Diabetes is no day at the beach

Pre-kid, I loved going to the beach. It was so easy--pack up a chair, a towel, some sunscreen and a good book, and I was good to go for the whole day.

I still love going to the beach, as does Mark. It just takes a lot more planning now. Diabetes isn't the problem; it's Mark's insulin pump.

I love that pump. It's a modern-day miracle, an example of how technology improves our lives. It makes Mark's life easier, more discreet, and it freaks people out a lot less (diabetes quickly shows you who your squeamish, needle-phobic friends are).

It's also a sensitive, incredibly expensive medical device that does not play nicely with things such as, oh, say, large bodies of water or acres of sand.

A trip to the shore now requires careful planning. I learned the hard way to bring extra pump supplies, insulin, and even needles to the beach. When my mom wanted to take Mark, I taught her to remove his pump and cap the infusion site so sand wouldn't get in and jam it. She did exactly that, but sand still got in and jammed it--then she couldn't remove the cap OR plug the pump back in. Poor Mark suffered silently as my mom and brother Brad poured water down Mark's backside, trying to wash the sand out. They finally just removed the set, and I left work early to go put in a new one.

Now, we just unplug Mark and cover his site with medical tape. I bring needles and insulin and give him shots whenever he eats, or needs basal insulin. And I accept the fact that Mark will most certainly lose his set, and require a new one when we get home. I chalk it up as a small sacrifice to the beach gods, a minor price to pay for my sun-loving son's happiness.

However...all that careful preparation goes out the window on field trips. While a day at the beach with me is...um, a day at the beach...it's a different story when I'm not there. Instead, I have to trust that my 11-year-old son will:

• Remove his $6,000 insulin pump before burying himself in a hole or frolicking in the heavy surf (the first time Mark wore his pump in a pool, it fell out and sank to the bottom. I've had nightmares about water vs. the pump ever since).
• Tape up his site before even one grain of sand jams it.
• Put the pump in his beach bag after he removes it.
• Give that bag to a responsible adult.
• Plug the pump back in when he leaves.

And this year, I added a new task: Give himself a shot for lunch.

That one has me biting what's left of my finger nails. Kids on needles (instead of pumps) take both short-acting and long-acting insulin, so their blood sugar won't go super high if they miss a shot or two. But Mark's pump uses only short-acting insulin--so even a few hours without insulin is really dangerous, as we were reminded a few weeks back when his pump malfunctioned. (His blood sugar shot well over 600--three hours later, he was only down to 585!)

In previous summers, I spent my lunch hour driving to whatever beach Mark was at, and giving him the shot. But Mark wants to be like every other kid, and nobody else's mom shows up at the beach wearing jeans and shouting "Did you eat yet??" as she plows through the sand.

So I'm trying to give him independence. I'm trying to let him manage without me today. I'm telling myself he did remove his pump, he did put it back on, and he did give himself his shot. I say it over and over again, so that it sounds real, and plausible. I say it like a mantra, so it will seem comforting, and I say it in my head, in my most soothing, calm internal voice.

But it's not working. I'm still a mess, and I will worry until the moment I pick him up from summer camp and blurt out, "What's your number?" before I even ask him how his day was. When he gets mad that's the first question out of my mouth, I will get mad, too, even though I'm not really angry at all, it's just my worry and fear being projected as anger.

The honest truth is that Mark is responsible, much more than most kids his age, because he has to be. But it's too much; it's too much to ask an 11-year-old to guard his health rigorously, religiously, even for half a day. That's my job, and even though I know I'm giving him life skills, experience, the confidence of knowing he can take care of himself, it's killing me.

Because even as responsible as he is, as I ask him to be, he's just a little kid who wants to dig in the sand, eat his lunch without mom, and be like every other kid on the beach.

Which, really, is all I want for him, too.

My kitchen tried to kill me (again)

Narrowly escaped another run-in with my kitchen last night. However, unlike my previous cooking disasters, this one turned physical. I'm beginning to think my kitchen really does want to hurt me!

