It took a while, but my youngest son finally learned the value of money. I liked it better when money was a mystery to him. In those innocent days, negotiations were simple and hassle-free. The needs of 8-year-olds are fairly basic and inexpensive, and peer pressure is practically nonexistent.

It's hard to tell when the tipping point occurred, but as his ninth birthday rapidly approaches, my son has become aware of the power of money. With that awareness has come newly acquired skills in negotiation and the art of hard bargaining. No longer can he be easily bought off by producing a shiny quarter and promises of the limitless and exciting goodies it can purchase. He knows better, and now he knows that I know that he knows better. A cheapskate dad's worst nightmare.

Last Sunday, his newfound talents were on full display, and if you ask me, working overtime. I was cleaning out the enclosed area where we keep the heater and filter for our hot tub. In the past, I could expect to work on such projects in solitude. It was amazing how fast my sons could disappear when I donned my working clothes. So I was close to being dumbstruck when my 8-year-old came up behind me and asked what he could do to help.

The novelty of his offer caught me off-balance and, without really thinking things through, I started assigning him various chores I knew he could handle. I also, rather stupidly in hindsight, profusely praised him for his willingness to help out. He didn't say much, which should have been a clue, but kept up a steady pace and worked harder than I had ever seen him do so before.

In short order, we finished our project, including putting away all the tools and cleaning up the extra debris we had scattered about. I was about to tell him that he was free to run off and play with his friends when he asked what he could do next.

Although my suspicion meter suddenly spiked, I told him if he wanted he could water the plants at the front of the house.

At this point, I knew something was afoot. Rather than his usual sloppy job of watering the plants, he was taking his time, being careful not to crush flowers with the hose and making sure he watered each plant thoroughly.

I stopped what I was doing and began to watch what he was doing. I gave him "the eye,'' which is that look savvy parents learn as a tool to cause their kids to get the jitters. It's a look in which one eyebrow is smartly arched and says: "OK, bubba, the jig is up. What are you up to?''

"The eye'' works every time and this was no exception. It begins with a glance and the recognition that the old man is on to the game. Then comes the repeated furtive glances, making sure the scrutiny is still on. It's not hard to see that little brain working in overdrive as he plots his next move. And, finally, the telltale opening, "So, Dad,'' that leaves no doubt the battle is about to be joined.

"So, Dad, when do I get an allowance?'' he asked, not so subtly.

"When you earn it,'' I answered.

"Do I get an allowance for all the work I've done today?''

"You sure do,'' I said. "How does five bucks sound?''

"Five bucks!'' he whined incredulously. "Dad, I did all the hard work. I filled up the barrel; I cut up the little tree; that's a lot of work.''

"OK,'' I said, "what do you think is fair?"

That's when he sprang his plan. "I figure I should get $10 for the work in back and $4 for the watering.''

I countered with $7 and he came back with $12. The negotiations went on this way until we finally settled on $10. I offered to let him earn more money by helping me wash the car, but he said he was too tired and it was time for him to go play with his friends. Oh, and he demanded immediate payment. He looked skeptical when I said I didn't have the cash on me and would have to pay him the next day. He wanted to know what time.

While washing the car, it dawned on me that I had been bested by an 8-year-old. He had managed to snooker me out of $10 for less than an hour's work. I was sort of annoyed that I let that happen and wondered if it was something I should be worried about.

The answer was obvious. I should be real worried, and the next time I go car shopping, I'm going to take that little rascal with me.

— Joe R. Howry is editor of The Star. He can be reached by phone at 437-0200 and by e-mail at jhowry@VenturaCountyStar.com.