Made with love

Mark thoroughly enjoyed his first week at summer camp. He played lots of sports, got to cook over a camp fire, and stoked a new interest in arts and crafts.

He handed me one fine piece of art and told me proudly, "I made this for you, Mom!"

It was a fine sculptured box, rendered with mini popsicle sticks and white glue. I thought it was wonderful.



However, when my niece Nathalie came to visit, she picked it up and asked, "What is this?"

"Mark made that for me," I said.

"Oh," Nat answered. She was flipping it around and asked, "Who's Sofia Wilson?"

I looked at Nat, who offered me the other side of the box, complete with Sofia's name on it.



"I'm guessing it's someone at Mark's camp," I answered.

Nat ran off to ask Mark, and I just giggled. I vowed to change my answer so that the next time someone asked me what it was, I'd say, "It's something Mark gave me."

Because even though it probably was a gift for mom, it was Sofia's mom, not me.

He's got a unique sense of fashion

Mark has always been obsessed with clothes, and he definitely has his own sense of style. This style includes wearing shorts with long, brightly-colored soccer socks (the very same socks he can never find during soccer season -- he once wore one black sock and one maroon sock during a game).

So he was thrilled when I won a gift bag at the recent firemen's lunch. I was hoping to win during the part of the raffle where they had cool prizes, like golf clubs or gift cards. Instead, I won during the phase where they gave gift bags filled with random things. Mine included a calculator, some Fig Newtons, a whistle, a scarf, and some knitted yellow booties. But it was the last prize that thrilled Mark most.

"Socks!" he yelled triumphantly, pulling them from the bag. He was even more excited when he saw Mickey Mouse adorning them, and immediately whipped off his own shoes and socks.

However...while I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth...they did have a minor flaw. They were size 13-15. That's right, professional basketball player size. (Not that I've seen a lot of NBA stars wearing Mickey Mouse socks.)

Mark didn't care. He put them on backwards, so the heel popped out midway up his shin. He pulled them up, proclaimed them perfect, and smiled happily at me.





As he should. Because hey, he rocked those socks as well as any pro baller!

Play ball!

In our house, we have two types of baseball fans--the good kind, who like the Angels, and the other kind, who like a different local team that wears blue and has fans who shout bad things during baseball games. Yes, I'm talking about the Dodgers. I actually don't dislike that team, with the exception of Manny Ramirez--I hate a cheater--but Mark loves them, so I, of course, like their cross-town rivals.

Occasionally, the two teams play each other during the fabled Freeway Series. Mark and I love going to those games, mostly because we both like trash-talking the other's team, and the Freeway Series lets us spend three hours doing exactly that.

We even wore our fan gear--Mark's is a Manny Ramirez #99 (cheater) shirt:



Mine looks like a standard Angels shirt on the front, but I had it personalized to read Dinsdale 01 on the back. Hey, why wear some random guy's name when I can wear my own name??



Mark likes the Dodgers because his dad dug them, but he was curious about how I became an Angels fan. I explained that for most of my life I was actually a Padres fan, growing up in San Diego and all. I only became an Angels fan when I moved away.

"And because they have red uniforms," I told him. "And I look good in red!"

He just rolled his eyes at me.

We got to the game a little late, due to all the traffic. The Dodgers were already ahead by 1, which Mark relished. Soon enough, Matt Kemp knocked one out of the park, bringing in two more runs, and Mark was absolutely giddy.

"What's the score, Mom?" he asked me. "I can't see that far away." He squinted for effect.

"It's 3-0, Dodgers leading," I said, and he immediately stopped squinting.

"Uh huh!" he shouted. "That's right--3 to zippo! I could see it, I just wanted to hear you say it!" And he cackled evilly.

He wasn't the only one who was happy. Though our section was evenly divided, there was one rabid Dodgers fan who may have consumed 10-12 beers prior to the game start. He spent a good portion of the time screaming, "The Angels SUCK!" or "Let's go Dodgers! Angels SUUUUCK!"

