Next up: Stealing candy from babies

My mom's friends is battling cancer, and yesterday was her chemo day. Since she's only an hour away, my mom packed up Mark and drove out to keep her friend company.

When they arrived at the oncology center, they found a veritable junk food feast. There were cupcakes, cookies, sugary popcorn, and bowls of candy everywhere, presumably to encourage patients to eat. But it wasn't the patients my mom worried about -- she was more concerned with Mark.

Saying Mark has a sweet tooth is like saying lions are carnivores. It's not whether or not they like meat, it's about how much meat they can consume in the shortest time possible. Mark's the same when it comes to anything sugary.

My mom said Mark's blood sugar was super high at lunch (425 -- it should be between 70-150). I wasn't surprised; driving and sitting still all day makes Mark high, especially since he's usually so active.

"It wasn't that," she said. "We just undercounted the carbs on the kettle corn."

Then she said, "I have to tell you a really funny story..."

Apparently, my mom opened her lunch cooler. She put something inside so that it wouldn't melt, and Mark said, "Oh, I don't want this to melt, either." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a huge handful of candy bars!

Before she could ask where he got them, he said, "Wait, I'm not finished yet," and pulled a handful out of his other pocket!

"Where'd you get all that candy?" she asked.

"From the bowls," he answered.

She looked at all the candy he took, and said, "You took candy away from cancer patients?" she asked.

Mark shrugged and said, "Yeah, so?" He didn't see what the big deal was.

I'm telling you, that kid has no shame! Mark would steal candy from a baby or a little old person if it meant he got chocolate; he had no remorse taking it away from cancer patients. (He's not alone; my chocolate-loving dad would help him.)

Mark heard me laughing, and came into the kitchen. He smiled brightly, and reached for a pack of M&Ms until I stopped him.

"Seriously?" I asked him. "You took those from cancer patients?"

He shrugged again. Then his smile suddenly disappeared, and he said accusingly, "Hey, Grandma, you forgot to give me my cookies at lunch time!"

I kicked him out of the kitchen. "You had kettle corn and candy bars," I said. "Trust me, you got more than enough treats!"

Man, sometimes I can't believe that kid! :-)

Abducted by aliens

Summer camp ended last week, and there's a two-week gap until school starts. So what to do with the kid during that gap? You guessed it, call in my mom -- Super Grandma!

Yes, she gets superhero status. She's earned it -- not only is she a babysitter extraordinaire, she's also a bit hyperactive. She simply can't sit still. Which is awesome for me, with my sorely-lacking domestic and organizational skills. Within an hour of arriving, she'd already straightened out the contents of my kitchen cabinets, and was eyeing the plants in the backyard. I knew they'd succumb to her pruning and clipping soon enough.

Mark was also thrilled about Grandma's visit. He loves her visits, at least half the time (the half when she's giving him cookies, taking him on long scooter rides, and letting him watch T.V.). The other half he tolerates, just barely, gritting his teeth and groaning at all the chores she gives him. I love watching it -- she gives him a task, and where he'd sass me for similar orders, he simply bites his tongue and completes it. He knows better than to talk back to Grandma -- as he told me once when he was 5, "Grandma doesn't take any crap!"

The afternoon she arrived, Mark sauntered into the office, complaining he was bored, which meant Grandma was watching what she wanted to on T.V., and not the Disney Channel. I suggested that if he was so bored, he could water the plants in the backyard. He balked at first, until he realized it wasn't really a suggestion. I warned my mom he'd be spraying the hose all over the backyard shortly.

Next thing I know, Mark appeared in the office, asking for an old towel.

"Why do you need a towel?" I asked, confused.

"To dry off the windows," he answered glumly. Apparently Grandma thought "watering the backyard" meant plants only, not windows.

I gave him a towel.

Soon enough, he returned with another request.

"Grandma needs a hammer," he said.

This alarmed me. "Why?" I asked, worried. I hurried outside to investigate.

