Visiting your neighborhood park with your children should not be a lesson in profanity.

I still remember when I took my son to one of our favorite haunts in Davie, and he came across some graffiti on the side of the playground.

“What does that say, Mommy?” my three-year-old asked.

I diverted his attention elsewhere and seethed at the thought of delinquents destroying the recently refurbished playground. I should have reported it to the city.

That’s what some parents in Coral Springs are doing as they patrol their area parks. Called Park Moms, they check to see if the garbage is picked up, equipment is functioning properly and the playground is graffiti-free. (You can read about them in today’s Sun-Sentinel.)

If only there was a Park Moms in every city. Now there’s an idea…

Tell us what you think, and share your playground stories.

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My son is finally at the age where he can enjoy (and sit through) a movie at the theater. We've seen Kung Fu Panda, Speed Racer and Horton Hears a Who in the past year.

Now the movie my son has been waiting for opens this weekend -- Wall-E, a lovable little robot tasked with cleaning up the mess that is Earth in the distant future. Judging by the review, it should be well worth the wait.

Will let you know what my son thought of it next week. At what age did you start taking your son/daughter to the movies?

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The sting from Mother’s Day is slowly subsiding. Yes, Mother’s Day.

For the special occasion, my three-year-old son answered a series of questions posed by his teachers for a special, keepsake memento for Mommy. Questions like:

“My mother’s eyes are _(green)___ . My mother’s hair is _(brown)__ . My mother’s favorite color is _(red)__ .”

Cute, harmless stuff. Then came the zinger, the one I can’t get out of my mind and has fueled both tears of laughter and sadness.

“My mother loves to _(WORK!!!!)_.”

OK, he didn’t actually yell the answer to his teachers (the caps and exclamation points are how I read it). But he might as well have. His answer gets to the heart of insecurity for most working moms I know. And it breaks my heart to think “work” is what first came to his mind.

My husband and my son’s teacher both worried I might take it the wrong way. I’m sorry: What good way is there to take it? Yes, I’m sure at three years old, my son said it as matter-of-factly as, “The sky is blue.” Still doesn’t make me feel any better. (That said, I’m sure I feel better than the mom whose son said: “My mother loves to ___(put me in time out.)_”)

A colleague at work, hearing my telling of the story, offered some insight that poured salt on the wound: “It’s not where you want to be that matters to children. It’s where you are.”

Leave it to my son to be the one to make me feel better. He overheard me reciting the Mommy questionnaire on the phone to my mother.

“You’re never going to believe what he said,” I told my mom.

“Your mother loves to …..” I continued.

Then my son chimed in: “Bake cookies!”

I looked at him, put the phone down and ran across the room to give him a big, fat kiss.

And then I wondered if permanent marker was a bit much to add a footnote to my cherished memento.

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Dry drowning. Ever heard of it?

I hadn't until my brother passed along the following link. A 10-year-old from South Carolina died this week, more than hour after he had gone swimming.

Apparently, during his day at the pool, water accumulated in his lungs. He walked home with his mother, talking normally, and then went to bed because he felt very tired. He never woke up.

About 3,600 Americans died from drowning in 2005, according to the latest figures by the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). An estimated 10-15 percent of those were classified as "dry drowning," in which death occurs up to 24 hours later because of water entering the respiratory system.

As the summer swimming season kicks off with the end of school this week, I'm keeping this story top of mind. My hope is to teach my 3-year-old to swim this summer.

Any tips on good private instructors or classes for pre-schoolers?

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Just in time for Mother’s Day, a Bal Harbour plastic surgeon is releasing a new children’s book: “My Beautiful Mommy.”

The illustrated book helps walk little kids through understanding why Mommy wants that tummy tuck, breast augmentation or nose job.

“But you’re already the prettiest Mommy in the whole wide world!” reads an excerpt from the book by Dr. Michael Salzhauer posted on Newsweek's Web site.

No matter. Mommy doesn’t feel that way.

I’m doing my best not to pass judgment. (I’ll leave that to all of you transPARENT readers and those of the parenting bloggers at our sister newspaper, Orlando Sentinel.) Not my job.

Let me just say I’m happy I have a son. I can only imagine how difficult it would be for a young girl to deal with a Mom who is struggling with body image issues.

