Sweet victory!

Mark reached a huge goal yesterday--he rode his bike up a hill without stopping! If that doesn't sound like a big deal to you, then you've never been bike riding with Mark. :-)

Six months ago, he hated his bike. It took so much energy to pedal, and the training wheels made the bike wobbly. But he wouldn't give up the trainers, until one day, tired of his complaining, I simply took them off. "Now you will ride a bike on your own," I told him, and he was certainly NOT happy about that!

We went to the park. I prepped him, saying he would fall down, everybody does the first time--he should just get up and try again. But he was ready. He climbed on the bike, and just pedaled away, across the grass, to the other side of the park! Neither of us could believe it! It was awesome. He was so proud of himself, and so confident, and I couldn't stop cheering.

So we moved on to riding in the street (which is pretty nerve-wracking!). We rode our bikes a mile to the park, around the 2-mile path, then home. On the way there's a small hill which Mark hates--he can never get enough speed to ride up the hill. He ends up walking his bike uphill, which makes him mad, and almost ruins his ride every time.

But yesterday was different. He rode his bike fast. He crossed the street, planning to walk the bike uphill, but suddenly, in a burst of energy, he went for it. He pedaled furiously, and to his surprise, reached the summit. "I made it!" he screamed, in disbelief. "I rode up the hill!"

I was elated. "You did it!" I yelled back, and we broke into crazy laughter. He was so proud of himself, and I was even more proud. It's not often you get to see someone smash their wall of fear, and boy, did that kid bust through his.

He kept going, rolling down the hill at breakneck speed. Inside the park, I pulled him over to tell him how proud I was, and what an amazing job he'd done. But he was still bubbling over, and ready to move. "Let's go!" he shouted, and took off.

He raced ahead of me the whole time, and whenever he turned around, I could see his enormous grin. It was the best feeling in the world--six months ago, he hated these rides, and now, he was a Master of...well, maybe not the Universe, but certainly of the bike path.

I love those moments, I really do. Nothing makes me happier than seeing my son so proud, so joyful, so full of life. He certainly earned this victory, and I was lucky enough to witness it.

I never heard Mark's first word, or saw his first steps, and it always bothered me. But yesterday, I saw something even better. I watched him tackle a hill no one else even knew about. I watched him conquer it, and I knew how much that meant to him. I never saw him walk as a toddler, but yesterday, for a brief moment, I saw him fly.

The diner is now closed

Today's breakfast request from Mark: "I'd like an omelette, please."

Me: "Really? But you hate eggs."

Mark: "I want an omelette without eggs."

Me: "But that's what an omelette is made out of--eggs!"

Mark: "Oh. I thought it was made out of all the bits in it. Do we have any bits?"

Now I'm totally confused.

Me: "What kind of bits are we talking about here?"

Mark: "Like, bacon. Do we have any bacon?"

Me: "No."

Mark: "OK, I don't want an omelette then."

And people wonder why I don't cook more often...

Scouting for a new hobby

I did it, I took the plunge. I may regret it, especially come camping time, but Mark is now officially a Cub Scout.

We signed up at a parent's meeting on Wednesday night, and attended our first pack meeting last night, where Mark was most excited when the pack leader announced there were snacks afterwards.

I thought the whole uniform idea might be a show stopper--Mark really hates wearing one to school. Before I handed over any registration fees, I explained that if he joined, he had to suck it up about the uniform.

"I can just wear a different hat," he told me, watching a couple Scouts run past us.

"No, you can't. The uniform is the SAME for every kid--including the hat."

"Well, I can wear a different--"

I stopped him. "No, you can't! You wear what the other kids wear. Or you don't join."

He thought about it for a minute, looked at the boys chasing each other around, laughing, and said, "Fine."

I shouldn't have worried. We bought the uniform today, and he had it on before we even left the parking lot. He was so proud of his new blue shirt with all the patches, and happy that the shorts hit his knees. He loved the neckerchief with the metal bear slide holding it in place, although he thought the bear looked more like a wolf. He even loved the hat, except when I insisted that Cub Scouts do not wear their hats backwards.

I'm still a little nervous about the whole thing. I'm more of a hotel kinda camper than a tent camper, and I really worry about camping with his diabetes. I worry that we'll camp somewhere cold, and his insulin will freeze, or somewhere with bears, and I won't have any sugar in the tent for those terrible nighttime lows. Or that we'll have some kind of medical emergency out in the middle of nowhere. I guess I shouldn't stress so much--a couple years ago, a guy with diabetes climbed Mt. Everest, and he survived (but I bet his mother was a nervous wreck the whole time!).

I also know he'll eventually want to go camping without me--but who will count his carbs, or check his blood sugar at night? Who will treat him if he's too low to treat himself? In the three years that I've had him, he's never spent a night away from me, unless it was at diabetes camp, where they checked his blood sugar constantly. I guess I'll do a lot more camping than I ever wanted to.

And I'm a little worried about all the adults wearing scout uniforms. I commend them for being actively involved in their child's hobby. But I'm afraid I will end up a den mother or something, in a similar uniform, and khaki is definitely NOT my color. I'm all for insisting that Mark wears his uniform, but I'm not much into the idea of one for myself...

Cello, I love you, won't you tell me your name?

