After our Bigfoot museum fiasco, we moved across the road to Henry Cowell State Park for a picnic and a little hiking among the redwoods.
It was a gorgeous day, and I was really excited to show Mark the majestic redwood trees. I love the redwoods tree; the way they jut right up into the sky so you can't even see the tops of them, and the quiet forest path below. I love how they are so big they actually block out the sunlight, and I love the mysterious, dark lighting the forest takes on as a result. I also love the raised bark along the trees, the way it twists and rises in long, circular patterns, creating little wooden valleys and ridges all along the trees.
But most of all, I love the serenity, that calm, soothing feeling you get when walking among these giant trees. It's humbling to be among nature, especially when its hundred of years old, and towers above you. There's nothing as tranquil as being part of the forest, silent except for the birds, the squirrels, the sound of nature all around. The quiet, the solitude of it all just speaks to me.
However, there's one sure-fire way to ruin all that within moments; bring your 12-year-old hyper son on the day you skipped his ADD medication.
I knew I was in trouble as soon as we started down the path. Tim and Kim had gone to the car for jackets, and I had Mark, Nic and Hannah with me. Hannah and Nic wanted to show me a piece of the oldest tree, but Mark just wanted to bounce around.
"Look up at the trees, Mark," I said, in awe. He just snorted and kept running.
"What's so great about trees?" he shouted back over his shoulder. "I've seen trees before in Big Bear."
"Not redwoods!" I clarified.
"Whatever!" he said. "Trees are trees." And then I heard a new sound in the forest--my heart breaking.
Kim had mentioned that we might see another famous local--banana slugs. Mark had never seen those either, so I was eager to find some and point them out.
"You think they'll really be out?" I asked Kim.
She nodded. "This is the weather they like--cold and damp."
Nic spotted the first one two minutes later. "Banana slug!" he yelled, pointing to a long yellow slug on the ground.
Mark was all over that. Well, over the competition, that is. He didn't care much about seeing the slugs, he just wanted to find them before Nic did. The two boys ran off, staring at the ground, trying to spot banana slugs first.
"Hey, look up at the trees!" Tim yelled at them. He turned and said to me, "I brought them here to see the redwoods, and they're running through the forest looking at the ground." Yeah, pretty much on par for those two boys.
Besides slugs, we also saw a couple deer grazing in the forest, and some trees with amazing gold-colored leaves that looked like they were lit up and glowing. The trees reached through the openings between the redwood trunks, reaching up for the patches of sunlight streaming through. Hannah and I tried taking pictures, but couldn't capture the beauty in our tiny little phones.
We rounded a corner in the path, and came across a guy playing a funny little guitar and singing train songs from the 1800s. In the distance, we could hear an actual train, with its horn blaring and the steam engine puffing. It almost sounded fake, the ch-ch-ch-ing of the wheels on the track as the guy sang along.
The giant tree had a slight opening, which the kids dove into. Hannah climbed in first, followed by Nic and Mark, and pretty son, all three of them were inside the humongous tree. They were having a blast in there, swallowed up by the tree. I couldn't see them, but I could hear their giggles.
The kids clambered out of the tree, and we finished our hike. We heard the train again, but never actually saw it. At one point, it was puffing, setting off these loud clanging noises, and Mark stood in the forest, pretending to be shot with each loud bang. Even in the middle of the most beautiful place, he's crazy.
We came to the end of the path, where I tried unsuccessfully to steer Mark into the visitor's center.
"I didn't come here to learn," he said, dismissively.
"You asked what's so great about the redwoods," I said. "Go in there, and you'll find out." He ran off instead.
We passed by the gift shop, which he was interested in. I didn't buy anything, but was sorely tempted when I saw a great t-shirt bearing the phrase "May the forest be with you."
But we weren't finished yet; we sill had another appointment, at the Mystery Spot. None of us were actually sure what that even was, but I'd seen bumper stickers forever, and I'd always been curious. Kim was equally excited; she'd grown up in San Jose, and had never been. It was a first for all of us!
We waited in the tiny courtyard for our tour to start. There was also a gift store here, but I held off on buying anything, although there were approximately one million yellow and black souvenirs advertising the Mystery Spot.
"You didn't buy anything?" Tim asked.
I shook my head no. "I'm gonna wait till after," I said. "Until I know what the Mystery Spot actually is. Because what if I buy something and then I end up hating the Mystery Spot?"
Eventually, our tour was called, and our tour guide, Prema, introduced himself. He was maybe 16 or 17 years old, but had a great personality and was super funny. We laughed the first 10 minutes of the tour, and we hadn't even moved from our starting point.
Prema lead us up to the spot, which turned out to be a slanted house much like the one I'd seen in Calico. "Uh oh," my brain said, because that hadn't turned out so well. But I gave it my best shot, watching Prema use his level to prove the house was straight, even though it slanted in every direction. He rolled a pool ball up a board, and then Kim's Chapstick, and even some water. It was a trip.