The people all around us ignored him, but I have no such illusions. It's one thing to cheer for the other team, but to completely disparage the home team? And in our own house??? Hell to the NO!

So the first time he screamed "Angels suck!" I yelled back, "Then go home!"

Mark was mortified. "Mom!" he hissed. "Don't say anything!!"

"What? If he hates them so much, he should go home!" I said. "Obviously, he's unhappy here..."

Mark frowned and told me again not to say anything. Which is the best way to get me to say things. So I told him again to go home.

"MOM! I'm SERIOUS!" Mark spat at me.

"What, he can say bad things but I can't?" I asked. Mark nodded. Mark affirmed what I was thinking -- that he was afraid I'd get beat up, and he wasn't going to help if that happened. Nice to know he had my back.

The game was a good one. Mark suddenly stopped gloating around the sixth inning, when the Angels hit a home with two guys on base. Tie score! And soon enough, after the Rally Monkey jumped around a bit, they got another three runs. That shut Mark up. It also gave the Angels fans a bit of courage, as they started shouting insults directly at the drunk dude, who suddenly became very quiet.

We sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the 7th inning stretch, bought peanuts and Cracker Jack, and had a blast. We left happy, tired and with a good sugary buzz.

And even though our teams are fierce rivals, Mark and I are not. We walked out of the ballpark in our opposing team shirts, holding hands, laughing, and recounting our favorite parts of the game.

Which made me appreciate the Dodgers just a little bit. Because without them, we wouldn't have our trash-talking tradition, or all the memories at the ballpark--and I would surely miss all those.

These are few of my favorite things...

Last weekend we ventured out to Cherry Valley to visit my aunt. My cousin Kathleen said she was playing in a golf tournament fundraiser, and when I learned it was to benefit firemen, I was there!

However...turned out the firemen who more like fireboys. They were young young young. And because the golf tourney was played at a retirement community, depending on who I was standing next to at any moment, I either felt like an old lady ogling the young firefighters or a young hottie having lunch with the seniors.

But the day was not a loss. We also walked to the Lavender Festival across the street from my aunt's house. Mark was thrilled when my Tia Evelyn told him he could ride to the festival in her golf cart.




He was disappointed to learn he wasn't driving, but he gladly accepted a consolation prize -- a honking horn, which my aunt immediately regretted handing him.




The lavender fields were lovely, and surprising. I had no idea there were so many fields back there, or even a resort with cottages. There were massive trees, and lavender everywhere, all of it buzzing with bees.


Mark saw a group of kids playing and ran off to join them. Kathleen, Tia Evelyn and I walked out to the fields. We watched some people chase a bunny (cute!) and some others jump away from a snake (creepy!). The circle of life (or at least the food chain) was alive and active all around us.



Another nearby building on the property intrigued us -- a new steakhouse. I'm not much of a steak fan, but it had a bar, and though we were 7 minutes late, they served us drinks at happy hour prices. Mark threatened to ruin my happy hour by being honest about the time, but I threatened him back by saying he would pay the difference. He agreed that it might be smarter for him to drink his ice water and enjoy the giant squirrels frolicking outside the window instead.

After a yummy dinner at a local Mexican restaurant, it was time for us to head back to the big city. Mark was sleepy, and as we drove away, the memory of cute firemen and the aroma of sweet lavender still lingered. I was a happy girl.

Call me

This was Mark's last week of school, and he commemorated it by exchanging phone numbers with all his friends. He discussed it with me yesterday morning.

"Hey Mom, is it okay if I give some of my friends our phone number?" he asked.

"Of course," I answered. "Just give them the home phone number." I don't need a bunch of 10-year-old boys calling me on my cell phone at work.

"Uh oh," he said, and when I looked up at him, he gave me a cheesy grin.

"You already passed out my cell phone number?" I asked, and he nodded, then gave me another cheesy grin he tried to pass off as charming.

But karma bit him back. He was showing me his school yearbook when I noticed a decidedly girly signature, accompanied by a phone number.