Turns out Mark watering the backyard turned into Mark watering the windows, which turned into Mark drying, then cleaning the windows under Grandma's supervision. My mom took down some screens and couldn't put them back in; hence, she wanted to hammer them back in.

I ordered them both back inside before they broke my windows or anything else. Mark hadn't learned his lesson, and proclaimed he was still bored. But he took one look at Grandma, ready to assign him another task, and quickly corrected himself.

"I mean, I'm not that bored. I'm not bored at all," he clarified. "I'm gonna go play in my room."

I smiled, pleased with his Grandma's positive influence. And the influence has continued -- today, Mark was up, dressed and fed when I awoke, and his bed was neatly made. He was sweet, happy and charming, not part of his usual morning ritual.

"Who is this kid?" I asked my mom, shocked.

"I don't know," she answered. "I think Mark was abducted by aliens."

I smiled and said, "Well, I'm glad they left such a well-mannered kid in his place."

I'm really gonna enjoy the next couple weeks...

He's no David Beckham

Mark was really excited to start soccer last week. But I've realized he's more excited about the social aspect than the competitive aspect. He'd rather goof around during practice than actually scrimmage.

He did really well at the first practice, but he was burnt out by the second one. While the other boys aggressively raced toward the ball, Mark casually jogged behind. When the other boys crashed into each other in a mob of kicking legs and flailing arms, Mark stood back a safe distance.

He's more wily than athletic. When a kid from the other team threw in the ball, Mark yelled "Over here!" to confuse him. It worked, and Mark kicked the ball into the goal. It was such a successful move, he's tried it at each subsequent practice, though the other kids are on to him now.

But what Mark hates the most is the running. He's a good runner, and fast. He hates to continuously run up and down the field, back and forth, chasing the ball over and over again (even when I explained, "Um, that's how you play soccer!"). He said he'd rather play baseball because, "you only have to run a little bit -- just a few short sprints every once in a while."

During last night's water break, I gave him some friendly advice.

"Get in there and get the ball!" I said. "Stop goofing around and hustle."

He shrugged and gulped his water down.

"Do you see the other guys running?" I asked. "They're really hustling. You need to hustle, too."

He shook his head and told me, "But I'm not that type of guy."

"What type of guy?" I asked. "The kind who hustles?"

"Yeah," he answered. Then he dropped his water bottle, called out "Bye!" and meandered slowly over to his team.

Because apparently, that's the kind of guy he is...

This apple didn't fall far from the tree

This weekend was my mom's birthday, so Mark and I traveled south to help her celebrate.

Before we left, my oldest brother Scott asked if I own a chainsaw, which I answered with a hearty guffaw.

"Aren't chainsaws power tools? And really sharp?" I asked, and he agreed that they are.

"Couldn't I really hurt myself with one?" I also asked, and again, he agreed.

"Then NO! I don't have a chainsaw you can borrow," I answered. (Anybody who knows how klutzy I am and how much damage I've done with a weed wacker, sharp garden tools or any other kind of tools knows just how laughable this whole scenario was.)

But apparently my brother Smed has one. I agreed to bring it down only after Scott assured me he has medical insurance.

So we stopped at Smed's house long enough to pick it up. We were only there a few minutes, which made my 2-year-old nephew Johnny mad. He loves Mark, and was not happy with the short visit. He was so mad that he yelled, "I go with Mark!" and ran out to our car in his pajamas.

"I'll take him if you want," I told his mom, but Brandy shook her head. Smed, on the other hand, yelled, "Johnny, come back! You need an overnight bag if you're going with Mark!"

So we left with one chainsaw but no Johnny. Along the way, I called my brother Tim. My nephew Nick answered the phone, and I asked how his birthday slumber party went last week. He said it went well until one of the kids went home crying.

"Why was he crying?" I asked.

"Well, a giant gorilla tried to kidnap him," Nick explained. When I yelped, "What??" he elaborated.