After inhaling a houseful of smoke in February, I've backed off cooking a bit. But now it's officially summer, which means busting out my grill. I don't consider grilling "cooking," which is maybe why I'm okay at it. It's more like throwing some food over the fire, and cooking it until just before the smoke starts. And if the smoke does start, who cares, I'm outside, and at least the smoke disperses into the neighborhood, not into every pore of my home's interior.

(Yes, I know my attitude toward cooking is probably contributing to my mishaps, but hey, I'm a little gun-shy!)

And so, last night, I optimistically fired up the grill and slapped a giant salmon fillet on. Only, the fire seemed a bit...reluctant. So I turned on the second burner, and instantly heard the deadly POOF! you don't want to hear when you are mixing propane and lighters. I immediately turned off the burner, glanced down at the propane gauge, and said a very bad word when I saw that it was in the red section marked "Refill."

I sighed, and returned to the kitchen to fire up the oven to finish the job. I placed the salmon inside, and tidied up while I waited for it to cook.

And this is when things went terribly awry. Two things you should know here: 1. I am not good at house repairs, and 2. I finally recognized that when I tried sealing the saltillo tiles in the kitchen, and turned it into a danger zone. Even after removing the excess wax I'd painstakingly applied, we occasionally still slide across the floor.

The other thing you should know is that one of my kitchen shelves is missing a bracket. As a result, the shelf is unstable. I did not know this last night.

So we had the perfect storm brewing. I was grumpy because I was cooking, I was sliding across the ice-rink kitchen floor, and I decided to put away clean wine glasses.

I climbed on the step stool, and started rearranging the shelf. Suddenly, I could feel the stool sliding out from under me (damn tile sealant!). I grabbed for the shelf, which turned down and inward toward the missing bracket. Before I could comprehend all that, glasses started raining down on me. Wine glasses, champagne flutes, and coffee cups all came crashing
down, shattering everywhere. It was walking through a mine field, or having bombs explode all around me.

At first, I held my hands up defensively. But as the glasses kept coming, my instinct kicked in. I jumped down and literally ran out of the kitchen.

Finally, the crashing stopped. I was barefoot, so I put on some shoes, and surveyed the damage. Poor Mark was just staring at the sea of broken glass. It was everywhere--big chunks, little slivers, razor-sharp shards and broken mugs. The impact even shattered two plastic travel mugs which looked indestructible.

"It was like dominoes," Mark said, shocked. "They knocked each other all down!"

I sighed. I grabbed the broom, and Mark went for the vacuum, and we spent the next 45 minutes carefully cleaning up. I killed all of our favorite coffee mugs, the champagne flutes, and even Kathleen's favorite wine glass.

"I guess that's a sign we need to go shopping for new glasses," Mark observed. But I interpreted the sign differently.

"No," I told him. "It's a sign I shouldn't be cooking. Crazy things happen when I cook--God clearly does not want me in the kitchen."

We both laughed about it, but I don't think I'm far off.

I really hope Mark likes my Crock-Pot meals, because that's the only thing I'll be cooking up in the foreseeable future.

The award-winning Mr. Mark

Yesterday, I attended the 5th Grade Award ceremony at Mark's school. I love those events, not only because it gives me a chance to cheer on Mark, but because any event with the kids is highly amusing.

I correctly guessed the award Mark might win--Most Improved Student! He's really come a long way since November. I always tease him that I want a "My student made the honor roll" bumper sticker--now it actually might happen!

And of course, when it came time to accept his award, Mark did so with his usual display of humility and grace.



Just kidding, he really threw his hands in the air like he just didn't care, and strutted across the floor. I laughed, as did everyone around me, because it was just so Mark.

In between awards, we listened to some kids play musical instruments (my favorite was Tristan, who acted as their music stand) and a girl who recited a long poem she learned last January. (Which was impressive, because I barely remember January, let alone anything that happened that month.)

They also showed the winning video for the 5th grade movie project. Room 23's winner was--Mark and his friends! They made a movie about idioms, which are words that don't mean what they say. Their idiom was "ate the dust." (I'd explained the correct phrase was "bit the dust," but Mark dismissively waved me off, saying I don't know anything about slang.)

