The birds and the bees

Last week I was working at home, and Mark sat beside me doing his homework.

"Mom," he asked, "I know I came out of my mom's stomach, but how did I get in there?"

Ack! went my brain, as I broke into a sweat.

"Well," I stalled. "That's a good question."

He's a pretty naive, innocent little guy, so I ran over all the scenarios in my head. I tried to figure out how much info to give him, and the appropriate words to use. I knew it would shock him, so I steadied myself and tried to remain matter-of-fact. But I'm embarrassed to say I fumbled on the first try, and answered, "Well, you come from a seed."

"A seed?" he asked. "What kind of seed? Like a packet of seeds?"

Which made me giggle inside, and threw me off course. Focus! I told myself.

"No, not from a packet," I said. "It comes from your dad."

"What?!?" he gasped.

I struggled through a few more terrible examples, ending with, "So, you need both a mom and a dad to make a b a b y."

I was totally not ready for "the conversation" and especially not while I was in the midst of work stuff. Luckily, Mark's attention span is pretty short and after a minute he said, "Mom, can I ask you another question? What's 9 times 5?"

"I'm not doing your homework for you!" I answered.

Because I had some homework of my own to do. I started where I always do when I have questions--Amazon. com.

I found a couple of suitable books to read with him. One was a very scientific, basic book about how b a b i e s are made. It talks about how bees pollinate plants, then moves on to chickens, puppies and finally, humans.

The second book was a lot more detailed. It described body parts, changes, and all sorts of other good info. I knew it was gonna blow Mark's mind.

So I started with the first book. I brought it out at bedtime, when we read stories. He was okay at first; he thought the chickens were weird, and raised his eyebrows at the puppies being born. When the human descriptions came, he glanced sideways at me and raised his eyebrows higher.

"Got any questions?" I asked when we were done. He closed the book, shook his head and walked away. I couldn't believe Mr. One-Million-Questions-About-Everything had none about this.

He walked to his room, and then I heard what he really thought.

"DEEEEE-scusting!" he shouted.

But apparently the lesson stuck with him. Yesterday my cousin was teasing him and my nieces, and said, "Nathalie was born, but Gabi was hatched from an egg."

"We all came from an egg!" Mark shouted. I removed myself quickly, biting my tongue.

Later that night, after all four kids were tucked into bed, I walked past the room and saw Nathalie reading a book.

"Turn on the lamp so you can see, Nat," I told her.

"Actually, I don't want to," she said. "I was reading this horribly disturbing book Mark gave me!"

I didn't even have to guess which book it was. Silently, I took it away and bid them goodnight. I wanted to get out of there before the other kids asked what she was reading -- it was bad enough explaining it to one kid. I didn't want discuss it with four of them!

Sometimes it's shocking to think that I'm the mature person in the house. And it's even more shocking to think we've only started this conversation.

An unexpected bout of trouble

In a rare culinary-inspired moment, I decided to make dinner. I used Kelley's fab recipe (the unkosher version) to bake a chicken pot pie.

I thought Mark might enjoy a home cooked meal, but once again I was wrong. He actually slumped down in his chair when he heard the menu. I'm pretending his response was to a non-traditional dinner (coming out of the oven instead of out of a take-out bag) and not my cooking.

But nothing inspires me more than a challenge (I will cook, and you will like it!), so away to the oven I went.

The pot pie came out really good, although I miscalculated the vegetables-to-other-food ratio for a 10-year-old-boy. Their ratio is officially "less is more," with "none" being the best. So I often sneak veggies in when I can. But it's such a fine line -- you can grate up carrots and zucchini and mix them easily into meat loaf. But I went a little veggie crazy with the pot pie, and Mark balked.

"I want MEAT!" he complained, so I reminded the meal was called chicken pot pie. Then I relented, and gave him more meat.

But it was still slow going. He quickly downed the chicken and puff pastry, then pushed the veggies around on his plate. I cajoled, I threatened, and when those didn't work, I finally bribed him.

"Finish your veg," I told him, "And I'll give you a little cup of ice cream."

That did the trick. He didn't exactly dig into them, but he pushed them around a little slower.

I dished out the ice cream and sat it in front of him. "You can have it if you finish dinner before it melts," I told him.

He stalled a bit longer, and when I finished my ice cream, I jokingly reached for his.

"Look what I found!" I laughed.

