Mark's in fourth grade, which means his class spends a lot of time learning about California history. The fourth and fifth grades are even taking a trip to Sacramento to learn all about our capital.
Mark was disappointed that he's not going (it's $450 for one day!). He was also a little bitter when he found out a classmate is going for free simply because her last name is Sutter, and she's a great-great-granddaughter of John Sutter, founder of Sutter's Mill. He wanted a famous relative of his own.
"Well, you have a semi-famous uncle," I told him.
"I do?" He was intrigued.
"Sure," I said. "The guy who discovered the Loch Ness Monster was named Tim Dinsdale, just like your Uncle Tim." I left off the part that Nessie is a myth, an urban legend -- what fun is it to have an uncle who's also a liar?
Mark wasn't much impressed. He sat back in his seat for a few minutes, then shared a tidbit from his previous life.
"Well, someone in my other family was famous," he offered. "Did you know I'm related to Manny Ramirez?"
He's a die-hard Dodger fan, so I wasn't surprised he'd picked Manny.
"Oh, you are?" I asked, knowing full well he wasn't. "How's he related?"
"He's my uncle," Mark said. I could see him in the rear view mirror, smiling and proud of himself.
I let him think about it a few minutes, then asked carefully, "Um...you know he's African-American, right?"
Mark nodded. A different skin color wasn't gonna ruin his story.
"There are African-American people in your family?" I asked my little white son.
"One," he answered, and then he cracked. He realized he was caught, and started laughing.
But you've gotta give the kid points for trying!
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Sick(bed) sense of humor
My dad's surgery last week provided a few unexpected days of family time. I'd rather celebrate family time in the more traditional manner -- holidays and family celebrations -- but it was comforting to have the family around. In between worrying and nervously biting our nails, it also provided a few light-hearted funny moments, as we tried to distract ourselves.
Such as in the ICU waiting room. My aunt's cell phone had a terrible '80s synthesizer ring, and my uncle implored my cousin Kathleen to change it while my aunt was out of the room. Kathleen was happy to assign a ring tone, but knew her mom would rally against the $2 charge. My uncle said he'd pay for it -- by check.
So Kathleen started messing with the phone, until my aunt re-appeared and asked what she was doing.
"Giving you a new ring tone," Kathleen answered.
"Does that cost money?" my aunt immediately asked. "I don't want to pay for it!"
On cue, the whole family burst into laughter, and my uncle said, "Where's my checkbook? Evelyn, it's on me."
I also found a stack of blue surgical masks in the ICU waiting room, and put those to good use. First, I put one on and amused my family by breathing heavy so it fogged up my glasses. Then I wore it on my head like a kippah, and clasped my hands together in prayer. We sent that photo to my friend Kelley, who's a rabbi, with the message, "Shalom from the waiting room!"
Even Mark brought his A game. My aunt passed around a bag of cookies, and gave me some to offer Mark.
"You want a cookie?" I asked him, and he answered "Yes!" before I finished the sentence.
"Just so you know, you never have to ask me that," he said, assuring me the answer would always be yes.
Even our first visit in the ICU post-op was a tad inappropriate. My dad was still sleeping, hooked up to IVs and all sorts of tubes and wires. My mom, brother Tim and I all stood around his bed, watching him sleep, relieved that the surgery had gone well, but a little anxious he wasn't awake yet. All around us, machines were beeping, and tubes were draining, and it was hard to know where to look.
Tim spied a large glass bottle, hanging upside down. He silently pointed to it, and I read the label. Nitroglycerin. He raised his hands, miming an explosion, and whispered, "Boom!" I about lost it.
"It was like Bugs Bunny," he said later, in the hallway. "Like how Yosemite Sam was always blowing up stuff with dynamite and nitroglycerin."
"Yeah, but he always pushed down on it," I said. "So you should do this instead..." And I mimed pressing down on box that triggered the dynamite fuse. Tim repeated, "Boom!" and we burst into giggles again. I thought my mom might smack us, but she giggled instead.
Or when the respiration technician came in to give my dad his breathing treatment a couple days later. He hooked up a mask onto my dad's face, and I watched as steam poured out the sides. My dad's breathing grew heavy, loud, and it reminded me of a certain famous villain.
"Come on, dad, say it!" I encouraged, and he responded as I knew he would.
"Luke, I am your faaaather," he breathed loudly, sending us all --including the respiration tech -- into a fit of laughter.
The kids -- mine and my nieces and nephew -- also lightened things up for us. My son insists on riding in the mini-van with his cousins whenever we go somewhere, so my niece Nathalie escaped into my car. We spent most of the week giggling and being silly together. We even transported my Mom after dinner one night, when she'd had a glass of wine. She was telling us all about a nearby school she'd worked at, named after Marie Curie.
"They named it after a chicken sauce?" Nathalie asked excitedly, but my mom didn't quite get it.
"What chicken sauce?" she asked.
"Curry!" Nat and I answered simultaneously.
"No, they named it after..." she started, but it was too late. Nat and I were gone, laughing our heads off.
And of course, my other niece Gabi cracked me up, when recalling a story about how she drank three bottles of root beer at a party, and spun outta control from it.
"One time, when I was root beer-drunk -- " she started. I was laughing so hard at that simple description that I never did hear the rest of the story.
So our week was long, and left us emotionally spent at the end of each day. I felt guilty about laughing and joking while my dad was laid up in bed, but honestly, I think the laughter is what kept us all sane, and from going over the edge with worry. I was (and am) grateful that I'm not the only one in the family who reverts to laughter and inappropriate jokes when I'm scared or nervous.
And I am grateful that I was born into a family with a sense of humor that is as immature as my own, which shows up at maybe not the most appropriate of times.