The video featured Mark and his friends as baseball players. In the first scene, a literal take on the words, Mark fell halfway between first and second base. He scooped up a handful of "dirt" (chocolate milk powder) and started nibbling. Another kid yelled, "He ate the dust!" and all the other players groaned.

In the second scene, Mark refrained from eating anything--instead, he "ate the dust" figuratively, which, the narrator explained, meant "he fell down."

The video even featured a blooper reel and a dance number at the end. I laughed my head off the whole time. It was pretty creative.

The ceremony ended with a song, performed by Mark's friend Jack. Jack looked like a mini-politician in his blue suit, but he worked the stage like a rock star. He danced and lip-synced a song as the crowd went wild, first shouting, "YEAH, JACK!" and then "Encore! ENCORE!" after Jack ended.

The teachers thanked the parents for coming. And with that, Mark's elementary school career was over. His school is K-8, so even though he'll technically be a middle-schooler next year, he'll be at the same campus. There was no pomp or circumstance, just cookies and punch in the classroom afterwards.

I smiled as I watched them all file out of the auditorium. They'd come in as elementary school kids, but they left a rowdy, happy bunch of middle schoolers. I watched them push, shove and nudge each other out the doors.

But hey, at least no one ate the dust.

The Chef is in

Mark is an adventurous eater, and will try almost anything. Which, as his mom, I love, but as his cook, I hate. Each time he eats something wonderful and exclaims, "Mom, you should make this!" I nod, and say I will. But we both know my version will not be nearly as tasty.

However, he finally picked a recipe I could not only replicate, but I could improve. That was the good news. The bad news is that he requested something I not only refused to make, but am vehemently against in the first place.

"Mom, will you buy me some Uncrustables?" he begged, last time we went grocery shopping.

"Some what?" I asked.

He dragged me to the frozen food section.

"Uncrustables!" he shouted, pointing to--I kid you not--a box of frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

And true to their name, the crusts had been cut off, leaving rounded, UFO-shaped white-bread sandwiches.

I stared at Mark. "Seriously?" I asked.

I'm not sure if he'd finally lowered his standards to my skill level, or if he...gulp...really just wanted some crappy PB&Js. I'm guessing it was the latter.

Seeing those frozen sandwiches brought back painful childhood memories. My own mom went through a time-saving phase for lunches, pre-making and freezing PB&Js and cheese sandwiches. She'd pop them in to our lunches to defrost by noon, but they never did, instead turning to soggy, mushy messes. (Surprising that my brothers and I all refuse to make sack lunches to this day!)

Anyway, I shuddered at the memory, but then I felt bad for the kid--he wasn't asking for much. So the next morning, I did what any good-intentioned mother would do...I made Mark my own version of an Uncrustable. (I made him a pair!)




They came out pretty well. I used wheat bread instead of the processed white stuff, and cut them out using a round glass. The edges weren't scalloped like the name-brand Uncrustables, but other than that, they were pretty close facsimiles.

I bagged the sandwiches and sent Mark to school. When he returned, I asked him how he liked his Uncrustable.

"It was good!" he said. "Except..."

"Except what?" I asked.

"It needs to be more...cold," he told me. "Like it just came out of the freezer."

I smiled, then responded by smacking him on the head.

I may not be a great cook, but even I have a shred of dignity and pride. If I'm gonna win a cooking beat-down, I want to lose to the Iron Chef, or a Top Chef--not to Smuckers!

Family camp out

I went camping in Santa Barbara with most of my family this weekend (my parents camped out at a local hotel and visited us during the day). Here are just some of the things I learned about them:

The boys are all obsessed with fire. My brother Tim constantly stoked the camp fire, and my nephew Nicholas even sacrificed his favorite stick to the flames. Mark couldn't stay away, either--he was a little pyro, throwing anything flammable (and a few things that weren't) into the pit whenever he thought no one was watching.

Tim has a short attention span. He spent long hours prepping the fire, resurrecting it from smoldering ashes to a roaring blaze. And then he'd leave it. I watched him walk off to the beach, go ride bikes, or just mosey around the camp while the four-foot flames sent scorched ashes flying.