But Mark didn't laugh with me. Instead, he squinted at me, put his hand over mine, and said in low, serious voice, "You don't touch a man's ice cream."

For a minute, I thought I was in a John Wayne movie, and the sheriff was threatening horse rustlers. I was about to laugh out loud when I saw he was quite serious. I backed off.

"I didn't know," I answered, after a long silence. "My apologies."

And with that, the serious "man" turned back into my goofy little boy. "Did I eat enough?" he asked eagerly. "Can I have my ice cream now?"

"You can," I answered, keeping my hands far, far away from his dessert.

And now I know that Cookies n' Cream is no laughing matter. At least not to the tiny new sheriff in town.

Family time

Sunday was my aunt's birthday. To celebrate, we bought a cake, loaded up all the electronics Mark owns to keep him busy on the long drive, and headed to the desert.

"What are we gonna do when we get there?" Mark asked.

"We're going to visit," I told him. "That's what families do to celebrate special days."

He groaned loudly. To him, "visit" means the adults sit around and gab. He wasn't any happier when I informed him the Gameboy and iPod were for the car only; I was confiscating them as soon as we arrived. Even the promise of other kids to play with didn't make him smile.

"Don't worry," I told him. "Some day you'll have your own kids to torture with family days."

My mom was staying with my aunt, so she was already there when we arrived. My cousin Kathleen and her boyfriend Tim arrived shortly after us. In no time, the women were off again, headed toward the outlet mall while Tim and Mark stayed back. I couldn't help giggling at the irony.

"I spent the whole drive telling Mark how important it is to spend time with your family," I explained to my mom, aunt and cousin. "And then I ditched him 10 minutes after I got there!"

We returned for lunch, and the arrival of more cousins and my uncle. We enjoyed lunch and cake, and decided to go for a walk afterwards.

My aunt lives in a retirement community, on a golf course. This is important to note for two reasons: 1. The main source of transportation around the neighborhood is golf carts. 2. The seniors don't like to walk, even if (especially if!) they own dogs.

I found this out firsthand as one of the neighbors zipped around the corner at a very fast clip. When she turned back around, I noticed a long leash out the cart, tied to a Scottie running as fast as it could to keep up.




The neighbor passed by, and inquired about my aunt's health.

"She feeling better yet?" she called to my mom.

"Much!" my mom answered.

"She drinking yet?" the neighbor asked. Apparently, this is how they gauge one's health in my aunt's neighborhood.

"Not yet," my mom answered, "but she is eating chocolate!" That garnered a thumbs-up as the neighbor drove off.

We set out on our walk, and once again crossed paths with the Scottie and his owner chatting with another neighbor. The Scottie was now resting on the golf cart seat, but jumped down to greet us.



I couldn't stop giggling about the dog and the golf cart.

"That's how everyone walks their dog around here," my aunt told me.

"Yeah, we're lazy!" laughed the Scottie's owner in the cart.

We walked on back to my aunt's home, to enjoy what was left of the afternoon. We chatted with my uncle, and cousins, and teased the kids. It was a really fun day.



And of course, the best part about it is that the next time Mark asks for a puppy, I'll have a good reason why we can't get one -- we don't have a golf cart, so how ever would we walk it? ;-)

Take me out to the ball...park

Mark was assigned a new school project last week -- create a poster board of a California landmark. Did he choose something as famous as the Golden Gate Bridge? Perhaps something as well-loved as the world-famous San Diego Zoo? Or maybe even something as stereotypical California as the beach or the Hollywood sign?

No, my child chose his own personal Mecca -- Dodger Stadium.

He's been obsessed with the Dodgers since the day I met him. He's seen them a couple times during the Freeways series, but only at Angel Stadium. We've gotten tickets twice to games at Dodger Stadium, but once he got in trouble, and once he got sick. So he's been pining to see a game there for as long as I can remember. (And though we've been to Angel Stadium loads of times, he says that doesn't count.)

He knows I'm a big believer in learning by doing whenever we can (instead of researching on the Internet). So choosing Dodger Stadium was even more genius, because the little rat knew I'd take him there. He figured he'd finally see the Dodgers in Dodgertown, all in the name of education.

What he didn't count on was the fact that baseball season hasn't started yet. So yes, I agreed to take him to the Cesar Chavez Ravine, but broke it to him gently that his Dodgers were at spring training in Phoenix. But I could take him on a stadium tour if he still wanted to go.