But as my dad proved during his Darth Vader impression, this apple certainly didn't fall far from the tree. :-)
Such as in the ICU waiting room. My aunt's cell phone had a terrible '80s synthesizer ring, and my uncle implored my cousin Kathleen to change it while my aunt was out of the room. Kathleen was happy to assign a ring tone, but knew her mom would rally against the $2 charge. My uncle said he'd pay for it -- by check.
So Kathleen started messing with the phone, until my aunt re-appeared and asked what she was doing.
"Giving you a new ring tone," Kathleen answered.
"Does that cost money?" my aunt immediately asked. "I don't want to pay for it!"
On cue, the whole family burst into laughter, and my uncle said, "Where's my checkbook? Evelyn, it's on me."
I also found a stack of blue surgical masks in the ICU waiting room, and put those to good use. First, I put one on and amused my family by breathing heavy so it fogged up my glasses. Then I wore it on my head like a kippah, and clasped my hands together in prayer. We sent that photo to my friend Kelley, who's a rabbi, with the message, "Shalom from the waiting room!"
Even Mark brought his A game. My aunt passed around a bag of cookies, and gave me some to offer Mark.
"You want a cookie?" I asked him, and he answered "Yes!" before I finished the sentence.
"Just so you know, you never have to ask me that," he said, assuring me the answer would always be yes.
Even our first visit in the ICU post-op was a tad inappropriate. My dad was still sleeping, hooked up to IVs and all sorts of tubes and wires. My mom, brother Tim and I all stood around his bed, watching him sleep, relieved that the surgery had gone well, but a little anxious he wasn't awake yet. All around us, machines were beeping, and tubes were draining, and it was hard to know where to look.
Tim spied a large glass bottle, hanging upside down. He silently pointed to it, and I read the label. Nitroglycerin. He raised his hands, miming an explosion, and whispered, "Boom!" I about lost it.
"It was like Bugs Bunny," he said later, in the hallway. "Like how Yosemite Sam was always blowing up stuff with dynamite and nitroglycerin."
"Yeah, but he always pushed down on it," I said. "So you should do this instead..." And I mimed pressing down on box that triggered the dynamite fuse. Tim repeated, "Boom!" and we burst into giggles again. I thought my mom might smack us, but she giggled instead.
Or when the respiration technician came in to give my dad his breathing treatment a couple days later. He hooked up a mask onto my dad's face, and I watched as steam poured out the sides. My dad's breathing grew heavy, loud, and it reminded me of a certain famous villain.
"Come on, dad, say it!" I encouraged, and he responded as I knew he would.
"Luke, I am your faaaather," he breathed loudly, sending us all --including the respiration tech -- into a fit of laughter.
The kids -- mine and my nieces and nephew -- also lightened things up for us. My son insists on riding in the mini-van with his cousins whenever we go somewhere, so my niece Nathalie escaped into my car. We spent most of the week giggling and being silly together. We even transported my Mom after dinner one night, when she'd had a glass of wine. She was telling us all about a nearby school she'd worked at, named after Marie Curie.
"They named it after a chicken sauce?" Nathalie asked excitedly, but my mom didn't quite get it.
"What chicken sauce?" she asked.
"Curry!" Nat and I answered simultaneously.
"No, they named it after..." she started, but it was too late. Nat and I were gone, laughing our heads off.
And of course, my other niece Gabi cracked me up, when recalling a story about how she drank three bottles of root beer at a party, and spun outta control from it.
"One time, when I was root beer-drunk -- " she started. I was laughing so hard at that simple description that I never did hear the rest of the story.
So our week was long, and left us emotionally spent at the end of each day. I felt guilty about laughing and joking while my dad was laid up in bed, but honestly, I think the laughter is what kept us all sane, and from going over the edge with worry. I was (and am) grateful that I'm not the only one in the family who reverts to laughter and inappropriate jokes when I'm scared or nervous.
And I am grateful that I was born into a family with a sense of humor that is as immature as my own, which shows up at maybe not the most appropriate of times.
But as my dad proved during his Darth Vader impression, this apple certainly didn't fall far from the tree. :-)
Monday, April 26, 2010
Have a heart
Last week was one of the most nerve-wracking weeks I've ever had, and truth be told, I'm really glad it's over.
My dad went in for bypass surgery (or open-heart surgery, as the doctors called it. Which freaked my Mom and I out, so we opted for the more vague but less-scary-sounding "bypass"). Initially, the doctors told him they'd be bypassing three arteries (triple bypass!!), but they actually ended up bypassing five.
He's fine now. A little loopy from the pain meds and bored by the hospital routine, but other than that, he's on the mend. He's no longer hooked up to the oxygen canister or sporting the plastic-mustache tube that delivered the oxygen. He doesn't have all the IVs and other liquid-filled bags hooked into him. (At one point, I counted 14 bags simultaneously dripping stuff into him.) As I write this, he's still in the hospital, but may go home today or tomorrow.
I'd like to say that in his hour of need, my family responded in the most graceful, mature manner possible. Of course, anyone who's met my family knows that is a lie. Instead, we handled it in the typical Dinsdale fashion: with nervous laughter, inappropriate jokes, and the constant threat of being tossed out of my dad's room for being too loud, or having too many family members crammed into his tiny room. (We patently ignored the "two visitors at a time" rule the entire time.)
But at least we all responded together. Between my immediate family, aunt, uncle, and cousins, we filled up half the ICU waiting room. There were 10 of us nervously pacing, trying to distract ourselves with smartphones, email, magazines, the giant TV, or by diving into any one of the seven containers of cookies. (Apparently, in my family, cookies are love, because everybody brought a batch.) We tried to distract my mom, who held up very well until the last hour.