I usually know which things Mark will love immediately... a new Pokémon book, anything Gameboy related, Star Wars tattoos, donuts, his drum set, just to name a few. But sometimes he surprises me.

This week had one of those surprises. He LOVES his new cello! He played it a few times, even though it's not the most intuitive instrument. On Wednesday, he asked what day it was. When I told him, he counted out two fingers and then pumped his fist into the air, yelling, "YES! Only two more days till cello lessons!"

So today, Friday, was finally the big day. I reached for the cello, figuring I'd wheel it to school (the case is as big as he is!), but he beat me to it. "I'll pull it," he said, not offering so much as insisting.

"Are you sure?" I asked. There are a lot of curbs and bumpy sidewalks between home and school.

"I'm sure," he said, and before I could argue any more, he was out the door.

And pull it he did. He walked it carefully across the street, making sure not to tip it over. When we came to the first curb, he again refused my help, lifting it down the curb gently, and carrying it across the street. He avoided every puddle (a first) and didn't even run off toward the playground when I left him in front of the school.

He told me how many kids in his class signed up for cello vs. violin--exactly four. He was proud to be part of such a small group. "Everyone else picked the violin," he said, smirking, as though he couldn't believe anybody would ever make such a crazy choice.

I know it's all part of the "I-have-a-new-toy" syndrome, where he lavishes attention on his newest acquisition. He's already tried cleaning it, like he does with everything he loves, including his drum cymbals. (And I gave him the same talk I did after discovering the tell-tale whitish rings on the cymbals--NO WATER ALLOWED! Water and wood, like water and metal, do not mix.)

He'll probably tire of it after a few weeks lugging that big case to school. But until then, it's pretty sweet to watch...

Laundry 101

Apparently, I set the clothes dryer to rainbow cycle yesterday, because when I opened it, the clothes were decorated in bright splashes of color. I discovered the bits were smeared, melted crayon baked into the clothes.

Mark watched me unload the clothes, mostly his. His favorite shorts looked like they'd lost a fight with a painter, and he panicked. "It's not that bad," he said desperately. "I can still wear them."

"Not in public," I said. He begged and pleaded, until finally I said, "Hey, we've got bigger problems here--look at the dryer!"

The dryer had splotches of yellow and orange staining the door, and a bluish-green tint around the drum. There were lumps of red and purple on the tumbler-things (I don't know the technical terms for dryer parts). It was a mess.

So I did what any self-respecting mother would do--I raced to the Internet for help. (I figured the clothes were a loss, but man, a new dryer would cost me!!)

I Googled "crayons in dryer." There are a LOT of results for that! I felt a little better--I'm not the only mom to wash her kid's crayons with his clothes. I found some good information, which ultimately saved most of Mark's clothes, and some BAD information, which I wouldn't even try.

The good info: The crayon does come off. Drench your clothes in OxiClean--I used a bottle of the laundry spray, and another bottle of a thick, laundry soap-like OxiClean stain remover, and soaked the clothes in it. Then I washed them again in cold water, and all the crayon came out.

The bad info: You wouldn't believe how many Web sites recommend spraying WD40 or Goo-Gone into the dryer to clean it! I don't know much about those products, except that they are extremely flammable, and the whole point of the dryer is to...well, heat things up! Seemed like a bad combination to me.

Another suggestion said to take a whole tube of toothpaste and squirt it into the dryer, then pop open a beer. By the time you finish your beer, the dryer will be clean, and you can clean out the toothpaste.

I'm sure that idea works just fine, and toothpaste is not flammable, but...YUCK. I passed on that one as well.

In the end, I took a box of baking soda, a little water, and a lot of elbow grease. I scrubbed off the most colorful bits, and the bits I couldn't get off...well, they've just added a little character to my otherwise dull dryer. I washed and dried two loads of old towels, and when they finished crayon-free, I declared the dryer clean enough, and open for business once again.

I held up Mark's shorts, good as new, and asked him, "Who's the best mom in the entire world?" He smelled a trick question, and answered, slowly, "You...and Grandma."

"What? Grandma didn't save your favorite shorts today! I said, who is the best mom in the entire world WHO JUST SAVED YOUR FAVORITE SHORTS?" I dangled them over the trash can, and suddenly, he found the correct answer.

"You are!" he shouted.

Which, coincidentally, was the same answer to his next question. "Mom, are you gonna check my pockets more carefully next time, before you wash my clothes?"

"No," I told him, smiling. "YOU ARE!"

The Trouble Hat

During dinner last night, Mark and I discussed new activities he's going to start, like Cub Scouts, hip-hop dance class and flag football.

"But not those art classes," he told me. I wondered what he could possibly have against art.

"Why don't you want to do that?" I asked him. "They teach you how to draw--and you love to do that!"

He shrugged. "I don't know why I don't want to do it," he said. Then he tapped his head. "Don't ask me, ask my brain."

Ask his brain, indeed. Trust me, I already have a loooong list for that brain of his, starting with "Why do you pour breakfast shakes into the plants?"

After dinner, we went to the grocery store. Mark wore his favorite Pokémon baseball hat, which he told me he calls his "Trouble Hat." (This was news to me!)

"Whenever I wear this hat, I get in trouble two days later," he said. Good to know.