And boy, did he! The only thing that made it better was when the Black Eyed Peas, his favorite band, came on the radio singing his favorite song, just as we drove into the parking lot.



The tour was pretty cool. We started on the top deck, and learned all sorts of cool facts about the stadium -- like how the seat colors were supposed to represent the beach (the yellow seats are dry sand, the orange-y seats are wet sand, and the blue seats are the ocean).

Then it was down a few floors to the Vin Scully press box. Mark raced around photographing the newspaper names on the desks. I watched in awe as the guide unveiled the organ used for every round of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I turned to share my joy with Mark, only to see him disappear behind the desks at the other end of the press box. He picked that moment to play hide and seek.







After a stern reminder that we were here for him, we carried on. We got to go through the restaurant and see the championship bats. We saw tons of memorabilia, the championship trophies, too, and even some Olympic medals. It was all pretty cool.

Next stop was the best -- into the players clubhouse! We snaked through the halls, past the umpires lounge, and out onto the field. They wouldn't let us on the grass, but we were allowed into the dugout and onto the dirt.

Mark made a beeline for the dugout -- he wanted to drink from the same water fountain the pros drink from.



He sat on the bench for a bit, then remarked he didn't feel quite comfortable there.

"Why not?" I asked.

"You know," he said, eyeing the floor. "Because they spit all over the floor."

"They do," I agreed. But they aren't here now."




We took some other cool photo ops. Here's Mark trying to sneak into the player's locker room.



And calling up to the head office for a relief pitcher.




Sliding (not so gracefully) into the dirt. He vowed he would never wash the sacred dirt from his clothes.






And of course, even the coolest things in the world get boring after a while.




All in all, we spent a good couple hours in the ballpark. It was so interesting, I almost emerged a Dodger fan as well. (Mark had to remind me of my allegiance. Go Angels!!)

Mark didn't have quite as much fun putting together his poster board for class, but he finished it yesterday and was proud of it. I'm still not convinced Dodger Stadium is a California landmark, but hey, if it makes my son interested in learning, I'm all for it.

But not as much as I'm for the Angels. ;-)

Diabetic rapper

If Mark was a rapper, his name wouldn't be 50 Cent -- it would be 50 Carbs.

That's his new favorite go-to number for his lunch carb count. It's not the correct number, it's just his favorite.

Let me backtrack...for people with dia betes, the best way to manage their blood sugar is to count carbohydrates and give themselves the correct amount of insulin based on that count. So before Mark puts anything into his mouth, we add up all the carbs.

This is not a difficult task. Luckily, Mark eats mostly the same foods, so we can estimate the carb count of just about any normal, everyday food. The only time Mark has difficulty is when it comes to veggies or other foods he dislikes--suddenly, he couldn't guess the carbs if they were written in neon colors on the packaging. But stick a couple donuts or piece of cake in front of him, and he can tell you the exact carb count based on size, weight and amount of frosting. He's even more accurate when he's cramming the second piece into his mouth.

Because he's a kid and has more important things on his mind at lunchtime (namely, lunch), I try to make things easy for him. I send a paper to school everyday with the lunch items and carb counts. All he has to do is test, look at the paper, and put the numbers into his pump. As long as he follows the plan, everything's cool.

So I was a little shocked when he called after school to tell me his blood sugar was 307! (It should be between 70-150).

"Did you bolus at lunch?" I asked.

"Yup!"

"Did you eat anything you weren't supposed to?" I asked.

"Nope!" he answered.

"OK, then just correct it," I answered.

I gave him a free pass that night -- a chance to be honest with no repercussions if he really had eaten something he wasn't supposed to. He insisted he hadn't.

And so it went for a few more days -- high numbers at school, followed by lows at dinner. It wasn't until I received an email from the school nurse that the light clicked on.

"Mark's been forgetting his paper, and just bolusing for 50 carbs," it said. "Just wanted to let you know."

Mystery solved! Mark wasn't sneaking food, he just wasn't giving himself enough insulin -- his lunches were 70 carbs, not 50.

My first inclination was to yell at him for being lazy. I mean, seriously, how hard is it to take the paper out of his pocket every day to get the carb count??

But I realized getting mad wouldn't solve the problem. Mark would just argue back, I'd get madder, and he'd still lose his paper everyday.

