I hate those, too

The other day, completely out of the blue, Mark told me there are five things he really hates. I was interested and a bit surprised to hear what took the top spots.

It's not exactly the list I imagined (I figured veggies or homework would figure prominently). But he spouted them off so quickly I knew he'd been thinking about them for a while.

Here's what Mark hates--so don't bring these things to my house unless you want to see Mark freak out. And if you do that, please make sure I'm home to witness it. ;-)

My Top 5 Most Hated Things
by Mark (comments in paranthesis by Heather)

1. That high-pitched scream a baby makes. (Ironic because he has no baby siblings--but I agree with him on this.)

2. Drying off with a damp towel. (Ditto. Though it wouldn't necessarily make my top 5...)

3. Seeing worms "worm" around. (Flopping around--he said they look like "a skinny finger with no knuckle." And I'll never look at worms the same again.)

4. The smell of a dirty diaper. (This one DOES make my Top 5, too. I'm beginning to believe my son is ageist, or has something against babies.)

5. The ripping of duct tape from your hair. (I don't even know where this one came from, but now I'm alarmed.)

There you go...not quite sure what to do with the list, other than hold it as evidence on why babies can't come over for visits.

Inspiration

I've been battling an independent, sassy 10-year-old lately, and it has, quite frankly, worn me down. If we kept score based on the number of arguments initiated, times I repeatedly ask him to complete mundane tasks, times he ignores my directions, and overall mouthiness, he'd definitely be winning.

I needed something to help replenish my strength. It was time to call in the big guns.

And there is no bigger gun than my mom. Usually, in these situations, she comes up to deliver a can of whoop-ass. Mark is smart enough to react appropriately to her--with a healthy dose of fear and respectful "Yes, ma'ams." She's a force to be reckoned with--she suggested on arrival that I get a Skype account so she can yell at Mark online from San Diego, and he can see her mad face.

But my mom didn't come solely to discipline Mark. Instead, she came up to attend the Women's Conference with me. We didn't get tickets to the main event, but we got them for a couple other events, and it turned out to be great fun.

The conference was so cool! I knew it was gonna be awesome when we walked into the convention hall, welcomed on either side by female African dancers and drummers. Then we stepped off the escalator, greeted by cute men in tuxedos.

I was excited to attend a grown-up event, and glad I didn't have to keep track of my child among the throngs of people mobbing the floor. That feeling faded immediately, as my mother whispered, "Ooooh, shiny!" and disappeared into the crowd in search of a metallic silver tote bag.

I caught up with her, but when I turned around, she was gone again. I found her at a booth selling glasses, where she told me I was in charge of her, and not the other way around. She ordered me not to lose her, a seemingly impossible feat given her crow-like fascination with shiny objects.

At one point, I pointed and said, "I'm going to that booth." She said absently, "OK," then turned to ask me, "Which booth?"

"Eye contact," I told her, just like I tell Mark every day. She looked at me and I pointed to the booth.

"THAT booth," I said. "If you get lost again, you're walking home!"

She giggled, and agreed to pay attention a little more closely.

I spent the rest of the evening watching her race off to whichever booth had free food or eye-catching objects. It was hilarious. She was so excited at each booth--she whooped loudly with each freebie, as though people were handing her the key to happiness, and not just brownie samples (although those brownies were good--and maybe, in truth, they were giving her the key to happiness, because she really was happy!). I watched my mom cut through lines, sneak in the back entrance to booths, and then melt away again into the huge crowd. I got a glimpse of what my friends put up with when it comes to me and my ADD, and it wasn't pretty. I silently vowed to apologize to them all.

We were having so much fun that one woman encouraged us to take a photo at her booth. We did, and were so giggly, she couldn't help smiling at us. We aimed the camera wrong, and caught her in our picture. The guy running the photo machine wanted to crop her out, but I thought she and her smile added to the moment, so we kept her in.