"My dad told the kids the circus was in town, and that a gorilla escaped," Nick started. "Then his friend came over that night dressed like a gorilla, to kidnap a kid."

I was laughing so hard, I almost crashed the car. I could totally picture the kids screaming inside the tent as a giant gorilla grunted and chased them.

"Who'd he kidnap?" I asked, when I finally caught my breath again.

"Oh, he didn't kidnap anyone after that kid started crying," Nick said. "Oh yeah, and Dad took us out to toilet paper a house, too!"

Sometimes I wonder who's really in charge at that house...

We got to San Diego just in time for lunch. Mary grabbed Mark, plus her three kids, and went to pick up pizzas, and I enjoyed the quiet solitude. For all of about two minutes, until one of the neighbor kids walked into the living room and asked where everybody went. I realized my parents hadn't just gained three new resident grandkids, but the two neighbor kids as well!

The kids swam, screamed and splashed all afternoon. It sounded like summer camp with all that ruckus. I don't know how people handle six kids of their own, especially six wild ones like these!

By late afternoon (aka Happy Hour), we were back down to four kids. Mary brought out appetizers, and my mom brought a celebratory bottle of wine. We dug into both.

I'm not sure how it came up, but somebody mentioned there's a lucky day next month -- 09/09/09. Which prompted my Dad to ask, "Who knows what happened on 11/11?"

I was on my second beer, and had no idea.

"Arma--" he started, and I yelled, "Armageddon!"

"Armistice," he corrected me. Mark began to ask what the Armistice was, and I said, "Don't do it, Mark! Don't ask! You will get a long lecture all about the Armistice!"

Then I said I liked my answer better anyway.

"What's Armageddon?" Mark asked, and I answered, "Glad you asked -- cuz Armageddon myself another beer!"

I really cracked myself up, and I couldn't stop snickering at that lame joke. My mom laughed along, too, but finally told my dad not to encourage me.

"Fine," I answered. "Then Armageddon myself another mom!" I used that joke in five or six other sentences, and laughed just as hard each time. Finally, my niece Gabi smacked me and said it wasn't funny at all.

We enjoyed an awesome dinner, courtesy of Chefs Scott and Mary. They outdid themselves with an amazing chicken Marsala.

The celebration ended well past dark, and by the time I went to bed, I was tired but happy. I talked to or saw all my family members this weekend, which is a pretty big feat considering how big our clan is.

Not to get all sappy or sentimental, but it really was a great reminder of what's important in life. And it was fun to see that even as the years pass by, my family stays exactly the same. Sure, we have a new generation, but they have the same demented sense of humor as the two generations before them.

Which is both comforting and disturbing, all at once!

I didn't know the answer was so simple...

I may have mentioned before that Mark looooves shoes. And not just in an everyday "Oh, I got a new pair of shoes -- how exciting!" way. No, more like, I can get this child to do anything I want by merely promising him new shoes. (Don't worry, I use my powers for good.)

And that love is not limited to sneakers. This week he was thrilled to start soccer again, because it meant he'd get new cleats.

He was putting on his new cleats, and mentioned offhand how much he adored them. "My cleats are so great!" he told me wistfully, sliding his foot in ever so carefully.

"I'm glad you like them," I said.

"I love them," he corrected. "They are perfect!" And then, just to drive the point home, he said, "Perfect shoes equal a perfect life."

I bit my lip so I wouldn't laugh out loud at that one. I'm sure my mom (and friend Monica) agree with him.

"That's all it takes?" I asked. "A pair of shoes to make you completely happy?"

"Yep," he answered. "That's it. If I have the perfect shoes, my life is perfect."

"Well, that's a pretty easy fix, then," I replied.

"Well, perfect except for one thing..."

"What's that?"