And as scary as it all was (and still is), at least we went through it all together. It's so cliche to say at least we were all together, but it's the truth. I was relieved that my oldest brother was paying attention (and understanding) all the info the doctors gave us. I was grateful that my mom's siblings were there to hug her, and be her rock, as they've done their whole lives. I was blessed that my sister-in-law took over the home front, cooking while we waited in the ICU, and watching the kids so that we could focus on my dad. And I was glad to be surrounded by my own siblings (and cousin), just as my mom was, and receiving their brand of comforting, which involved a lot of playful punching and insults (that's how they show their love--why say the words "I love you, sis" when a jab to the kidneys will do?).
Like I said, my dad's made a lot of progress, and he's one tough dude -- he even has an awesome new scar to prove it. (I told him chicks dig scars.) My mom's hanging in there -- she's pretty tough herself.
So now we just wait a little longer. A little longer, and he'll come home. A little longer, and he'll be feeling better. A little longer, and he'll be up and walking around, joking like he usually does, and acting silly with the grandkids.
And I'll be grateful for it all.
My dad went in for bypass surgery (or open-heart surgery, as the doctors called it. Which freaked my Mom and I out, so we opted for the more vague but less-scary-sounding "bypass"). Initially, the doctors told him they'd be bypassing three arteries (triple bypass!!), but they actually ended up bypassing five.
He's fine now. A little loopy from the pain meds and bored by the hospital routine, but other than that, he's on the mend. He's no longer hooked up to the oxygen canister or sporting the plastic-mustache tube that delivered the oxygen. He doesn't have all the IVs and other liquid-filled bags hooked into him. (At one point, I counted 14 bags simultaneously dripping stuff into him.) As I write this, he's still in the hospital, but may go home today or tomorrow.
I'd like to say that in his hour of need, my family responded in the most graceful, mature manner possible. Of course, anyone who's met my family knows that is a lie. Instead, we handled it in the typical Dinsdale fashion: with nervous laughter, inappropriate jokes, and the constant threat of being tossed out of my dad's room for being too loud, or having too many family members crammed into his tiny room. (We patently ignored the "two visitors at a time" rule the entire time.)
But at least we all responded together. Between my immediate family, aunt, uncle, and cousins, we filled up half the ICU waiting room. There were 10 of us nervously pacing, trying to distract ourselves with smartphones, email, magazines, the giant TV, or by diving into any one of the seven containers of cookies. (Apparently, in my family, cookies are love, because everybody brought a batch.) We tried to distract my mom, who held up very well until the last hour.
And as scary as it all was (and still is), at least we went through it all together. It's so cliche to say at least we were all together, but it's the truth. I was relieved that my oldest brother was paying attention (and understanding) all the info the doctors gave us. I was grateful that my mom's siblings were there to hug her, and be her rock, as they've done their whole lives. I was blessed that my sister-in-law took over the home front, cooking while we waited in the ICU, and watching the kids so that we could focus on my dad. And I was glad to be surrounded by my own siblings (and cousin), just as my mom was, and receiving their brand of comforting, which involved a lot of playful punching and insults (that's how they show their love--why say the words "I love you, sis" when a jab to the kidneys will do?).
Like I said, my dad's made a lot of progress, and he's one tough dude -- he even has an awesome new scar to prove it. (I told him chicks dig scars.) My mom's hanging in there -- she's pretty tough herself.
So now we just wait a little longer. A little longer, and he'll come home. A little longer, and he'll be feeling better. A little longer, and he'll be up and walking around, joking like he usually does, and acting silly with the grandkids.
And I'll be grateful for it all.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Vroom vroom!
Went to the Grand Prix this weekend with my f am ily, and had a blast. As I told my sis-in-law Mary, "I'm not much of a sports fan, but I love an event!" And there was certainly no bigger event in town this weekend.
We went Saturday. I told the k i ds it was because it would be less crowded, but really, it's because that's when they hold the celebrity race. (I'm more into People magazine than NASCAR.) This year's hotties -- I mean celebrity drivers -- included Keanu Reeves, Adrian Brody and Tony Hawk. The women in our group all cheered on Keanu, and the kids all cheered on Tony Hawk. My brother played no favorites -- he drank a beer and cheered for all the cars, so everyone was happy.
Well, almost everyone. A certain young man who's name rhymes with "shark" was a bit grumpy.
But he cheered up later when we came across this sight -- apparently, the guy on the right imbibed a little too liberally from the giant beer can and needed a siesta.
After lunch and watching the race cars run a few more laps, we headed for the convention center. It was filled with booths and vendors handing out f r e e s a m p l e s of all sorts of crazy stuff -- the kids were in heaven, as they love nothing more than a freebie.
Mark found this car to sit in. Coolest Hot Wheels he ever played with!
The kids were also excited to wrestle around pricey cars and make us nervous.
"Be careful!" I cried out, when they were messing with a $150,000 car. "You can't even afford to replace the side mirror on that car!"
We finally lured them away by pointing out the free soda sample booth. As we walked away, I almost gained a new kid, when I accidentally guided a little boy to the right, toward the rest of our group.
"That's not one of ours!" my brother Scott called out to me, and when I looked down, I saw he was right.
"I'm so sorry!" I apologized to his laughing mother. "I thought he was my nephew!" She laughed again, and joked that I could keep him, but I assured her we already had our hands full.
Then it was on to the National Guard booth with an inflatable basketball pop-a-shot game, where the kids fought over who would shoot first. First, my nieces lost the ball between the inflatable and the booth next door, and then they managed to deflate the whole thing.
"Walk away," I hissed at them, as the basketball court quickly fell to the floor. "Don't make eye contact, just walk away!"
Luckily, they complied, and we all walked by the oblivious National Guard guy with eyes averted.
The last activity was the best -- the kids tossed tortillas at a frying pan, trying to win bottles of hot sauce. Mark even won a free t-shirt.
By that time, we'd had enough. Enough loud cars, enough herding chil dren away from potentially dangerous/expensive booths, and enough beer to feel a happy buzz. (Being a lightweight drinker definitely has its benefits when it comes to $10 beers!) We took our free bottles of hot sauce, and headed back for the Metro home.