We found seats for the speakers, which included the fabulous Paula Deen and Buddy, the Cake Boss. They spoke eloquently, and I was inspired. (Then Buddy rolled out a 600-pound California cake, and I was hungry.) They made us laugh, and think, and smile, and those feelings, combined with my free brownie samples, made for a pretty happy evening.

I'd taken the next day off, and even though we couldn't get tickets, we watched the main event on my laptop all day long. We lounged on the couch, laughing and snacking, until it was time to return to the convention center. We had tickets to the Minerva Awards, and my mom wanted more brownies...

We found another silly-photo booth, and we took a picture of us in a stagecoach. (We never pass up funny photo opportunities!) We loaded up on more freebies, visited the booths we missed the day before, and finally, made our way to the arena for the awards show.

And there it was at last, tucked away in a vinyl seat half a football length away. The inspiration I needed, the hand that lifted me out of the funk my misbehaving son sent me into. I listened as Maria Shriver described the evening's recipients, and I couldn't help being moved--a woman who gave out college scholarships to underprivileged kids, another who sent 600,000 goodie boxes to the troops. Another woman who helped integrate women newly-released from prison back into society.

We listened to Sandra Day O'Connor recall her difficulties breaking into law. She, the first woman Supreme Court Justice, started her law career as a typist because, as the law firm told her, "We don't hire women lawyers." (Oh my, how far we've come! And how grateful I am that little girls, like my nieces, have a whole world open to them now that women 60 years ago did not!)

And of course, my favorite winner of all, the wonderful Ms. Oprah Winfrey, who I happen to think is just amazing, even if my friend Kelley does mock me for thinking we're friends. (For the record, I consider Oprah more of a like-minded spirit than an actual, physical real friend.)

I listened to these phenomenal women speak, and I was inspired. Inspired to do good--no, to do better. I was teary at their stories, and joyful at their triumphs. I was amazed at how much they'd done with so little, and I realized maybe I couldn't solve all the world's problems, but I could start a little smaller. I could start with a challenging little 10-year-old boy at home, and I could make a difference there.

And so we went home, full to the brim with inspiration and a sense of community. My mom and I vowed to do better in our worlds, and I vowed to set a shining example of service for my son. My mom came up with a brilliant idea of taking him to work in an animal shelter, but she lost a little credibility when she got home and chided me for feeding the stray cat we've unofficially adopted.

"What do you want me to do instead, Mom?" I asked, pointing toward the meowing cat. "Take him to the no-kill shelter where we're gonna volunteer?"

Which brought on another fit of laughter between us.

But in all honesty, it was a fantastic couple days, exactly what I needed. It reminded me to look beyond myself, that's there's a whole world out there, and I'm part of it. Spending those days with my mom reminded me just how lucky I am, that I was raised with love and support, and that it's time for me to pay that forward.

And I'm going to take on that challenge...

Baseball and other mishaps

Each season, I let Mark choose the sport he wants to play. I willingly agree to spend at least one evening a week in an uncomfortable chair or cold car, trying to read a book using the map light, and watching my son run somewhere nearby the chosen-sport ball.

This season, Mark chose baseball (also known as fall ball). I was a little worried, since he's never played an organized game of baseball, and because he's not really the most focused child. I'd avoided baseball for the past five years, because I worried Mark would get smacked in the head by a pop-fly while conversing with the other outfielders about Silly Bandz, Tech-Decks, or video games.

But he persisted, so this year, I signed him up for fall ball.

I was glad to see he wasn't the worst on the team, but he was nowhere near a natural athlete who effortlessly picked up the game, either. He could smack talk with the best of them, but he didn't necessarily have the goods to back it up.

I took him to the batting cages and tried to coach him on how to hit the ball. He blatantly ignored me (I'm a mom, what do I know about baseball?) until I took the bat away and smacked five good hits into the wall.

"I'm telling you what to do because I can knock the stuffing out of the ball," I told him. "Will you listen to me now?"

He nodded. My display had both impressed and startled him.