We went inside the house, and that's when the trouble really started--my brain went lopsided, and upside down, and eventually a little nauseous. I watched everyone lean the exact opposite way they should have, and it just messed with my head. Prema encouraged me to walk down the sloping floor toward him, but I declined. Instead, I ended up shoving my way out toward the exit, past the next tour group, gasping for air. Yes, it was a little melodramatic, but the sloping house seriously made me carsick! It was weird...
But I could still hear Prema and his jokes outside. I could hear Mark and Nic laughing, and I knew they were all having a good time. Kim eventually made her way toward me; the house was messing with her head, too.
So I spent most of my time outside the mystery zone, but that was fine. The jokes were funny, Prema was funny, and I knew the kids were having a good time. And hey, I even got a free bumper sticker at the end.
Our tour ended, and we headed out to the car, pretty much spent. It was a busy day--Bigfoot museum, redwoods, and Mystery Spot, and we still had a 30 minute drive back home. But it was a good day, and we returned exhausted, happy, laughing and grateful for the fun times we spent with our family.
I love a good roadside attraction/oddity, and I appreciate any kind of eclectic museum, especially one run by an equally eccentric proprietor. So when my brother Tim suggested a visit to the Bigfoot Museum in Santa Cruz, I was all over it.
Let me preface this by saying it wasn't the first visit for Tim's family. They are huge fans of the cable TV show "Finding Bigfoot," and know an alarming amount of Sasquatch facts. Tim dropped the phrase "the Patterson-Gimlin film" into conversation numerous times, as though I knew what that meant.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I finally admitted.
"The famous film," he sighed. "The one of Bigfoot walking."
I began to worry about my brother.
I also worried about my nephew, Nic, when he demonstrated how Sasquatches communicate with each other by pounding a giant branch on a tree.
"The Sasquatches always answer back on the show," my niece Hannah said, matter-of-factly.
The "museum" was the size of my bedroom, and U-shaped. We entered one side of the room, then turned a wall and walk back down the other side, where the "curator" stood, eagerly waiting to discuss Bigfoot with us.
The place was AWESOME--every inch was covered with photos, newspaper clippings, magazine covers, action figures. If it was about Bigfoot, it was here. You could even buy giant plaster Bigfoot footprints for $25.
A giant stuffed Bigfoot was propped up on the floor, and I made Hannah sit and take photos with it. We were still giggling with the stuffed 'Squatch when everyone else went into the second room.
From our room, I heard the curator talking to Mark. He asked a question, and Mark answered, "I don't know," in a guilty tone, which was apparently the wrong answer. The curator scolded him, saying "That's the difference between science and faith."
When I turned the corner, Nic was deeply engrossed in the Patterson-Gimlin film, watching an endless loop of Bigfoot walking. Kim was staring at the wall, and Tim was hiding behind the corner, entranced by a huge map. Mark stood in the middle of the room, looking lost.
I smiled at the old coot curator leaning on the counter. He looked like an old-time miner, with a white beard, plaid shirt and suspenders. He was still talking, loudly and kind of angry. I listened for a moment, but was totally distracted by the weird vibe in the room. No one was talking back to the curator, or asking questions--and this group is usually FULL of questions.
I looked at my family members--I wasn't imagining it, they were all avoiding eye contact with the old coot.
I realized they were totally ignoring the crazy guy, which surprised me. We hadn't just stumbled upon this place accidentally; we'd come here on purpose, specifically to embrace the crazy. And now they were ignoring it?
I waited a couple minutes, until I couldn't take it anymore. I broke the uncomfortable silence, asking the difference between a Sasquatch and Bigfoot.
"Bigfoot is just a nickname for the Sasquatches," the curator said gruffly, like I was an idiot. "Sasquatches aren't animals, they're feral humans. And when the government realizes that, they won't bestow an endangered species status on them, they'll have to give them what the rest of us already have as humans: Constitutional rights."
And...action! Game on! This was what'd I'd come for--conspiracy theories and feral humans! I glanced at Tim with a twinkle in my eye, but he looked away, absorbed in the giant wall map.
Seriously? I thought. No reaction to FERAL HUMANS??
No one else reacted, either. Clearly, I was on my own here.
"Ummm...is there more than one Bigfoot?" I asked. (Yes, my questions were lame, but I hadn't planned on carrying the whole conversation myself!)
"Well, duh, YEAH," the curator scoffed. "They have parents--of course there's more than one, or how else are they gonna breed? If there was just one, they'd die out!"
He sighed at my stupidity. Then he regaled us with tales of his recent trip north, which someone had sponsored.
"They paid for my rental car and gas," he said, proudly, as though being sponsored made the research legitimate.
Again, I looked to Tim, but still, no reaction. ("I wanna sponsor an expedition," I told Tim later. "What'll that cost, like a hundred bucks? I'll rent him a car, then I'll have bragging rights forever--remember the time I sponsored a Bigfoot research trip?")
The conversation lulled and died again.
"Um...what do they eat?" I asked. Obviously, no one else was gonna jump in here.