Until next year...
We went Saturday. I told the k i ds it was because it would be less crowded, but really, it's because that's when they hold the celebrity race. (I'm more into People magazine than NASCAR.) This year's hotties -- I mean celebrity drivers -- included Keanu Reeves, Adrian Brody and Tony Hawk. The women in our group all cheered on Keanu, and the kids all cheered on Tony Hawk. My brother played no favorites -- he drank a beer and cheered for all the cars, so everyone was happy.
Well, almost everyone. A certain young man who's name rhymes with "shark" was a bit grumpy.
But he cheered up later when we came across this sight -- apparently, the guy on the right imbibed a little too liberally from the giant beer can and needed a siesta.
After lunch and watching the race cars run a few more laps, we headed for the convention center. It was filled with booths and vendors handing out f r e e s a m p l e s of all sorts of crazy stuff -- the kids were in heaven, as they love nothing more than a freebie.
Mark found this car to sit in. Coolest Hot Wheels he ever played with!
The kids were also excited to wrestle around pricey cars and make us nervous.
"Be careful!" I cried out, when they were messing with a $150,000 car. "You can't even afford to replace the side mirror on that car!"
We finally lured them away by pointing out the free soda sample booth. As we walked away, I almost gained a new kid, when I accidentally guided a little boy to the right, toward the rest of our group.
"That's not one of ours!" my brother Scott called out to me, and when I looked down, I saw he was right.
"I'm so sorry!" I apologized to his laughing mother. "I thought he was my nephew!" She laughed again, and joked that I could keep him, but I assured her we already had our hands full.
Then it was on to the National Guard booth with an inflatable basketball pop-a-shot game, where the kids fought over who would shoot first. First, my nieces lost the ball between the inflatable and the booth next door, and then they managed to deflate the whole thing.
"Walk away," I hissed at them, as the basketball court quickly fell to the floor. "Don't make eye contact, just walk away!"
Luckily, they complied, and we all walked by the oblivious National Guard guy with eyes averted.
The last activity was the best -- the kids tossed tortillas at a frying pan, trying to win bottles of hot sauce. Mark even won a free t-shirt.
By that time, we'd had enough. Enough loud cars, enough herding chil dren away from potentially dangerous/expensive booths, and enough beer to feel a happy buzz. (Being a lightweight drinker definitely has its benefits when it comes to $10 beers!) We took our free bottles of hot sauce, and headed back for the Metro home.
Until next year...
Thursday, April 15, 2010
I'm gonna go(-gurt) crazy!
Mark and I both have new addictions, and they are (literally) feeding off one another. His voracious appetite spurred me to purchase a membership to a certain warehouse-style store filled with 60-count boxes of granola bars (among other things).
It was bad enough that I bought the membership in the first place (I've gone about once a week in the last month), but it was worse when I took Mark with me. He smiled widely, and then his eyes glazed over at the giant boxes of...everything. He begged me to buy him a box containing 60 snack-size cookie packs, and when I asked who on Earth could eat that many cookies, he exclaimed, "Me!" I assured him that was not healthy or realistic, and moved on.
But when he saw a box of Go-Gurts, he turned on the charm. I finally relented just to make him back off, which is how I ended up at home with a box of 32 yogurt-filled tubes.
"Can I have a Go-Gurt?" has become his new mantra, and he is not shy about using it.
"How was school today?" I ask him, and he responds, "Fine, can I have a Go-Gurt?"
"Did you finish your homework?" I ask, only to hear, "Yes, can I have a Go-Gurt?"
"Time for bed," I tell him nightly, to which he replies (say it with me!), "Can I have a Go-Gurt?"
I hear the same request before every meal, except breakfast, when he's not fully awake until after he eats. Then, when he does wake up, he pounds on the bathroom door while I'm showering. Although all I hear is muffled shouting, I'm pretty sure of what he's asking.
Then he went to camp, where he learned to enjoy a new delicacy -- frozen Go-Gurt. Now Mark tosses them in the freezer and plucks them out, telling me they taste like ice cream.
"Or like Golden Spoon," he said. "They taste just like frozen yogurt." He failed to see the irony in that comment!
The truth is, I don't mind if he has a Go-Gurt. He hates milk, so I figure at least he's getting some calcium from the yogurt, and I don't have to fight him to eat it. But like an addict, he can't just stop at one.
This became abundantly clear when I noticed the dwindling supply.
"There are only 11 tubes left," I noted.
"Ooooh, can I have a --" he started, but I cut him short with "Eleven!"
"So?" he said.
"So, it's only been six days since we bought that box!" I exclaimed. "You've eaten 21 Go-Gurts in six days!"
"I told you I ate a bunch on Saturday," he said, silently counting his fingers. His eyebrows shot up, and he gasped, "Whoa! A lot."
"How many is 'a lot'?" I asked.
"Ten!" he answered. We were both shocked.
"Slow down!" I told him. "There's not a Go-Gurt shortage. I'll buy you more!"
He took my advice to heart. Yesterday, he only ate three tubes. At one point, he actually squealed with delight while eating one.
I thought he was just really enjoying the yogurt. But when he came into the kitchen, he was clutching a brochure.
"Look, Mom!" he said, excitedly. He held up a coupon from the warehouse store. It was good for $2 off another box of yogurt tubes.
Mark ripped it out and danced around.
I just sighed, and wondered if there's a 12 step program to wean him off the berry-flavored fro-yo.
It was bad enough that I bought the membership in the first place (I've gone about once a week in the last month), but it was worse when I took Mark with me. He smiled widely, and then his eyes glazed over at the giant boxes of...everything. He begged me to buy him a box containing 60 snack-size cookie packs, and when I asked who on Earth could eat that many cookies, he exclaimed, "Me!" I assured him that was not healthy or realistic, and moved on.