So I gave him a dose of tough love. If he wanted 50 carbs, he'd get 50 carbs. Which happened to be about half a sandwich less than he was used to. Which meant he'd be hungry. Which is a tough lesson, but sometimes the only way to talk sense into Mark is to speak directly to his stomach.

"Hey, I only got half a sandwich for lunch today!" he complained at home.

"I know," I told him. "Half a sandwich, 20 carbs. A banana, 30 carbs. I know it's too hard to remember your paper, so I'll just give you 50 carbs from now on, so you don't have to remember."

"But I want a whole sandwich!" he cried.

"Then bring your paper home," I said. "If you use it, I'll send a whole sandwich again. And if you don't -- well, at least you can use your favorite number every day!"

Guess what was the first thing he handed me yesterday? Yep, his paper -- with his blood sugar and insulin units written down on it!

I have to stop reasoning with his head, and threaten his stomach more often...

Hallmark's got competition

Mark had an assignment in computer lab to create a card using words and clip-art. I was the lucky recipient, and I smiled at the sweet picture on the front.

"You know it's not my birthday, right?" I asked.

"I know," he said. "But I wanted to make you a card."

"OK, just checking." I opened the card as Mark watched on, holding his breath expectantly.

I realized why -- the inside was filled with digs at my age.


He burst into laughter. "Yeah, Mom -- you've had FORTY birthdays!" he laughed. "I almost couldn't keep track!"

I laughed too, and swatted at him playfully. "Just you wait, mister," I warned. "Some day, you'll be old too, and your kids will mock you."

"Now look at the back," he ordered, so I flipped the card around.


This one I didn't get as quickly.

"I don't get it," I said.

He shrugged. "No one wants to see a grown man cry," he answered simply.

I thought the picture meant because someone had done the man wrong, or something happened to him -- nope, it was just that no one wants to see a grown man crying, according to the cardmaker.

"Well, thank you," I said. "It's a very nice card -- even if you're just being mean to old people and grown men."

His smile vanished. "Hey!" he cried out. "I was being nice -- I made the card for you!"

The funny thing is, it was true. It's about as sweet and sentimental as we get in our house. None of those foofy, flowery "I love you" cards for us -- why just say "I love you" when you can also say "I love you, you're old, and I'm not, nah nah nah nah nah?" I like a funny, sarcastic card that makes me laugh.

And apparently, so does my son.

Friends are addictive

Mark started off a story involving a friend of his. This particular friend is one who Mark has a love-hate relationship with, and tends to get into a lot of trouble with.

"...and then he said--" Mark started.

I immediately interupted him. "I thought you said you weren't gonna play with that kid anymore."

"I'm not," Mark said, then clarified, "Not as much."

Nothing brings discomfort like a mom's steely glare, so he elaborated.

"He's like a cigarette," Mark told me. "You don't just quit them automatically. It takes time."

I bit my tongue so hard it almost drew blood. I wasn't sure when my 10-year-old son became an addiction specialist or quit a cigarette habit I didn't know about, but this was gonna be good.

"Like a cigarette, huh?" I asked.

"Yeah," Mark said. "See, you don't just give them up all at once. You have to do it slooooowly. A little bit at a time. So I'm still playing with him at school, just a lot less."

I coughed into my hand, and hoped it didn't sound like a stifled giggle.

"Well, of course, that makes a lot of sense," I replied. "You're thinking about this very maturely."

"Yup," he answered, very pleased. And then, he skipped off to ride his scooter and pretend he was flying through space on it. (I guess he's not all that mature.)

And I was left to stand there and worry about what the next vice -- I mean, lesson -- would teach him.

Another day at the office

I was plugging away at work the other day when my phone cell rang. Caller ID informed me it was Mark's school calling.

"Hello?" I answered, expecting to speak to an adult.

Instead, it was Mark. He breathlessly informed me that:

• He had an assignment about California landmarks due in two weeks.
• He'd bring home the instructions about it tonight.
• He really, really, really wanted to report on Dodger Stadium, UCLA and Hollywood.
• I had to sign a paper agreeing to let him choose those landmarks.

"OK," I answered when he finished. "No problem."

"Cool!" he shouted.

And then the whole call struck as as kind of...unusual. I glanced at the clock -- it was 10:48 a.m.

"Where are you?" I asked. It wasn't recess or lunch time -- I was pretty sure he was supposed to be in class right now.