But as soon as his games started, he forgot my advice. He gripped the bat high above his head, at least a good foot above his helmet. It took all my restraint not to yell at him from the bleachers.

"Stop holding your bat so high!" I told him after the game.

"That's how the pros hold it," he retorted.

"You're not a pro!" I said. "When you start hitting the ball, you can hold the bat wherever you want." He didn't like that.

Then he discovered the joys of being walked. He realized he could get on base with very little effort and none of the humiliation of striking out. I realized, sadly, he would never swing his bat again.

Yesterday, he got walked a couple times. The first time up, he lolloped slowly to second base, and we cheered him on. The second time, he (slowly) stole second again, and again, we cheered. Right up till the next kid at bat walked. Which Mark took to mean he should walk, too. So he casually jogged over to third base, where he met up with another teammate, who was already on third base, and a little surprised to see Mark. The kid didn't know whether to run for home or chase Mark back.

"Go back, Mark!" my mom and I yelled from the stands. "Go back to second base!!"

Which alerted the catcher, who had the ball. He noticed the confusion at third base, and threw the ball to the second baseman, who met Mark walking back to second base. And...tagged him out.

But my favorite play of the day was the one Mark didn't make. Instead, he guided it.

Mark was playing second base, which meant he stood between first and second, to back up the shortstop, who made all plays at second base. Sure enough, a guy on first stole second, running headfirst toward the base. Mark jumped out of his way, and then, as the catcher scanned the field to see where to throw the ball, Mark helped him out. He pointed repeatedly toward second base.

"Did he just show the runner where the base is?" I asked, mouth agape.

"No," my mom answered. "He was telling the catcher where to throw the ball--to the other guy!" She mimed his pointing, and joked, "Don't throw it to me, throw it to THAT guy!"

Sure enough, the catcher threw the ball to the shortstop at second, who caught the ball and tagged the runner out. Mark rejoiced and danced around, proud of his contribution. My mom, Edra and I couldn't stop laughing.

So I guess all is not lost...Mark may not be the most gifted baseball player around, but he's certainly one of the most entertaining.

Jimmy Buffett tried to kill me (again)

I love a good weekend, and the only thing better than a good weekend is a good, long weekend. A good, long weekend filled with friends.

My long weekend kicked off a bit early--last Thursday night, to be exact. I had out-of-town visitors (my friend Amber and her friend Donna), who came to see another out-of-towner (Jimmy Buffett).

I love the portable parking lot party at a Buffett concert. The Parrot Heads are so fun--they bring their own games.



They also bring their own treats, cleverly decorated according to Jimmy's songs. Love the cheeseburger in paradise cupcake!



The concert was pretty awesome, too. We made friends with the guys in front of us, who apologized on arrival because they weren't going to sit down for any of the concert. Which was fine by us, because we weren't gonna sit, either. But there is something endearing about a grown man in a grass skirt, coconut bra, Hawaiian shirt and floppy hat apologizing because he was going to dance badly for the next two hours.

The concert was excellent. Jimmy was in fine form, although this was what my world looked like by the end of the concert:



I took the next day off to hang out with my friends. Donna wanted a nice picture of the town, so we took her right to our most iconic landmark.



We did a little window shopping, too. Amber did some actual shopping, buying this cute hat.



We thought it was funny that she had to come all the way to California to buy winter gear for Maine, but it was too cute to pass up.

Also very cute were these decorative peppers, grown to look like fall gourds at a little newspaper stand.



Our heads were still pounding from the night before, when Jimmy Buffett tried to kill me (as he does every year). OK, maybe my head was pounding the most, but when we neared another local landmark, the other girls were game to taste a local specialty--the infamous Shoot-the-Root (a root beer vodka shot dropped into a beer).



As Vicki rightfully observed, "There's nothing better than having a cocktail in the middle of the day!" We cheered our drinks and agreed.

We met up again on Saturday for a wonderful Italian dinner. We passed this big old house, which Amber pretended was hers. Mark pretended not to care--he was too cool for pictures, although he non-chalantly sauntered into the frame.