"Sasquatches hide in the forest, out of sight," the curator said, ignoring my question. "But builders have seen them. The 'Squatches come into their camps and break the levers on their tractors and their equipment, so they can't do any work."
Mischievous feral humans breaking stuff--I glanced around again, pleading, but no one would take the crazy bait.
The curator proclaimed that a famous researcher, Melba Ketchum, just finished years of DNA testing and concluded that Sasquatches are, indeed, real and part human (and part FERAL!).
"She found human DNA," he said. "She's going to release her findings soon. She already put something on Facebook about it, but I haven't had a chance to look at it yet."
("He didn't have time?" Tim said, later. "What else does he have to do??"")
And then, suddenly, unknowingly, Tim broke the spell. He said the magic words, "that show, Finding Bigfoot," and the curator immediately thawed, dropping his attitude and warming his tone.
"I know those guys," he said. "We go on research expeditions together." He pulled out an autographed postcard of the cast, and Hannah appeared out of nowhere to admire it.
"Hannah loves Bobo," Tim said, and though I had no idea what that meant, the curator did, and laughed. (Bobo's one of the stars on the show, and one of the curator's friends.)
And that's all it took. The weird vibe immediately disappeared. The curator lost his haughty tone. Tim asked about the wolf pictures scattered about, and the curator explained that Sasquatches fed the wolves who followed them.
"That's actually how humans domesticated dogs as companions," Tim said, and suddenly, they were best friends.
I just stared at Tim. I wasn't sure where this guy had been, but I'd been waiting for him!
When we left 15 minutes later, everyone was fast friends. I bought a magnet, we said goodbye, and I stopped to take a picture comparing the size of my foot with Bigfoot's.
But when I got to the mini-van, the whole family was yelling and laughing at the same time. Mark was apologizing, somewhat defensively, and kept repeating, "Well, how was I supposed to know??"
Turns out Mark, the boy with no filters, walked into the second room, watched approximately three seconds of the famous Bigfoot film and yelled out, "It's just a guy in a suit!"
To which the curator--the man who has dedicated his life, his vacations and and his museum to showcasing Bigfoot--lost it, and launched into a defensive tirade about how Sasquatches are real, and not a hoax.
"Mark opened his big mouth, and the rest of us got an angry lecture for the next half hour," Tim said. "That's why we were ignoring him. You totally missed the whole thing!"
I burst into laughter--now it all made sense! The carefully averted eyes, the uncomfortable silence...and I was not at all shocked that my dear, beloved son was the cause of it.
"Nice," I told Mark. "Maybe next year we'll go to Roswell, and you can tell them aliens aren't real, either."
It was totally a case of the emperor not wearing any clothes. OF COURSE the rest of us thought it was just a guy in a suit, but no one else actually SAID IT OUT LOUD. Even Nic and Hannah knew not to poke the bear (or feral human?), especially in his own museum. But apparently, we forgot to warn Mark.
Even Nic, who's the same age as Mark, knew better. He said, "In our minds, we all screamed" when Mark blurted that out. Even Nic knew that would enrage the old coot.
And so, unbeknownst to me or Hannah, they all got an extra special lecture courtesy of Mark's sassy mouth.
"This is one of those stories that was miserable to live through," Tim said. ""I wanted to punch Mark in the head so hard! But now, I'm gonna laugh about it forever."
And that's exactly what we did--we laughed about it all that day, all that night, and for the rest of the weekend. We haven't stopped laughing about it yet.
It pretty much amused all of us to no end--amused everybody except the old coot running the museum. Turns out, he doesn't find Mark nearly as funny as we do.
Oh, and two days after we got home, I saw this on msnbc.com! I sent it to Tim, who was really impressed and said, "And you heard it first at the Bigfoot museum!!!" I can only wonder what other priceless secrets we might've learned had Mark kept his mouth shut...
There's only one good thing about not being able to cook: no one expects me to on holidays. Even if I wanted to, they won't let me; putting me in the kitchen on a food-related holiday is akin to putting me in the Super Bowl after half a season playing Pop Warner football. So instead, I am routinely assigned to bring the rolls, the pies and/or the wine.
To be honest, I don't really mind. My mom and all my brothers are excellent cooks; I'd rather just enjoy the fruits of their labor and wash all the dishes afterwards.
This year, Thanksgiving was in San Jose, at my brother Tim's house. My parents stayed home and slummed it with us this year (they ran off to Hawaii last year). We missed the San Diego part of the family, but still managed to pack in a whole lot of fun in San Jose.
The San Jose crowd are an early-to-bed, early-to-rise crowd. Like the Army, they get more done in the morning than I get done the rest of the day. By the time I woke up on Thanksgiving, Tim and the kids were leaving for a turkey trot, and Kim was outside raking up leaves. Apparently, this was not going to be an idle holiday.
It was also Kim's birthday, and she wanted to ride bikes to celebrate. We rode over to the turkey trot, but got there just as the party was ending, and everyone was going home. Which was sad, but even more sad was the fact they were out of coffee. But it didn't slow us down; we just biked over to Starbuck's, where we ran into half the town of Willow Glen (seriously, Tim and Kim know everyone who lives there!).