Believe me, I have my share of those. But my son is more interested in cars and robots than whether Mommy is upset that she still can’t get into her pre-pregnancy jeans. I have often thought about how mindful I would have to be about making seemingly innocuous comments (“Do I look fat in this outfit? I look pregnant!”) if I had a daughter.

For all you mothers of daughters out there: How have you handled the issue of body image? Any inadvertent missteps?

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Last week, our parenting blog colleagues at the Orlando Sentinel began a discussion about children and music. (One parent worried about her young daughter coming home singing the lyrics to a rap song. ) And at transPARENT, fellow blogger Matthew Strozier lamented that he had to give up his hope (at least for now) of introducing grown-up music to his two-year-old. His son loooves Raffi.

My three-year-old son did too. But then he discovered Avril Lavigne. And Alicia Keys. And Journey.

I thank the iPhone and the fact that I love to sing in the car on the 40-minute drive down to my parents’ house in Miami each weekend.

And in some cosmic sense, maybe the fact that my son was born to a mix CD my husband and I made for the special occasion has something to do with it. Officially, our son was born to Sade’s “By Your Side.” A few seconds earlier, and he would have been born to the Santana/Rob Smith 1999 hit “Smooth.” (How I remembered this amid a non-medicated birthing process is beyond me.)

You never know whether your kid is going to be a music aficionado. My advice? Expose him or her often and early. And, as much as possible, engage in the music. Sing and dance together. Be silly. Make it fun.

To this day, I still insist on dancing to the Go Diego Go! song before each episode. I can’t think of a time when my son – even in the worst of moods – didn’t want me to pick him up and twirl him around.

He also pulls out his Fisher Price piano every time he’s inspired: Usually when he sees former Journey frontman Steve Perry play the piano in the “Don’t Stop Believin’” video we downloaded from iTunes. My son quickly learned how to navigate my husband’s iPhone and likes to replay his favorite songs and videos over and over again.

As for other grown-up music, he learned on those trips down to Miami to request certain songs: There’s the CD that has some oldies like “Sugar” and “Buttercup.” And the Indigo Girls CD, which has, according to my son, the “Mommy and Daddy” song. (Our wedding DVD, which my son loves to watch, has as part of its soundtrack the IG song “Closer to Fine.”)

But, by far, my son’s favorite, No. 1 request, several months running, is “No One,” by Alicia Keys. In my household, it’s better known as “Special Music Song.” That’s the term my son coined the first time I played the song for him and told him: “I have a special song for you.”

Hot Wheels in hand, head bobbing to the beat, he does his best to sing the song. Just last week, as we were listening to the song on the way to school, he told me he wanted to sing it to his friends. A cute notion, but one I thought he’d soon forget.

He didn’t.

As soon as he stepped into the classroom, he found his best friend and started:

“No one, No one, No wa-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-n, (mumble, mumble, mumble) feel for you,” he began. Then he skipped to his favorite part: “Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, Oh (oh), Oh (oh), O-o-oh.”

Now that’s music to my ears.

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Want to look smart and tech savvy without actually doing something more than a third-grader could do?

I’m a little late this year, but I’m planning to design my 2008 personalized calendar online. Ever since my son was born, I’ve used Shutterfly.com to produce a number of keepsakes, including photo books, birthday cards and -- my favorite – calendars.

The best part about the calendar is you can make it start and end at any point in the year. So don’t worry if you’re a procrastinator or that we’re already in Spring. My calendar this year will be April 2008–April 2009, which actually follows my March 2007–March 2008 calendar. (Hey, I’m a busy working mom.)

Don’t be afraid to hunt online for other sites. I know Snapfish.com and Kodak.com also have similar capabilities.

The benefits are huge. Of course, you’ll have a calendar that you can keep for years, much as you would a photo album. Even better: Fill it with little notes about what you did on a particular day.

Some gems I had on my calendar this past year: Jan. 22, 2008: “Danny went to school in underwear for the first time!” June 9, 2007: “My new alarm clock: ‘Wake up, Mommy! I said ‘wa-a-a-ke up!’” October 6, 2007: “Danny says his favorite song is “Hey, Hey, You, You,” which means “Girlfriend” by Avril Lavinge.”

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I’m convinced my three-year-old son is a budding musician. Not the classically trained kind. He’s more of a pound your fists on the Fisher-Price piano and play the harmonica while trying to brush your teeth kind of kid.