Mark was thrilled to spend a little time with Amber and his aunties, although he hid it well the first hour. But after a little come-to-Jesus discussion outside the restaurant, he perked up and had a good time. (Sometimes you just need the proper motivation...i.e., an angry mom telling you to eat your dinner and be social OR ELSE).

It was a very fun, but way too brief weekend. I enjoyed every minute of it, even to the very end, as Amber, Donna, Mark and I sang along to 80s songs on the way to the airport. And even as we channeled Amber and Donna on the way home, in the form of a car bearing a Maine license plate in front of us on the freeway. It was a nice way to end the weekend.

Fair enough

Yesterday, my wonderful sister-in-law took my son to a parish fair with all of her kids. (My niece Nathalie told me she didn't want to go somewhere that meant you could die--"perish"!)

I was grateful to have a couple hours to myself, and Mark was thrilled to get some time with his cousins. Mary said she'd pick Mark up, so he rushed to get ready. I gave him $20 for the fair, and he promised to bring back $5.

And then he waited for his aunt to arrive. And waited a little more. I was about to call Mary and ask if I should deliver Mark, when we heard a knock at the door. It was Nathalie, who informed us there'd been a slight mishap.

"We were on the freeway, and my mom screamed, 'I forgot to pick up Mark!'" Nathalie laughed. "So we had to come back for him."

I usually wouldn't send my son off with a babysitter who forgets him, but hey, this was family, which meant the babysitting was free. Sometimes you get what you pay for!

When I arrived home, the first thing my brother Scott said was, "I hope you like fish."

I thought he was referring to dinner, so I said fish is fine by me.

"No, I hope you like fish," he repeated. "Go check the cooler in the kitchen."

I did, and realized we weren't talking dinner menus. The cooler was filled with this:



"Did they win all these fish?" I asked, incredulous. "There must be a dozen in there!"

"Eleven," Mary corrected. "That's what happens when you're at the fair at closing time. The kids heard someone yelling 'Free fish!' and rushed to get them."

My niece Gabi couldn't wait to point out her fish, which she named Fat Albert. Mark pointed out his three, which he couldn't wait to take home.

"Um, you remember we have two cats, right?" I asked. "Two very focused killer cats, who would love eating fresh fish?"

Mark realized that fish and cats don't make the best roommates, and offered to donate them to my nephew's pre-school. "Goodbye, Joe Bubba Junior," he said.

"Which one is that?" I asked, peering into the cooler.

"All of them," he answered. "One's Joe, one's Bubba, one's Junior."

We ate dinner, and then Mary presented dessert, which Mark had purchased for the family--$8 worth of pastries.

"They're home-made!" he told me, as if he'd never heard of such a thing. (I really must cook more.)

Mary told me how he and Grant ran off to the dessert booth. Mary realized maybe that wasn't such a good idea, so she rushed over and asked the woman working there if she'd just seen a little boy run by.

"I've seen a lot of boys run by," the cashier told Mary.

"This was a diabetic little boy!" Mary clarified. "In the dessert booth!"

"Oooh, that's not good," the cashier agreed.

But it all worked out. Mark was feeling generous with my money, and spent it all on dessert for the family instead of himself. (He actually spent every last penny I gave him--including the $5 he promised to bring back.) Which worked out well, except when Mark took one bite of his pastry and proclaimed he didn't like it. Goodbye, $8 in pastries...

But in the end, it was fine. The kids had a blast, I got some time off, and my sis-in-law got some good laughs. And nobody "perished"...or so I thought.

"I named mine Broc, Shoe and Ninja Fishy!" Nathalie texted me this morning, updating me on the fish status. Followed immediately by a second message that read, "Shoe's dead, though."

Here's hoping the 10 other Shoes don't drop...

The Community

I spent last weekend at my aunt's house, celebrating my cousin Kathleen's birthday. In addition to visiting my family, I got a glimpse of my future, and it kind of scared me.