He scrunched up his face. "Well, I still get in trouble." He relayed a story from second grade, when he got a new pair of shoes and was so excited, he couldn't stop tapping them on the floor during class. His teacher stopped him -- more than once -- and called them Mark's "trouble shoes."

But even that wasn't enough to dampen Mark's new-cleat joy. "I won't get in trouble with these," he promised. Then he smiled, and I realized those shoes really did make him feel like life was perfect.

Which I love. Maybe life really is just that simple. Maybe I'm overthinking and overcomplicating it.

And maybe I'll hit the shoe stores this weekend, too...

Captain Kippah

Our recent trip to Arizona included a trip to my friend Kelley's workplace. Kelley is a rabbi, so we visit her shul (temple) whenever we're in Tucson. Ironically, I've spent more time in shul this year than I have in a church of my own family's faith.

I'm not big on religion, so we don't regularly attend any religious services, and I think Mark is suffering because of it.

I noticed this during Kelley's services. I grew up in the Catholic church, where healthy doses of reverence, respect and fear of God were regularly served up with the communion wafers and chalices of wine. We knew better than to act up during Mass; any breach in behavior was swiftly met by my mom's sharp nails digging into our tender arms. She could break skin and strong wills without missing a single word of the hymnal song.

The CCD teachers and nuns reinforced these lessons. We learned to respect the church leaders, and to sit in the pews silently, speaking or standing only when explicitly told to do so. I don't have any horror stories of nuns smacking us with rulers, but they got the message across loud and clear. We learned to be good God- and Mom-fearing Catholics who served our time without complaint each week.

But as I mentioned, Mark does not attend church, so he does not have that "fear of death" mentality when it comes to religious services or the service leaders. He thinks services are just another opportunity to misbehave, continually knocking the borrowed kippah (skullcap) off his head and complaining loudly that he's BORED. He does not fear priests, or even rabbis (maybe because the rabbi was tickling him and playing cards with him just before services).

Which means supporting Kelley turns into an agonizing battle of the wills, with Mark squirming around, and me hurling death threats at him through clenched teeth.

All this is a long way of saying that Mark didn't seem overly impressed with going to services. I would honestly say not one word of the sermon stuck in his head, even though it was written and delivered by his good friend Kelley.

But apparently, I was wrong. During dinner last night, I asked Mark what he did at camp, and he replied, "Played superhero."

"Sounds like fun!" I said. "How'd you play?"

"Well, actually, I was a Jewish superhero," he explained.

"Oh, really?" I asked. This was going to be good!

"Yep, a Jewish superhero," he repeated. "I dressed all up, and put on a cape. Then I wore a little hat on my head, like Kelley." I could tell he was bummed he hadn't brought the kippah he wore in services home with him.

For some reason, that just cracked me up. And reminded me to watch what I say and do, because even when Mark acts like he's not listening, he is.

And apparently, religious services are making an impression on him, whether he's attending them or not!

Serendipity

Mark's been developmentally on task lately, asserting his independence and successfully transitioning into a pre-teen. Which is my polite way of saying he's got an attitude on him that won't quit, and a mouth to go with it!

I try not to let the mouthiness get to me, especially when his blood sugar's high and he can't help himself. But when his blood sugar's in range and he's just pushing my buttons...well, let's just say I don't take kindly to that. I'm all for him being outspoken, but rude or disrespectful is a whole different story.

And lately, I haven't been reacting as well as I should. I've had a short temper, meting out random and irrational punishments. Just this morning I made good on a threat to throw out a rubber duckie that wasn't put away -- but seriously, how many times (or ways) do I have to say, "Please pick up the duck"?? I've warned Mark not to challenge me before I've had my breakfast, morning shower, or coffee, but still, he persists.

I need a little help, a parental refresher course, and I'm not above seeking out help when I need it. And so, I headed to my therapist of choice -- the online bookstore.

Where I found this delightful little gem:

I couldn't pass up the lure of changing my child's behavior in five short days. I bought the book immediately.