My parents had arrived by the time we got home. After a round of hugs and hellos, everyone settled into the living room. Kim's dad Bill and his wife Carol were driving in from Redding, so we snacked and watched a Star Wars marathon while we waited for them. Mark and my nephew Nic were wild men, rotating between pillow fights in Nic's room and rousing soccer matches in the front yard.
Finally, it was turkey time! Chef Tim prepared a fantastic bird this year, and Mark got to carve it up.
Platters of food went around the table, and everyone served themselves. It wasn't until the dishes stopped passing that I noticed an absence.
"Where are the vegetables?" I asked Tim, staring down at my carb-laden plate.
"There are none!" Tim proclaimed loudly. He refused to make any, saying it's just filler. I thought of my brother Smed, who refused to let any vegetable (even a single green bean!) onto his plate, because he wanted to fill up only on meat and potatoes. I just smiled; seemed my family was all together, if only in spirit.
The meal was fabulous. Kim got a little bit ripped off, sharing her birthday with Thanksgiving, but Tim tried his best to make it a dual celebration.
After pie, the adults sat around the table chatting. The boys migrated outside again, and Hannah and I watched TV for a bit. She was cracking me up; she's a dangerous mix of both Dinsdale and Vincent, which makes for a lethally funny sense of humor. She got in a few really good cracks at me, and I just laughed, upholding the family motto of "It's okay to be mean, as long as it's funny." I also resorted to calling her Snarky Girl the rest of the weekend.
No one felt like fighting the shopping crowds the next day--the closest we got was mocking the Wal-mart campers on the news Thanksgiving night. Instead, we all sat around watching the movie "Big" and then travelled to nearby Campbell to visit an urban chicken store. Kim's all into getting some chickens, and I just cracked up--seems I'm visiting a lot of chicken and feed stores on my vacations these days! ;-)
There was also a toy store next door. Hannah and the boys ran off to that, and we eventually followed. It was a pretty cool store, and I especially liked the Santa and elf cut-out in front.
Our next excursion was to the panaderia for Mexican sweet bread. Along the way, we passed giant inflatable crab--I'm serious, this thing must've been at least one story high and probably twenty feet long.
"Holy crab!" Mark yelled from the back seat. I said, "Mark..." in a warning tone, and then burst into laughter. Kim reminded me of the funny motto, and I agreed, just felt like I had to give a little show of parental guidance.
Kim took us for another bike ride that afternoon. It was a nice mixture of mellow laziness, leftover food and exercise--the perfect day!
We made lots of fun of that giant crab, even talking it all up to my dad. But the funny thing is. later on that evening, we were stumped on where to go for dinner, and ended up going...you guessed it...to the seafood restaurant with the giant crab! (My family is so easy to sway.)
The food was okay, but the tools on the table were better. Mark immediately tied on a lobster bib, and then he and Nic started pounding each other with wooden mallets. It was funny for about two seconds, until they started pounding on the table.
It was just nice to hang with the family, and to be somewhere different. And even though it wasn't all that far away, it felt like it. We've had an extended summer in our part of California, and while that's pretty nice, I was really missing autumn. Turns out I found it in San Jose--all the trees were golden, red and purple. So it really felt like a fall Thanksgiving, with crisp air and gorgeous fall colors all around.
All in all, it was a wonderful couple of days.
I love music--any kind, all kinds, as long as it has a good beat or thoughtful lyrics, I'm in.
Because I've been a fan my whole life, I know a lot of music; I can sing just about any song that plays on the radio. And sing I do, loudly, proudly, way out of tune. What I lack in talent, I make up for in volume.
But what I don't always know are the words to those songs. Maybe it's from hearing loss due to blaring my radio for too many teenage years. More likely, it's due to my short attention span; I don't always listen carefully, and my mind wanders a lot. Whatever the case, I never get the words right. My friend Vicki says I know all the songs, and none of the words.
But hey, no big deal. I don't take it personally when people correct me. In fact, it's usually pretty funny to hear what the real lyrics are compared to whatever the heck I've been singing.
Well, usually it's funny. It wasn't as funny when Mark recently corrected me.
I was singing along to "Starships" by Nicki Minaj. Mark was singing, too, until the chorus, when he suddenly grew very quiet.
"Starships were meant to fly-y-y, hands up and touch the sky-y-y," I sang. "Let's do this one more ti-i-ime, can't stop...I ain't even trying to get this!"
And that broke Mark's silence. He burst into laughter.
"You know those aren't the words, right?" he asked, in a truly condescending voice.
"I know the words," I snorted. "I just sang them, didn't I?"
He smiled slyly. "Oh, so then you know she's saying a really bad word, right?"
"Yes, I know she--wait, what?" I said, glancing at him in the rear view mirror. My mind raced through the lyrics, but came up blank. "What'd she say?"
He smile grew even bigger.
"What'd she SAY?" I asked again.
