Happy Halloween!

OK, we still haven't watched the Great Pumpkin yet (maybe this weekend), but Mark and I did carve our pumpkins last night. I think they turned out pretty well:


You'd think I'd be one of those good moms who buy the safety pumpkin carving set so that my precious little angel doesn't slice open any arteries, but turns out those kinda moms are more organized than I am. Instead, I handed Mark a steak knife and told him not to hurt himself. (I also told him not to sit too close to me, which maybe wasn't the most loving motherly advice, but then again, hey--someone needed both hands to drive us to the emergency room if need be!)

Those little carving sets also include big orange scrapers, which allow you to empty out a pumpkin in about two minutes. (I know all this because I bought one of those safety sets last year--I just don't know where I put it.) But since we didn't have one of those either, I handed Mark a big serving spoon to go with his steak knife.

I carved off the tops with a butcher knife, which was a little shaky--suddenly, I was less worried about Mark losing a finger than myself. But I got the tops off, fingers intact, and we were ready to start scraping.

Mark liked drawing faces on his pumpkin, but he was not at all into scraping out the "guts." (Maybe I shouldn't have called them pumpkin guts--he already disliked the sliminess, the name definitely did not help.) He decided to keep the seeds--"some for planting and some for roasting"--so he meticulously picked out each and every one. Which were all as slimy as the stringy stuff holding them in there, and consequently, went shooting out all over the floor.

I cleaned out my pumpkin pretty quickly. I told Mark it was because I was so efficient, but really, that sliminess does get to you. Then I carved my pumpkin, giving him a vampire-fanged smile. I even added a little nose, thanks to Mark, who noticed he didn't have one, and asked me, "Aren't you gonna let him breathe?"

Meanwhile, Mark was still cleaning his pumpkin. He was really having a hard time, and wanted to wash his hands every couple minutes. I helped dig out the sludge, and then, after he scared me by flailing the knife all around, I helped him carve it. We worked together, slowly carving out the eyes, and the angry eyebrows. I carved the lines for the mouth, which Mark said he wanted shaped like the letter N. I didn't really succeed there, but he had fun carving it out anyway.

When we were finished, we put in a couple votive candles and lit up our new jack-o-lanterns. We turned off the lights, and then cheered at the shining pumpkins. They looked so cool!!

That was the first part of our Halloween celebration. The second part was today. The kids couldn't wear costumes to school, but they could dress up for Career Day. Mark finagled his way out of his uniform by saying he wanted to be a teacher. So he dressed in his favorite guitar t-shirt, shorts, and Converse shoes. Then I drew a little beard on him and painted some tattoos and voila! When I walked into the classroom, I started laughing--Mr. Robinson was dressed almost the same! Mark definitely looked like a teacher.

I helped out with his class, who'd won a special party as a good behavior reward. They had little stations in class where they made black cats, and played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. The last station was dedicated to two words that strike fear into any parent of a child with diabetes--CANDY SUSHI!!

It was disgusting, so of course the kids loved it. Instead of seaweed, the kids started with fruit roll-ups. They smeared a layer of marshmallow cream on it, then added gummy worms (rolled in sugar, of course), licorice, and some other sour candy. They wrapped it all up, sliced it into pieces, and gobbled it down. I think I got a cavity just watching them.

I told Mark to save his until lunch--that's how long it would take me to add up all those carbs. He was great, and didn't even complain. Of course, in a completely ironic twist, his blood sugar went low right before lunch, and he needed--that's right!--some sugar to bring it back up. Sometimes you just can't win.

The kids also got a pizza party for lunch. They watched a movie and ate their pizza, while some moms and students passed out candy. I bit my tongue and tried not to ruin Halloween by saying, "Don't eat all that candy, Mark!!" I always let him eat like the other kids do, including sweets, but most days, he doesn't end up with five candy bars and three bags of cookies on his desk after he's already eaten half a candy sushi roll! I just kept telling myself "Today's a wash, that's why they made insulin," and vowed to check his blood sugar a few extra times. Halloween should be the best day ever, even for little kids with diabetes.

And now I'm off to take Mark for his flu shot, then trick-or-treating with Scott, Mari and the kids (and probably the dog). Mark really hates getting his shot (even though he used to get 5-6 shots a day), so I sandwiched it between all the day's fun activities. That way he can only mope about the shot for an hour or so--because nothing makes you forget a shot in the arm faster than loading up on free candy!

Do hair, not drugs

It's Red Ribbon Week at school. Mark is learning to Just Say No, which I think he already knows how to do quite well, thankyouverymuch. ("No, I didn't brush my teeth; No, I won't eat that; No, I don't want to take a shower.")

Red Ribbon Week has a full schedule of activities, including:

• Monday: Crazy hat day.
• Tuesday: Crazy sock day.
• Wednesday: Red shirt day.
• Thursday: Crazy hair day.
• Friday: Career dress up day.

Mark's dressed up every day so far, and to be honest, between all the "crazy" clothes, it looks more like Say Yes to Dressing Like the Homeless Week than Say No to Drugs Week.

But Mark's really gotten into it. He wore his Trouble Hat Monday and socks with cats jumping over the Eiffel Tower on Tuesday, hiked all the way up to his knees. Yesterday, all the kids wore red shirts, and as they all filed into the schoolyard, it looked like a wave of Target employees heading in to work.

Last night I asked Mark what he'd learned about drugs this week. He just shrugged.

"It's the third day of Red Ribbon Week--you haven't learned anything about drugs?" I asked.

He scrunched up his face and answered, questioningly, "Uhhhh, don't do them?"

"That's right," I said. "Say no to drugs--except for insulin!"

He couldn't tell me much about drugs, but he knew exactly what he wanted for Crazy Hair Day. He wanted red hair, with a blue stripe down the middle.

It was messy. My hands were bright red afterward, and the splotches around his ears looked like Mark was bleeding out, but the paint wiped off pretty easily. I even tried spraying on a blue lightning bolt, but it kind of faded into the red paint.

Here's how it looked:

I'll have a very patriotic (red, white and blue) bathtub tonight. And he won't be able to lie about washing his hair!

I sacrificed one shirt in the spraying process (Mark put it on too soon, and turned the collar red) and I'm sure the shirt he's wearing will come home stained as well. But it was fun to create. It was also fun to see all the other kids on the way to school, with their brightly colored hair, and sharp, pointy spikes.

I'm still not sure what it has to do with saying no to drugs, but at least the kids are having fun with it.

Soap is for sissies

Here's what I've learned about personal hygiene from my son: It's waaaaaay overrated.

I disagree with that philosophy, which makes for interesting discussions around our house. I'm the kind of person who thinks the phrase "Take a shower" implies using all of the following ingredients: water, shampoo, soap. Mark adheres to a different belief, quite popular with the third-grade crowd: that the first ingredient is sufficient (unless of course, I've bought some fancy new Bath & Body Works soap; then, he uses half the bottle).