My aunt lives in a senior citizen community. The residents have all the free time in the world, and spend it golfing, drinking wine, hanging out with their friends, and gossiping about the other residents. It reminded me of a college dorm for old people.

I learned a lot about senior citizens. For one, they are avid rule-followers. They live for rules, and for enforcing them. When we went the pool so Mark could swim, the community president stopped to check the visitor log; he wanted to make sure we'd signed in properly. (Mark was the only person using the pool.)

"He shouldn't even be president," my aunt's friend, Jean, sneered. "His name isn't even on the title for his trailer. He's from Canada." She didn't exactly come out and say he was an illegal immigrant, but I could tell she was thinking it. (My aunt told me later Jean's just mad she can't attend the community meetings because her name's not on her trailer title, either.)

My aunt brought along a bottle of wine, and plastic cups to drink it from. "They don't like glass around the pool," she said. Just to be safe, we sat a good 40 feet away from the pool. But another resident stopped by anyway, pointed at the bottle, and scolded us.

"No glass by the pool!" he said, shaking his finger at us. Then he told us to have a good day and walked off.

"His wife made him say that!" Jean spat out. "Look at her inside, waiting for him!" The wife waved through the door.

Another resident and his wife came to swim in the pool. The man struck up a conversation with Mark, and Jean watched him like a hawk.

"He's not a pedophile," she told me, and I was about to laugh until I saw she was serious.

"Are there a lot of pedophiles around here?" I asked nervously.

"Some," Jean answered.

"Jean knows where they all live," my aunt said. "She looks them all up on the Megan's Law website."

Jean nodded at the guy. "He's new here," she said. "I've gotta do a little more research on him."

After swimming, we headed to the next event--happy hour at the local steakhouse. Jean further entertained us by telling us about a would-be suitor. She told us how she could've gotten together with him.

"If I'd wanted to," she said. "If I remembered what to do."

"Go for it!" I told her, but she shook her head.

"Nah, that ship has sailed," she answered. "He's moved on to Vivian." Just like college!

After drinks came dinner. My aunt paced nervously as we waited for her friend Wanda to show up. "Wanda can't see well at night," she explained, and then went outside to move her car so Wanda could park in the driveway.

Wanda recounted the memorial service she'd attended that day. She was upset that only seven residents had attended the service, but almost 100 of them attended the lunch. Jean told her, "None of those people drive anymore." They don't go anywhere unless you can get to it by golf cart.

Kathleen and I laughed about it all later. "You know this is us in 20 years," I told her. "You and me, in a trailer, with Mark visiting." The only glitch would be my golfing, my aunt said.

"Heather talks too much," she told Jean, and I agreed with that point, but not the next one. "And she hits the ball too many times."

"I'm not a quitter!" I protested. "I follow through until it goes in the hole."

"Fourteen times is too many swings for one hole," my aunt reminded me. Boy, she'll never let me forget that round!

My aunt also said we didn't have to wait 20 years to move into the community. "You can move in at 55," she told us.

"Forty-six if you're a caregiver," Jean corrected. "And caregivers get paid really well!" So we revised our plan and decided Kathleen would move in with my aunt next year, get free room and board, and a good salary.

My aunt was not exactly on board with that plan.

"I'm not gonna pay her!" she exclaimed.

"Well, then your care won't be as good," I reasoned. "And remember, she cooks. That's worth something."

By the time we washed the dishes and the guests had left, it was late--by senior standards, anyway.

"It's 8:30!" my aunt exclaimed. Kathleen's boyfriend headed off to bed, and Kathleen joined him soon after. I stayed up, listening to the 1960 class reunion raging at the steakhouse down the street. The music ended promptly at 10 p.m., and I was asleep by 10:15--earliest I've been to bed in years.

I joked about it, but actually, it isn't a bad life. I can't wait to stop working and just hang out with my friends. There are downsides--as Jean pointed out, the resident turnover rate is pretty high, but hey, the new blood keeps the community young.