The box arrived yesterday, and Mark was thrilled. He tore into it.

He paused when he held up the book. Slowly, he read the title out loud, "Have a New Kid by Friday." And then, acid dripping from his voice, he said, "Hmmmm...I guess you're getting a new kid by Friday."

I smiled to myself. He tried really hard to sound snippy, but I could hear the message beneath his snotty tone -- he was afraid I was getting another kid!

I couldn't tell if he was afraid I was replacing him, or just adding to the brood, but either way he didn't like it.

"Yep," I answered a moment later. "I am getting a new kid by Friday. One with good manners and a new attitude!"

And then I walked away. I'm sure a good mom would reassure him he was being improved, not replaced, but hey, I take my small victories where I get them. If his behavior improved just because of the book's title, then great! I haven't even opened the book, and it's already working.

I say that was money well spent!

I blame People magazine for this

We returned home from Alaska last month to a huge stack of mail, including three People magazines. Each featured Michael Jackson on the cover, proclaiming his death, his memorial service, or the latest police investgation into his death.

I was not surprised by the massive coverage. What I was surprised at was Mark's reaction; he's now become a huge Michael Jackson fan.

It's weird, I give you that. Prior to MJ's death, Mark could not name one song. But those magazines, filled with Jackson's crazy outfits, lavish lifestyle and raging eccentricities spurred Mark's curiosity. (If you don't think Michael Jackson was odd, then you've never answered any questions about him: "I don't know why he carried a monkey around, why his jacket's worth $20,000, or why he always wore that mask on his face. Or why his kids did, either. And yes, he's wearing his pajamas. In public. While there are cameras around. No, I don't know why.")

Mark informed me he wants to be Michael Jackson for Halloween (instead of Darth Vader), and he's taken to wearing a glittery glove and moonwalking around the house, singing, "Thriller, thriller!" He's also decided that his cousin Johnny should listen to Jackson 5 songs as well, because "he'll learn his ABCs and 123s." ("And his 'do re mis!'" I replied.)

His new obsession has even sparked a name change.

"I want to be called MARK-el Jackson now," Mark announced, claiming he'd already convinced the kids at camp to call him that. I could only shake my head.

I don't know how long this new obsession will last; I'm sure it will die down when the People coverage does. But until then, I'll do something I never imagined doing -- racing my 9-year-old son to the mailbox every Thursday, fighting over the latest issue of People.

Slimed!

D i a b e t e s is such an everyday part of our lives now that sometimes Mark and I don't even think about it. And sometimes not thinking about it has dire consequences, which aren't always related to his health.

Friday was one of those days. The camp counselors had warned us that is was super digusting messy food day, and encouraged Mark to wear his oldest, dingiest clothes. Mark dressed appropriately.

However, I didn't realize just how dirty the kids would get. I physically recoiled from my own son when I picked him up; he had dried green goo caked in his hair, his shorts were soaked, his shoes were black, and his face was filthy.

"You didn't pack any extra clothes for me!" he said, accusingly. All I could muster was a feeble, "Sorry..."

Mark climbed into the car, and sat on a garbage bag we found in the back seat. He recalled the day's activities, starting with a slip n' slide through chocolate syrup (with his mouth open!), the Iron Chef competition, and the food fight.

"Oh!" he cried, excitedly. "And I have a pocket full of slime!"

Of course he did. I winced, but realized a warm shower would fix all this, and return my son to his usually adorable state.

He stopped in the garage to peel off his disgusting clothes. His clothes were so filthy, they could literally stand up on their own.

"Look, Mom," he told me. "Look at all the slime in my pocket!"

And that is when my disgust turned to shock. I watched his brush past the clear plastic tubing leading into his pocket, and watched, in the slow motion of a horror film, as it pulled out his i n s u l i n pump.

Which was completely covered in green gooey slime.

