest kindest heart, hysterical and quite charming when he tries.’s eighth year of life I sent him to summer camp. The second week of camp as we were eating dinner, he casually said, “Mom I need twenty dollars for tomorrow.”

Confused and wondering why the camp would be asking the kids to bring additional money I asked, “Why do you need $20.00 for camp?”

With a mouth full of food he said, “It’s not for camp. I lost a bet.”

Intrigued, I responded, “I’m sorry? You lost a bet?”

“Yes,” Keenan said as if this was a very normal occurrence in an eight year old’s world.

“I see. How did you lose the bet?” I asked as I took a sip of my wine. I wanted all the details before I told him he had lost his freaking mind because I knew once I did, I would get no more out of him.

“I bet this kid that the Cubs would win yesterday and he told me they lost. So I owe him $20.00.”

Of course. He was betting on sports. That seems perfectly normal for an eight year old. I calmly explained to Keenan that he was eight years old and betting was illegal (except on the Superbowl and the Final Four) and there was no way he was getting twenty bucks. He needed to go to school and tell that kid that they were too young to be doing illegal things, that’s what their teen years were for, and he would not be paying up.

Keenan was DISTRAUGHT and begged all night for the money. He insisted that a bet was a bet and while I was filled with pride by his conviction, hell no was I paying an eight year old’s bet.

The next morning I got both boys ready for camp and dropped them off. I stopped at Starbucks on my way home and ordered my standard tall latte with one sugar in the raw. I opened my wallet to pay and noticed that the twenty dollar bill I had in there the night before was missing. OH. NO. HE. DIDN’T.

I went through every crevice, every receipt (all 216 of them) and nothing. No twenty dollar bill. My eight year old son stole money out of my wallet to pay off a bet. Sweet Jesus. His future flashed before my eyes and it included a healthy dose rehab and jail time.

I was absolutely mortified and had no idea what to do. The memory of the first and last time I ever stole something came flooding in. It was a package of Starburst and I was probably about eight myself. The manager must have seen me put them in my pocket in the candy aisle. He waited though, for maximum exposure, until I was nearing the door where a group of people were standing and said angrily, “Were you planning to pay for those Starburst in your pocket?”

I had no money to pay for those and responding, “Actually no. I was planning to steal them,” and running like a bat out of hell seemed like a bad idea. Instead I had to pull the Starburst out of my pocket, hand them over to the manager, apologize as the tears started forming from humiliation in my eyes and walk through a staring crowd out the door. I still shudder thinking about it.

I wondered, ‘What could I possibly do to Keenan that would make him feel that kind of pain? The kind he would remember for the rest of his life?’

And then a thought occurred to me. The police. I could take him to the police station. No. I couldn’t.

I drove home and sat down to do some work all the while wondering what I was going to do. I kept coming back to the same thought. The police.

I pondered it a bit more and decided it was too harsh. But. After about an hour I still had no plan and over and over the police popped into my head.

I’ll just call them,. I thought. They will tell me I am being stupid and that, “No ma’am we don’t deal with eight year olds who steal from their parents, that’s your job. Just like the fire department doesn’t REALLY get cats out of trees,” they will roll their eyes, make fun of me with other officers and that will be that.

I looked up the non-emergency number and I dialed it.

The voice answered, “Encinitas Police Department, Non Emergency Line.”

What would you do?

Part Two. Tomorrow.