I'll have to get a dog and a golf cart to walk him with, and I'll have to learn to shut up if I want to play golf. But the good news is, based on Jean and the other residents, I won't have to hold my tongue anywhere else or keep my opinions to myself.

Because as they showed me, the upside to being older is that everyone is entitled to my opinion, at all times. So at least I've got that going for me...

Happy Adoption Day!

This weekend, Mark and I hit another anniversary--Adoption Day, our third year as a legal family. He moved in five years ago, and by the time the judge banged her gavel and made the declaration, it was a mere formality. We'd already been family for two years, and it seemed kind of silly to put it in writing, as though legal papers were the only proof of our bond. And yet, it moved me more than I possibly could have imagined, because it made Mark mine, and me his. It gave me rights I'd been denied for two years, which biological parents take for granted--the right to change his doctors or school, to go on vacation without notifying anyone, to raise him without social workers approving my every action.

I started my journey to parenthood a long time ago--14 years ago, to be exact. I attended an adoption information meeting with the county, learned I had to take 10 weekly classes and then I could have a kid after that. I didn't know it could happen that quickly, so I freaked out, and changed my mind. I wasn't as ready to be a parent as I thought.

I spent the next seven years traveling the world, growing up, establishing a stable career, and buying a house. I got a bunch of plants and a couple cats, and kept them all alive, which I took to be a good sign. I suffered the loss of my grandma, and decided I didn't want to wait another minute--I wanted to be a mom, and I wanted my child to know my parents. I wanted my parents to see me as a parent, to know that all the hard work they put into me had paid off. And I knew I was gonna need help from them, because I've learned that being a parent is a continual work-in-progress.

So I enrolled in another adoption program. This time I didn't run away, although I did breathe a huge sigh of relief when they said the classes were monthly, not weekly. But then I spent the next 10 months fretting I couldn't handle all the special needs my kid would inevitably have, and my mom spent those 10 months telling me to suck it up. (In the nicest, most supportive possible way, of course.)

It wasn't a quick process--I tell people my pregnancy lasted two years. I poured out everything to random county social workers--my beliefs, my finances, my morals, my heart. I was subjected to fingerprinting and background checks--and so were my friends and family! I filled out endless paperwork, detailing every last bit of my life and personal choices. (And then I learned they keep those papers on file at the county office for 99 years--yikes!)

I needed three personal references, who wrote letters vouching for me. I made emergency plans, packed earthquake kits, and baby-proofed my house to strict guidelines the county provided.

It was exhausting, all of it. And all the while, I stressed about whether I was doing the right thing. Was I going to be good enough, strong enough, tough enough? Was it right to bring a kid into a single-parent home--would I be denying them the chance at a two-parent family? Would I even like the kid? Most moms feel their kids growing inside them--they love them simply because those babies are, in the most literal sense, a part of them. They love them the minute they are born, because those babies grew from them. I worried how long it would take me to love a child I'd never met.

And then finally, finally! After two long years, I finished. Finished the paperwork, finished the classes, got my stamp of approval. And learned about a five-year-old kid who needed a home. He was in kindergarten, liked video games, and was afraid of spiders.

I don't know why that endeared him to me, but it did. It made me cry, with all the relief and joy I could muster. This...this was why I had worked so hard. Because there was a little kindergartner out there who needed a mom to protect him from spiders...and I'd been selected for the job. I immediately stopped worrying about whether I could love a kid I didn't know. I loved him from that moment.

It wasn't easy, God knows. It still isn't. And though technically I am a single parent, I'm not raising Mark alone. My village has always been there, encouraging and supporting me, gently prodding me along. All my family and friends who held me up during my two-year-pregnancy and told me--endlessly, patiently--I could do this; they are there still, and now they're holding Mark up, too. Mark thought he was getting a new mom--instead, he got a whole new universe, a huge tribe to love him and show him the way. I am grateful to them all every day.