But when he saw a box of Go-Gurts, he turned on the charm. I finally relented just to make him back off, which is how I ended up at home with a box of 32 yogurt-filled tubes.
"Can I have a Go-Gurt?" has become his new mantra, and he is not shy about using it.
"How was school today?" I ask him, and he responds, "Fine, can I have a Go-Gurt?"
"Did you finish your homework?" I ask, only to hear, "Yes, can I have a Go-Gurt?"
"Time for bed," I tell him nightly, to which he replies (say it with me!), "Can I have a Go-Gurt?"
I hear the same request before every meal, except breakfast, when he's not fully awake until after he eats. Then, when he does wake up, he pounds on the bathroom door while I'm showering. Although all I hear is muffled shouting, I'm pretty sure of what he's asking.
Then he went to camp, where he learned to enjoy a new delicacy -- frozen Go-Gurt. Now Mark tosses them in the freezer and plucks them out, telling me they taste like ice cream.
"Or like Golden Spoon," he said. "They taste just like frozen yogurt." He failed to see the irony in that comment!
The truth is, I don't mind if he has a Go-Gurt. He hates milk, so I figure at least he's getting some calcium from the yogurt, and I don't have to fight him to eat it. But like an addict, he can't just stop at one.
This became abundantly clear when I noticed the dwindling supply.
"There are only 11 tubes left," I noted.
"Ooooh, can I have a --" he started, but I cut him short with "Eleven!"
"So?" he said.
"So, it's only been six days since we bought that box!" I exclaimed. "You've eaten 21 Go-Gurts in six days!"
"I told you I ate a bunch on Saturday," he said, silently counting his fingers. His eyebrows shot up, and he gasped, "Whoa! A lot."
"How many is 'a lot'?" I asked.
"Ten!" he answered. We were both shocked.
"Slow down!" I told him. "There's not a Go-Gurt shortage. I'll buy you more!"
He took my advice to heart. Yesterday, he only ate three tubes. At one point, he actually squealed with delight while eating one.
I thought he was just really enjoying the yogurt. But when he came into the kitchen, he was clutching a brochure.
"Look, Mom!" he said, excitedly. He held up a coupon from the warehouse store. It was good for $2 off another box of yogurt tubes.
Mark ripped it out and danced around.
I just sighed, and wondered if there's a 12 step program to wean him off the berry-flavored fro-yo.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Lost in translation
These are the types of arguments we have in my house...
Mark was listening to "I Gotta Feeling," by his favorite singers, the Black Eyed Peas. I wasn't paying much attention until he sang this line:
"Fill up my car, mazel tov!"
"It's not 'car,'" I corrected. "It's 'Fill up my cup.'"
"No, it's car," he retorted.
"Listen to the next line," I said. "'Fill up my cup, drink!'"
But he was not to be dissuaded.
"No, they said 'drain,'" he told me.
"Fill up my car, drain?" I asked.
He nodded.
"But that doesn't even make sense," I answered.
He shrugged. "That's what they say," he told me, then ran off, singing very loudly, "Fill up my car, DRAIN!"
Sometimes it's just easier to go with it than to keep arguing against a hard-headed little kid. So when he re-appeared and sang it again, I simply smiled and answered, "Mazel tov!"
Hey, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Mark was listening to "I Gotta Feeling," by his favorite singers, the Black Eyed Peas. I wasn't paying much attention until he sang this line:
"Fill up my car, mazel tov!"
"It's not 'car,'" I corrected. "It's 'Fill up my cup.'"
"No, it's car," he retorted.
"Listen to the next line," I said. "'Fill up my cup, drink!'"
But he was not to be dissuaded.
"No, they said 'drain,'" he told me.
"Fill up my car, drain?" I asked.
He nodded.
"But that doesn't even make sense," I answered.
He shrugged. "That's what they say," he told me, then ran off, singing very loudly, "Fill up my car, DRAIN!"
Sometimes it's just easier to go with it than to keep arguing against a hard-headed little kid. So when he re-appeared and sang it again, I simply smiled and answered, "Mazel tov!"
Hey, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Girls just don't understand
Mark spent spring break at a local day camp, doing what he loves best -- playing sports and getting filthy. He was recounting his adventures one day, and inadvertently gave me a lesson on the different communication styles of males and females. That's right, I got schooled in boy talk.
"My friends and I were playing football, and --" he started, but I interrupted him.
"Friends from school?" I asked.
"No, my new friends," he answered.
"What are their names?" I asked. (We've had many failed lessons about proper introductions. I was hoping maybe a lesson had stuck.)
But Mark just shrugged.
"Did you ask any of their names?" I asked, cringing inside. When little girls play together, they immediately give their names, plus the names of their parents, siblings', best friends, pets, neighbors, and favorite toys all in the first two minutes. You also learn their age, favorite color, food, book, toy, doll, and school, plus their grade, teacher, and classmates' names. I continually forget boys are not like girls.
Mark shook his head. "I forgot to ask their names," he said.
"Well, how do you get their attention then, if you don't know their names?" I persisted.
Mark just looked at me, raised his hands up as if to catch a football, and in his slowest, you-are-so-dim voice, said, "Hey, over here, pass it to me!" He simulated a catch, then a throw to another imaginary kid, and smiled smugly at me.
And so I drove on, trying not to laugh out loud. I also made a mental note not to underestimate boy communication any more. Because maybe he didn't get all the fine details (like names), but he had a blast anyway.
"My friends and I were playing football, and --" he started, but I interrupted him.
"Friends from school?" I asked.
"No, my new friends," he answered.
"What are their names?" I asked. (We've had many failed lessons about proper introductions. I was hoping maybe a lesson had stuck.)
But Mark just shrugged.