"OK, if you get in trouble on Tuesday, now I'll know why," I said.

But we didn't have to wait until Tuesday. We were in the produce section for all of two minutes before he was causing trouble. He smacked a head of lettuce, and then tossed a bag of carrots, before moving on to a display of precariously balanced oranges. "Knock it off!" I told him, before he could send the oranges rolling all over the place.

He hung his head solemnly. "I told you, it's the hat," he said sadly, as though it had a mind of its own.

"Hey, you control the hat, not the other way around," I told him. "Now go get some bananas."

And as he skipped off toward the bananas, hat in hand, I could only shake my head. Sometimes I think that kid really is from another planet...

You had me at "cello"

So we have another new musical instrument in the house...in addition to the new drum set, we now have a cello!

Mark's school offers music lessons. He brought home a sign-up sheet, saying that third-graders could choose either violin or cello.

I figured he'd pick the violin, but what do I know? He wanted to play cello.

"Do you even know what a cello is?" I asked, and he nodded.

"It's like a big violin," he said. "I saw a girl carrying one--if she can carry it, I can TOTALLY carry a bigger one!"

And this is how we make decisions in our house--competitively. This, from the boy who whines about carrying his backpack into the house because it's too heavy.

"I know you can carry a cello," I said. "But will you carry the cello? From home to school? From class to music class? From class to after school care?"

"Yes!" he screamed. "I want to play the cello!"

I gave him a final chance. "Let's make a pro and con list for each instrument."

For the violin, the list looked like this:

• Pro: It's smaller, and easier to carry.
• Con: It's smaller, and easier to lose. (The kid lost his lunch box the first week of school, and his backpack and second lunch box the next week--so yes, losing things is ALWAYS a consideration!)

For the cello:

• Pro: It's bigger, and harder to lose.
• Con: It's bigger, and harder to carry.

You can guess from the picture above which instrument won.

I figured I'd just rent a cello, but when I called the music store, they gave me some alarming news. I could rent a cello for $50 a month, and apply that money toward purchasing the cello. That was the good news. The bad news was that the cello cost $1000, and they wanted me to give it to an 8-year-old to lug across the playground.

Did I mention he lost his lunchboxes and backpack already?? No WAY I'm giving that kid a $1000 instrument to lose somewhere between here and school!!

So it was on to Plan B. We drove to a music store and purchased a cello. It was only $200--I figured at that rate, if he loses or breaks it, I'm still ahead financially.

It's probably not the best quality cello, but after listening to him play for 10 minutes, I couldn't tell the difference. A high-quality cello in the hands of an 8-year-old probably sounds just as bad as an inexpensive one.

I knew I'd made the right decision when he started wheeling it around the dining room like he was walking a dog. "Look at me, mom!" he laughed, and as I turned to watch him, he lost his grip and sent the case crashing to the floor.

My heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, I saw all the fun times I could've had for $1000 flash before my eyes. But then, as Mark reported the cello was fine, I took a deep breath, and congratulated myself on making a smart investment.

Wow, that was close...

OK, that baby possum (who's getting bigger every day) almost gave me a heart attack last night! In all fairness, I almost gave him one, too.

I opened the kitchen door to drop some papers into the recycle bin. The possum (who I've named Opie Jr., after Opie, his mama) was hanging halfway over the edge, about a foot away from my hand. When I opened the door, the sensor light went on, illuminating him and all his gray furriness. The light scared him, the movement scared me, and we both jumped back in horror.

Poor little guy was stuck, trying to get out of the bin, and I was trying to shut the door before he came scurrying inside. It was mass confusion.

He finally made it over the edge and outta there in a hurry. I slammed the door, and whispered a bad word. In the silence, I could hear my heart going a hundred miles an hour -- it was, as Mark would say, bleating fast.

I like animals, I really do, but I'm more for saving wildlife than recycling it.

At least nothing died

Last night when I got home, I smelled a peculiar odor. Couldn't place it, and it got stronger as the night went on.

It was even stronger this morning, and I was afraid maybe something died in the living room ceiling. Now that thought put a panic into me--I can handle needles, blood sugar tests, even the occasional vomiting cat, but dead things...well, those send me over the edge.

I cautioned Mark about the smell, and left him to his breakfast. (A strawberry Ensure shake, which he loves, and can eat easily and quickly.) After breakfast, he proudly told me that he'd watered the living room plants. I was pleased that he'd used his extra time productively.

That is, until I walked past the ficus tree. The dirt had a strange tint to it, and as I walked closer, I realized I'd found the source of the offensive smell.

I hurried outside with the plant, only to discover that the strange tint in the dirt was a pinkish color--it looked strangely familiar. In fact, it looked EXACTLY like Mark's strawberry shake. What he'd neglected to tell me was that he'd "watered" the plants with his breakfast!

I don't know why he poured it in there--"I was full" was as close as I got to a confession. What's more troubling is that he was closer to the sink than he was to the plant. If he'd poured it down the sink, I never would've known he didn't drink the whole thing. And who the heck pours stuff in plants, anyway?? (I'll tell you who--little boys!)

I just sighed. At least this explained the scary low blood sugar he had yesterday morning, when he slipped down to 40 just an hour after breakfast (in-range blood sugar is between 70-150). I poured him a small glass of milk to replace the missing carbs from the shake.