And so, when I awoke on Sunday morning, I smiled. I rejoiced with my cousin and aunt, who presented us with a gift card to buy our annual Adoption Day ice cream sundaes. I hugged my son, who growled and rolled over, because he wasn't ready to get up yet. And I thought of that day, three years ago, that I spent surrounded by family and friends, laughing, smiling, crying. I think of the boisterous cheer they let out when the judge proclaimed us adopted, and how they startled everyone in the courtroom with their loud, happy voices.

I think of how lucky I was that day, and how lucky I continue to be. I remind myself to be grateful, not only for my son, but for the opportunity I got, to see how much my friends and family really love and support me, and how they've passed that love and support on to my son as well.

And I know that although, on the surface, Adoption Day is about Mark and I, it's also so much more. It's a celebration for us all.

The writer's son

The old saying goes that the preacher's child is always the wildest of the bunch. Well, I'm no preacher, but I do make my living stringing together words. I ensure they work well with one another, flow nicely, are used in context, and above all, are spelled correctly. All skills which are, quite sadly, absent in my son.

I've always been fascinated by words, and though I struggled mightily with math, I never had a problem with spelling. Spelling came as naturally to me as breathing.

Which is why my son is going to drive me to an early grave. I don't have obnoxiously high standards for the kid, and I don't expect him to master every subject in school. But spelling is his worst subject, BY FAR, and it tears my heart to shreds each time I watch him take pencil to paper and massacre those wonderful words.

If you think I'm kidding, or prone to hyperbole (as we writers often are), here's my proof: this week's pre-spelling test.



That's right, he missed 18 out of 22 words. EIGHTEEN!

Well, technically, not all of the 18 words were spelled incorrectly. He spelled "blister" right--except it was supposed to be "blizzard." He also spelled "Beth" correctly, although his teacher was expecting "breadth." My favorite may be the word he just made up--"swisted." Although now that I'm writing these out, I'm starting to worry less about his spelling ability, and more about his hearing...

Some of the words he's never encountered in real life, so how could I expect him to spell them right? He wouldn't know thrift if it smacked him upside the head with a coupon, and the closest he's gotten to a catastrophe was losing his Nintendo DS for the past couple weeks (I'd misplaced it, but recently found it--cotastfry averted!). I'll give him some credit though--whoever corrected his paper also spelled it wrong.

I guess I should be more positive. He did spell mistake and giggle right, but he's done both of those a lot. He got simple right--it was simple enough to spell. And he got igloo right, which surprised me--who knew they even discussed igloos in school anymore?

Maybe I am expecting too much. Or maybe it's just that as a writer, it's hard to see him butcher my beloved English language. I certainly don't get upset when he does less than perfect in math--but then again, I always hated math.

Sigh. Maybe I'll start burying books underneath his pillow at night--or his list of spelling words. Maybe he can absorb them by osmosis, in his sleep. And then we'd really find the Beth of his knowledge!

Well, almost everyone knows...

My little man fancies himself quite a chef, especially now that he's learned to grill cheese sandwiches all by himself. This has also doubled his recipe collection; previously, his stable contained exactly one good recipe for butternut squash, which he pilfered from my friend Kelley and now takes sole credit for creating.

But he's also got a healthy self-confidence, which I love. It's hilarious to listen to him take credit for amazing skills he's never quite had the opportunity to prove. Come to think of it, he's never disproved them either, so who knows, maybe he is as wonderful a football player, chef, and artist in real life as he is in his head.

Last night we were watching Hell's Kitchen, which is kind of a dumbed-down Top Chef. The cooks are just that--cooks, not chefs--and while they do have a famous chef judging them, he spends more time yelling at them than actually encouraging or praising them. Mark and I like to hear him scream "Donkey!" at everyone in his angry English accent.

Anyway, they were serving up breakfast to paramedics. The meal consisted of scrambled eggs, French toast, bacon, sausage and fruit. When a cook messed up the eggs, Mark shook his head and sighed.