"In the nurse's office," he answered.

"Is she there?" I asked.

"No," he said. "I asked the teacher if I could go to her office."

"Why?" I asked.

"So I could call you and tell you about this!" he said, exasperated.

I realized he was calling to get verbal acknowledgment of his landmarks -- he was beating the other students' to the punch, claiming his landmarks before they could go home and get parental signatures to claim them first.

"Go back to class!" I yelled at him. He said his goodbye, and hung up.

That night we had a little talk about not abusing the teacher's trust. We discussed the appropriate times and reasons to visit the nurse's office (only when medically necessary; and only when she is there), and inappropriate times to leave class (i.e., to use the phone for non-emergency calls).

I still don't think he quite gets it. I should be glad he feels comfortable calling to discuss anything (everything), but my mom said it best.

"That kid!" she said, laughing. "He thinks the nurse's office is his own personal office."

I had to agree; he really does. Which is why he's not all that bummed he didn't get "his" lost cell phone back -- because he's already got a land line in his office at school.

Breaking stuff

I love the show Clean House. It serves a dual purpose, as both entertainment and dire warning (in a Scared Straight kinda way) not to become a pack rat.

In an effort to avoid becoming a participant on the show, I cleaned my backyard this weekend. I tossed anything I hadn't used in the last year, and then tackled the biggest challenge: my adobe chiminea.

I used that chiminea exactly once in the 6 1/2 years I've had it. It was at my house warming party, when my brother Brad and friend Joel fed it so much wood, flames actually shot out through the top. They thought that was the coolest thing ever, but I freaked out they were gonna burn my new house down. (Gave whole new meaning to the phrase "house warming.")

And so it sat in my yard, a giant eyesore. It weighed about 300 pounds, so I couldn't just throw it away, and no one wanted it (Besides, we couldn't even roast marshmallows in it, so who would want it?). This weekend, I finally figured out how to toss it, and I knew Mark would want to help if I asked him in just the right way.

"Hey Mark, wanna help me break something?" I asked casually.

His eyes lit up instantly -- he searched mine to see if I was kidding.

"Yeah, I do!" he shouted. "Duh!"

I handed him a hammer, this nifty pair of safety goggles and told him to follow me.


"What are we breaking?" he asked. "Do I get to break it, too? With this?" He waved his hammer around wildly.

I pointed at the chiminea. "We're gonna break that," I said. "It's too big to throw away whole, so we're gonna break it into pieces."

"Woo hoo!" he shouted, and went to work (although I didn't call it work, because he would've stopped working and started whining immediately). He even took off his shirt, so he could swing the hammer freely -- no sleeves to get in the way.

We broke it down into pieces really quickly. I showed Mark where to hit to crack it, and he smashed away. In a few minutes, the trashcan was full.

But Mark wasn't done. He kept smashing the pieces in the trash. He didn't know when he'd get another opportunity like this, so he made the most of it.

I finally stopped him after one too many pieces of adobe flew dangerously close to my head.

"OK, our work here is done," I told him. I closed the lid, and spent the next 15 minutes inching the trash can to the curb. Turns out adobe and sand are pretty darn heavy.

Mark, however, was no help. He had disappeared. He suddenly whooshed past me on his scooter, and I started laughing -- he was still shirtless, and still sporting his stylish black safety glasses. And was happy as a clam.

Overly optimistic

This is what naive, blind optimism looks like -- a lonely cell phone charger that connects to nothing.

It did connect to something at first -- the phone I purchased with it.

The phone was another tool in Mark's dia betes toolkit. He went to a birthday party on Sunday, the kind where you drop your kid off, and tell them to have a good time. For kids without dia betes, that's all there is to it. You warn them to be on their best behavior, to thank the host, to listen to the parent in charge, and then you leave.

For a kid with dia betes, you tell them all that, and then flood them with all this:

• Do you have your meter? Show me.
• Do you have glucose tabs? Show me.
• Do you have a granola bar? Don't eat it unless you go low!
• How many carbs are in a piece of pizza? In two pieces of pizza? (A small slice? A big slice?) In a piece of cake? In a chip? In a cup of diet soda? In a cup of regular soda in case there's no diet soda?
• How do you feel right now?
• Do you feel low? What should you do if you feel low at the party? (Tell Damian's mom or the snack bar you need a regular soda NOW!)
• Do you need to test? Go test right now. In fact, test right now and eat this granola bar.
• Wash your hands before you test, IT DOES TOO MAKE A DIFFERENCE!
  