Case in point: last night's shower. Mark, who is destined to become a successful lawyer, argued that he didn't need a shower, he took one last week. He grumbled and groaned, and finally, grudgingly, got in. Twenty-five minutes later, I told him to get out, and the little lawyer argued that he just got in.

He finally emerged, dripping wet, and smiled. He held a yellow rubber duck up to me. "Look, Mom!" he said. "I washed the duck!"

I smiled back, until I noticed something--the duck was very clean, but Mark's face was as dirty as it was before the shower.

"Let me see your face," I said, and his smile vanished.

"I washed it!" he yelled. He wouldn't let me close enough to look.

But our bathroom is small, and he couldn't escape. I gave him a once-over, realizing he hadn't washed his hair, either. Despite the long shower, he was still the same grubby boy, just a little wetter.

I sighed. We have a water shortage in our county, but I didn't realize we had a soap shortage as well.

"Back in you go," I told him, pointing to the tub. He protested, but finally climbed back in, washed his hair, and emerged, once again, with a dirty face. (What do they say about leading a horse to water??)

I finally gave up. "Brush your teeth," I told him. Then I handed him a wash cloth and watched him scrub his face, while he scowled.

That's my Mark, in a nutshell. He's the kind of kid who must wash his face every night at bedtime, whether he showered or not. He's the kind of kid who spends so much time washing his rubber duck, he forgets to wash himself.

And now, I'm the kind of mom who's very specific; the kind of mom who now says, "Take a shower AND USE THE SOAP!!"

Mazel Tov!

Yeah, that's right, I just used a religious phrase as my title...now pick yourself up off the ground and keep reading! :-)

Rob and Kelley returned from Taiwan, with their new little U.S. Citizen, Romi (and he didn't even have to take the citizenship test!). They had a five-hour layover at the airport, so we went to see them and kiss the baby.

Mark, Marilyn (Kelley's mom) and I drove to the airport together, and we could barely contain ourselves. I planned to drop Marilyn off curbside and park the car, but Kelley called before we got there. They'd already cleared customs, and retrieved their luggage.

"You're already done?" I asked. She'd said customs would take a couple hours.

"Yep," Kelley answered. "They already raised Romi's right hand and swore him in as a citizen."

That image cracked me up. "Really?" I asked, and Kelley just laughed at me, saying no, she was just kidding.

So I raced through the traffic. "There they are!" Marilyn cried, and that was the last thing I heard her say for half an hour.

Rob was messing with the luggage, and Kelley was standing there, holding Romi. She looked so natural holding him, and he looked so tiny, so cute. He was beautiful, just absolutely adorable--so much so, I think they should consider changing his legal name to The Most Adorable Baby Romi Gludt.

I waited in the car momentarily, so Marilyn could get out and hug her daughter and new grandson. But she was so emotional, she couldn't even speak--she just stared at them. I rolled down her window so at least she could stare without the glass in the way.

And then I couldn't take it any more. "OK, Marilyn, if you're not getting out, I am!" I said, and popped out of the car. I hugged Kelley and the baby all at once. Then Marilyn got out, so I moved over and hugged Rob. "Congratulations, Daddy," I told him, and he smiled the biggest smile ever.

Marilyn was still quiet, overcome by it all. She couldn't even hold the baby. "I can't yet," she said. "My brain is still mush." Instead, she just stared at him lovingly, and at Kelley and Rob the same way.



Kelley and Rob were naturals with the baby. When he started fussing, Kelley ran off to buy bottled water. She handed Romi's baby bottle to the cashier, instructing her to "fill it to here with hot water," pointing precisely to the 2-ounce mark. She then added the formula mix and bottled water, shook it expertly, and handed it to Rob. Rob tilted it upward and fed Romi, who sat quietly in his daddy's arm, totally happy. It was so awesome to see.

Their friend Carrie arrived and the "He's so beautiful!" scenario repeated itself. The Gludts were hungry, so we packed everybody up and took them to lunch. "I don't want to see another noodle!" Kelley said, so Mark suggested every Asian restaurant and noodle dish he could think of.

Scott, Mari, their kids, and the dog met us at the restaurant. We set up three tables outside, and between the new parents, emotional grandma, excited friends, the dog, 4 kids, 1 toddler and very-tired infant, it was quite a scene. Everybody oohed and ahhed at the baby, and the Gludts fought their exhaustion valiantly (it was 2 a.m. for them, and they'd just travelled for 24 hours).

Then it was time to go. I hated returning them to the airport so soon, but they'll be back in two weeks. I knew they were exhausted and ready to start their new life at home with Romi. So I hugged them tight, said goodbye, and spent the rest of the day grinning like a fool.

And I know I wasn't the only one.

Things I've learned as a mom

I read lots of parenting books before I got Mark, books that stressed things kids really want and need (structure, discipline, love, etc.) to grow into healthy adults. I found those needs do exist, but with stipulations.

Here are a few examples of what kids need (from the parenting books) and how they twist those needs to their favor (from my real life experiences).

Kids need lots of love and affection
Just not in front of anyone else. Are you trying to kill them by embarrassment by hugging them in front of their friends? What kind of bad parent are you??

Kids need stability
Because it's no fun to aggravate parents who are already unstable.

Kids do listen to their parents
Unfortunately, only when you are gossiping about your crackhead neighbor, and not when you ask them to make the bed or feed the cats.

Kids do share
Again, never quite what you want them to. Mark will freely share my age with anybody and everybody, but try to share his dessert and you will lose a finger. He's also good at sharing colds, the flu, and other various sicknesses.

Kids love structure
This is true--if only because it gives them a chance to assert their independence, and rail against said structure. Mark's had the same bedtime for three years, and yet, not a night goes by that he doesn't try to stay up later.

Kids love discipline
Just not for themselves. They are like little self-appointed sheriffs in Kidstown, and love nothing more than reporting on and then watching every other kid being punished.

Kids will sleep when they're tired
Also true. Unfortunately, they don't use this skill wisely. Instead of being tired at the appropriate time--say, bedtime--Mark can easily fight off sleep until midnight when he wants to, and then sleep like the dead when it's time to wake up for school.

Kids will eat when they're hungry
Which never happens to coincide with mealtimes.

Kids learn to respect money when it's their own
Yeah, whoever said that definitely didn't have cable T.V. I can't tell you how many times Mark's saved his money up to buy a skateboard, only to forget about that skateboard when some infomercial mesmerizes him with glass bulbs that automatically water your plants for UP TO TWO WEEKS. The only money kids really respect is yours, because to them it is infinite, abundant, and created solely to buy them toys or Happy Meals.

Kids want to learn
But not about math or spelling. They really want to learn how far they can push you before you snap.

I always wanted a kid who was smart and funny. Which is exactly what I got--and why my mom always said to be careful what I wish for.

It's official, I give up

Note to all non-adoptive parents out there: Go hug your children right now, simply because they were born to you, thereby saving you untold hours arguing with stupid people working in government offices.