"Did you get a girl's phone number?" I asked, prodding him playfully.

But he grimaced and pushed me away.

"She wanted to write it," he protested. "I told her I didn't want it, but she wrote it anyway!" He turned a bright shade of red, but I couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or anger.

"Wow, you're quite the player," I told him. I looked at it again, and asked, "Did she really sign this 'Prinsess Laya'?"

"Yeah," he scoffed. "And she didn't even know how to spell it right, and she's in fifth grade! She asked a first-grader how to spell it!"

"You got a phone number from an older woman?" I tried not to smile too brightly.

"Whatever," he snorted. He was done, and tried to distract me by saying, "Look what Nathan wrote. He's funny."

"Hey Dainty Dinsdale," Nathan had scribbled, "hope you have a great summer. You twerp!"

"He is funny," I agreed, although I'd probably punch anyone who called me dainty or a twerp. Boys definitely have a different way of conversing with each other than girls do.

But hey, on the bright side, if my cell phone rings and the caller greets me with, "Hey, twerp," I'll know who it is right away.

Public intoxication

Last weekend I took Mark to Scout-o-Rama. It's an event put on by the local Scouting council, and all the packs in the city sponsor activities. There was a zip line, rock climbing, archery, kayaks, and every other boy-centric activity you could think of. There was even a BMX bike demo at the end, which the boys loved.

Afterwards, we had dinner at our favorite restaurant, which has the best fish n' chips around. It's a local pub, more a restaurant than a drinking establishment, but I did draw the line when Mark wanted to sit at the bar.

I always opt for eating on the back patio, but the evening was a bit chilly. There was also a loud, raucous group of college kids out back, yelling and laughing and just generally having a good time. They didn't bother us, but the cold did, so we went back inside.

During our meal, we could hear them quite well. The waitress took our orders amid screams of "Chug! Chug! Chug!"

They were having a good time. It was even more evident when they finally left, holding one another up, and stumbling through the place. They were still laughing, very loudly, when suddenly, one very wasted girl stopped directly in front of us.

"Is that a Boy Scout?" she asked her boyfriend, very loudly, pointing directly at Mark in his Cub Scout uniform.

The boyfriend nodded.

She shook her head, befuddled, and yelled, "Well, then what's he doing in a BAR??" And with that, her friends erupted into a new round of laughter and ambled off.

Mark and I looked at each other and also burst into laughter.

"What's he doing in a bar?" Mark mimicked in a high, girly voice.

"This actually is a restaurant," I told Mark. "Just because she got all drunk in here doesn't make it a bar."

He nodded, and I quickly nudged him. The waitress was carrying in all their pint glasses stacked together, and I swear there were about 30 of them!

"Whoa," Mark said.

"Whoa," I repeated. And thought to myself maybe there are more appropriate places to take my kid for dinner -- at least while he's in uniform.

On turning thirty-'leven

A year ago today, I entered my 40s. It wasn't really a big deal, because I still felt young and stupid, and hey, I went to Alaska with my parents and friends, so that made me happy. But my cousin Kathleen insisted it wouldn't last--she warned me that in your 40s, everything gives out, and your body just falls apart. I thought "in your 40s" meant spread out over the decade, not all at once.

Luckily, I've always been really healthy. So when Kathleen warned, I scoffed. And the gods scoffed back, and proved her right.

The first injury occurred the day after my birthday, when I heard something pop in a delicate area. That's when I met my new friend sciatica, who's spent the better part of my year with me. Ironically, my friend Vicki and I used to joke about being little old ladies together. She'd groan, "Oooh, my bursitis!" and I'd moan back, "Aaahh, my sciatica!" and then we'd laugh and laugh and laugh (we didn't even know what bursitis or sciatica were, they just sounded like old-people diseases). I didn't know it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy, or I wouldn't have laughed nearly so much back then. (Watch out for that bursitis, Vic!)