For Christmas, my husband desperately wanted to buy our son the Blue Man Group keyboard and drums. He was very disappointed when Santa drew the line on expensive gifts at a 5-speed miniature Corvette, which said husband also desperately wanted for our son. (Starts to make me wonder whom the Christmas gifts are for.)

Now’s my chance to see if those Blue Man instruments are worth the investment. The Blue Man Group brings their How to be a Megastar Tour 2.1 to the BankAtlantic Center in Sunrise on Saturday. Tickets aren’t cheap, but it’ll be the closest thing to a “date night” I’ve had in months.

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This week, my three-year-old began to learn the value of a dollar. Better said, he’s learning the value of a penny, nickel, dime and quarter.

And I can thank a "Curious George" cartoon on PBS. My son and I caught a few minutes of an episode the other morning that involved the scheming monkey using a piggy bank to save money to buy a toy.

My son immediately wanted a piggy bank. A blue one.

That afternoon when I picked him up from pre-school, I opened up a gift given to me at one of my baby showers before my son was born – a porcelain piggy bank. It wasn’t blue, but my son’s face lit up regardless.

“Mommy, I need coins,” he said. “I need coins like Curious George.”

I grabbed some spare change and attempted to explain its value. That was way too complex. So, we settled on learning the names and attributes: A penny is copper in color; a dime is the smallest coin; a quarter is the biggest. (I haven’t yet introduced the Susan B. Anthony coin.)

He loved it. My husband I explained to our son that if he helps pick up -- say his toys or the dinner table -- we’ll give him some money for his piggy bank. It has become such a successful tool. I’ve used it to get him to brush his teeth.

Some parents use stickers. We use pennies.

My next step is to help my son realize the choices he can make with his money: Spend it quickly, and buy one small toy or book. Or save more, and buy a bigger toy or more books. I’m not quite sure he’ll get the concept entirely, but at least I’ll have some extra help with chores around the house. And he'll be on his way to saving later in life, I hope.

Tell us what you've done to teach your kids about money and saving.

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We rid our house this week of yogurt-covered raisins.

The seemingly benign snack, an on-and-off favorite of my three-year-old son’s, almost killed our beagle, Chico.

Late one night this week, Chico managed to get into my son’s diaper bag, pull out a sealed Ziploc bag of yogurt raisins and chew a hole through it. When my husband stumbled upon him feasting on top of our bed, it was hard to tell if Chico had eaten two or twenty.

What happened next could be best described as pet pandemonium: My husband panicked, remembering a passing conversation with a friend years ago that raisins, grapes and chocolate can be toxic for dogs. He searched the Internet and read that as little as seven raisins can be lethal.

We had to do something. Little did I know it would involve making my dog throw up (by giving him 3 tablespoons of hydrogen peroxide) and sifting through the vomit to count just how many raisins he may have eaten. Those were the instructions of the ASPCA Animal Poison Control Center, which, by the way, also charged my credit card $60 for the advice.

The final score for the three-hour ordeal: 49 raisins! (Beagles are known for their insatiable appetite.)

The next morning we took Chico to the vet to run some tests to make sure he wasn’t showing signs of renal failure. They came back clean.

We dodged a bullet on this one. Our dog is a member of our family, my son’s brother, as he calls him. But the scare served as a good wake-up call: We’re re-checking our childproof locks and making sure the cabinets are kept securely closed.

And we’ve said goodbye to yogurt raisins.

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My husband and I are finally ready. After two months of accidents, emergency wardrobe changes and extra loads of laundry, we are finally ready to send our 3-year-old son to school in “big boy” underwear, as we call it at home.

Yes, we’re finally ready.

We’ve held off because we have wanted to spare our son the possible embarrassment of wetting his pants in front of his friends. Thanksgiving weekend, he had an accident in front of his cousins and the memory stuck with him.

But since then, our son has progressively improved in the bladder-control department: He now goes to the bathroom on his own (though he still likes to announce it to everyone within an earshot, including our dog). He prefers to wear underwear than pull-ups at home and on the weekends. And the four-times-an-hour accidents have disappeared.

His teachers have been nudging my husband and I to just do it. So this weekend, I will stock up on extra Buzz Lightyear and Nemo underwear, shorts, socks and even buy an extra pair of shoes to send to school. And I’ll just pray for the best.