I don't know why I bother. It's like arguing with a brick wall, or talking politics with my younger brother. I always feel like if I'm earnest enough, if I'm charming or funny or intelligent enough, I can win people over from the Dark Side. But it never works.

Case in point: Government office workers.

I've waited 13 months now for Mark's birth certificate. The Office of Vital Records promised I'd have it by July, but then amended that to September or October, and more recently to maybe mid-January. In case you forgot, you need a birth certificate for things as important as getting a passport or signing up to play youth sports. (Seriously--AYSO and Little League require a birth certificate!) Oh yeah, and you also need it to apply for a new Social Security card.

As a child, you need a Social Security card for things such as opening a bank account, or receiving savings bonds from your grandparents. (As an adult, you need it for other reasons, but I'm jumping the gun here.)

So yesterday, I tried to get Mark a new Social Security card with his not-so-new-anymore last name on it. The Social Security web site lists what's required to get an adoptive child a new card:

EVIDENCE DOCUMENTS WE NEED TO SEE
Final Adoption Decree

Beautiful, I thought. I have that.

I dug the original decree out of its locked safety box, and brought it with me to work. If this doesn't scare you, then you obviously have not ever helped me search frantically for my keys or wallet. I do not take important papers from my house simply because I'll lose them. (I did make a photocopy first, but still...)

Armed with the original adoption decree and a completed application, I went to the Social Security office. The guard checked my papers, and gave me a number.

And then everything went to hell. I explained to the man at the window I needed a new card for Mark, and without ever looking at me, he stuck out his hand and said, "Birth certificate, please."
So I very nicely explained that I don't have his birth certificate yet. "I've been waiting for it over a year now," I told him.

Mean SS man, scoffing: "It doesn't take that long. Come back when you have it."

Me: "It does take that long--trust me, I call them every couple weeks asking about it. Look, here on the application, it says you can use the final adoption decree, so--"

Mean SS man, refusing to look down at the paper in my hand: "I can't do anything without a birth certificate."

I argued with him for a good five minutes, but he wouldn't look at any of my papers and simply refused to help me. I realized the armed guard was staring me down intently, so I finally just left.

Then I called the main Social Security phone number for clarification.

Me: "The application says all I need to get him a new card is the final adoption decree. Is that correct?"

Man on phone: "Did you bring in the original adoption decree?"

Me: "Yes."

Man on phone: "Then, ABSOLUTELY that's all you need!"

Me: "So I don't need a birth certificate? I can get my son a new card without it?"

Man on phone: "ABSOLUTELY!"

Me, vaguely hopeful: "So the guy at the office was wrong? What should I tell him when I go back, so that I can get this started without a birth certificate?"

Man on phone, screeching to a halt: "You went in to an office?"

Me: "Yes."

Man on phone: "And they said you need a birth certificate?"

Me: "Yes, but--"

Man on phone: "Then you absolutely need a birth certificate."

Me, confused by his abrupt change: "Wait," I said, "You just said that--"

Man on phone: "Anything we say on the phone or Web site is just a generalization. Whatever they say in the office is how it really works."

And with that, he was done. He offered to send some brochures, but since he'd just told me that office workers supersede any written word, I declined.

Mark was no closer to ever getting a bank account or passport, and there were two more government office workers who'd just made my hate list.

Fun with words

One great thing about kids is that you not only see them grow physically, you can also hear them grow intellectually.

Every day Mark tries out new words he's heard. Sometimes they make sense, in both pronunciation and context ("This shrimp tastes peculiar!") and sometimes they don't ("Oooh, I just got goosebumps on my flush!").

Yesterday, he brought me two new interesting words. The first was the name of something he bought at school. "Look, Mom," he called to me, "I got a new Smencil!"

"You got a new pencil?" I asked, a little confused.

"No," he said, "Not a pencil, a SMENCIL. It's a pencil that smells good!"

He showed me. The pencil was made of recycled newspapers, placed in a plastic tube. Mark uncorked it and thrust it at my nose.

He was right, it did smell good. Like grapes. Or rather, grape candy, since grapes don't really have much of a smell. I inhaled, and then Mark re-capped the tube.

"Don't wanna use it all up at once," he said protectively.

He liked his new Smencil so much, he even took it in to his drum lesson. He came out of the lesson juggling two drumsticks, a notebook and his Smencil.

"Can I help you?" I asked. He handed over the drumsticks and notebook, then opened the Smencil tube, took a quick whiff, and re-capped it. "It's so goooood!" he said.

We were meeting my friend Nicky for dinner. During the drive, Mark uncapped the tube and smelled his Smencil at least five more times.

When I couldn't take it any more, I told him to stop sniffing the pencil every three seconds, or I would take it away. He looked (and sounded) like some sort of addict taking quick hits from his clear little vial.

Which prompted Mark to share his second new vocabulary word with me.

"Mom," he said, "Sometimes you're a tyrant."

I almost crashed the car. This was definitely a bite-your-tongue, don't-laugh-out-loud moment.

"Oh, I am?" I replied, trying to remain very serious. "Do you know what 'tyrant' means?"

"Yes," Mark answered. "It means sometimes you're unfair, and kinda mean. You only do what you want to, and you don't listen to what anyone else has to say." When he realized that sounded kind of...not nice, he repeated, "Sometimes."

I was so proud and somewhat offended all at once--he knew the context of a new word (yay!), then used it to describe me in an unflattering way (boo!).

But I don't take things like that too seriously--truth be told, it kinda cracked me up. I thought this was a learning opportunity, rather than a get-really-defensive opportunity.

"You're right, that is what it means," I told him. "Good job! But if that's the true definition, don't you think you're kind of a tyrant sometimes, too?"

Mark was caught off guard by that one. "I'm not a tyrant!"

"Well," I reasoned, "You said that I'm mean, and only want to do things my way. Aren't you the same? Don't you always want me to do things your way? Don't you get mad when I won't?"

"True," he admitted.

"And don't you ignore me when I ask you multiple times to do something you don't want to do?"

He nodded. I could see him looking out the car window now--he wasn't quite sure how the conversation had turned against him.

"Well then," I told him cheerfully. "I guess we're both a couple of tyrants! Good thing we've got each other."

I could see him smile in the rear view mirror. But I knew he still thinking I was a bigger tyrant than he was.

I'm the mom--sometimes being a tyrant is part of the job. And I'm okay with that, as long as the child I'm lording my tyranny over can protest by using his really good vocabulary.

HOORAY!!!!

It's not often you hear news so great you simply can't stop smiling. But that's exactly the type of news I received this morning...

My friends Kelley and Rob got their baby, Romi, today! They have waited patiently, subsisting on the few pictures and videos their adoption agency sporadically sent them. But finally, this past weekend they packed their bags (and the baby's, too!) and traveled clear across the world. Today, in Taiwan, in a time zone far, far away, it all paid off. Today, for the first time ever, they held their baby son in their arms.


I wish I could write all sorts of wise, wonderful things about the journey that awaits them (I'm talking about the baby here, not the trip home!). But that's the beauty of becoming a parent--their path is shared, and similar, to other parents, and yet, at the same time, completely their own.