I wish I could say that I smiled, and reacted in a calm, reassuring manner. I wish that I could say I hugged Mark and said, "Wow, that's a lot of slime!" I wish I could say I simply took the pump and dislodged the slime with a smile on my face.

But you know I'd be lying. Instead, I stifled a scream, snatched the life-saving medical device from his hands, and ran off to the kitchen like a mad woman. I heard Mark yell, "Sorry, Mom!" but everything after that is a blur.

The good news is that after a thorough scrubbing, I disloadged most of the slime. I managed to save the pump, if not the i n s u l i n tube and site, and was I ever glad. The manufacturer's warranty on those pumps is pretty good, but I'm sure it doesn't cover slime damage.

My darling son returned after a loooooong shower, and I promptly snapped his pump back into him. I waited anxiously to see if it still worked. After three high blood sugars in a row, I was sweatin' it, but I changed his site, and it worked like a charm again.

And will continue to do so...until the next crazy kid activity!

How to tell if a kid is from Los Angeles

Or maybe, How to tell if his mom is addicted to People magazine...

Mark and I babysat my nephew Johnny a few weeks ago. We were at a beautiful resort, eating dinner at an outdoor cafe, when a newly-married couple walked past. They looked gorgeous in their fancy clothes and gigantic smiles.

I smiled and pointed them out to the boys.

"Look!" I said. "There goes the bride and groom!"

Mark nodded, then pointed out the man trailing behind them. "Yep," he said. "And the paparazzi."

"Photographer," I corrected. "They hired him to take their pictures -- he's not chasing them!"

Then I giggled to myself and thought, Only in L.A.

Summer vocation camp

Not sure what's going on at Mark's summer camp, but I'm a little worried... because I worry about any conversation that starts out this way.

"Hey, Mom," Mark said on the way home last night. "My friend Julian wanted me to wax his hair off."

"WHAT THE???" is what I wanted to yell, but instead, I thought silently, "Don't crash the car, don't crash the car."

"He did, huh? And did you?" I asked, praying this story did not involve duct tape.

"Yeah," he answered, nonchalantly. "I waxed his mustache, his arms, his legs and his hair. Oh, and his eyebrows."

I winced. "What kind of tape did you use?"

"Scotch tape," he answered.

And though I already knew the answer, I asked if it hurt.

"The eyebrows did," Mark said. "It pulled off like 10 eyebrow hairs! He said the other parts didn't hurt."

"Hmmm," I said, because I didn't know what else to say. "Did the hair come off his arms and legs?"

"A little bit," Mark said. "I put some more on him before I left, and said to leave it there for a couple days. Then we'll rip it off later."

"Wow," I said. I don't think this was one of the "choose your own" activities listed on the camp schedule.

I won't be surprised tomorrow if I get to meet Julian's mom. I'm guessing she might have a few things to say to me!

They never teach this kinda stuff on Supernanny...

Framily vacation

Last week was one of my favorite rites of summer -- our annual framily vacation with the Brunks and Gludts. (Bob deemed us all "framily" last year -- more than friends, not quite family.) The Gludts hosted this year's vacation, in Tucson, AZ.

This year's trip was notable for one big reason -- it included the latest framily member, Romi, whom the Brunks met for the first time. Being there reminded me of what Kelley's mom said during the Gludt's last visit.

"I never thought I'd see this day," she said at dinner, staring around the table.

"The day you'd have dinner with me, Kelly, Rob and our kids?" I asked.

"Exactly!" she answered, and we both cracked up.

So it was pretty cool to come full circle -- to spend a few days with my friends, and all our kids.

Q: What's harder than getting one good picture of all the kids smiling?

A: Getting TWO good pictures of all the kids smiling!

Thursday, we went to lunch and then watched the kids bounce off the walls for a couple hours. Then it was off to the most hilarious, ridiculous show at the famed Gaslight Theatre. We watched a play called "Tights Make Right" about four superheroes saving the Earth from aliens. It was hilarious, especially when a little superhero action figure chased a hubcap spaceship right past us. Other highlights included the Gong Show at the end, with my personal favorite, La Bamba Bee -- a guy dressed as a giant bumble bee singing "La Bamba."