Tim and Mark were equally enamored of the shovel Tim brought to dig holes at the beach. I'm not talking cutesy little toy sand shovels, I'm talking about this:


That's right, Tim brought a full-size shovel to the beach. The first thing he did was dig a coffin-size hole, and then call his wife Kim over to look at it. I told Kim not to go to the beach alone with Tim; I'm worried he might give her a little nudge into the hole.

Mark shared an equal fascination with the shovel. Every time Tim put it down, Mark took off with it, digging deep trenches in the beach. I'm glad to know he has job security. (My brother Scott always says the world needs ditch diggers!) Before yesterday, I didn't even think my son knew what "manual labor" was.

I learned that yes, Grandma can ride a bike. She wheeled into camp on Mark's dirt bike. She also took a spin on mine later on. The kids thought the idea of a grandma riding a bike was hilarious.



Marshmallows are fun. Especially when your four-year-old nephew is around. And has eaten one s'more already. And the sugar has kicked in.

Here's a picture of Johnny right after Tim told him to sniff the marshmallow because marshmallows smell good.



Yup, Tim smushed it into his face. And the whole family laughed. (I know, we're not good people.) But Johnny loved the attention, so he moved the melted marshmallow to his cheek. Which amused everyone but Johnny's dad.

We also laughed when Tim tried to give Johnny this "s'more": it was really a hamburger patty between two graham crackers. Johnny refused it, proclaiming it (rightfully so!) disgusting.



Making s'mores is very dangerous--helmets required!




My niece Hannah spent most of her time in the ocean; she only came out when she turned blue. My sister-in-law Kim found that building sand castles was super relaxing. I'm sure it had nothing to do with her just getting out of school after having a particularly rowdy class this year. My dad's favorite thing about the campground was that it was right next to the railroad tracks; he loved watching the trains roll by.

And what did I learn about myself? I learned that I'm a bit jumpy. Every time Nick wanted to hug me, I tensed up, and took a defensive stand. It wasn't until Kim said, "Aww, Nick is a hugger," that I realized he had no ulterior motives. He really just wanted to hug me, not sneak in and punch me. A lifetime of brothers has made me paranoid. It's nice (if unnerving) to have an affectionate family member!



I also learned that the scent of campfire smoke lingers long after it should...I've already showered twice since I've been home, and I still get a waft of smoke every once in a while.

But hey, that's all part of the fun, right?

Field trip

Yesterday I was lucky enough to chaperone Mark's class to the local swimming hole. That's right, I escorted 100 5th graders to the indoor high school pool. Just the walk there was crazy. As we journeyed toward the pool, I made the following observations.

• Most of the 5th graders are taller than I am--even the girls! I blended nicely into the mob, thankyouverymuch.
• It's very hard to see when you walk a mile wearing diving masks or swim goggles. Especially if the lenses are blue.
• It's also hard to breathe when you wear those masks and walk a mile.
• 5th graders will wave and yell to any and every car on the road.
• The honking that ensues from this renders the children deaf to all adults. Especially when the kids near blind driveways or busy street corners.
• Walking with children is a nice euphemism. When I remarked that it was like herding cats, another mom responded, "No, it's worse--it's like herding chickens!" I watched the kids flit about, and realized she was absolutely correct.

We finally arrived at the pool, group intact. The kids parked themselves on the bench and listened to the lifeguard's very loud but garbled rules (turns out indoor pools amplify sound and convert them to vague echoes).

At some point, she blew the whistle, and the kids were off. Clothes and towels flew in the air, landing on every bit of exposed concrete bench, and on the floor surrounding it. The kids split off into gender-appropriate groups and hit the showers.

The quiet while they all showered was brief. They exploded out of the locker rooms, and within moments, the pool was filled with screaming, splashing kids. It stayed that way for the next four hours.

Mark decided to take the swim test so he could jump off the high dive. But he hasn't been swimming since last summer, and was suitably nervous about passing.



He didn't make it the first time, but he did pass the second time. He wasn't quite sure why, though.

"I did the same exact thing that I did the first time!" he exclaimed.

"Whatever," I told him. "You passed--hit the high dive!"