August brought with it a bout of the swine flu, which landed me an extra day in Arizona and a miserable plane ride home. My friend Kelley insists it wasn't swine flu (probably because she keeps a kosher home), but what other flu do you get in the summer??

I was well enough until April, when my prescription med ran out. The doctor insisted he'd only refill it if he saw me in person. That simple visit turned into blood work, which turned into a diagnosis of elevated blood sugars (I won't say the D word), and a new prescription for cholesterol meds. And before I could mope over either, I contracted Fifth's disease, which left me as crippled and weak as an arthritic 92-year-old woman. The good news is that all the Advil I popped for my inflamed joints finally cured the sciatica (seriously--I just wrote a sentence with the word "my inflamed joints"--and I was describing myself!! Hasn't this year been humiliating enough already?).

And in a final slap to the face, it weakened my immune system so that as soon as the Fifth's disease left, I caught a cold.

I'm not sure if I just hit the genetic jackpot (thanks, parents, for the wonderful genes) or if the bill finally came due from my roaring 20s (boy, did I have a good time in my 20s!!). But I am finally well now, not contagious, and must insist (to my body) that I stay that way. I'm done being sick, and am ready for a do-over into my 40s.

Everyone says that 40 is the new 30, but I'm not so sure. So instead, I am wishing myself a very happy thirty-eleventh birthday today. I promise to live a lot less crazy than I did in my 20s, a little bit calmer than I did in my 30s, and to care for myself better for my upcoming...uh, years. (I just got used to saying 40, don't make me say...the decade after. Which I'm not making fun of. At all. I swear!!!)

And if you're wondering what to get me for my birthday...well, ya probably can't go wrong with a jumbo-sized bottle of ibuprofen. Seriously. Because if the next nine years are anything like the past one, I'm gonna need it!

Crossing the bridge

Yesterday was the Cub Scout pack picnic. It was exciting for two very special reasons: 1. Mark bridged over from being a first-year Webelo to a second-year Webelo, and 2. There was a loose dog in the park. (More on that later.)

Webelos are the transitional phase between being a Cub Scout and becoming a Boy Scout. And being a second-year Webelo just puts Mark that much closer to being a Boy Scout, which I'm not sure I'm ready for yet. He's still just a little Cub to me.

However...Mark is certainly not a shy little five-year-old anymore, growling and giving the audience the stink eye for simply looking at him. No, he's grown into quite the confident young man. And by confident I don't mean in the traditional calm, self-assured way. More like the class clown kinda way. He raised his hands, egging on the audience to cheer for him as he received his earned activity pins.


One happened to be for the Showman activity, and the guy next to me laughed at Mark and said, "He's certainly a showman!"

But Mark and his buddies took their senior rank in the pack seriously, showing those littler Cub Scouts how to really cross a bridge. As each of their names were called, they literally ran, skipped, danced and hopped across the bridge, and into their second-year Webelo status.



And then there was the dog...a well-groomed little Shih Tzu wearing a harness. He obviously belonged to somebody, but that didn't stop the Scouts from crowding around and feeding him hot dogs. One boy noted he probably shouldn't eat them, since hot dogs seemed "a bit cannibalistic."

"They aren't really made out of dogs," I told him, and he laughed.

While the younger Scouts engaged in water balloon tosses, mini golf, tossing footballs and frisbees, Mark's den befriended the dog. They made a makeshift leash from a uniform neckerchief, and later a balloon ribbon, then they scoured the park looking for the dog's owner. It was a friendly little dog, loving all the attention, and once the boys found him, they took turns carrying him everywhere. I don't think his feet touched the ground once. They spent the entire picnic playing with the dog, as they parents kidded each other about who was going to take him home.

(We never did find the owner, but one Scout dad volunteered to go to a few nearby houses.)

All in all, it was a fun, friendly picnic. It was fun to watch all the Cub Scouts cross the bridge over to their next level of Scouting, and to see all the proud parents (and even a little stray dog) cheering them on.

Go Cobra Patrol!