Friday we awoke to the bad news that poor Kelley had been ill all night. She insisted we stick to the day's plan, which was a trip out to the famous Kartchner Cavern. Reluctantly, we left her behind, and drove an hour in the giant van Rob rented for us.

We arrived a good 20 minutes early, but the ranger took one look at our tickets and announced they were for the day before. I've never actually been a day late or a dollar short before, but there's a first time for everything and today was it!

Luckily, the ranger issued us new tickets for a later tour. Which was great, except that we had three squirrelly kids and a squirrelly baby running loose in a museum that had already exhausted their collective attention span. So we did what any good parents would do -- we loaded them back into the van and drove to McDonald's.

The tour was pretty amazing. The cave was found by college kids, who kept it secret for 14 years, until the landowners could secure state park rights. It was then opened to the public.

We toured the rotunda and throne rooms. Didn't see any bats (for which I am grateful), but saw massive stalagmites and stalactites. My favorite part was the throne room, where the rangers piped in music and lit up various parts of the cave, including the incredible Kubla Khan formation. We were all very impressed, with the exception of Romi.

Friday night we celebrated Shabbat, which excited Romi more than the cave had. (He could barely contain himself -- he LOVES his silver shot glass of grape juice and the challah.) The kids helped Rob make the challah, and then Rob outdid himself preparing a super delicious kosher Thanksgiving dinner.

Saturday, Kelley was feeling better and went off to services. Mark and I went for a bit, to hear Kelley's wonderful sermon. It was wonderful up until Mark had a low blood sugar and an ensuing meltdown which culminated in him lying in the hallway refusing to budge. So that was fun.

Saturday's Shabbat lunch was supposed to be a yummy kosher chicken pot pie, until Rob discovered he'd left it in the oven after baking it Friday afternoon. So we "settled" on leftover turkey, which wasn't much of a punishment at all! (Though we did feel bad about Rob's pot pie...)

Sunday was the saddest day, because the Brunks got up and left early. (I hate that part of vacation.) Suddenly, we were down two kids, and the house was...quiet, a word absent from my vocabulary the past few days.

We took the kids to lunch, and were literally on our way to the airport when I realized I wasn't feeling so hot. Turns out Kelley didn't really want us to leave, and gave me a little parting gift -- her Friday virus!

So we headed back to the Gludt home, where Kelley took care of me, and of Mark, re-booked my plane tickets, and welcomed her next set of visitors. the Bermans. Who took one look at me, and immediately regretted their trip. I felt terrible -- if the flu had come on any earlier, we could have warned them not to make the drive out from California. (The Brunks also got the virus that night, as did Rob the next morning.)

But even with the flu, it was an awesome long weekend. It's been a long time coming, but worth it. I got to see some of my closest friends, and so did my son! All four kids got along famously, and really, what more could you ask for than that?

Mark summed it all up pretty well.

"My favorite part was playing with the kids," he told me, and I smiled. But apparently did not fully understand, because he said, "You thought I was gonna say the best part was the video games, huh? But it wasn't. It was definitely the kids!"

Which made the trip worth every penny...

Career day

We drove past Mark's favorite teriyaki restaurant tonight, and Mark was thrilled to see it all lit up.

"Hey, Mom!" he cried. "Rascal's is still open!"

"So I see," I said.

"Hey, Mom," he said again. "If you ever lose your j o b, you should get a j o b at Rascal's."

"Yes," I agreed. "That's a good place to work."

Then I thought about it for a minute and asked, "But what would I do there? You know I can't cook."

I watched Mark nodding in the rearview mirror.

"You could work at the counter!" he said. "You could be the order-taker!"

Then he thought about it, shook his head and told me, "No, never mind, you can't count either."