And so, instead of giving my own wordy advice, I simply say, "Hooray!!!"

Welcome to the family, Romi--we can't wait to meet you! And CONGRATULATIONS to your mom and dad, Kelley and Rob, two of my favorite people in the world.

And so the journey begins...

But where was the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown?

We made our annual trip to the pumpkin patch yesterday. Mark was very excited, not only to pick out a pumpkin but to ride the expensive rides and play the expensive carnival games.

(An aside: Where does all the money those rides generate go to? By the looks of it, not into ride maintenance, as they all creaked and whined, and looked generally unsafe. I can't believe I paid to put my kid on them!)

We arrived at the patch late in the afternoon, and it was PACKED. There were kids running around everywhere, closely followed by parents with cameras in hand, or draped around their necks. I realized we all had the same idea--to transform a holiday family tradition into a photo op. That's why we happily paid twice the amount grocery stores charge for pumpkins--it's all about the photos. You couldn't take two steps in any direction without ruining some poor dad's picture.

Mark rushed for the biggest pumpkins first. "I want one of these!" he proclaimed. He looked at me expectantly, and I rattled off Pumpkin Patch Rule #1: "If you can carry it, you can have it."

Bless his little heart, he actually tried. "GRRRRRRRR!" he groaned, straining to lift what was easily a 50-pound pumpkin. "OK, maybe not," he finally conceded.

There was an empty space between two big pumpkins, and Mark plopped down into it. He pulled himself into a fetal position, and said, "I'm a giant pumpkin, Mom--take my picture!"

"Smile!" I told him, aiming the camera.

"Pumpkins don't smile," he chastised me, and I answered back, "Jack-o-lanterns do."

"I'm not a jack-o-lantern yet," he said. "I'm just a giant pumpkin." And so he was:

We wandered over to the smaller pumpkins, all carefully lined up in neat rows. Rather than use the empty path between, Mark waded right into the pumpkins, stepping carefully between them and climbing over them.

He picked up a pumpkin and placed it on his arm, flexing it into a giant orange muscle. "I'm so STROOOOONG!" he told me, and I laughed.

Next, he scooped up an unbalanced pumpkin wobbling on its side. "Here's a good one, Mom!" he shouted to me.

"That is a good one," I agreed. "You think it will stand up straight enough to hold a candle?" Mark concluded it probably would not.

Next, he reached for a pumpkin without a stem. "How about this one?" he asked.

"It's nice and round, and will definitely hold a candle straight," I said. "Does it have enough stem to lift the top off?" He inspected the non-existent stem, and agreed it might be hard to do. (Who knew picking pumpkins provided so many lessons?)

At last, he found the perfect pumpkin: it was small enough for him to lift (but big enough for him to groan at its weight), round enough to stand straight, with enough stem to make a good top. He was happy.

Until I reminded him of the final rule: To take a pumpkin home, he had to give me a decent photo first. (Yes, I know I'm a mean mom--but if you saw the fake, cheesy smiles or the mad, frowning faces of years past, you'd know this was a fair trade.)

"Come on, Mom!" he complained, but I wouldn't relent. "No smile, no pumpkin," I told him firmly.

And so he posed. And smiled. A couple pictures were cheesy, but that's the beauty of digital cameras: I saw the results instantly, and took a few more shots.

Afterwards, we stashed the pumpkin on a haystack, and headed for the rides. Mark rode the cars, a giant inflatable slide, and what looked like twirling, flying bathtubs. He pounded the strong man game with a huge hammer, trying to ring the bell. He even won a little stuffed dog by tossing ping-pong balls into floating dishes. (The little cheater waited until the game lady wasn't watching--then he leaned as far over the railing as he could and dropped the balls easily into the dishes!)

We left the patch tired and happy, lugging a couple medium-sized pumpkins with us. Mark was very protective of his, telling me he was going to wash his when we got home, because "you never know if somebody sneezed on it, or maybe sat on it."

I couldn't argue with that...

Sometimes the cure hurts worse

I'm proud to say we walked 31 miles to help cure diabetes yesterday! (OK, it was actually only 3.1 miles, but it felt like 31.)

It was the American Diabetes Association's annual Step Out walk, a fundraiser for diabetes education. But when you're a little kid, that's kind of a broad concept.

"So we're raising money to cure diabetes?" Mark asked, and I nodded. He was cool with that.

My cousin Kathleen, ever the good sport, walked with us. We melted into the large crowd, which was very inspiring. People wore team shirts and memory stickers-- "I'm walking in memory of my mom" or "I'm walking for my daughter." There was a boy from Mark's school with his team--"Roman's Motley Crew"--all dressed in blue shirts. It was impressive to see how many middle schoolers (and even the school nurse!) he'd dragged out of bed early on a Saturday morning to join him.

We did a group stretch and headed for the starting line. They rang a bell, and we were off.

It was a gorgeous day--sunny, and warm. We walked along the ocean, taking in the beautiful views. You could only go as fast as the people surrounding you, so it was a nice, leisurely pace. Mark, ever the rebel, decided to walk just off the path, in the dirt next to us.

That was mile 1. It went pretty quickly, but soon, Mark slowed down a bit. I thought he was going to complain, but then he saw a water station. Talk about motivation! He bolted through the crowd, and grabbed a bottle of water--there's nothing that kid loves more than free stuff.

Unfortunately, even the water couldn't distract him for long. Ten minutes later I heard the words I'd been dreading for the first time.

"How much longer?" Mark asked.

"You're doing great, Mark!" I replied, cheerfully. "Isn't it great how many people are walking to cure diabetes?"

But he wasn't falling for it. He just growled.

Kathleen and I resumed our conversation, but it wasn't long before the next interruption.

"How much further?" asked Mr. Grumpy Pants. "This is boooooring..."

"Not much," I lied. I pointed to the ocean, and encouraged him to look for dolphins or seals. I reminded him how I saw a dolphin at this very spot and he responded--yes, again--with another growl.

Now he was walking 10 feet behind us, and grandmothers were passing us. Seriously! I'm not talking young, fit, first-time grandmas here--I'm talking older, stooped, white-haired grandmas, pushing frail, elderly grandpas in wheelchairs, followed by ADULT grandchildren!

I did my best to ignore Mark, silently pulling Kathleen to the side to wait whenever he got too far back. "Come on, buddy!" I called to him. "The faster you walk, the faster we'll find the cure!"

(Which yes, I'll admit, is a flat-out lie, but whatever. You motivate with whatever works!)

Only it wasn't working. We passed mile 2, and I called out, "Only 1 mile left! Keep going!" It didn't help at all. In fact, he started falling even further behind.

By mile 2.75, I was starting to drag a bit. I was getting hot, my shoe was rubbing a blister into my foot, and waiting every five minutes for Mark to catch up was wearing thin. Kathleen took over the inspiration baton--"Think how good it'll feel when we complete the whole thing!" she called out. "Come on, Mark, keep walking!"