• I don't care if you're not hungry, EAT THE GRANOLA BAR IF YOU WANT TO GO TO THE PARTY!
• Have a good time!

As you can imagine, that's a lot to put on a little kid. Or on to the parent who's hosting the party, and just found out there's some kid with special needs threatening to ruin her child's birthday celebration.

"Hi Gina, good to see you! Thanks for inviting Mark. Not sure if you remember, he has Type 1 dia betes..." And then, when you see the panic in her eyes, quickly adding, "No, you don't have to do anything special for him! If he acts weird, give him some soda right away; otherwise, he knows what to do, has a phone and can call me with any questions."

Which leads us back to...the phone. Or what was, for a brief moment in time, Mark's cell phone. The phone he took to the party, because I just felt better leaving him with some sort of lifeline.

I almost gave him my phone, but thought better of it. Instead, I bought him a single-use phone. I activated the phone, loaded up the minutes, and handed it to Mark with strict orders not to take it out of his pocket.

"Can I call you about anything?" he asked.

"Yes, that's what it's for. If you have any questions."

"Can I call to say you're crazy?"

I stared him down. "Do you want to go to this party?" I finally asked.

He nodded his head.

"Then don't call me to say that."

He agreed, and ran off to race go-karts.

The first words out of his mouth when he got home were, "Did you register my phone? Because somehow (I don't know how!), my phone fell out of my pocket (I didn't take it out!) and disappeared (it got lost on it's own!). I did NOT take it out of my pocket -- I didn't even open my pocket!"

That was the point I realized perhaps he's not ready for any more responsibility. And I thanked God I did not give him my phone.

"Go get your birthday money," I told him. "You owe me $25 for that phone."

But it wasn't a total loss. At least I still have that nice new charger -- and it even fits my phone!

Update: Mark climbed into the car last night and yelled, "Hey, I found the phone!" It never even left the car.

But I'm still holding his $25 as collateral, because I know he will lose it next time I give it to him!

Campfire

Saturday morning broke with the excitement of an upcoming Cub Scout camp fire -- the boys were looking forward to roasting hot dogs and s'mores. Unfortunately, it also brought with it the next round of this winter's weekly storms.

The day was promising at first -- clear skies, and not much rain at all, until precisely 5:06 p.m. That was the moment I was heading out to the camp with my car loaded full of food, wood and other camp fire supplies. And that was the moment the skies opened up and rained down on our plans.

But we are not a group to be dissuaded. The den leader and his gracious wife opened their house to us, offering up a covered patio. I immediately turned around and headed home to get my "portable" fire pit. (Portable in quotes because the beautiful tiles around the edges make the pit pretty heavy.)

Mark helped me carry the fire pit out to the car, and then skeptically observed that it might not fit. After the first try, I agreed. But I am not one to quit in the face of sane, logical thinking, so with an Incredible Hulk-like roar, I hoisted that giant pit in the air again and crammed it into the back seat of my compact car with all my might. It fit, just barely, and so I pushed some more until I could close the door. Mark's eyes were huge -- I'm not sure if he was just surprised, or a bit frightened, at my determination.

Turns out the location change didn't bother the boys at all. They were just thrilled to be lighting a fire. The den leader taught them the right way to light a match (point down, strike firmly against the box, toss away from you) and then passed one out to each boy. They could barely stand the excitement.

"I lit a match!" one boy cried, triumphantly. I honestly think that was the best part of the evening for them all.

Then it was into the house to load up hot dogs on the roasting sticks. The boys crammed them on and made their way out to the fire, careful not to jab anybody. (I took away one fork with a paper plate wrapped around the base, which the boy was brandishing as a sword.) They held the dogs over the fire, and then, as 10-year-old boys are known to do, let loose with every wienie joke they could imagine.

Somehow, the bun-to-hot dog ratio was way off -- we used all but one pack of hot dogs, but had four packs of buns left. I think it had something to do with half the hot dogs "accidentally" falling into the fire. (Accidentally in quotes because each time a wienie fell, there was an appreciate round of "Whoa!" as they watched the wienie burn up.) My own son cooked at least four hot dogs, but I only saw him eat one.