Now I have to think of a fitting punishment for him. I feel bad for the kid, I really do--because of his diabetes, he doesn't get the luxury to stop eating when he's full (I ask him before every meal how much he's going to eat, and bolus appropriately--and he can always eat more later if he's still hungry). But If he's been bolused with insulin, he HAS to eat, or he goes low, with some pretty serious consequences. He doesn't get to say, "I'm not hungry" like other kids and go off to school, where 2 hours later, his grumbling stomach tells him maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

But tell that to the poor ficus, who just wanted a little water this morning, and instead, ended up with an extra dose of strawberry shake.

Sometimes our conversations go like this...

Mark, after running up and down the hallway: "My heart is going FAST! It's really bleating!"

Me, breaking into song, singing Leona Lewis' hit: "I keep bleeding, keep on bleeding in love..."

Mark: "No, not bleeding. BLEATING--like a sheep." He thumps his chest. "Baa, baa!"

Me: No response. A mix of shock and pride that he knows the difference between "bleeding" and "bleating," followed by confusion as to why a sheep's heart bleats.

***************************

Or sometimes, like this, when we have impromptu etiquette lessons at a restaurant.

Me: "Would you like a roll?"

Mark: "Yes, please."

Me, so proud of the "Yes, please," until I realize he is quite literally tearing into the roll, gnashing it in his teeth and shaking his head: "You are not a great white shark, please eat correctly."

Mark: "This is correctly--for a great white." And then gulps the remainder as if it were a harbor seal.

********************

Or sometimes, even like this...

Me: "I'm buying extra snacks for afterschool care. Will you eat sugar-free Jell-O if I buy it?"

Mark: "I want Go-Gurts."

Me: "I didn't ask you about Go-Gurts. I asked about Jell-O. It's carb free. You don't have to bolus [give insulin] for it--you can eat all you want."

Mark: "OK. But I want the red and orange ones!"

Me: "I'm only going to buy it if you'll really eat it."

Mark: "I will! I promise!" (Yeah, you know where this is going...)

And then, while picking Mark up from afterschool care, I see a note attached to the sign out sheet. In big, bold letters, it says, "Mark says he HATES Jell-O and won't eat it." Not only is "HATES" in all caps, it's also underlined three times. Which means no matter what he said at the store, he's NEVER going to eat it. I'm out four bucks and a promise from Mark.

I think I'm gonna try that tomorrow. When my boss asks if I've met my deadline, I'm going to write her a note that reads, "Heather HATES deadlines." Then I'm going to underline it three times. And maybe even make a snotty face sticking my tongue out at the end of it--something like this: :-p

I'm sure she'll understand.

Eye see, said the doctor

One rarely documented side effect of diabetes is something I call "my-Lord-what-doctor-haven't-we-seen-yet-itis." It's not as bad as appendicitis, diverticulitis, or any of the other itises, but it can and will make a dent in your calendar.

Today's visit was to the ophthalmologist. This one won't hurt a bit, I told Mark, as we walked into the crowded waiting room. No blood, no shots, just read the letters off the chart and we'll be outta here quickly.

Wellllll, then again, maybe not. I forgot about the pupil dilation part. Mark laid on a bench very cooperatively while the nurse poured liquid nitrogen into his eyes. OK, maybe it wasn't really liquid nitrogen, but that's what it sounded like when the poor kid started screaming. "It stings, it STINGS!" he yelled, and my heart immediately broke in two. I held his hand, and his leg, and then, when the comforting didn't work, I just held him down so the nurse could get the dang drops in his eyes and be done with it. Because of his reaction, she only gave him one set of drops instead of two.

I lead him, whimpering, quivering and wiping tears away, into the waiting room. The whole room was silent, and all the little kids stared at Mark fearfully. They wondered what the nurse had done to him, and if it involved the phrase "stick a needle in your eye." I swear, the next kid almost burst into tears when they called his name!

But at the end, Mark's pupils finally cooperated and dilated. The doctor declared his eyes healthy, and handed us a little black pair of sunglasses for Mark to wear home. I was expecting an immediate refusal, so I said, "Hey, you can pretend like you're blind, and I'll lead you around!" (I know, I know--not politcally correct, but we were in crisis mode here.) He closed his eyes as I lead him out the building and to the parking lot, but I made him open them to climb the staircase.

And of course, once we got home, he pulled out a white "cane" and a cup to beg for money.

So I guess the appointment wasn't a total bust...

Yeah, that doesn't quite match

Mark has certainly inherited my sense of fashion, and that's not a good thing. Sadly, he has my eye when it comes to putting colors together...

This was today's ensemble. We purchased the new clothes yesterday, when I clearly and definitively told him the shirt and shorts DO NOT MATCH. Guess what he was wearing when he came out of his room this morning?

Tales from the Crypt

Took Mark to his first political rally today. He was most impressed with the free lunch.

Then it was on to the bookstore, which is next to a giant Halloween costume store. I know it's only September, but after last year's Yoda fiasco (we never found a costume), I figured better too early than too late.