By mile 3, Mark finally caught up to me, and grabbed my hand with his own sweaty little one. "How much looooonger?" he whined, tugging at me, and I automatically answered, "We're almost there..." Luckily, he saw the water station again, and raced for another free water, even though he was already clenching a half-full bottle.

Now walk volunteers were manning the route, clapping and cheering us on. "You're doing great!" they shouted, "It's almost over!"

Instead of inspiring me, their cheeriness irritated me. "Why are they so damn happy?" I asked, grumpily, and Kathleen (who was still chipper) answered, "Because they didn't walk anywhere!" I thought of our own cheerleading role at the marathon last week, and wondered how many walkers we'd irritated.

But in the end, we made it. I tried to challenge Mark--"Let's race to the finish!" I called, but he wasn't having it. Kathleen and I crossed the finish line to cheers and ringing cowbells, and Mark sauntered in after us. "You got beat by a couple of old ladies," I told him, but he just shrugged.

And so we did our part toward raising awareness and finding a cure for diabetes. Mark talks a lot about what will happen when they do find a cure. As for me--well, I just hope when they do find the cure, it doesn't turn out to be at the end of a 3.1 mile line. Because if it does, I know a certain little boy who really will have diabetes for the rest of his life!

Sometimes, it's just a numbers game

File under: Dumb little things that become serious big things for kids with diabetes...

Mark's substitute nurse called while I was waiting for my oil change. Which was odd, because it was half an hour past lunchtime, when I usually get calls.

She said she bolused Mark at lunchtime, but he just came in to say he didn't eat. Apparently, his Powerade juice pouch popped and ruined his lunch, so he didn't eat (instead, he played on the playground). He was bolused for those carbs--55 of 'em--but hadn't eaten any.

I did the math in my head, but the nurse beat me to it.

"He got the insulin 25 minutes ago--so what should I do?" she asked.

Fast-acting insulin works in 15 minutes--which meant his blood sugar was already dropping. If we didn't replace those carbs immediately, we could have a bad scene on our hands.

I thought quickly. "He's got raisins in his backpack for snack," I said. "That's 33 carbs. And he has extra snacks there with his diabetes supplies--give him a South Beach bar. That should almost cover it--and make sure he eats there in the office with you!" The nurse agreed, and went off in search of the food.

She called back 10 minutes later to report almost all the carbs had been replaced. Mark had a wonderful lunch of peanut butter crackers (16 carbs), a South Beach bar (15 carbs), a juice box (15 carbs) and two glucose tabs (8 carbs).

Healthy and nutritious lunch...eh, not so much. But sometimes, when the insulin is coursing through Mark and the clock is ticking, healthy doesn't matter as much as cramming for carbs and hitting that magic number.

And have I mentioned lately THANK GOD for school nurses???

Skip-a-dee-doo-dah, skip-a-dee-ay

I saw the sweetest thing today while walking Mark to school.

A dad ahead of us was also walking his son to school. They were a contrast in size: dad was very tall, and lanky, while his son was...well, tiny. He was just a little bitty guy, a brand-new kindergartner. The dad wore a baseball cap, and his son's backpack carelessly slung over his own shoulder.

They were holding hands, just walking along. Suddenly Dad let go, threw his knee up into the air and leapt forward, slowly, in what looked like an impression of Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. He repeated with the other knee: up into the air, slowly followed by another gargantuan step forward. I realized he was skipping, and that his little boy was watching intently.

After a few forward steps, Dad turned back to the boy, who shrugged, and sent his own small legs into the air. Where his dad had taken one giant step, the boy took seven smaller ones. Somehow, he ended up moving sideways and stopped. His head fell, obviously dejected that he couldn't skip as well as his dad.

The dad bent toward him, said something encouraging, and started over again. He was so tall, his long legs flew awkwardly, but he didn't care. He just skipped off in long strides, his baseball cap and backpack bouncing along, looking like a giant kid. His son kicked up his legs, and skipped after him.

I don't know why it moved me so much, but it did. It was parenting at its best: not showy or pretentious, just quiet, and heartwarming. It was a father teaching his young son a skill the rest of us take for granted. I mean, I can't even remember when or how I ever learned to skip; I just always recall being able to.

But I'll certainly remember the day that little boy ahead of me learned, and what a sweet lesson that was.

Now I'm in trouble

The abandoned kittens from next door have grown, except for Houdini, who remains quite petite. Now, he appears at our kitchen door every night after dinner, where he sits, looking very cute and sweet.

I want to rescue him or chase him away or something, but he's still a little skittish. He hisses a bit if I surprise him, but he's so little, it sounds more like a half-hearted whisper. He's not quite wild anymore, but certainly not quite tame, either.

His two siblings also appear occasionally. We've named the black-and-white cat "The Meanie," because he's much bigger, and refuses to share the handful of dry food we toss outside. (We haven't named the other one, because its mean, and rarely comes over.) So now, Houdini and the Meanie appear nightly, waiting for a free meal. And when they stare through the door with their big eyes, it's hard to refuse.

They're making a mess of my yard, and I worry they'll start having their own kittens soon. But every time I think of trapping them, Houdini appears at the door, and this is what I see:


Sigh. I don't like having stray cats living next door, but how can I be mean to that sweet little face???

Body snatchers got my kid

Disclaimer: Please excuse the plethora of exclamation marks in today's entry. It's not often that any--let alone ALL--of these events occur, and I couldn't help myself.

I'm not sure exactly when, but sometime yesterday, aliens abducted my kid.

How do I know? Because my son usually comes home from school hungry and cranky. This new kid was not only happy, he actually brought in the trashcans without complaining, then helped me prepare dinner.

He fed the cats, asking just once for help. "Mom, can you open it for me?" he said, handing over this can:

He was all smiles and love when I saw his message, very proud of himself.

It went on this morning as well. A happy, laughing little boy jumped into bed and woke me up. That same boy was completely dressed and ready to go when I got out of the shower--not only was his bed made, he was eagerly making my bed!

And then we walked to school--together! He was not dragging 10 steps behind me, or running 15 ahead, like he usually does--he actually walked next to me, like respectable folks, carrying on a conversation.

I couldn't get over it all. He started skipping away once we hit the edge of the school, and I decided to push my luck.

"Bye, Mark!" I shouted to him, and suddenly, the skipping stopped. Now comes the grumpy part, I thought to myself, waiting for him to turn around and scowl at me.

Instead, he turned around, skipped back, and hugged me--in public! As other kids were walking past! And smiled! All this, from the boy who hates to acknowledge he even has a mother in front of his classmates--this boy smiled and very publicly embraced me.

And with that, he was gone. He skipped off to class, waving, and shouted, "Bye, Mom!" Then I picked myself up off the ground, and headed home, smiling the whole way.

I'm not sure when the aliens will return the real Mark, but I hope to keep this easygoing Mark at least a few more days.

Tie one on

Today is Picture Day at Mark's school, which thrilled him because the principal proclaimed it a uniform-free day.