"She said, 'Higher than..." He paused, clearing his throat. I just looked at him.
"'Higher than a...M...F..er," he finally choked out.
I almost crashed the car--I'd been singing this song for MONTHS. With Mark in the car. With my window rolled down. At the top of my lungs, with a goofy smile on my face.
"No, she said, 'I ain't even trying to get that,'" I clarified.
"Um, no, she didn't," he snickered. "And by the way...that doesn't even make sense."
The chorus came on again then, and as I listened, I realized he was right. It was mostly bleeped out, but once I heard it, I couldn't unhear it.
"Oh my God!" I cried. "Seriously? Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I thought you knew," he said. He was trying really hard not to laugh at me.
I immediately flipped the station.
"And besides," I asked, "how do you even know those words?"
"I go to middle school," he said. "I know more than you think."
And that's the exact moment my brain shut down. Obscenities, precocious tweens, I couldn't take any more. It wasn't enough to flip the station--I turned the radio off.
"Hey!" Mark yelled. He didn't like being punished for Nicki Minaj's potty mouth.
"Fine," I said. I turned the radio back on, but put it on NPR. If I couldn't keep profanity off the airwaves, then I'd only play public radio.
And that was when I realized I'd done something even worse than wrong-singing obscenities...I'd turned into my parents.
"Oh, for the love of Pete!" I yelled, out loud, fully cementing the transformation. Mark just looked at me quizzically.
"Never mind," I said. I couldn't say I suddenly feel very old...he already enough ammo to insult me with.
Sigh...I tried hard to be the cool mom who knows all the current songs on the radio...but in the end, I'm really just another middle-aged, overprotective mom who's shocked that young kids are singing bad words (and that her young son knows those words).
And I ain't even tryin' to get that...
Mark loves video games. I'm sorry, that doesn't quite convey the intensity of his true feelings--I meant, Mark LOVES LOVES LOVES video games.
The only thing Mark loves more than playing video games by himself is playing video games with someone slightly less good at them than he is. He likes the challenge of competing against someone else, but only if he wins. (Yes, I know...we're working on that.)
But he doesn't like playing against people who never play video games, because it takes him out of the trance he slips into when playing. He has to stop, explain the rules, and endlessly show them how to use the controllers. I know how he gets because I am one of those beginners that irritate the heck out of him--I can barely spell out my name with the controllers, let alone pass a football or hit a baseball.
Today, Mark was playing against his friends. Sean plays at the same level as Mark, but he was home sick. Josh would rather play on his iPhone and tune out the other three boys. Dan is a good gamer, but he's also the younger brother, so he never gets to play--Sean and Mark always hog the game.
Mark and Dan were deep into a basketball game this morning when I realized Mark had not finished his chores. I reminded him nicely and he totally ignored me, so I stood directly in front and reminded him a little less nicely.
"I'm in the middle of the game!" he screeched, motioning at me to move.
"Give the controller to Josh," I said. "He can play for you while you're gone."
Mark threw the controller to Josh with instructions not to mess up.
"He doesn't even know how to play basketball!" Dan laughed.
Josh just scoffed. "I totally got this," he said. "Watch--touchdown!"
Mark looked at me as if I'd kicked a puppy.
"Seriously?" he asked.
"It's just a game," I said. "The faster you go, the faster you'll get back to it."
He started to stomp down the hall veeeeeerrrry slowly in protest, until Dan screamed "YEAH!" Mark saw an imminent loss in his future and it sent him running.
Josh must've been losing by a lot, because when Mark returned, he just snorted and walked to the game console. Josh wasn't even paying attention--he was on the couch attacking Dan.
"Settle down," I told them, and they grabbed for the controllers again.
"Hey, this looks like soccer," Dan said, totally confused.
"Because it is soccer," Mark replied. "I changed the game."
Mark sighed. I decided to put him out of his misery.
"Time for school, guys," I said. Mark threw down his controller, turned off the game and was out the front door before I even finished that sentence. It was the fastest I'd ever seen him leave for school.
"Have a good day at school!" I told Josh and Dan as they left. They gave me a thumbs up.
I'm pretty sure I know exactly where Mark will be when I get home today--in his beanbag chair in front of the TV, all by himself. And he'll be the happiest kid alive.
Touchdown!
Disclaimer: I'm a parent to a child with Type 1 diabetes, and his opinions may differ radically from mine. (But maybe not...these things do annoy him, too.) Anyway, just wanted to point out these are my opinions as a parent, not as a person living with Type 1 diabetes.
Today is World Diabetes Day! I don't usually call attention to it, but I've been bombarded by lots of comments lately that just make me mad.
But being mad is no good, so instead, I'll use those comments as an opportunity to dispel some myths, and teach people instead. Maybe the next time you get the chance to discuss diabetes, you'll think about this and have a little more compassion (and a little less judgment) when talking to people living with diabetes.
(Also, I could get into a big ol' discussion about the differences between Type 1 and Type 2, but really, what does that matter? Living with diabetes is hard no matter what type you have.)