"Did you ask any of their names?" I asked, cringing inside. When little girls play together, they immediately give their names, plus the names of their parents, siblings', best friends, pets, neighbors, and favorite toys all in the first two minutes. You also learn their age, favorite color, food, book, toy, doll, and school, plus their grade, teacher, and classmates' names. I continually forget boys are not like girls.
Mark shook his head. "I forgot to ask their names," he said.
"Well, how do you get their attention then, if you don't know their names?" I persisted.
Mark just looked at me, raised his hands up as if to catch a football, and in his slowest, you-are-so-dim voice, said, "Hey, over here, pass it to me!" He simulated a catch, then a throw to another imaginary kid, and smiled smugly at me.
And so I drove on, trying not to laugh out loud. I also made a mental note not to underestimate boy communication any more. Because maybe he didn't get all the fine details (like names), but he had a blast anyway.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Inflation
Apparently, the housing market is booming again in my neighborhood. Though I tend to think of it as your average middle-class suburb, Mark informed me I was drastically underestimating its value.
He was looking at a flyer from a local real estate agent. It listed the prices of local houses for sale, and Mark couldn't believe his eyes.
"Wow, here's a house that costs $5,500,000!" he exclaimed.
"I think you mean $550,000," I corrected.
"No, I mean five MILLION dollars!" he said. He shook his head -- he couldn't believe someone would pay that much for a house.
But the prices swing wildly up and down in the 'hood. The next house he saw is selling for much less.
"This house costs $44,900," he told me.
I reminded him to look more closely at where the commas were placed.
"It's $449,000," I told him.
But he ignored me. He'd already moved on to the next house.
"This house has a pool!" he said, excitedly. "Wouldn't that be cool, Mom? Don't you want a pool?"
"It would be cool," I agreed. "And quite a deal at $44,000."
"Yeah, we should buy that one," he said. I told him I'd get right on it.
That is, right after I go to the bookstore to purchase a math review work book. Because if he's forgotten this much after only a week of spring break, imagine how much he'll forget after a whole three-month summer vacation!
He was looking at a flyer from a local real estate agent. It listed the prices of local houses for sale, and Mark couldn't believe his eyes.
"Wow, here's a house that costs $5,500,000!" he exclaimed.
"I think you mean $550,000," I corrected.
"No, I mean five MILLION dollars!" he said. He shook his head -- he couldn't believe someone would pay that much for a house.
But the prices swing wildly up and down in the 'hood. The next house he saw is selling for much less.
"This house costs $44,900," he told me.
I reminded him to look more closely at where the commas were placed.
"It's $449,000," I told him.
But he ignored me. He'd already moved on to the next house.
"This house has a pool!" he said, excitedly. "Wouldn't that be cool, Mom? Don't you want a pool?"
"It would be cool," I agreed. "And quite a deal at $44,000."
"Yeah, we should buy that one," he said. I told him I'd get right on it.
That is, right after I go to the bookstore to purchase a math review work book. Because if he's forgotten this much after only a week of spring break, imagine how much he'll forget after a whole three-month summer vacation!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
There's a reason they sit in the back
Due to a mishap at the oil-change store, the skidplate fell off the bottom of my car while I was driving home from work. Prior to that, I didn't even know cars had such a piece, and now I'm driving around with it in the back seat.
Mark is thrilled about it. I wish I could say that when I first told him the story, he was filled with concern for my well-being. Instead, upon seeing the skidplate in the car, the first words out of his mouth were, "Cool, I get to ride in the front seat!" (To which I answered, "Yes, I'm fine, thanks for asking, son.")
And after carting him around up front the past couple days, I have a new-found appreciation for the back seat. I think the barrier between the front and back seats provides a safe, healthy distance for us all.
For example, in the back seat, he can't reach any of the following buttons: radio volume, radio pre-sets, a/c, heat, hazard lights, or windshield wipers. He can't touch the gears, the parking brake or the a/c vents. And I can actually drive with both hands on the wheel, instead of slapping his little hands away and saying, "Don't touch!" every two seconds.
Besides easy access to all buttons, the front seat gave him a new sense of confidence as well. He acts like a too-cool teenager, rolling down the window, turning up the radio, slouching in the shotgun seat. He nods through the open window to drivers in other cars and says, with a slight nod, "S'up?" Now, instead of feeling like his mom-chauffeur, I feel like I'm out cruising the town with my (somewhat shorter) friend. It's pretty weird.
But it's also got its perks. Yesterday, when he started pressing the radio buttons, I turned up the volume from my steering wheel button.
"What are you doing?" I yelled at him. "Turn it down!"
He panicked, and yelled back, "I'm not doing anything! I don't know what's--" Then he saw my thumb pressing the button and said, "Mooooom!!" as I burst into laughter.
"Just kidding," I said, and we laughed about it all the way home.
I haven't had time to take the car back yet, but I will tomorrow. And somehow, I just know he's going to be disappointed at being demoted back to his old seat.
Especially since it's the weekend, the best time of all for cruising the neighborhood from the front seat.
Mark is thrilled about it. I wish I could say that when I first told him the story, he was filled with concern for my well-being. Instead, upon seeing the skidplate in the car, the first words out of his mouth were, "Cool, I get to ride in the front seat!" (To which I answered, "Yes, I'm fine, thanks for asking, son.")
And after carting him around up front the past couple days, I have a new-found appreciation for the back seat. I think the barrier between the front and back seats provides a safe, healthy distance for us all.
For example, in the back seat, he can't reach any of the following buttons: radio volume, radio pre-sets, a/c, heat, hazard lights, or windshield wipers. He can't touch the gears, the parking brake or the a/c vents. And I can actually drive with both hands on the wheel, instead of slapping his little hands away and saying, "Don't touch!" every two seconds.