The kids loved loved loved the high dive. The girls specialized in running jumps and gymnastic maneuvers. The boys were even divided between flinging themselves wildly off the board, or jumping while kissing their arm muscles and flexing their arms into the air, a la The Thinker in Night at the Museum 2 ("Hey baby, check out the gun show going on over here. BOOM BOOM! Firepower!").

Nathan was a wild man off the high dive--I told him it looked like someone tossed him out of a moving car here.

Mark was more reserved, but equally brave.

The lifeguard blew her whistle to end the swim day, and there was a massive groan from the pool. But slowly, the kids left the water and moved toward the jumble of scattered clothes, towels and shoes.

One kid made it to the gate without his shirt. "I lost it!" he cried. "I lost my shirt!" The louder the kids laughed, the louder he repeated himself. Someone finally lent him another shirt so he didn't have to return to school shirt-less.

I anticipated the walk back would be more subdued after all the swimming, but I was wrong. The kids were still full of energy, engaging more drivers, even getting the entire drive-through lane at McDonald's to honk their horns.

We arrived back at school 20 minutes after school was out, but none of the kids really cared. They had wet hair and red eyes from all the chlorine, but they were thrilled at their day.

"Can you believe this actually counted as P.E.?" one boy asked me.

"Yeah, you got five hours of P.E. today," I told him. "That was better than spending the day in the classroom, huh?"

"WAY better!" he said, happily. And as I looked across the yard, I saw 100 equally happy faces that completely agreed with him.

You wanna be a what?

Yesterday, Mark asked me how you become a sidekick. I had to think about that one.

"You mean, sidekick to a superhero?" I asked. (Hey, he's 11--these are the conversations we have!)

"No, like when you say, 'He's a sidekick,'" Mark answered unhelpfully.

"Um, well, I guess you just spend a lot of time around someone then," I said. "You know, like when you and Brandon hang out and do everything together, and it seems like you're joined at the hip. Then he's your sidekick."

"Huh," Mark said. He didn't like my answer, so he tried another tact.

"What about the sidekicks that can read your mind?" he asked. "How do you do that?"

Finally, the light when on in my head, and I started giggling. "Oh, a psychic," I said. "You want to be a psychic, not a sidekick!"

"Yeah, I wanna read people's minds," he said.

I explained it's a talent you're born with, but some people are better at it. When I told him he can already read minds, he scoffed at me.

"What about when you get in trouble?" I asked him. "Don't you know what I'm gonna say? How I'm gonna react to it?"

"Yeah, I always know what you're gonna say!" he said.

"Well, then you already have psychic abilities," I said. "Keep working on them!"

Mark nodded his head.

"Besides," I said, going back to the original coversation. "Who wants to be a sidekick anyway? They do the same amount of work as the superheroes, and don't get any of the credit. When's the last time you heard Robin get top billing over Batman? Who's gonna get excited to see a movie called, 'Robin'? Nobody!"

"Yeah!" Mark agreed. "I wanna read minds. I don't wanna work hard and get no credit."

"That's my boy!" I cheered. Hey, a kid's gotta have dreams, right?

So just be careful what you're thinking about the next time you see Mark--because he'll be eavesdropping on your thoughts.

Living in a vacuum

The other day, I walked past Mark's room and noticed this surprising sight:



I wasn't sure if a witch came to visit and parked it there, or if it was just raining brooms in Mark's bedroom. Whatever the reason, it was too good to keep to myself.

"Kathleen, you've gotta see this!" I whispered to my cousin. She also did a double-take.

"What's up with the broom?" she called out to Mark.

He ambled down the hall, and answered casually, "Oh, it's so I remember to vacuum my room."

"By hanging a broom from your ceiling?" I asked. I was more than a little confused.

"Shouldn't you hang the vacuum cleaner from there instead?" Kathleen asked. "I mean, you're not gonna sweep your room."

I immediately nudged her in the ribs. "Don't give him any ideas!" I hissed. The last thing I need is explaining to people that Mark is all bruised up because a vacuum cleaner fell on him--from the ceiling!!

"Oh," Mark said, as if he hadn't thought of that. Then he dismissed it, saying, "Doesn't matter, I just wanted a reminder."