Mark wanted a Sponge Bob costume, but the minute he saw it, he backed away, saying, "Uh uh, no way, I am NOT wearing that!" I don't blame him--the kid on the package wore a big yellow foam cutout and white tights. I said, "You can wear pants instead of the tights," but he just ran away.

We browsed the aisles, he picking out the most garish, God-awful costumes he could find, and me simply answering, "No." The accessories--guns, knives, axes and scythes--interested him more than the actual costumes. Finally, he picked an outfit I was okay with, simply because it wasn't oozing fake blood. "Ninjas!" he shouted.

He grabbed the accompanying Ninja sword, more excited about it than the costume. "You only get to carry one accessory when trick or treating," I told him. "You can carry a sword, or you can carry a trick or treat bag." He didn't even think twice--candy triumphs every time!

I helped him into the Ninja costume. He moved stealthily across the store until he found a full-length mirror. "Oh no!" he yelled, when he saw his reflection. "Get it off! It looks dumb!" He couldn't get out of it fast enough.

So strike 2 in the costume store. We resumed our shopping, passing the same aisles two and three times. "How about Batman?" I asked. Mark shook his head. "Incredible Hulk? The Flash? Dash from the Incredibles? A boxer? A pirate? Captain Jack Sparrow?" No, no, no, no, no and no.

"I want to be something SCARY," he said, and that worried me more than a little. He's still my sweet little 8-year-old, but he wasn't settling for a Superman costume this year.

And then, thank God, he found it, right before we headed into the Freddie Kruger and Jason section. The Crypt Keeper. I'd describe it as sort of a black robe with chains, grommets, and a skeleton mask, but really, a picture does more justice:

OK, it kinda looks like he's grinning in this picture, but trust me, its a very scary skeleton mask.

And so it was that we finally purchased a costume. Mark definitely benefited today from being an only child with a not-at-all-crafty mom, because that simple black robe with silver plastic chains cost 35 bucks and I didn't even care. I was just glad there were no severed body parts or dripping blood included.

Gimme a P, gimme a T, gimme an AAAAA!

The transformation from "irresponsible Heather" to "active, involved mother" is now complete--I hit the final milestone last night when I attended my first-ever PTA meeting.

It was everything I thought it would be--a library full of moms who took this stuff very seriously. They were friendly, welcoming me in, and they were right on task--one woman even rang a bell every time somebody strayed too far from the topic at hand. (Man, I wish I had a bell like that at work!)

We reviewed the budgets from last year and for this year, and all the coming events and fundraisers. We discussed the priorities for this year (academic enrichment programs and 5th grade camper scholarships), and how to fund them. They had their own lingo, and I felt like people must feel when I start spouting off diabetes terms--a little glazed over, like "I'm not sure what you're saying, but you sound pretty smart."

It was all over my head, but I felt happy to be included. I listened to the carefully-worded phrases encouraging us to pass each motion, and I mumbled "Aye" every time they said, "Those in favor, say 'Aye.'" (And I resisted the impulse to shout "Nay!" just to shake things up a little.)

This being the first meeting of the year, it ran a little long, and after 90 minutes of sitting in an uncomfortable little wooden chair, I was glad to be dismissed. (OK, no one actually said, "You're dismissed," but that's how it feels when you're in school, student or not.) I felt sorry for Mark, who sits in a similar chair all day long. I sit all day at work, too, but in a fancy mesh chair that swivels and tilts and pretty much does everything but make me coffee.

Afterwards, I walked home, which brings me immeasurable joy. I don't know why I love walking to Mark's school every day, but I do. It makes me feel connected to the community, part of the school and the neighborhood, in a way I never felt when I drove Mark to school in somebody else's neighborhood. I love joining in the stream of kids walking up the block, and I love talking to the funny crossing guard, who worries about things like a little dog that almost got run over. "I tried calling him over here, so that I could cross him at the crosswalk," she told me, and I thought, "Now that is a woman who takes her job seriously." (And thank God for that!)

I was all in a post-PTA-mom glow when I walked up the driveway toward home. But it wasn't Mark who first greeted me at the front porch--it was the baby possum! Luckily, there were no cats around this time, and I was completely unarmed (no SuperSoaker or flashlight), so he let me pass by quietly. I eyed him cautiously (he freaks me out a little), and he eyed me back.

He's cute enough, I guess, but I decided right then that maybe I don't have to be on such close terms with every resident of my neighborhood...

National WHAT week??

I just heard a radio commercial promoting the return of Grey's Anatomy in only TWO SHORT WEEKS (their emphasis, not mine). What caught my interest was not the commercial itself, but what came at the end of it.

"Grey's Anatomy--premiering during National Stay at Home Week!" the announcer proclaimed.

National WHAT? When did staying home become something to celebrate, and for a WEEK, at that! What am I missing here? The fact that I'm no longer living a child-free lifestyle, when staying in really was a luxury, a necessary reprieve from all those exhausting nights out on the town, and not a mandatory obligation? Yeah, thanks for the reminder, Mr. Announcer Guy.

It's nice of them to start up the campaign, though. Maybe instead of railing against such a stupid idea (I have an 8-year-old--I'm home EVERY night!), I'll embrace it instead.

"That's right," I'll tell my friends when they call. "I'm staying home tonight. I'd love to go to dinner/the movies/the Academy Awards, but I can't--I'll be home celebrating National Stay at Home Week."