1. My son didn't get diabetes from eating too many candy bars.
His diabetes is an autoimmune disease--he got it from drawing the short stick in the gene pool. When he was two years old, his body actually waged a war against itself, attacking and destroying the beta cells that make the insulin Mark needs to regulate his blood sugar.
That war broke his pancreas--it doesn't work, and there's nothing Mark did or ate that ruined it. He's not an undisciplined sugar addict--he's actually a survivor, a warrior. Hold your head high, Mark--you have a lazy pancreas, but an iron will (and an external pancreas you carry in your pocket)!
Oh, and by the way...statements like "he ate too much candy" just make you sound like a righteous, grumpy old man yelling at the neighborhood kids to get off his lawn. Seriously.
2. He can't have sugar.
Sugar is just a carb. Almost everything you eat has carbs, and eventually turns to sugar when you digest it. Even stuff that's good for you--fruit, milk, bread, pasta. (Would you deny a non-diabetic kid an apple or banana?)
Telling Mark not to eat sugar is only looking at diabetes like a short-term problem. It's not about what he should or should not eat right now; it's about the big picture, establishing good eating habits for a lifetime, not just for this meal. Mark eats like we all should eat: healthy, balanced meals, with occasional treats.
What Mark needs is understanding, not a lecture from the food police. As his mom, I appreciate you checking to see if he can eat something--I know that's coming from a good place, from your concern over his health. I appreciate that.
But you wouldn't want everyone telling your mom every single thing you ate; neither does Mark. He knows how to count carbs, how to bolus insulin for his meals. Reminding him to do that is much more helpful than asking him if he's "allowed to eat that."
3. Sometimes he DOES need sugar.
When Mark has been really active, or gets too much insulin, his blood sugar goes low, which is dangerous. It means he needs sugar RIGHT NOW. Usually it's a juice box or glucose tablets, but sometimes it's whatever is close by. That might be soda, or hard candy.
What Mark needs at that moment is...sugar.
And what I need to do is make sure his blood sugar is going back up to range. While I appreciate your concern for Mark's health, what he needs to do is to eat or drink--not to be lectured on why sugar is bad for people with diabetes, or if it's a good idea to give him sugary drinks.
Sugar, is in fact, sometimes the remedy, not the enemy.
4. He's not going to "grow out of it."
His pancreas is broken, period. It's never going to start up again when he grows up, if he eats better or loses weight. The only thing that'll make it go away is a cure, something I pray will happen in Mark's lifetime.
And no, insulin is not a cure. A new insulin-producing pancreas is a cure; but in the meantime, external insulin is kind of like duct tape; it's just a temporary fix.
5. I'm sorry about your grandma/grandpa/aunt/uncle/elderly relative. But please stop scaring my kid.
I'm sorry that someone you know or love has diabetes. And I'm more sorry that they lost a limb, appendage, or their eyesight to it.
But I'm most sorry you're telling these stories to or in front of Mark. Stories of lost body parts do not help or motivate him. He's a little kid--it scares him. And it shames him, because the underlying message of your story is not, "Wow, diabetes sucks," it's really, "You are gonna get your leg cut off if you don't take care of yourself."
Mark doesn't think long-term about diabetes--that's my job. I teach him how to manage his diabetes now so that he can take those good practices forward into adulthood with him. Mark knows about diabetes complications, probably waaaaaaaay better than you ever will, because he experiences them (on a smaller scale) every day. But cut him some slack, he's only 12, and he's just trying to get through middle school--with all his limbs.
Many people do have complications because of diabetes (including losing limbs), but it's not guaranteed to happen. Let Mark and I worry about the long-term stuff.
6. Yeah, he doesn't like needles, either.
I know; you hate needles, and you could never prick your fingers five or six times a day. But maybe you could keep that thought to yourself while Mark's checking his blood sugar. Because guess what? Mark hates needles, too! You should see him freak out every year when I mention the flu shot. He's not using needles or pricking his fingers because he wants to; he does it because he has to. It's not a luxury for him; it's not something he can ignore because he doesn't like needles. No one likes needles.
But Mark takes care of business every day, whether he likes it or not, and I'm pretty damn proud of him. Sometimes he makes mistakes, sometimes I make mistakes, but we're doing the very best we can. And what we really need is support, not judgment.
So that's it. Those are the most common stupid things people say OUT LOUD when they realize Mark has diabetes. I don't want to limit people's questions, I just want them to take the shame and blame out before they ask them.
I don't mind questions. I WANT to teach you about diabetes, especially if it makes Mark safer when he's in your care. So ask away...just use a little respect. Because even though I do kid around about about it sometimes, diabetes isn't just a joke or a punch-line to me.
For more information about diabetes, visit these web sites:
World Diabetes Day
JDRF
American Diabetes Association
This weekend, I went to see the play "The Book of Mormon" with my friend Michelle and my mom. We laughed pretty much from the moment the lights went down until they went back on again two hours later. Some scenes were so funny, so wrong and inappropriate, I couldn't believe that a) I was actually laughing at them, b) my mom was laughing at them, and c) I was sitting next to my mom laughing at them. Other moments were so hilariously irreverent that even as we laughed, we half-expected to be struck down by a bolt of lightning momentarily (proof of our good Catholic upbringing).