A time for renewal

It's been years and years since I've seen the inside of a DMV. Last time I was there, cell phones and the Internet did not exist. Appointments were new, and I'm pretty sure the car I was driving was a stick shift (without power steering).

However, on my return visit yesterday, I realized that though the times have changed, the DMV has not.

The fun began as soon as I entered the parking lot, where I swerved to avoid being hit at least three times. I made my way to the huge line curling around the building, and waited 20 minutes to enter the building. Once instead, the clerk asked what I was there for, and before I could answer, she handed me a number and told me to sit down.

The seats were all full, but there was plenty of room to stand. I found myself a nice big area, and waited for all of three seconds before a tiny, ancient Asian woman walked over and stood directly in front of me. I'm talking inches away from me, even though there was a good five-foot radius of space surrounding me. I moved a bit to my right, and she followed suit. I moved a step back, and she did the same. Finally, I moved over to the other side of the room.

I was a least thirty numbers from being called, so I sat back and relaxed, until I heard a ruckus at the front door. It sounded like someone was carting in a bag of aluminum cans and bottles, and when I turned to see the commotion, that's exactly what it was. A man with no teeth lugged them in noisily. I'm not one to make judgments, but I wondered why he'd need a driver's license when he clearly did not have a car (or car trunk) to store his cans in.

I sat back and enjoyed the din and commotion of a thousand irritated people crammed into a slow, poorly ventilated building. When I was three numbers away from being called, a little kid in a stroller chucked his lollipop across the floor. He laughed until he realized it wasn't coming back, and started wailing. Luckily, they called my number when he paused momentarily.

My window was in the back, around the corner. I edged around Mr. Recycling, who was at the window next to me, and to my window.

"Hello," I said pleasantly to the clerk, who kept his eyes down and answered with a gruff, "Papers." He put out his hand.

"Sign it," he said, shoving it back.

"Can I borrow a pen?" I asked and he pointed at a desk filled with attached pens on the other side of the room.

"Nice day today, huh?" I asked when I returned. I was determined to make eye contact with the robot. But he ignored me. "PIN number," he commanded after I handed him my debit card.

After waiting roughly an hour for my turn, I was done in all of two minutes. "Pictures," said the clerk of few words, so I headed over to the camera area.

The camera man was the exact opposite of Mr. Personality. He had no line, and seemed glad for the company.

"Heather Dinsdale of East Long Beach, STEP RIGHT UP!" he shouted, although I was only a foot away from him. But his enthusiasm was infectious, so I called out, "Here I am!" and stepped right up.

Before I could push my hair out of my eyes or blink, he'd taken the picture and completely lost interest in me. I smiled at him, my best friend two minutes ago, but he was back to propping his head in his hands.

"I'm done?" I asked, and he simply nodded. He pointed out the nearest exit.

And as I left, I took one more quick glance around the room, at all the employees doing their best to avoid any personal contact with the masses. I looked at the captive crowd, and how incredibly busy it was. And I'm starting to think maybe my company spends too much time promoting good customer service.

Because clearly, as the DMV proves, customer service is really overrated.

But not gone from our hearts...

She is Gone
by David Harkins

You can shed tears that she is gone
or you can smile because she has lived.

You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back
or you can open your eyes and see all she's left.

Your heart can be empty because you can't see her
or you can be full of the love you shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember her and only that she's gone
or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back
or you can do what she'd want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

Rest in peace, Marilyn, and thank you for bringing so much light and laughter into our lives.

I think I'm one, too

Mark was grousing about his dinner last night, yet he managed to eat every last bite.

"I guess you liked your burrito," I said.

"I liked everything but the chicken," he answered. (The burrito was chicken, salsa and a tortilla.)

I frowned.

"I don't know what to make you any more," I said. "You don't like chicken, and suddenly, you don't like steak either. What are you, a vegetarian now?"

He immediately answered, "No, I'm a dessertarian." He smiled at me, his little eyes twinkling, and I couldn't help but laugh.