Besides easy access to all buttons, the front seat gave him a new sense of confidence as well. He acts like a too-cool teenager, rolling down the window, turning up the radio, slouching in the shotgun seat. He nods through the open window to drivers in other cars and says, with a slight nod, "S'up?" Now, instead of feeling like his mom-chauffeur, I feel like I'm out cruising the town with my (somewhat shorter) friend. It's pretty weird.
But it's also got its perks. Yesterday, when he started pressing the radio buttons, I turned up the volume from my steering wheel button.
"What are you doing?" I yelled at him. "Turn it down!"
He panicked, and yelled back, "I'm not doing anything! I don't know what's--" Then he saw my thumb pressing the button and said, "Mooooom!!" as I burst into laughter.
"Just kidding," I said, and we laughed about it all the way home.
I haven't had time to take the car back yet, but I will tomorrow. And somehow, I just know he's going to be disappointed at being demoted back to his old seat.
Especially since it's the weekend, the best time of all for cruising the neighborhood from the front seat.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Clippers...they aren't just for hair
On Easter afternoon, Mark got one thrill that didn't come in his Easter basket. He got to be a ball boy for the Los Angeles Clippers! (I know they aren't the Lakers, but hey, it's still an NBA team...)
My brother Scott and nephew Grant joined us. We arrived early, and the Staples Center was still turning over from the Lakers game. We watched as the vendors switched out the souvenir merchandise and cleaned the whole arena. They even had to switch the floors, since each team has its own customized version, which I thought was pretty cool.
Eventually, we were lead down to the court. They gave Mark a giant Clippers shirt and instructions on how to be a professional ball boy -- essentially, he was to stand at the end of the court and throw back any stray shots.
My brother Scott and nephew Grant joined us. We arrived early, and the Staples Center was still turning over from the Lakers game. We watched as the vendors switched out the souvenir merchandise and cleaned the whole arena. They even had to switch the floors, since each team has its own customized version, which I thought was pretty cool.
Eventually, we were lead down to the court. They gave Mark a giant Clippers shirt and instructions on how to be a professional ball boy -- essentially, he was to stand at the end of the court and throw back any stray shots.
He was pretty stoked about it. The Clippers missed a whole lotta shots, and kept him busy for a while. He was then switched over to the other side of the court so he could play with the New York Knicks. They did not miss as many shots. Mark soon found himself out of a job, and I realized the game was going to be fairly one-sided.
Mark did manage to catch a bunch of basketballs though. Yep, that was my kid, playing basketball with professional players on the Staples Center court!
He had some competition from another ball boy, but Mark is about as competitive as they come. He wasn't going to blow this opportunity, and got in there every chance he could.
Grant also dug it. He liked watching Mark toss the ball, and he couldn't get over how tall the players were. He even got to throw in a ball that bounced over the seats. But his favorite activity came when the game began -- flirting with the cheerleaders.
Mark was out on the court for about 40 minutes. When it was time to end, he got a chance in a lifetime -- to shoot a free throw on the court! He was nervous, and he wasn't playing with his usual favorite ball -- a blue and yellow volleyball. (He's surprisingly accurate with it!) He missed the first couple times, scooted in closer, and eventually made a one-handed basket. It was awesome!
He also won a coupon for a free McDonald's meal, which thrilled him almost as much as being a ball boy. Sometimes I have to remember that he's a kid, and not to shoot so high when it comes to entertaining him!
The game was petty exciting. The only other basketball game we've ever been to was the Harlem Globetrotters, which were fun in a more comedic way. But the Clippers were fun, too, even if we cheered for the wrong team on many occasions.
We stayed until the beginning of the third quarter. Grant finished flirting with the cheerleaders, and we bailed.
I was glad the boys all had such a great time. But I was even more glad Mark actually embraced work, and didn't whine about having to chase the balls at practice. I did threaten him beforehand, and reminded him this was a privilege, not a punishment. I also threatened to come onto the court at the Staples Center and pinch his little head off in front of the entire arena if he so much as whined a peep about it. Luckily, it was a threat I didn't have to follow through on.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Celebrating a giant candy-bearing bunny
Easter found us in San Diego, celebrating with our family. We spent a gorgeous day at the beach, and a really nice evening celebrating with a fabulous dinner my mom made. She even set the table really cute:
I also spent the weekend explaining the Easter Bunny. My five-year-old nephew Grant kept asking how the bunny gets in the house, and what he should do if he saw the Easter Bunny at night ("Say hello!" I answered). He also fretted about whether we should leave the Easter bunny carrots or lettuce, and finally settled on both.
Mark and my niece Gabi didn't care about the details; they just wanted reassurance that the Bunny was bringing them candy. They could care care less how or when he came into the house.
My niece Nathalie is in middle school, and wasn't much interested either. But when I remarked how funny the whole Easter Bunny story is, she looked at me questioningly.
"Think about it," I said. "Most kids would freak out if a giant animal entered their home. But tell them it's bringing candy, and they're like, 'Hey, COOL!'"
She nodded, and I asked if kids would feel the same if the animal wasn't cute and funny. "What if it was a donkey instead of a bunny?" I asked her. "Would everyone still be as excited?"
"A donkey!" she cried. But apparently she was still thinking about it half an hour later, because she said, "A donkey," again and started giggling.
After dinner, the kids colored Easter eggs. They got really into it.
The older kids dyed their eggs dark, rich colors, but Grant powered through, dyeing three eggs in about three minutes. But then he spent the next hour worrying about the dye all over the back of his hands.
"Am I gonna look like this forever?" he asked. "Is this ever gonna come off?"
I assured him it would, and after a few good scrubbings, it was almost gone.
I also spent the weekend explaining the Easter Bunny. My five-year-old nephew Grant kept asking how the bunny gets in the house, and what he should do if he saw the Easter Bunny at night ("Say hello!" I answered). He also fretted about whether we should leave the Easter bunny carrots or lettuce, and finally settled on both.
Mark and my niece Gabi didn't care about the details; they just wanted reassurance that the Bunny was bringing them candy. They could care care less how or when he came into the house.