"Come on!" he yelled at the T.V. He held his hands in the air and snorted, "Everyone knows how to make eggs and French toast!"

This was news to me.

"Do you know how to scramble eggs?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Can you make French toast?" I asked.

He admitted that no, he could not do that either. I proposed that perhaps we should not judge the TV cooks so harshly, then. He smiled and nodded.

"Do you want me to teach you how to cook eggs?" I inquired, but for the third time, he shook his head no.

"I don't like eggs," he answered. "Or French toast."

Which was fine by me. Because I was in no position to judge those cooks either, unless they jacked up my famous breakfast speciality--peanut butter toast.

A fun knight out

When I was a kid, there was an L.A. TV station that aired on our cable box. I watched commercials on that channel for places like Medieval Times and Cal Worthington Ford ("Go see Cal, go see Cal, go see Cal!"). I grew up thinking they were part of our local city, and had no idea until I went to college that they were actually two hours away.

Thanks to those commercials, I've always wanted to go to Medieval Times. But I've never made it there--until last night. I think I was more excited to go than Mark was.

"You eat your whole dinner with just your hands!" I gushed, excitedly. "No silverware!"

He looked at me skeptically and said, "I hope they don't serve spaghetti."

My brother Smed thought he was very witty and said, "Tell him they serve soup."

My very-smart kid just shrugged and said, "If they do, I'll just pick up the bowl and drink it." Smed and I gave each other the surprised, "Oh, that'll work" look.

My nephew Johnny was just as excited as we were. "Let's go, Daddy!" he yelled, and off we went.

We bought our tickets, accepted the paper crowns the serfs placed upon our heads, and took our picture with the king.

At dinner they did, in fact, serve soup. It was a tomato bisque, so Mark ignored it, though he lit into the garlic bread. We listened to some way-too-long speech about a prince being captured, the king being mad, the princess wanting peace, and blah blah blah, whatever. It's hard to tell a captivating story in a big arena with bad sound. Johnny pretty much summed up my thoughts when he yelled, "When are they gonna FIGHT?"




Pretty soon, the knights came riding out into the arena. We watched as the horses did tricks (jumping in the air!) which lost a little bit of its luster since the horse didn't much look like he was enjoying that. The lame-o narrative continued, as our self-proclaimed wench dropped half a chicken onto each of our silver platters and filled our plastic mugs with soda. Smed and I went the more authentic route and ordered beer, since it was correctly pointed out in the movie "Cable Guy," there was no Pepsi in the real medieval times.

We dug into our dinner using our bare hands. Mark was a little grossed out by that, and Johnny was too enthralled with the show to eat much. The MC introduced each of our knights, and I was disappointed to see that our knight looked like a Jonas Brother. I cheered instead for the blue knight, who actually looked like he was old enough to battle, and was pretty darn cute on top of it.

The knights engaged in all sorts of...well, knightly games. They rode by and plucked flags from the ground, speared a target on horseback, and used their lances to pluck a tiny brass ring from overhead. It was pretty cool.

I ignored the serfs and wenches selling anything you could imagine that lit up or had enough real estate to print "Medieval Times" on it. Mark and Johnny salivated over flags and pseudo-light sabers, which again, I'm pretty sure they didn't have in the middle ages.

The show took on an air of danger as the jousting began. Safety nets were lowered, protecting us from flying lances or the debris they spewed as they exploded into splinters upon contact. Once a knight fell off his horse, he leaped onto his feet to fight hand-to-hand using swords, battle axes and all sorts of other dangerous weaponry.

I'm not a big fan of war, but hey, I got into it--especially when the swords banged together and showered sparks everywhere. It was cheesy, but fun.

Mark and Johnny dug it, but I think Smed and I dug it more. Somewhere deep inside, a part of our childhood was validated, and fulfilled. We'd spent so much time watching those commercials, that to actually be in that arena, to see those knights...well, it was kinda like being in one of your favorite childhood movies. It was awesome.

Next up, a trip to see Cal Worthington, and his dog Spot.