After a game of Leave No Trace charades and a lesson on how to burn and fuse the end of a rope, the boys were ready for s'mores. Miraculously, not one marshmallow fell into the fire, like all the hot dogs did. (You could tell where the hot dogs listed priority-wise compared to marshmallows.) However, once lowered over the flames, most of them immediately exploded into burning, gooey torches, but the group of boys worked together, blowing them out quickly. The boys really dug that part.

With all the activities complete and the sugar running freely through their veins, the boys attacked the play set on the lawn. The rain, wet equipment and lone girl determined to take turns fairly and democratically on the swing, did not slow them down. They were like wild banshees clambering and climbing all over it.

The constant rain slowed us down a bit, but didn't stop us. The boys successfully lit a fire, managed not to burn the house down, and ran through the house with various smoldering hot food on the end of sharp-pointed long forks -- all without injury. And best of all, they had a blast doing it.

Which to me equals success. :-)

This is why I politely decline...

...whenever Mark offers to make lunch.

"I'm gonna have half a sandwich," Mark just told me. "Want me to make you one?"

"No thanks, I'm good," I replied.

"But I'm making turkey and peanut butter," he said, as though that would change my mind.

"Ewww!" I cried. "Together? That's so gross!"

"No, Mom, it's sooooo good," he said. "You should try it, the peanut butter really brings out the flavor of the turkey."

Before I could answer that, my gag reflex replied instead.

"Ack," I coughed. "No thanks."

But he was insistent, and offered me a bite. "Just try it, Mom," he pleaded.

So I did. And it tasted like...turkey and peanut butter. Together. It was about as good as it sounds, which is to say...not great.

"You're right," I lied to Mark. "It is pretty good."

He started beaming, and clapped is hands. Which completely made biting that sandwich worth it.

But I'm still making dinner tonight, no matter what he says!

At least his vocabulary's improving...

The other day, Mark was being silly before he got in the shower. He tugged at his boxers until they were riding kinda low.

"Look, Mom!" he said, laughing. "I'm a teenager!"

"Pull up your pants!" I teased him. "Nobody wants to see your bum!"

He laughed, and then said simply, "Cleavage."

I bit my tongue and refused to make eye contact. I knew if I looked at him, I'd start busting up, and would miss my teachable moment (in this instance, teaching good manners!).

"Do you know what 'cleavage' means?" I asked.

"Yes, it's a split down a rock," he answered. "We learned that in science."

So maybe I didn't have to worry. Maybe he was just assigning scientific names to body parts...

"Oh," I said. And then I walked right into it, and asked, "So why'd you say 'cleavage' then?"

He turned and wiggled his exposed bum at me.

"Cleavage!" he repeated, and ran laughing toward the bathroom.

It didn't take a scientist to realize he was not being so scholarly after all.

Yo Yo Ma

It's been one week exactly since Mark's birthday. One week ago today, I bought him a fancy dinner, wished him a happy birthday, and handed over an oddly-shaped present. Which he ripped open to reveal the lime-green toy pictured on the left.

Some people might call that toy a "yo-yo," but I call it something else. In the mere week Mark's had it, it's simultaneously become my new best friend/new worst enemy.

New worst enemy because my house has now gone from a quiet sanctuary to a giant target ready to explode on impact. Everything -- photos, pictures on the walls, the walls themselves, and my windows -- is under direct threat as my 10-year-old son wanders through the house, recklessly throwing the yo-yo in all directions.

New worst enemy because as much as my son loves it, he cannot keep track of it. In the seven days that he's had it, I've heard the words, "Where is my yo-yo?" no less than 7,365 times. And that's just when he's awake.

He lost it the very first day he had it, and started wailing about it non-stop.

"I've lost my yo-yo," he said melodramatically. "It's gone forever. My birthday yo-yo is gone."

"It's here somewhere," I told him. "I just saw you playing with it -- it hasn't even left the house."

He complained about it so much, I finally banned him from talking about it. I announced I did not want to hear the words "yo-yo" or "lost" together in a sentence again. In fact, he wasn't even allowed to mention "yo-yo" at all until he could use it in the sentence, "Hey Mom, I found my yo-yo!"

New best friend because as I just mentioned, Mark cannot keep track of it. He's constantly leaving it in random places, like behind the door (where his Aunt Mary found it) or under the chair in my office. I even found it under the cat once.