"Me, too," I said.

And realized that the only thing more dangerous than having a wicked sweet tooth is living with someone else who's got an even sweeter tooth. Especially if they're cute, charming and can easily talk you into caving in to that sweet tooth!

Paging Anthony

Mark asked me very excitedly today if I wanted to see his signature. Apparently, he's been practicing, in case he needs to sign any important papers.

"Sure!" I replied. I'm on board with any attempt at improving those chicken scratches he calls handwriting.

"It looks so cool," he confided. "It's just one letter. A giant letter A."

I stopped walking and looked at him. "Why an A?" I finally asked. "Your name starts with an M."

"I know, but I can't write M's very well," he said. "But I can write a cool A."

"But your name doesn't start with A," I repeated, as though it might suddenly make sense to him.

He just shrugged, and we kept walking.

And then, in light of the old if-ya-can't-beat-'em,-join-'em adage, I provided another solution.

"Maybe you can change your name," I proposed. "To something that starts with A. Like Aaron."

He lit up at that, and started bouncing around. "Yeah!" he shouted. "Or Anthony. I like Anthony."

I held out my hand to him. "Well, then Anthony it is," I told him. "Unless you're from New Jersey. Then it's Ant-ny. Yo, Ant-ny, let's go get some lunch."

I will really miss the days when he grows up and solutions aren't always so simple. But until then, Ant-ny and I certainly enjoyed our lunch.

Hold what?!?

Mark and I were harassing each other yesterday, and his go-to move is always to start singing the Mini-Sirloin Burgers song from the Jack in the Box commercials. (He knows that song gets stuck in my head and drives me insane.)

Only, for some reason, he was pronouncing it wrong. What is sounded like he was saying was "Mini sewerline burgers."

"Sir-loin!" I corrected.

"That's what I said," he corrected back.

"No," I told him. "You said 'sewer-line.' It's SIR-loin."

"Whatever," he said, and kept on singing.

But a minute later, he asked how it was pronounced again. Then he tried it out.

"Sir-loin burger," he said. "But hold the tomato." He giggled.

"That's right," I praised him.

"Or, sir-loin," he said again. "As in, 'Sir, hold my loin.'"

At which point I almost crashed the car.

"What is a loin?" he asked, curious.

"It's a part of the cow where they get the meat," I told him. Then, lest he repeat it again at an inopportune time, I added, "It's also means your privates."

"WHAT?" he shouted from the back seat. He was shocked into silence for a moment, then started snickering and said, "That's not right. That is just sooooo not right! How could you let me say that!"

"I didn't know you were gonna say it!" I exclaimed, just as shocked as he was.

I parked the car and we got out, and he was still shaking his head. "I can't believe I said that!" he told me again, and I just agreed.

If nothing else, it was a good lesson on context. And how dangerous using words out of context can be!

My son is trying to kill me…

…or at least seriously injure me.

This week alone, I have stepped on the following objects while barefoot:

• A stray pair of drumsticks, which acted as rollers under my feet.
• A tiny finger-sized skateboard, with only one set of wheels attached. They went directly up into my foot.
• A blue guitar, which protested loudly when I crashed into it in the middle of the night. Mark simply rolled over and kept sleeping.
• A set of strewn-about Legos. Any parent who's ever stepped on one will tell you it's actually more painful than either waterboarding or a sharp needle to the eye. Again, bonus points to my feet for finding them in a darkened room in the middle of the night.
• Dry cat food, which comes in a convenient pyramid shape, just perfect for ramming up into the soft, tender part of your foot.
• A seashell recently acquired from a trip to the beach.
• A full-sized skateboard, which I managed to trip over versus step on. While I was relieved to find an object that did not cause me any podiatric pain, I skipped a few heartbeats as I almost tumbled into the hallway.

And what do all these items have in common, besides proving dangerous to my feet and my sanity? Well, according to Mark, nothing. They were just a random pattern of things I clumsily stepped on, through no fault of his.