There may be a brief, awkward silence, or perhaps spontaneous laughter, but it won't deter me. I'll advocate National Stay at Home Week (NSAHW), and sell it for all I'm worth. "Surely you've heard of NSAHW?" I'll ask, incredulously. "It's when you go to work all day, and then, afterwards, you celebrate by...well, going home. And staying there. For a whole week!"

I know my friends will be curious (if they haven't hung up already). I'll point out the benefits of staying home, and give one of my Grandma's famous retorts: "Well, it'll keep you outta the bars!" (She said that to everybody, not just me.)

There are a few sticking points I have with the campaign--for example, what if you're a stay-at-home parent? Do you have to keep staying at home, 24/7, for the whole week? And what if--God forbid--we run out of food, or beer? (I mean, we have been home for a week, diminishing the supplies.) Is it okay to leave home for just the briefest of time, to re-stock? Or is it more of a once-you're-home-you-stay-home kinda deal? And how can I truly include my friends and family--if they celebrate with us, are they effectively NOT participating (because they aren't staying home), or does it still count, since they are abiding by the spirit of the law?

I guess it doesn't matter much. I would like to spend more nights ouside the home, engaging in exciting new adventures, but it all comes down to this: I have a third-grader who's in bed by 8 or 8:30 every night. So staying home is pretty much my major form of entertainment.

What I do appreciate about the commercial was what it implied but never said. The commercial promoted the new fall T.V. schedule, but didn't refer to it as National Stay at Home and Watch T.V. Week, which I know is what they really meant. I appreciate them not making me feel any worse about my severely lacking social life.
But most of all, I appreciate them not convincing me to stay home watching T.V. for another reason. It's not that I hate T.V., or even staying home. It's just that I've already set aside a week where I stay home, excitedly glued to the telly. It's called Shark Week!

Never a dull moment around our house

Edra came over to do laundry, and reminded me that the chaos of our house is always entertaining.

It started with the kittens from next door. (Still haven't trapped the little suckers--that Houdini is an elusive little kitty!) They were making a ruckus outside, so I opened the front door to check it out. I saw a repeat of the scene about a week ago at 1 in the morning--two kittens and a baby possum scurrying away.

That poor little possum. I don't know what the kittens are thinking. He's about their size but twice as solid, and I'm sure his teeth are much sharper. I know the kittens are curious, and maybe they think he's just a big rat or something, but they keep trapping and tormenting him, and sooner or later, they'll regret it.

Anyway, the door opening scared them all off. But the kittens didn't go far; they didn't want to give up their prey. I grabbed my giant Super Soaker squirt gun, and aimed toward the kittens. The possum ran by me, which freaked me out a little, but he ran toward the kitten's house, which freaked me out even more. I sent that little guy right into the lion's den!

I retrieved my giant blue Mag lite from inside. I scanned the deserted porch next door, searching for the possum. I couldn't see him anywhere, which was a good sign, since that meant he wasn't locked in any tiny kitten jaws. And it was at that exact moment that Edra walked outside and saw me on the front lawn--Super Soaker in one hand, Mag lite in the other, surveying the scene in the dark, in bare feet.

She took one look at me and asked, "What are you doing out here?" I explained about the kittens and the possum, but it sounded stupid, even to me. I realized it was pretty dark out there, I didn't have any shoes on, and there were fuzzy little animals running scared throughout the yard. I also thought that where there's a baby possum, there's probably a mama possum, and I didn't want to tangle with her.

"Guess my work here is done," I told Edra, and headed inside. As I walked back to the front door, a low-hanging palm frond grazed my head, and I jumped about 10 feet--I was still a little on edge. Edra just looked at me and shook her head.

Happy birthday to...

Went to some fun parties this weekend. The first, on Saturday, was for a relative's 85th birthday. Her name is Mary, and she is seriously the sweetest person you'll ever meet (sorry, Mom!). She's followed closely in sweetness by her kids and grandkids--they threw the big shindig.

Mary, the birthday girl, and a handsome mariachi

(Yes, I know "a relative" is very vague, and I would be more specific...if I could. My brothers and cousins have all tried to figure out the family connection, but we can't. It's a big family, with lots of people, and anyone we can't instantly place--i.e., anyone not in our immediate family--automatically becomes a cousin. It's not an exclusive club--if you've been around the family a year or two, attended more than one family function, or just have brown hair and eyes, you automatically receive "cousin" status.)

Anyway, the party had everything a good party should have--a gracious birthday host, live music (mariachis!), good food, and microbrewery beer. Oh yeah, and the guests were all first-rate, too--your party is only as good as your guest list, and this one was top-notch.

The highlight for me was simply being surrounded by family. It was so great to see the different generations spread across three tables. There was a table of "adults" (my parents, aunts, uncle), one of "kids" (me, my brother, his wife, and my cousins) and a "grandkids/cousins" table, where we parked anyone under 10--my son, my brother's kids, and my cousin's kids. It was just such a blast to look at the parents' table, and think, Wow, that is my history. That is where I come from. And then to look at the little kid's table next to it and think, Wow, that's our next generation--one time we were that little, and sitting at a table just like that with our cousins.