My niece Nathalie is in middle school, and wasn't much interested either. But when I remarked how funny the whole Easter Bunny story is, she looked at me questioningly.
"Think about it," I said. "Most kids would freak out if a giant animal entered their home. But tell them it's bringing candy, and they're like, 'Hey, COOL!'"
She nodded, and I asked if kids would feel the same if the animal wasn't cute and funny. "What if it was a donkey instead of a bunny?" I asked her. "Would everyone still be as excited?"
"A donkey!" she cried. But apparently she was still thinking about it half an hour later, because she said, "A donkey," again and started giggling.
After dinner, the kids colored Easter eggs. They got really into it.
The older kids dyed their eggs dark, rich colors, but Grant powered through, dyeing three eggs in about three minutes. But then he spent the next hour worrying about the dye all over the back of his hands.
"Am I gonna look like this forever?" he asked. "Is this ever gonna come off?"
I assured him it would, and after a few good scrubbings, it was almost gone.
The kids were thrilled to find their baskets on Easter Sunday morning, and immediately dug into the sugar. We enjoyed a nice brunch, and then headed to church. The kids looked so great in their Sunday best:
Scott and Mary looked nice, too. Here's a picture that pretty much sums up their relationship. ;-)
My dad wasn't feeling well, but he felt well enough to give me this nice shot.
Because we'd spent Christmas Mass in the bingo hall, we left extra early, hoping to secure seats in the actual church this time. Turns out we had no worries -- we arrived as the 9 o'clock service was letting out. We let the kids run off those jelly beans outside, and went into the church. I was shocked at how few people there were; they took their time getting to services. It felt like we'd been sitting there a long time, and when I asked Mark what time it was, his answer shocked me.
"10:58," he said.
"You mean 10:28," I corrected. He said, no, it was almost 11. And I realized that for the first time in 40 years, Sunday Mass was starting at 11, not 10:30. We weren't just a little early -- we were an HOUR early! I guess that was God's way of getting us to spend a little more time in church this year.
We topped off the Easter celebrations with a traditional egg hunt. We hadn't really planned to have an egg hunt this year, until the kids informed us they were expecting one. So Mary and I filled plastic eggs with coins and jelly beans (separately -- not in the same eggs!) and Mary hid them around the yard.
The kids took off like a shot to find them.
It was a wonderful, mellow Easter, and though the candy was good, the best part was just being together, and celebrating with our family.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
A hair-raising adventure
Last week, Mark's school hosted the annual St. Baldrick's event. The premise is pretty touching -- participants agree to raise money for a cure to childhood cancer and to have their heads shaved.
That's right -- shaved. As in no hair. None. Completely bald!
It's very inspiring. This year, there were 160 shavees, including at least one woman and a little baby (his fireman dad also shaved his head). There were other firefighters, a high school baseball team, parents, and more than 100 boys from the school. The honor of the first shaving went to a middle school girl who is currently in treatment for cancer. She shaved her dad's head as everyone cheered.
I love that Mark volunteered for this. That kid loves his hair, and for him to give it up was a sacrifice. I was proud of my little guy.
He even tried to involve me.
"Are you shaving your head this year, Mom?" he asked.
I shook my head and answered, "I give the money, you give the hair." I offered to shave my head next year if he pays the donation; I'm 99% sure he'll refuse.
Eight boys from his Cub Scout den attend the school, and all eight boys shaved their heads. It was hilarious to see them all running around bald-headed and rubbing each others' heads.
Here's Mark's before picture:
The boys were hilarious afterwards. They couldn't keep their hands off their heads, and went around rubbing each other's stubble like they were Buddha bellies. We all attended a play that night, and they sat in the same row, a chain of boys rubbing each others' heads.
Here's Mark checking out Jonah's new 'do.
That's right -- shaved. As in no hair. None. Completely bald!
It's very inspiring. This year, there were 160 shavees, including at least one woman and a little baby (his fireman dad also shaved his head). There were other firefighters, a high school baseball team, parents, and more than 100 boys from the school. The honor of the first shaving went to a middle school girl who is currently in treatment for cancer. She shaved her dad's head as everyone cheered.
I love that Mark volunteered for this. That kid loves his hair, and for him to give it up was a sacrifice. I was proud of my little guy.
He even tried to involve me.
"Are you shaving your head this year, Mom?" he asked.
I shook my head and answered, "I give the money, you give the hair." I offered to shave my head next year if he pays the donation; I'm 99% sure he'll refuse.
Eight boys from his Cub Scout den attend the school, and all eight boys shaved their heads. It was hilarious to see them all running around bald-headed and rubbing each others' heads.
Here's Mark's before picture:
Here he is mourning the impending hair loss with his friends Cody and Jonah:
Let the buzzing begin!
The final results -- a good-lookin' bald Mark!
The boys were hilarious afterwards. They couldn't keep their hands off their heads, and went around rubbing each other's stubble like they were Buddha bellies. We all attended a play that night, and they sat in the same row, a chain of boys rubbing each others' heads.
Here's Mark checking out Jonah's new 'do.
They were very supportive of each other, too. Here are Mark and Jonah keeping Sean company right before his hair was sheared off. (Really, Jonah and Mark were excited, even if they don't much look like it here!)
Mark and Sean, post-shave.
I was so proud of all the boys! Even if I couldn't quite tell them apart. It's hard enough to pick them out on the playground, since they all wear the same school uniform. And it was even harder when they no longer had hair to help distinguish them! One boy even called out to a smaller boy, until he realized it was the wrong kid.
"Sorry!" he said. "I thought you were my little brother."
I'm so proud of my little guy, who really lives up to the definition of a hero. And he's excited that he gets to wear his new Dodgers hat to school to prevent sunburning his scalp. So I guess it's an all around winning situation. :-)
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