One favorite scene was Elder Price's Scary Mormon Hell dream, wherein everything that scares him most in the world appears and haunts him in his sleep. This includes Hitler, Genghis Khan, Jeffrey Dahmer, Johnnie Cochran and giant coffee cups. It was an upbeat song-and-dance number that left us rolling in our seats.
We were still laughing the next day, when Mark complained about having to do his laundry. My mom looked at him, and uttered a phrase from the play, chiding him to "man up" and get it done.
"Really?" I asked, a bit incredulous. I'd expect Mark to quote Matt Parker/Trey Stone to her (maybe something from "South Park"), not the other way around.
"What?" she asked, innocently. Then she pointed at Mark who had indeed manned up, and was quickly loading the washer.
Our discussion was interrupted by the phone. It was an ADHD specialty institute I'd been trying to get Mark into for a couple months--they had a cancellation this afternoon and wondered if I'd like the appointment?
"Heck, yeah!" I yelled into the phone. The lady laughed at my enthusiasm and said she'd see me then.
I knew we'd have tons of paperwork to fill out, so we arrived a few minutes early. The waiting room was packed when we walked in. Parents were seated in the chairs, quietly reading or glancing down at their phones. The middle of the room was filled with boys, little boys, busy boys, all of them moving, all of them talking. They moved around each other fluidly, playing with the trashcan, bothering the receptionist, pounding on the table, yelling at the TV. Whatever movie had been playing on the TV was finished, causing great concern among the boys.
"It's done!" one boy yelled over his shoulder, to the receptionist.
"Somebody change it!" another boy yelled.
"I already told her," a third boy chimed in.
"Then why isn't it working?" a different boy demanded.
The littlest boy walked in front of the TV, and all the bigger boys shooed him away. So he walked to the door and opened it, heading back to the doctor's office, until his dad quickly retrieved him.
There were a million ADHD boys in the tiny little waiting room, doing a million different things, a million different ways, all at a frenetic, breakneck speed.
Oh my God, I suddenly realized, panicking. This is my very own scary Mormon Hell dream!
And then, just like Elder Price, I clicked it off before it all became too overwhelming. I settled down into my paperwork, and turned the busy little boys and their pandemonium off.
I wasn't the only one. All the other parents were similarly engaged, similarly ignoring their boys. It was chaos all around the room, but these parents were used to it; they were pros. They were in their safe place, somewhere the boys' rambunctious behavior was not only tolerated, but completely understood, and they simply enjoyed a moment's peace, without judgment. Nobody corrected their children's behavior or gave them unsolicited parenting advice in condescending tones. The only parents this scene would have truly bothered were parents used to quiet, well-behaved kids, or maybe polite little girls.
There was only nervous dad, and I realized he must be new to all this. His son paced the room, talking to the kids without waiting for answers, and Dad tracked him nervously, waiting to intervene. At one point, Dad took the kid outside, but it didn't help--the kid returned just as anxious and talkative.
"I have a thought," he said to the boy sitting next to him. The boy looked on, expectantly.
"What if I were in a glass elevator, and Tinkerbell was there, and we were flying around and--" The boy went on for a good two minutes, until the second boy interrupted him angrily.
"That could never happen!" he yelled. "That's not real!"
"I didn't say it was real," the first boy corrected him. "I just said I have a thought."
I couldn't help myself. I looked at the mom next to me, who'd also heard the conversation, and we both smiled at each other, stifling laughter. I can't wait to use that line in real life..."I have a thought..."
Slowly, the waiting room emptied out. Boys went in to see the doctor, or went home, and soon, we were the only ones left. I realized Mark hadn't uttered a word the whole time.
"I'm the calmest one here!" he whispered to me, loudly. I just nodded--that never happens, especially on a day like today, when he hadn't taken his meds. Clearly, Mark had met his ADHD match, and he was in awe.
Finally, it was our turn to see the doctor. Mark had a good visit, my mom and I got a lot of great information, and we all left very happy, with instructions to stay the course we were on.
I was enormously relieved and reassured by the whole visit. And though I am thankful that Mark is thriving now, I was most happy that we didn't have to come back. I'd spent already enough time in my scary Mormon dream, thank you very much.
Growing up in San Diego, my favorite annual trip was always up to Julian to pick apples. But I live a few hours from Julian now, and haven't been in a while.
Last year, I road tripped out to a new apple-pickin' spot called Oak Glen. It was a fun day, made even better by snow falling on us the whole time.
I was excited to return this year, as was Mark, until I told him we had to leave at 7:30 a.m. (Saturday is my sleep-in day, and consequently, his video game marathon morning.) He grudgingly got up, took his time getting ready, then refused to sleep one wink in the car. It was gonna be a looooooooong ride...