"You don't need a reminder," I told him, thinking of how he vacuums his room almost daily. (He really is obsessed with it--in addition to our house, he's now taken over vacuuming the classroom in his after school program, too. They love that!)

"Well, I didn't want to forget," he said. "Maybe I'll just vacuum now."

And so he did. But he's slated to wash the car this week--and I'm terrified of how he'll remind himself to do that!

Boy heaven

This weekend was Scout-o-rama, which is basically a Boy Scout carnival. Each local den or troop puts up a game booth specifically targeted toward boys (think flying objects, building weapons, and lots of sharp wooden spikes).

Mark's group was in charge of the water balloons. I figured they'd host a balloon toss, which shows you what a...girl...I am. Here's what they actually used to "toss" the balloons:




That's right, they built a catapult! Two of them, actually, so they could launch the balloons at each other. It was awesome!

Mark remembered the balloons at the last minute. He wanted to bring them along, even though they were still in the bag.

"They wanted us to bring them already filled," I told him. "You think there's gonna be a hose just lying around at the park?"

Which proved point 2, that yes, I really am a girl. Because here's what the ingenious Boy Scout dads had built:




Yup, a whole water balloon filling station! It's amazing what you can do with a wooden horse, some PVC pipe and a little imagination. I did tell Mark to fill the balloons from the side, however, after watching one poor kid stand directly in front of the faucets. When the balloon slipped out of his hands, he got a crotch-full of cold water.

We brought along my nephew Johnny, too, who can't wait to become a scout (he's got a couple years to go). He and Mark had a blast. Their favorite activity was making marshmallow guns out of PVC pipes. They loved crawling through a dark tunnel maze, although Mark only went through it four times. Johnny went though it one more time, but decided to stop and relax halfway through. I had to send Mark in to flush him out. ("He was just sitting in there!" Mark exclaimed.)

They also shot water rockets into the air.



Had tug of wars.


Tied knots.


Ran a relay race 6 times each.





And sawed off pieces of wood.



The only thing they didn't do were the zip line.

Mark played a rousing game of dodgeball, and Johnny joined in for a bit. But they were playing against much older scouts and I knew where that was headed. Sure enough, even with Mark protecting him, Johnny eventually got smacked in the head by a ball. He toughed it out, leaving the game peacefully, until he got to me and immediately burst into tears. Poor little guy. But after hugging and consoling him for a few minutes, he was ready to move on to the next activity.

It was a pretty great afternoon. The boys came home tired, sweaty, and talking about what they were gonna do next year.

I can't wait.

Tiger Mother wannabe

I'm currently reading the book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother," which I'm enjoying very much. Of course, I'm enjoying it for all the wrong reasons. It makes me feel like I'm not the worst mom in the world.

The book was written by a mom who's raising her children the "Chinese way." Which, as the book explains, includes strict, Old World, uncompromising values. Chinese parents are never indulgent or permissive, instead stressing academic performance above all, endless music drilling and practice, and unquestioning respect for authority.

At first, I felt sorry for the exhausted kids, who were drilled relentlessly by their hard-core mom. But then I found myself siding with the mom--what's wrong with expecting a lot from your kids, and teaching them failure's not an option?

My thoughts upon reading the book were:

• "Wow, those poor kids! What a miserable, lonely childhood they have."
• "Man, that Mom is insane--she's like a 24-hour drill sergeant to those kids!"
• "Wow, that mom's really getting amazing results. Her kid played piano in Carnegie Hall at 14!" (I'm a wimpy Western moms who deems 20 minutes of daily drum practice a success.)
• "Mark is wrong--I'm definitely NOT the meanest mom around."

I shared all of these thoughts with Mark over dinner. I told him how the kids practiced their instruments up to six hours a day, sometimes longer if they goofed around. And how they played every single day, even on vacation (they only stayed at hotels with pianos).

Mark couldn't believe it. His eyes grew wide when I told of how the younger daughter came in second place for her multiplication speed test.

"What did the mom do?" Mark asked, fearfully.