Uniform-free is code for "impending argument" at our house. To Mark, it means wearing whatever ratty t-shirt is his favorite this week (especially if it will be immortalized in a school photo). To me, it means carefully presenting other wardrobe options in such a way that Mark believes he thought of it himself.

"I'm wearing my Tony Hawk t-shirt!" he told me last night. "With my shorts." Both of these were part of last month's melted crayon/dryer experiment.

Before he could get any farther, I laid down the Picture Day rules. "No t-shirts or shorts," I said. "Your shirt must have a collar. But you can wear jeans."

He thought about it for a minute. "OK," he answered. "I'll wear my blue shirt."

I bit my lip. He voluntarily chose a blue button-down dress shirt? Could I really be so lucky?

I shrugged it off, answering casually, "Fine, if you want to." I did my best not to betray my giddiness.

The jeans were a little bit tougher. He refused to wear any, because they were "dumb." (No, I don't know what qualifies them as such, other than Mark declaring them so.) I found a pair of jeans handed down from Gillen, and he approved.

"Looks good," I said. He thought for a moment, and said, "Mr. Robinson said to dress like we're going to church." I thought, Uh-oh, now we're in trouble--he has no idea what that looks like!

Turns out, he did. We only go to church on Christmas Eve and Easter, and he associated both with a suit. "Can I wear my tie?" he asked. Keeping with the church theme, I almost answered, "Does the Pope wear a funny hat?" but realized he wouldn't know.

So I said, "Yes," and added, "Put it in your backpack when you take it off." We read a story about Pecos Bill last night, and how he turned a rattlesnake into a whip. I could just picture Mark whipping his tie around in a similar fashion.

I have no idea how to tie a tie, but luckily, it was already knotted, courtesy of my brother, Tim. He'd helped Mark with his blue tie at my grandfather's funeral. When Mark took it off, I left it loosely knotted, so he could slip it over his head and tighten the knot.

Unfortunately, Mark tried to put it on himself this morning, and unknotted it. I had no idea how to fix it. "But I want to wear it," he whined, when I suggested leaving it home.

I thought quickly. I knew there were instructions in his Dangerous Book for Boys, but we didn't have time to rummage through his messy bookcase.

"Mr. Robinson can tie it for you," I told Mark, grateful he had a male teacher. So we marched to school, tie in hand.

But Mr. Robinson wasn't in his room when we got there, and for that, I was more than a little relieved. I saved myself the embarrassment of explaining to him (in person) that I was a completely clueless mom, whose ineptitude will doom my son to a lifetime of dressing inappropriately casual at important functions (unless his uncles are there).

Or worse, wearing dress shirts and a Cub Scouts neckerchief, which uses a metal slide to hold it in place. Because that's so much easier than tying a tie--even I can figure out that one!

Life support

Mark and I spend lots of time discussing family and friends. I'm always telling him how lucky we are to have so much love and support around us, and how important it is that we, in turn, reciprocate. But he's 8, and doesn't always grasp that concept.

This weekend was a fine example. We had a birthday barbecue for my brother Scott, and spent Saturday shopping for food. Mark didn't care much about steaks or chicken, and I reminded him that this weekend was about Uncle Scott, not about Mark.

But when it came to the cake, Mark was quite supportive. He was downright enthusiastic, but for all the wrong reasons.

"Let's get Uncle Scott a Spider-Man cake!" he shouted excitedly.

Cue Teachable Moment, number 5,676. "Yes, that does look good," I agreed. "But does Uncle Scott really like Spider-Man? Or do you like Spider-Man?"

"I like Spider-Man!" Mark answered, happily.

"And is it your birthday, or Uncle Scott's?"

"Uncle Scott's," he answered. "Oh, that reminds me. For my birthday, I want a--"

I held up my hand to stop him. "Your birthday's not until February. We're talking about Uncle Scott's birthday. Now pick out a cake he would like."

And so we settled on a chocolate cake. Which prompted Mark to grab some Scooby-Doo cake top decorations. I stared at him intensely, willing him to read my mind.

"Oh, wait a minute...Uncle Scott doesn't like Scooby-Doo, I do," Mark said, responding to my Jedi mind trick. I thought, Good boy! Now we're getting somewhere. Which meant losing the Scooby-Doo stuff and choosing beer can shaped candles instead, which did sound more like Uncle Scott (and were a big hit!).

Sunday morning gave us another opportunity to show support. Vicki and Randi walked their first half-marathon ever, and we went to cheer them on. Monica and I stood by the course, scanning the crowd of walkers for them. Edra and Sal waited patiently by the curb. Mark, ever the charming little man, was bored and not afraid to let us know. He pledged his support in a completely different way, which looked like this:

I didn't let it bother me. "You don't have to be happy now," I warned. "But I better see some excitement when we see Vic and Randi!"

And then, suddenly, they appeared. "There they are!" Monica shouted, and we started cheering. They smiled, waved, and kept on walking.

I was so proud of them, and brought my camera to capture the happy moment. Here's what it looked like:

For the record, yes, Mark did stand and cheer when they walked past. Yes, Uncle Scott loved the beer-shaped candles. And yes, I deemed Teachable Moment 5,676 a success--at least until the next birthday celebration, or Teachable Moment 5,677, whichever comes first.

525,600 minutes

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?"
----"Seasons of Love" lyrics from the musical Rent

Today is our official Adoption Day--exactly one year ago today, Mark and I (and our family and friends!) sat nervously in the Children's Court and listened to a judge finalize our adoption.

It was the legal beginning of our lives as parent and child, and the happiest day of my life. But not for the reason it should've been...

I'd always imagined adoption day would be joyful and proud because I officially became a mother. But honestly, it felt more like...well, not the end, really, but the sense of closure was much stronger than anything else. The biggest benefit to the adoption was the state now recognized me as Mark's legal mother, instead of treating me like a glorified babysitter with no legal say in Mark's care.

The thing is, I'd already had Mark for two years. I'd struggled, learning what it really meant to be a mother, and a single one at that. It was so much more than making sure he had clean clothes, hot meals, and a band-aid when he cut himself.

I struggled with Mark's diabetes--how to manage it, how to recognize Mark's high and low blood sugars, how to feed him and when. As a single person, I slept all night long without a care in the world. As a new mom, night time became the scariest time in my life--would Mark go low while I slept obliviously? I woke often at night to test and correct him, and placed a baby monitor in his room and mine. But even that wasn't enough--I spent lots of time standing in his doorway, watching him sleep, making sure he was still breathing.

I struggled with Mark as an angry little boy. He hadn't been told anything prior to moving in with me, and what he knew made him mad. He was shuffled between families (birth, foster, and the newest family, me), ordered to visitations by a court that knew nothing about him or his best interests. He was interrogated by the many, many, many social workers, lawyers, and other child advocates required to visit him, all asking the same questions. He had no sense of control, with his old life or this crazy new one, and it drove him nuts. He was five years old, and acted out accordingly, with tantrums, and fits of rage. I can't say that I blame him.

