Yo, Corndog: You crack me up sometimes

I SIT DOWN WITH AN icy lemonade -- well, it’s mostly lemonade -- to make a list of the many chores I have to do this weekend. Summer is so great, so fleeting; it’s best to be prepared.

There’s the tall fence I need to finish and the patio stone I need to order. I have to hang some outdoor speakers and fix a leaky garden spigot. After 15 minutes, here’s what I have written on my chore list.

Why barbecues are better than supermodels:

1. Barbecues heat up faster.

2. If you leave a barbecue out in the rain, it looks better the next morning.

3. You can’t cook s’mores on a supermodel.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!” comes a voice from the house.

“Yes?”

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!”

I do not react well to this intrusion. How am I supposed to work? I wasn’t even done with No. 4 on my list, which has to do with supermodels and propane gas. I mean these chore lists are pretty easy. But they don’t write themselves.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!”

The little guy comes out of the house aboard the new flip-flops he’s trying to break in. He walks like Frankenstein -- chin up, legs straight, arms out to his sides.

“See my new flip-flops?” he asks, stumbling slightly.

“Nice,” I say.

“Mommy got ‘em for me,” he says.

“They fit you well,” I tell him.

He trips. Two Band-Aids.

The little guy doesn’t understand why his new sandals are always falling off. Other people make flip-flops look so easy. He’s 4 and quickly finding that life is a series of a thousand little skills, slowly mastered. I assure him that, one day, he will probably be able to walk in flip-flops almost without dwelling on it.

Till then, he limps over to show me the flip-flop blister he’s developing in the armpit of his big toe. Then he shows me what might be a sliver. Might be a bug bite.

“Whatcha doin’, Dad?” he says when he spots my chore list.

“Making lists.”

“What lists?”

“Why barbecues are better than supermodels,” I say.

He slaps his knee.

“You crack me up sometimes,” he says.

This is his new laugh line: “You crack me up sometimes.” He told it to his teacher on the last day before summer. He tells it to his mother and, more often to himself. “I crack myself up sometimes,” he says, slapping a knee and roaring like a Shop-Vac.

He is 3 feet tall now, my shadow, my muse. When he naps with me, he fits into the crook of my neck like a phone. He weighs slightly more than a slice of dry toast.

Shirtless for summer, he seems to be all shoulder blades and clavicles, like something Picasso might’ve fashioned out of scraps of plywood. He is a direct descendant of the great American boy: Huck Finn, Dennis the Menace, Bart Simpson. He may be part raccoon.

I’ve nicknamed him “Corndog” for his favorite food and the fact that his hair matches their honey-colored coating. We are a team now. When I go outside, he goes outside. When I hit the hardware store, he’s seven steps behind, intrigued by the oscillating fans. He is Laurel to my Hardy. Rocky to my Bullwinkle. One day recently, we flipped up the toilet seat and peed together.

“This is fun,” he said at the time.

“Corndog?”

“Yeah, Daddy?”

“You crack me up sometimes,” I told him.

At once, he is a great burden and a great convenience. His older siblings can all do their own thing, yet he still needs to be accompanied everywhere, including his bedroom at night, where he’s pretty sure three Pixar characters reside under the bed, munching on his missing socks.

At the beach, he won’t sit still a minute or lie quietly on the blanket while I read the Sports section. He is 10 gallons of rocket fuel, 40 liters of “don’t-do-that!” I swear, if he bounces that rubber ball off the living room wall one more time.... Last night, I think I saw his mother packing.

But the little guy has his strengths as well. He is generous with his friendship.

Him: “You’re my BFF, Mom.”

Her: “What’s a BFF?”

Him: “Best friend forever.”

And he can be ready to leave the house in less than five seconds. For anywhere. The park. The airport. The moon. He is an eager adventurer, not caring where we go, as long as we go together.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!” he wails from the other end of the house.

“Corndog?”

“Dad,” he gasps, sprinting.

“What?”

“Wanna play?” he asks, completely out of breath.

Sure, kid. I’ve got all summer.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.