Well, turns out my skills are fairly limited, especially as far as restaurant work goes.

"What could I do then?" I inquired.

Mark snapped his fingers and said, "You can scrub the tables!" He beamed at me in the mirror. "You could definitely clean the tables, that's hard to mess up."

And that wonderful thought spawned others as equally wonderful. He rattled off all the other places in the restaurant I could clean, and took particular delight in yelling, "And you can clean the bathrooms, too!"

I don't even like cleaning the bathroom in my house, let alone a public restroom, but I was relieved of duty before I could say that.

"Actually," he told me, very seriously, "You can only clean the girl's bathroom. You can't go in the men's bathroom, since you're a girl."

"You're right," I agreed. "Guess I'll just be cleaning tables and the women's bathroom."

In these uncertain times, it's nice to know I have a backup c areer plan.

A sticky situation

Mark's found a new toy to play with at camp -- duct tape. Yes, the silver super adhesive tape that repairs anything has now become his favorite fashion statement. (And no, I'm not sure why they have duct tape at camp, or why he has access to it.)

When I picked him up last Wednesday, he was wearing a silver tape name tag that read "The Pink." He said it referred to his shoes.

The next day, his name tag read "Mr. Pink," another reference to his shoes. No big deal, although I thought it ironic that he now willingly wears name tags, when he adamantly refused to do so on his way to sleep away camp.

But he hasn't limited its use solely to name tags. When I picked him up Friday, he'd used it quite creatively. He informed me that the infusion site for his i n s u l i n pump was coming out of his belly.

The infusion set delivers i n s u l i n into his body. It's an adhesive pad with a plastic needle that punctures his skin so the i n s u l i n can shoot into his stomach, arms or bum. It looks like this:



Only problem is, we have trouble keeping it on his belly. Don't know why, but it falls off really easily there.

Luckily, Mark's a clever boy, and as such, pulled a bit of a MacGyver move. He kept the site from falling off by adding additional adhesive to it.

That's right, he lifted his shirt to proudly show me how he'd saved the site -- by duct-taping it to his belly!

Talk about hard-core! I winced when I saw it, and said, "Wow, that's gonna hurt coming off."

"No, it's not," he said, a bit offended that I would disparage his beloved duct tape. He smirked at me and pulled at it quickly, then screamed and dropped to the floor in agony. You think tearing off a band-aid is tough, try pulling off a piece of duct-tape from your belly.

I'm not sure how many times MacGyver ended up in tears, but Mark won't be repeating that experiment any time soon...

Thank you for being a friend

That's right, cue the Golden Girls theme music, because I have the greatest friends around. (For which I am thankful and grateful every day...)

Anyone who's been to my house knows that I write my all-important daily To Do list on my bathroom mirror with a dry erase pen. The reason is simple -- it's the one place I look every morning, and the only place I won't miss a reminder.

It's definitely helpful, if not a bit...in-your-face. Pretty much kills the tranquility and decor of the bathroom when you read "Call doctor about Mark's prescriptions" or "Cub Scout meeting tonight" as you wash your hands. I pride myself on my home decorating skills, but this particular mirror is the downfall of the bathroom.

But not last week. Mark was away at camp, and I was away at work. My friend Edra stopped by to do some laundry, and she left me a message on the mirror before she left. It cracked her up, but I think it made me smile even more.

She'd left me a To Do list for the week Mark was away. Here's what it said:

Usually this is filled with chores, but not this time.

• Have fun with friends
• Relax
• Sleep in
• Read without interruption
• Watch a movie
• Take a long shower
• Eat junk for dinner
• Write
• Do the happy dance
• Live good

I am happy to report that not only did I accomplish all my tasks, I finished them all on the first day! And then, because it was such fun, I repeated most of them on each and every remaining day!

It was great to have a list of fun tasks to complete. But it's even better to have a friend who is kind and thoughtful enough to assign them to me.