And wherever I find it, there's a kid on the opposite side the house yelling that he can't find his yo-yo.

So I've used this to my advantage.

"Make your bed, and I'll give you your yo-yo," I told him this morning.

"I don't know where it is," he said. "It's lost." (He's not one for picking up on subtly.)

"I know where it is," I said. "Make your bed and I'll tell you."

What do you know, the bed was made immediately.

And so, I've decided to use the yo-yo for the greater good -- meaning, Mark's room being clean, his homework complete, a set table before dinner, even dishwashing afterwards. Rather than being driven batty about it, I've embraced the lost yo-yo, and am starting to relish the times he misplaces it.

Because I know -- finally -- he will complete his chores immediately, after being asked one time, and one time only, and without complaint. And all I have to say to get those chores done is, "I know where your yo-yo is. I'll tell you after you clean the litterbox."

Who says only Jedi's can use mind tricks?

Exhausted (but happy)

Mark's birthday drew to a close last night. Some birthday celebrations are like a quick sprint; Mark's was more of a marathon.

We started on his actual birthday, when I let him choose the restaurant for dinner. He immediately chose Taco Bell, so I slowly and repeatedly told him he could go anywhere. I included restaurants with wait staff, multiple courses, and maybe even a tablecloth. But Mark is a simple guy who leans more toward dollar menus and swiveling chairs bolted into the floor, so Taco Bell it was.

The weekend brought with it guests and more celebrating. First, it was my brother Scott and his family. They filled our little house with kids, laughter, and a staggered bathroom schedule (7 people, one small bathroom -- gotta love those '50s homes!).

Sunday was party day! My parents arrived around 11 a.m. and immediately started heating up lunch. Apparently, the two-hour drive is not only time-consuming but hunger-inducing as well.

We packed up the kids and ditched the grandparents, explaining again to Mark it was not personal. My parents love a good party, but they prefer their guests a little older. Two hours of video games and boys running amok are not their idea of a good time.

The party was at a local video arcade. I watched as 13 boys walked into the arcade and their eyes glazed over (it was definitely a gender thing -- my nieces were immune). The video games transfixed them, hypnotized them, and I had to snap my fingers to get their attention and pass out the game cards.

And then they were off. They scattered into 27 different directions -- some toward the shooting games, some to car-racing games and some to laser tag. I watched them fly by me at breakneck speeds -- apparently, it is impossible to walk in a video arcade.

I hung out with my cousin for a bit, and with my friends. A couple moms lingered for a few minutes, but the good thing about boys this age is they're old enough to drop off for a couple hours. I told one mom I was sure that as long as those cards were working, there was no danger of any boys wandering away.

After an hour, the cards ran out, and the boys returned to the table, sweaty and red-faced from laser tag. They were not interested in lunch at all; instead, they spent the time mixing sodas into toxic sludge, and begging me to re-activate their game cards.

I spent the next 20 minutes repeating these sentences ad nauseum:

"Pepperoni or cheese pizza?"
"The cards will be re-activated after lunch."
"Root beer, Pepsi, or lemonade? You really want all three mixed together??"
"The cards will be re-activated after lunch."
"Cake or no cake?"
"The cards will be re-activated after lunch. I promise!"

And then, finally, when I thought they couldn't stand one minute more, I announced, "Now we'll sing 'Happy Birthday' to Mark and have cake. Then the cards will be re-activated!"

I saw 10 mouths pop open, so I quickly added, "You don't have to eat the cake, but you do have to sing Happy Birthday!"

Two minutes later they were sufficiently hopped up on sugar, and I released them back into the arcade. I didn't see any of them again until their moms showed up and dragged them away, protesting that they still had time left on their game cards. Three boys even managed to outsmart the two-hour time limit by slipping into the laser tag area. Their moms said good-bye, when someone announced another round of laser tag was starting in a frequency heard only by 10-year-old boys. The three wily boys were back inside in no time.

I grabbed the leftover ice cream cake and my exhausted young son and headed home. I seriously could have gone to bed right then, I was so tired from our weekend o' fun. But we still had one more celebration -- dinner out with my parents, Kathleen and Tim. It was a calm, relaxing, wonderful way to end a really great birthday.

Which I won't have to repeat for a while. Because, as my mom pointed out to Mark this morning, today is March 1st.

"Your birthday month is officially over," she said and he answered, "Dang!"

Until next year...