"She made the girl do multiplication tests every night," I said. "She gave her 20 sheets a night, with 100 problems each on them!"

"Oh my God!" Mark wailed. "That's like..." [Long pause, while he tried to multiply 20 times 100.] "That's like...20 times 100...carry the one...add the zero..."

I sighed.

"It's like 2 times 1, then add the zeroes," I told him.

"Two times 1 is 2, plus five zeroes, that's 200,000 problems a day!" Mask gasped.

I sighed again, this time at his lousy math skills, also a result of wussy Western parenting.

"There are 3 zeroes," I corrected. "She was doing 2,000 problems a night, not 200,000."

Mark just shook his head. He couldn't comprehend anything over 20.

I realized that the tiger mother method would not last long in my house for two reasons: 1. I would strangle Mark by the third day of insisting he complete his homework, extra credit and drum lessons for more than 20 minutes, and 2. I might strangle myself before putting in as many hours of slave-driving as that mom in the book did.

So I guess the final conclusion is that yes, Mark and I are both products of wimpy Western parenting. My kid probably won't ever play drums onstage at Carnegie Hall or come in first place in the spelling bee. (He got kicked out early for spelling "ounce" wrong--"I put the 'T' in the wrong place," he explained. "There is no 'T' in 'ounce'!" I cried.)

But the upside is, now I have a standard to work up to (thank you, Tiger Mother!). And I have all summer to drill him on his multiplication tables.

Maybe there's some hope yet...

My opinion of firemen has dropped dramatically

This is how exciting my life has become (insert sarcasm). Yesterday, there was a cat stuck up in a tree, and it was the highlight of our day.

The cat was at Mark's school--apparently, he'd come too close to a teacher's new ducklings, and the teacher chased him off. The cat, who was fat and gray, ran up a tree, and got himself stuck.

That's right, the poor guy got himself wedged into a Y-shaped fork in the tree.

Mark couldn't wait to tell me all about it. He said the cat meowed at the kids all afternoon, but when I got there, he was sleepy and inattentive. I hoped it was just because he was bored.

Another teacher, Ms. Ashlene, told us she'd been on hold for more than an hour and a half with the city animal control. She was worried, because they weren't answering their phone, and they closed at 5:30.

I looked up the number to the emergency line, and left it for her. Then I called my brother Smed, who's a local cop, hoping he'd have a suggestion (or maybe a ladder).

"Call the fire department," he said immediately.

"They did," I told him. "Ms. Ashlene said they wouldn't come."

"What!" Smed exclaimed. "Then you need to call the newspaper and tell them you've got a great story. Firemen who won't even save a cat stuck in a tree!"

"How is that gonna help?" I asked.

"It's gonna shame the firemen into rescuing the cat!" Smed has no love for firemen. He says it's because they're always angry when their Starbucks runs are interrupted by emergencies, but I just think he's jealous because girls love firemen.

He didn't have any other suggestions, so I hung up. Another family was standing below the cat-eating tree, staring up at Mr. Sleepy. He'd become quite the feline celebrity.

Mark had a drum lesson, so we finally had to leave. But immediately afterwards, I returned to the school. I wasn't sure what I'd do or who I'd call if the cat was still stuck, but I wouldn't be able to sleep knowing he was still up there.

But the cat was gone! I was relieved to see Ms. Ashlene had been successful in her calls--somehow, the cat had been dislodged. I sighed deeply.

I felt kind of dumb afterwards, fretting over a cat. But just as the doubt was sweeping over me, a white mini-van came charging up behind us. A little girl ran out, directly to the tree, and her mom anxiously popped out of the driver's seat.

"He's down!" I called out, and the other mom let out a huge sigh. She clasped her heart and said, "Thank God!"

The little girl clapped her hands and ran off. We started up our cars and drove off, and I was glad to know I wasn't alone in worrying about a chubby, lazy gray cat.

You can tell Mark's being raised by women...

...because he says things like this, when pondering the effects of not wearing sunscreen:

"Wow, then I'd have diabetes, ADD and skin cancer. I'd be a hot mess!"

May be time to schedule more guy time with his uncles, and less time with his aunties--I certainly don't need any more hot messes!