A dozen years ago, a brown-haired little baby made his entrance into the world. The doctors probably thought it was a healthy sign that he started crying right away, but I'm telling you now it had nothing to do with health or his new womb-less environment. Oh no, that baby was complaining that his onesie was too baggy ("I want skinny jeans! Waaaah!"), and that he was wearing the same little socks as every other baby in the hospital nursery. Because you know, even at only a few minutes old, all brand-new Mark wanted was some flashy new kicks on his tiny little just-born toes.
Yes, it's true, my little man turned 12 on Friday. He's one year closer to being a teenager, which puts the fear of God in me, and one year closer to being a genuine, certified grown man, which scares me even more. But I'm trying not to focus on all that; instead, I'm clinging to the last few moments of him as my little boy.
On Friday, Mark jumped out of bed early, happily, but not because of my cheerful birthday wishes. He was dressed two minutes later, eager to claim his annual birthday donut breakfast.
This year he wasn't satisfied with just a donut or two; he convinced me to buy enough to feed his entire fourth-period math class.
"Thirty-six kids," he told me. "Plus Mr. Estrada. He looooves donuts."
And that's how my diabetic child ended up at school with two giant pink boxes full of donuts, while I drove off envisioning every worst-case high blood sugar scenario. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, I hyperventilated. I was determined to let Mark celebrate his birthday with junk food just like any other non-diabetic kid, but try as I might, I couldn't fully do it. He called me throughout the day, and each time, I ever-so-casually suggested he test his blood sugar and correct any highs.
Dinner was a little easier in that the kid was craving protein. By easier, I mean on his blood sugar, not my wallet. I've lucked out the past few years, because little kid Mark always insisted on gross but cheap food for his birthday dinner. (Six-year-old Mark chose KFC, and my entire loving family filled a KFC and pretended to really enjoy it for Mark's sake. Four years later, Mark tried to blame the whole fiasco on me, to which I replied, "No. Just...no. Not one single person who was at that meal choose it willingly. That was pure love right there--for you, not for fried chicken!")
So this year, my mom convinced big-kid Mark to aim a little higher, gastronomically speaking. He took up her challenge--he choose filet mignon. Which cost a lot more than last year's Taco Bell feast, but I didn't mind. I was just glad to have a dinner that wasn't accompanied by tiny plastic condiment packages.
Yes, it's true, my little man turned 12 on Friday. He's one year closer to being a teenager, which puts the fear of God in me, and one year closer to being a genuine, certified grown man, which scares me even more. But I'm trying not to focus on all that; instead, I'm clinging to the last few moments of him as my little boy.
On Friday, Mark jumped out of bed early, happily, but not because of my cheerful birthday wishes. He was dressed two minutes later, eager to claim his annual birthday donut breakfast.
This year he wasn't satisfied with just a donut or two; he convinced me to buy enough to feed his entire fourth-period math class.
"Thirty-six kids," he told me. "Plus Mr. Estrada. He looooves donuts."
And that's how my diabetic child ended up at school with two giant pink boxes full of donuts, while I drove off envisioning every worst-case high blood sugar scenario. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, I hyperventilated. I was determined to let Mark celebrate his birthday with junk food just like any other non-diabetic kid, but try as I might, I couldn't fully do it. He called me throughout the day, and each time, I ever-so-casually suggested he test his blood sugar and correct any highs.
Dinner was a little easier in that the kid was craving protein. By easier, I mean on his blood sugar, not my wallet. I've lucked out the past few years, because little kid Mark always insisted on gross but cheap food for his birthday dinner. (Six-year-old Mark chose KFC, and my entire loving family filled a KFC and pretended to really enjoy it for Mark's sake. Four years later, Mark tried to blame the whole fiasco on me, to which I replied, "No. Just...no. Not one single person who was at that meal choose it willingly. That was pure love right there--for you, not for fried chicken!")
So this year, my mom convinced big-kid Mark to aim a little higher, gastronomically speaking. He took up her challenge--he choose filet mignon. Which cost a lot more than last year's Taco Bell feast, but I didn't mind. I was just glad to have a dinner that wasn't accompanied by tiny plastic condiment packages.
Dessert was even better than dinner. Mark picked this restaurant for the sugary delights. We'd been there for my mom's birthday, and he couldn't wait to return for the fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (It also had marshmallow fluff in it.)
Because we couldn't decide on either the cookie monster or the fried PB&J, we got both. And because there were six of us, and some people who didn't want to share, we actually got TWO of each. I'm pretty sure Mark wasn't the only one with high blood sugars after these babies were served!
Mark left the restaurant full and happy. I left the restaurant trailing behind him, wondering when he'd gotten so tall, and how the heck the last six years have passed so quickly. Seems like just yesterday he was flying around in a Superman costume, batting down the pinata with all his little friends. Now some of those friends tower above me, and Mark's not all that far behind them.
Happy birthday, my 12-year-old son. I can't wait to celebrate many dozens more with you...
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