But we got over it all. Slowly, we learned to navigate his diabetes together. He learned to communicate instead of raging, and to trust that I wasn't going anywhere. He learned to adapt to a new home, a new school, a new mom, and a big, extended family. I learned that my family and friends exceeded all of my expectations of love, that they were giving and supportive beyond belief, and without expecting anything in return. Their love and support got me through the toughest times in my life.

I learned patience, with a scared little boy and with a messed-up, red-tape bureaucratic system that functioned solely to complicate my life and drag out the whole adoption process (that's what it felt like). I learned to trust that while social workers didn't always bring good news (another birth mother appeal granted--again??), they fought for us again and again, as overworked and underpaid as they were. I learned that they didn't like filling out all the reams of paperwork any more than I did, and yet, they never complained.

I learned to function sleep-deprived, and Mark learned to ignore me when I was cranky and tired. I learned that beneath all that fear and anger was a happy, sweet, funny little boy who smiled easily, laughed loudly, and loved freely. He learned that there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for him, and I learned that I could love someone, little as he was, more than I ever imagined.

And that was where we were at a year ago today, arriving at the judge's chambers. We'd settled into our lives, and when the judge proclaimed us a forever family, it was only a formality. It was just the official stamp on the paper. Because I hugged Mark tightly, and as I watched my family and friends do the same, I knew that no matter what the date on the adoption certificate, we'd been family since that very first day.

So, happy Adoption Day, Mark. I'm proud to be your mom, and I love you.

May the snacks be with you

Yesterday, I spent my lunch hour--yes, the whole hour--shopping for afterschool snacks. This seems like a pretty easy task, until you factor in Mark's diabetes.

Then, choosing snacks becomes a complicated math problem. I add up the various factors to get my final result (healthy + low-carb + no refrigeration - refined flour + will he eat it = good snack). Fresh fruit's out of the question because Mark tosses his backpack around like a football, and by snack time, he's left with bruised, brown fruit he refuses to eat. Nuts are a really good snack--low-carb, full of fiber, healthy, but there's a kid in afterschool care with a peanut allergy, so I've eliminated things Mark loves--peanut butter crackers, granola bars, trail mix--that contain peanuts. That put a big dent in my snack répertoire.

So now browsing the snack aisle takes a good hour. I pick boxes carefully, examining the contents. Oooh, goldfish crackers--until I remember how high they send Mark. Granola bars and bites, an old standby--until I read the label, which says they may contain peanuts. Raisins--maybe. A fruit, and he might eat them. Excitedly, I put two boxes in my cart, and then realize I'm getting ahead of myself. He's 8--I may convince him to eat one package of raisins, but two is pushing it.

Cookies and chips--no. I don't mind the occasional treat, but I'm not sending them as a snack everyday. Likewise (fake) yogurt-covered anything, or rolled/gummy fruit snacks masquerading as dried fruit, but are really just gelatinous-shaped sugar bombs. Pretzels are an excellent choice--except that Mark hates them. South Beach bars and Scooby Snacks (little dog-bone shaped graham crackers) were good, but he ate so many, he burnt out on them. Yesterday I sent graham crackers, which came back uneaten, in a thousand crumbled pieces.

Last week, I thought I'd found the perfect snack--Sun Chips. They're full of multi grains, somewhat healthy, and labelled as chips, so Mark thought he was getting a treat. And he was, too, until he came home three days in a row with a blood sugar of almost 300, and another at 375. (His target range is between 70-150.) That officially ended our Sun Chips experiment, at least at school.

I eventually found enough semi-healthy, moderately low carb, yummy snacks I think Mark might eat, including:

• Popcorn
• Pudding cups
• Special K bars
• Raisins
• Teddy Grahams
• Granola bites (not the peanut butter ones)
• Crackers with cheese in the middle
• Chewy granola bars (not the peanut butter ones)

The crackers will send him high, and the granola bars MAY contain traces of peanuts, but I was tired of reading labels. Mark can suffer through the crackers in lieu of something tried and true, but boring, like Scooby Snacks. I'll warn the teachers of the granola bars--Mark can eat them outside and wash his hands afterwards. (The label says they may contain traces of peanuts.) Hopefully, he won't get close enough to the allergic kid to send him into anaphalactic shock.

I'm not complaining...things were a lot harder when Mark was on shots, and could only eat snacks under 15 grams of carbs. And he had to eat, whether he was hungry or not, or else the long-acting insulin would send him low. And he couldn't eat more, or he'd need a shot, which the afterschool counselors didn't feel comfortable giving him. Now, with the pump, it doesn't matter if he eats 15 carbs or 35 carbs, it's all one bolus. And he can work the pump himself (with adult supervision), which makes the adults less nervous than the needles did.

Anyway...this is what fills my head nowadays. Snacks that won't kill my kid, or any other kids. Carb counts. Insulin to carb ratios. Basal rates that change every couple hours, and are completely useless if Mark plays too hard or gets sick. And how to figure all that out silently, in my head, so that Mark doesn't have to worry about it, and can focus on being just like all the other kids.

So keep that in mind that the next time it seems like I'm not listening to you...I'm not being rude, I'm just worrying about how high those little cheese crackers will send Mark, or if I gave him a snack with enough protein to keep him from dropping low out on the playground!

Aye, chihuahua!

Went to the movies this weekend to see Beverly Hills Chihuahua. Yes, seriously...

My cousin Kathleen suggested we go the El Capitan theatre in Hollywood. It's a beautifully restored old theatre, owned by Disney, and features a show before the movie.

The ticket price included reserved seats, a bucket of popcorn and a soda. Mark had just finished lunch, and complained about how stuffed he was. "I don't want any popcorn," he groaned.

"Then don't eat it," I said. "Take it, but don't eat it." I knew if he didn't take it, he'd moan about extreme hunger when the movie started.

We got our drinks, and Mark reminded me for the fifth time that he didn't want any popcorn. I ignored him, and headed for our seats, where Mark immediately dug into his popcorn. "I don't want popcorn," Kathleen mimicked, and we both cracked up. He ate half the bucket in about five minutes.

A man onstage played a gold organ, serenading us with Disney tunes. We sang along until he finished the last song, turned to wave at the audience, and then slowly disappeared, organ and all, through the stage floor.

A woman came dancing on stage, leading the crowd into a rousing song that consisted entirely of the word "Chihuahua!" ("I could do this all day long," I told Kathleen, after yelling "Chihuahua" for the hundredth time.) The lady posed a a few trivia questions, all with the same answer--you guessed it, chihuahua. We suffered though a group of little kids answering dog-related trivia, and then sang another round of the chihuahua song.

I looked over at Mark, who was eating his popcorn out of his bucket like a dog. "What are you doing?" I asked, and he answered, "Woof." Then he dipped his head back into the bucket.

"Are you eating like a dog?" I asked, and he answered, once again, "Woof." He was getting into the whole dog theme.