I pointed out that 90% of the incidents occurred in his room, with his belongings, but he just shook his head sadly and said, “It wasn't me!”

Since Mark cannot remember carelessly tossing or dropping these toys onto the floor, I’ve run various scenarios in my head, looking for an explanation. I’ve only come up with one.

Apparently, I deduced, Mark’s hands no longer work. They cannot grip or hold things, or even wrap themselves around oddly-shaped objects for any length of time. This must be true, I told him, because how else would the objects end up on the floor so consistently, an imminent and lethal threat to my health?

If I thought such an outlandish explanation would spur Mark to honesty, I was wrong. Instead, he held out his palms, examined his hands and proclaimed I was right.

“My hands have been hurting me a lot,” he admitted, at which point my own hand involuntarily reached out and smacked his head.

“I can sympathize,” I explained. “My own hands spasm quite a bit. In fact, the more things I step on, the worse it gets.” At least he was smart enough to back up a bit.

“So,” I asked. “You make sure your stuff is picked up and I’m not injured any more, and my hand spasms to your head will be cured. Either that, or I’ll just start throwing out whatever I step on. Agreed?”

And, magnanimously, he did agree. I thought it was very generous of him, all things considered.

Different perspectives

I love a long weekend, and this recent one reminded me why. It was filled with friends, family, good food, and trips to the beach -- pretty much all my favorite things.

We actually went to the beach a couple times this weekend. The first day was with some of my closest friends, whom I've known since college. We packed up our essential beach gear -- sunscreen, chairs, lunch, books, trashy gossip magazines, and parked ourselves on the sand.

Mark's gear, of course, was a little different. In addition to being more unwieldy to carry through the streets, it also had a more active theme -- he carried a boogey board, sand tools, and a football.

Within moments of arriving, he'd dropped all his stuff on the sand, and was in the water. He returned quickly, proclaiming the water surprisingly cold, but he couldn't resist, and was back in shortly. He splashed, he rode the boogey board, then he returned to build sand castles, complete with moats, and a river that flowed into a massive pool he'd scooped out of the sand.

The girls and I watched. I sat in my chair, enjoying the sunshine and the company. I admired the view, and watched the boats and kayakers pass by. I marveled at the paddle boarders standing up on their surfboards, crossing the bay.

I lounged, and reveled in the fact I had no meetings, no errands to run, no playdates, no lessons or activities to drive Mark to. I basked in the sunshine, and in the absence of house work, laundry, car maintenance, and all the other neccessary evil tasks that consume my time at an alarming speed.

I laughed with the girls. I debated silently whether to eat lunch or nap, to read gossip magazines or my book, to apply more sunscreen or to live dangerously. I ended the debate, and went to toss the football around with Mark instead. And when he took up Edra's dare to swim out to the buoy and back, I stood at the edge of the water, cheering on his success.

It was, in short, the perfect day. Carefree and filled with friends and laughter. Filled with inner peace and serenity, filled with watching my son explore his world. Filled with warm sunshine, and before it got too hot, an ocean breeze to cool us down.

And so I was surprised to hear Mark's take on the day as we drove home.

"Did you have fun?" I asked, as we drove along the crowded street.

"Yeah!" he said, enthusiastically. Then his brow furrowed, and he added, "But you didn't do anything all day."

"What?" I exclaimed. "I relaxed all day -- I enjoyed my day off."

"Yeah, but you didn't do anything," he answered.

I smiled, and realized that compared to this hyperactive little boy, who spent the day chasing, digging, building, filling, swimming, catching, running and being pulled through the water on his boogey board, no, I hadn't done much.

And I realized that's exactly why I'd thoroughly enjoyed myself, and my day. And that no matter how I phrased it, my little man, who spends his day being chauffeured, helped, coached, encouraged, fed, pampered, and thoroughly cared for, would not understand why I had enjoyed myself so much by simply sitting with my friends, and being.

And he certainly wouldn't understand how I can't wait to do it again.