Am I nuts for taking this step too seriously and postponing it until I thought my son had a real chance at success?

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My three-year-old son had his first dental check-up today – and he was a champ. It didn’t hurt that the office was decked out in safari décor, with bamboo-framed flat-screen TVs blasting Disney favorites like Monsters Inc. and Ratatouille.

Oh, and did I mention the three videogame stations?

What I loved best of all was the way the hygienist and dentist talked to my son. They explained every tool, prefaced every action with a gentle warning, and let him participate by holding the suction device. He even agreed to wear sunglasses to keep the bright light from hurting his eyes. (If you knew my son, you’d know that he’d rather do just about anything than wear 1) a hat 2) sunglasses 3) stickers.)

Despite the smooth visit, I left the office with some homework: Regularly floss my son’s teeth and give him fluoridated water to drink. I’m on board with the flossing. But I have mixed feelings about the extra fluoride. I figured fluoride in toothpaste was enough.

How did you handle the fluoride issue with your kids?

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The only babysitter my son has ever known is his grandmother.

Aside from pre-school, my husband and I have somehow managed to avoid hiring a sitter. (The lone exception was one day last year – an emergency – when we asked one of our son’s teachers to watch him for two hours in the evening until one of us got home.)

The pluses of having abuela babysit are endless: Familiarity, kid-friendly atmosphere, and my son just loves being at her house. But not everyone is as fortunate.

So if you’re in the market for a babysitter, there are several things you should keep in mind. Check out these tips from Sun-Sentinel columnist Daniel Vasquez.

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I love the cold weather. My three-year-old son loves it too. But every year, around this time, we have a confrontation over clothes.

This morning it went something like this:

Slip on long-sleeved shirt: “What’s that? I don’t like it Mommy,” he says with a look of desperation. “Take it off!” I ask him to think of it like a pajama shirt for school.

He looks at me funny.

Slip on pants: His reaction is delayed somewhat because I was clever enough to call the dog into the room to distract him. Thirty seconds later: “It’s too long,” he says tugging at the pants. “I can’t walk.” "Let me put on your shoes," I tell him. "You’ll see you’ll be able to walk just fine."

He looks at me funny.

I hold off on the hooded jacket until I step outside to check if it’s really, absolutely, 100 percent necessary. Snap. It is.

“OK, Danny, we need to put on your jacket,” I tell him. Before he can turn to give me a look, I’ve already got one arm in the jacket and working on the second. I zip him up. He doesn’t move. It’s as if I’ve wrapped him in a straight jacket.

He eventually takes a step toward the car. And then another. Finally, we’re on our way to school. Once there, though, we enter a practically empty classroom.

“Where are all my friends?” my son asks.

“They’re probably all wrestling with their parents to put on their winter clothes,” his teacher explains.

I find comfort in knowing I’m not alone.

Then my son chimes in: “Mommy, take off my jacket.”

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In the end, he was a baseball player.

Halloween in the Vasquez household played out pretty much as expected. When it came time to get dressed to go trick-or-treating, my son would have none of it.

Big tears. Lots of screaming (“Take it off!”) when I tried to slip on the “scurvy” pirate costume he had been talking about for weeks. I managed to get the pants on. But that was it. The shirt might as well have been laced with shards of glass. The painful screams persisted long after the shirt was removed and shoved into a distant corner. Our back-up fireman costume didn’t even make it out of the closet.

The crying eventually subsided, and, amazingly, my son still wanted to go trick-or-treating. So my husband and I improvised and searched the house for some semblance of a costume:

Mickey Mouse Club member. Costume: Mickey Mouse shirt and Mickey ears. My son’s response: “I don’t want the ears. I don’t like it!”

Harry Potter. Costume: Pair of round glasses. My son’s response: “I don’t want glasses!”

Then came one last idea: Baseball player. Costume: Aforementioned pirate pants, San Francisco Giants jersey and plastic bat. My son’s initial response: “No shirt! No shirt!”

At that point, I realized he just wanted to say no to everything –- not exactly unusual for a three-year-old. So I told him if he wanted to go outside to see his friends and go trick-or-treating, he needed to wear a jacket (a.k.a. baseball jersey) because it was cold. (OK, technically, it was just breezy.)

He agreed. He smiled. And the rest is one for the baby book.

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