Then it was time for the big event. Two little dogs bounded onto the stage, and the crowd went wild. It was Papi and Chloe, the movie's stars. (The kid behind me screamed, "Papi!" and I wondered how she knew his name--I mean, the movie just opened yesterday!)

Papi and Chloe's trainer also came onstage, and described how he taught the dogs to become actors. It was pretty funny--Chloe, a little white Chihuahua, didn't want to do any tricks, she just wanted to eat the treats.

The show ended with a bang, literally, as confetti rained down from the balconies. It was quite an event. (Quick movie review--I give it two paws up. Not a movie I'd have seen before Mark, but it was funny, as far as talking animal movies go, and the dogs were cute. Plus, it didn't suffer from the biggest problem in Disney shows--obnoxious, smart-mouthed kids sassing their parents.)

Afterwards, we strolled along Hollywood Blvd., taking in all the weird sights. Only in L.A. would you see a swarm of paparazzi stalking a famous person, or a giant Elmo wandering into McDonald's. I wanted to look at the stars in the sidewalk, but the stuff around me was more interesting--people dressed up in crazy, dingy costumes, conning tourists into taking pictures with them for money. It was very surreal, and a little freaky for Mark. "I don't like that Yoda," he said, after being approached aggressively, and I didn't blame him.

Sunday, we celebrated Kathleen's birthday with a barbecue at our house. That was also a fun day, filled with my favorite things--good food, good friends, good family. The weather was nice and sunny, the company was good, and there were enough desserts to officially deem it a buffet. I made my first potato salad ever, with Kathleen's help and extraordinary patience. (I saw worry flash across her face when I tasted it, and asked, "Is potato salad supposed to be crunchy?" After microwaving and re-boiling the undercooked potatoes, it turned out okay.)

So there you have it...chihuahuas, birthdays, and crunchy potato salad--just a few of the things that make up a good weekend!

Baby, I'm a Star

Mark's class has a web site for homework assignments and upcoming events. Today, while scrolling through the site, I saw this:

That's right, star of the week! Not as good as a bumper sticker for my car, but let's be honest--I probably wouldn't put the sticker on my car, anyway. ;-)

Every kid gets to be Star of the Week. It's a combination show-and-tell and get-to-know-me activity. The kids display family photos and other favorite items. The class views them all week, and today, Mark answers questions about them. Let's just say I'm more than a little frightened at what he'll say.

He waded through a huge stack of pictures last weekend, picking out his favorites. Some were predictable--the cats, Mark lassoing me, Mark wrestling with Uncle Brad. Some were not--the picture of his baby cousin Johnny, in a SWAT uniform. ("Do you really think the kids will believe he's a police officer?" I asked. He nodded.)

He picked out his favorite toys--Legos, a light saber, a giant 1st place soccer trophy he insisted on carrying to school himself. He picked an ink pen that looked exactly like his old insulin pen, and said, "I'm gonna ask the kids who wants a shot!" He cracked himself up with that.

We decorated the board with all of it. I taped up family photos, reminding him where they were taken. We added pictures of panthers ("because I like animals"), and Pokémon cards. There were soccer team and camp photos. There were playing cards (he loves games) and mini Star Wars posters, which prompted him to start waving the light saber around menacingly. ("For show only," I reminded him, "for show only.") The board and display looked good.

"What do you think?" I asked when we'd finished. "Looks like you have a pretty fun life!"

"Because I do," he answered. And then he frowned, obviously unhappy about something.

"I should have brought a stuffed animal," he said, and I smiled. That's what I love about this kid. He brought in all his tough guy stuff, and also his animals/pet stuff. I love that he wants to show off both his light saber and his stuffed animals.

I'm sure he'll answer most questions today with "I don't know" or "I don't remember" or maybe even make up the answers (I wouldn't put it past him). But watching him with his favorite things on display--it made me happy. I felt a rush of love for this little boy, proud that he enjoys his life so much, and loves all the people in it. He's brought so much into my life, and made it so much better.

And when I looked at that board, and that boy, I realized that my life is pretty great, too.

Hocus pocus

I'm happy to report that we went to a magic show at Mark's school last night.

Happy mostly because it meant Mark finished his math homework, a condition to our attendance. He was furiously scribbling on his worksheet with an orange pencil when I arrived, surrounded by a crowd of wide-eyed children holding their breath, watching him race the clock.

As I walked across the room, Mark yelled out, "I'm almost done!" and the kids all whipped their heads around to look at me. Obviously, he'd relayed the dire consequences, because as I approached the table, a little boy told me solemnly, "I did my homework, and I'm going to the magic show tonight."

"Good job," I told him. "I hope we're going, too!"

I said that because "I'm almost done" means either a) Mark really has four pages of homework left, or b) he actually is almost done. I can't tell which until I look over the pages, and I guarantee that Mark will be equally indignant that I dare to question either option. That's what happened Monday night.

"How many pages did you do today?" I asked him Monday, on the way home.

"I'm almost done!" he told me, happily.

But when I checked, he'd only completed two pages. "You still have nine pages left," I told him. "That's not even CLOSE!"

"Yeah, I did two pages," he repeated, like I was an idiot. "That's what I said, I'm almost done!"

And so we had our own math lesson, wherein I explained that 11 - 2 = 9, and 9 / 2 = 4.5. "You must do five pages tomorrow and four pages Wednesday. Can you do that?" I asked.

He snorted. "I can do that, easy! I can do it with my eyes closed!"

I glanced at the two pages, which looked like that's how he'd done it. "OK, but please do it with your eyes open," I said. I was afraid the only part of the conversation he'd remember was the eyes closed part.

Luckily, when I arrived today, he really was almost done. He had one row of problems left, and since I was 15 minutes early, I let him finish.

I'm glad I did, because the magic show was really fun. Families piled onto the lawn, enjoying their pre-show picnic dinners. The kids danced around and asked, over and over again, "When's the show gonna start?" Without fail, every parent answered the same: "As soon as you finish your dinner!"

The magician put on a great show. We watched in amazement as he chopped off a little girl's hand, which she displayed, intact, moments later. He made another kid levitate, then pulled his own two children out of an empty box. He even turned the school principal into a bunny rabbit, which made the kids scream excitedly. They screamed even louder when the principal reappeared, nibbling on a carrot.

So I'm glad Mark finished his homework. It was a fun evening out there on the lawn, munching popcorn and laughing at lame magician jokes.

I even imagined myself as a magician for a few minutes. Dressed in black clothes and a sparkly vest, I moved easily across the stage, as the smoke machines spewed puffy clouds dramatically.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, for my final trick!" I'd wave my wand toward Mark, and say, "On the count of three, my trusty assistant will make his finished homework appear!"

We'd all count to three and POOF! Mark would pull his completed spelling words and sentences from his backpack. The crowd would burst into applause, and I would bow gracefully. I'd thank the cheering crowd, and my assistant, and we'd exit stage right, before the raucous clapping stopped.

Hey, c'mon, a mom can dream...