There was even a slide show that highlighted Mary's life. Mark was fidgety when it started, so I pulled him in close to me, and pointed out the people I knew in the slides. I felt like I was passing on our family history to him, telling him, These were my people, and now, they're your people, too. I thought it would bore him, but he really liked hearing all the stories. He is one of us, one of our clan, and it made me proud that he was so curious about it all.

And then there was Sunday, which was the other end of the age spectrum. My nephew Grant turned four, and his party was equally entertaining, if in a completely different way. Saturday night was about dressing up and enjoying a night out, but Sunday was all about Jedis, and the Force, and a giant double-dolphin water slide.

Scott and Mari sure know how to throw a party, even for a 4-year-old. When Mark and I saw that huge water slide in the driveway, our eyes almost popped out! It was AWESOME! Mark could barely wait to get out there.

The kids climbed up the ladder at breakneck speed, and came shooting down the slide even faster. They landed with a splash into a small pool at the bottom, then jumped out and repeated the whole process. I swear, they must've gone up and down that thing 75 times an hour!

The adults sat alongside the giant slide, nibbling appetizers and yelling the occasional, "One at a time! Wait until he gets out of the pool!" Scott cooked up a healthy pile of ribs and chicken, all marinated in his homemade sauce. Mari prepared and plated all the side dishes, and she wasn't kidding when she said they had enough to feed an army (and what a happy, well-fed army that would have been!). Like they say on the cooking shows, it was all so good, it made you wanna slap yo' momma. :-)

So that was our weekend...lots of good fun with the family. I always tease my mom about spending quality time with me (she hates that phrase), but really, that's what it felt like--quality. I couldn't think of a better way to spend my weekend.

Really? Aren't your friends gonna laugh at you?

File under: Only in Orange County...

I saw an odd bumper sticker today. Actually, the bumper sticker itself wasn't that odd, it was the combination of the sticker and the car it was on.

The bumper sticker simply read, "McCain." The car it was plastered to? A Toyota Prius!

It cracked me up. The Prius is the ultimate symbol of the tree-hugging left-wing liberals, while McCain...is not exactly the presidential choice of said tree-huggers. (Of course, I'm generalizing here, and there may be plenty of conservatives who drive Priuses, I just haven't met any of them yet.)

Who knew you could support conserving fuel by driving a hybrid, while at the same time, support a candidate who's for drilling oil in our national parks and along our coastlines?

You've gotta admire a person confident enough to send those two mixed messages. I mean, if that driver is a liberal, his friends are gonna mock him for that McCain sticker...and if he's a conservative, they're gonna make fun of him for driving a Prius. It's a no-win situation.

Or maybe I'm reading too much into it...that guy probably just bought the Prius so he could drive in the carpool lane...

I love a man in a uniform

It's only the second day of school, and already we've had our first uniform breech. That's right, the little man decided to take his wardrobe into his own hands, and as anyone who's seen him in his weekend attire can attest, that's never a good sign.

I should have known better, but like I said, it's only the second day of school. I wasn't expecting the infractions to begin so quickly.

It all started last year, when Mark rebelled against the school uniform by wearing undershirts beneath his school polo. At first they were simple white t-shirts (acceptable) but eventually they graduated to black, flaming long sleeve t-shirts (not acceptable). This invariably lead to multiple layers--black flaming long sleeves, with a basketball jersey on top, with a school polo on top of THAT. Kid looked like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man!

So when I dug my heels in and said white t-shirts only, he started sneaking clothes into his backpack. I punished him by making him do the laundry (I figured if he didn't mind causing twice the loads, he wouldn't mind doing twice the loads).

Eventually, he moved onto shorts. But not any old shorts. Kathleen's boyfriend Tim gave him a pair of size 16 boy's shorts (Mark wears a 7), which hit him at the ankles. They were super baggy, and one day I got a call from school that it was not acceptable for Mark to wear such shorts, especially not when belted with a piece of twine he found in the school yard. My child was dressing like a hobo, and the school thought I was responsible! (I didn't know he snuck them to school in his backpack.)

I was suitably embarrassed, and at that point, simply took his backpack into the bathroom when I showered (the only point in the morning where he is alone, and susceptible to mayhem).

ANYWAY...all that leads up to this morning. After Mark sulked on his walk to school (it's going to be a loooooong year), I waited patiently to buy him a school t-shirt and a homework planner. I thought he'd be excited since he can wear the t-shirt instead of a polo shirt. But when I gave it to him, he refused to change in public, and ran off to the bathroom. I opened his backpack to put the new planner inside, and that's when I found the rogue black t-shirt.

Mark returned in a huff because the bathrooms were locked. He watched me pluck the black shirt out of the backpack, the school t-shirt out of his hands, and them turn and walk away silently. There would be no shirts but the polo for him today. He's a stubborn kid, though, and he wasn't going to give up without a fight.

"What about the t-shirt?" he called as I walked away. I ignored him, so he cupped his hands and yelled again, louder. But I was already halfway up the block, two new shirts in my hands and the faint echo of "What about my stinkin' shirt???" in my ears.

Somebody's getting extra laundry duty in my house tonight, and it's not me...

It's the moooooost wonderful time of the year

School started today, and I've never seen so many giddy parents!

I opened the door to walk Mark to school, and there was a whole parade marching down the street. Clusters of kids with new clothes and new backpacks shuffled slowly down the road, reluctant to reach their final destination. Behind them their parents pushed them onward. "Hurry up," they said, as the children groaned and the other parents laughed.

Even the crossing guard noticed the chipper mood. "It's like a party," she said as our group approached the cross walk.

"I think the parents are happier than the kids," one dad replied, and the crossing guard said, "I was talking about the PARENTS."

The whole school yard was filled with parents and kids. I made Mark stand in front of the school sign so I could take his picture, and I threatened him with multiple shots if he didn't cooperate. "And I'll be loud," I told him. "I'll scream, 'Take another picture for Mama! One more pose! Over here, baby!'"

He just glared at me.

"Or," I said, "You can take one quick picture and I'll leave you alone." I got the shot, and a scowl to go with it.

Mark then trudged across the playground, trying to ditch me. (I marveled at the children who actually clung to their parents--or at least stood by patiently, unembarrassed.) He couldn't find any kids alone, without parents, to play with. So he turned back around, passed me silently, and headed for his classroom.

As soon as he entered the class, the bell rang. We found his seat, complete with a Mark D. name tag, and he explored the inside of the empty desk. "Whoa, this thing is TINY!" he exclaimed. "My desk last year was thiiiiis big," he said, pushing his hands out to the edge of the table. I felt sorry for the two girls sitting on either side of him.

I waited in the class with the other parents for an extra five minutes, just to torment Mark and hear him growl, "You can go now!" I'm convinced it's his way of saying "I love you" in public, so I told him I loved him, too, and to have a good day. "Don't forget to go to the nurse and test before lunch," I said as I left, and he laid his head on the desk, dying a quiet little death by embarrassment.

All joking aside, I am grateful for him being back in school. The nurse seems really knowledgeable about diabetes, which is an immense relief. It's the scariest thing in the world to leave your kid anywhere, especially when that kid has a chronic illness and must be watched carefully. The first day of school is always a relief to me--I'm leaving him with a trained nurse on staff, and that thought is more comforting than I could ever articulate. I know my son's in good hands, medically and intellectually, and really, that's all a mom can really hope for.

That, and a picture of my scowling kid to frame and put on my desk at work...

Whale, that was pretty cool...

OK, I vowed never to use this word, but we celebrated Labor Day weekend with a staycation. That's right, a wannabe-vacation where you don't even leave home (kind of an oxymoron--"vacation at home"--but whatever...)

Mark and I packed our bag and drove downtown, where we spent the next two days pretending not to be locals. (Except for the quick trip home, when I realized he only had 5 glucometer strips left in his kit.) It was really fun--we swam in the hotel pool, walked to a nearby restaurant for dinner, and stayed up late watching movies. Mark even participated in the ever-famous bed-jumping competition, where I am proud to announce he won first prize. (OK, fine, he was the only contestant--I was capturing the moment on film--err, memory card.)

It was back to the pool on Monday morning, but we spent our afternoon on a whale watch. That's right, we boarded a harbor cruise boat in search of the elusive blue whale (OK, maybe not THAT elusive--they'd spotted four whales earlier in the day). As we waited in line, the ship's captain announced no less than seven times that the blue whale is the largest animal ever to live on earth, and can swallow an elephant whole (although I'm not sure that scenario is very likely to ever occur).

We weren't even out of the harbor when we spotted our first marine mammals--a pod of bottle-nosed dolphins frolicking and jumping. I was so excited to see them that I felt like a sell-out--here I'd paid to see whales, and I was cheering for the first thing I saw (somethin' shiny).

Next, we saw a bunch of harbor seals lounging on the rocks, watching us curiously. The closer the boat got, the more they looked like they might dive into the water, but laziness eventually won out, and they simply stared back at us staring at them.

Then it was out to sea, beyond the harbor. We saw another pod of dolphins, common dolphins this time, who surfed the wake from our ship. Then we cruised around for the better part of an hour and saw...nothing.

No whales, no dolphins, no nothing. It was more of a whale waiting trip than a whale watching trip, and if you've ever wondered what that looks like, here it is:

Yes, it really was that exciting.

I thought maybe dolphins and harbor seals were the only marine mammals we'd see, and I could tell the ship's crew and onboard marine biologist shared my view. We circled the area, and then circled again, when suddenly, the first mate lowered his binoculars and ran toward the captain.

And then I saw it, about 300 yards away. A giant whale spout! Then another! Not one, but TWO, blue whales!

The captain turned the boat toward the spouts, and we waited for them to surface. Ten minutes later, another spout, very close to us. The captain headed over to it, and soon, we were just a few feet from the whales.

It was pretty darn cool. We didn't see much of them, just a big gray lump with an itty bitty dorsal fin. But when you imagine the size of the whale below the surface--just below your tiny little boat!--it was quite impressive. It was amazing to stand a few feet from the world's largest animals.

We watched them dive down and resurface 10 minutes later, and it was just as thrilling. I think the captain and crew were relieved to find the whales again, and to ensure our trip was not a bust.

On our way back, we saw two more pods of dolphins, and another harbor seal swimming far out in the ocean. All in all, it was a pretty spectacular trip.