As we navigated the windy road up the mountain, I marveled at the gorgeous trees, covered in purple, yellow and red leaves. We've had an extended summer down by the beach--it was 90 degrees the day before!--and I'd forgotten it was actually autumn everywhere else. It was nice to see where fall had been hiding out from us.
Our destination was Willowbrook Farm. I'd signed up for a tour knowing full well there was only about a 50% chance Mark would enjoy it (which also meant a 50% chance he was gonna whine and drive me crazy). Luckily, Mark picked the Enjoy option.
Farmer Sheryl (yes, that's how she introduced herself) split us into small groups and sent us off to different parts of the farm. First stop for our little group was the tractor ride. We didn't actually ride ON the tractor, but behind it, in a bumpy, hay-filled little wooden trailer. It was hilarious! We climbed in, held on, and laughed as we took a big circular ride around the little tiny farm (one lap around the entire farm took about three minutes).
After the ride, we sampled apple and pumpkin butter (yum!), then blackberry and chokecherry preserves (eh). The kids liked that, but they liked the next part even better--pressing fresh apple cider!
There were two presses, and the kids took them over. They were so excited to drop apples in, turn the crank, and watch the pulverized mash squeeze out cider. Mark jumped right in there with the little kids.
"We've gotta do this at home!" he called out to me. I just smiled and gave him a thumbs up. I watched the guy take a bucket of 30-40 apples and grind them into a gallon of cider, and I realized the novelty would wear off pretty quickly for my lazy little Mark.
Animals were another highlight for the kids. We learned all about bees and making honey, which was really interesting. The kids pet a miniature horse and fed chickens, which I knew all about, thanks to my friend Kelley. (When Farmer Sheryl asked how many eggs a chicken lays a day, I immediately thought, "One every 25 hours.")
The kids chased around the most gigantic bunny I've ever seen. He wasn't even a full-grown bunny, either--he was only five months old! (That's one big baby.)
But of course, these were city kids, and their favorite animal was a stray cat wandering around the farm looking for food. (Or chickens. Little stinker tried to sneak into the coop!)
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| A wild Fernando cat! |
After a good hand-washing, we sampled more food--this time, caramel apples. I thought Mark would looooooove these, but he wasn't impressed. He liked the cider better--of course he did, it was $14 a gallon! Kid's got fillet Mignon taste on my ground hamburger budget.
Mark liked the animals, but what he really wanted to do was pick apples. The apples were low enough to pick directly from the tree by hand, but what fun is that? Mark wanted to go higher. He grabbed an apple picker and set about searching for the highest apples he could reach.
It took us about 40 minutes to pick a dozen apples--Mark suddenly turned into an apple connoisseur. He picked each apple with the utmost care, twisting it gently as though it were made of glass. He then inspected the fruit carefully--any with bruises or worm holes were unceremoniously tossed into the reject basket. Our rejects slowed considerably once I pointed out the "worm holes" were really caused by the prongs on the apple picker.
By the time we filled a five pound bag of apples, the tour was over. We drove up the road a bit, stopping at a favorite orchard from last year. It's famous for little donuts served piping hot, which you can watch them make. We split a bag, then did a cider tasting. Mark informed me he was absolutely not hungry for lunch after all that. I wasn't hungry either; after the caramel apple, cider, and donuts, I actually felt a little sick. I had that gnarly after-the-fair feeling, after you've eaten too much junk food. I vowed to eat salad for dinner.
And so, our car loaded with apples and cider, we headed home.
"We've gotta do that again next year," Mark said, as we wound our way down the mountain.
I wholeheartedly agreed.
I've been schooling Mark in political science since day one. The TV and print media serve as our class textbooks, but we've gone on some pretty awesome field trips, too (like to Barack Obama's first inauguration).
I'm not trying to indoctrinate him or anything; I'm just fascinated by politics, so I spend a lot of time watching and reading about them. I never figured he'd be interested enough to stick around and listen.
But poor Mark's been forced to watch a whole lotta presidential election coverage over the past few months. OK, maybe forced is not the right word--encouraged, maybe? Or just plain ol' allowed, perhaps, because honestly, he was only watching because the TV was on. (Kid can't pass by a TV without sitting down to watch. Doesn't even matter what's on, he'll watch it. It's like he's hypnotized...)
I always take him with me to vote, including to this year's primary elections.
"Are you gonna vote for Romney or Obama?" he asked, in a not-so-hushed voice.
I explained that I could only vote for the candidates in my party. Mark was stymied, then angry, and yelled, "Rip off!"
"So you can't vote for anybody else?" he asked. "What if the Republican guy is better?"
"It's only during the primaries," I assured him. "During the election, you can vote for whoever you want. But right now, we're voting for a presidential candidate--who I want my party to run."
Mark still didn't like it one bit--he doesn't like anyone limiting his choices, even for president. I'm not surprised--this is a kid who immediately touches freshly-painted walls to see if the "Wet paint" sign is lying.
He grumbled a bit when I watched the national news during the following months, but mostly because I always started arguing with the TV, which meant he couldn't hear the program. But he was genuinely interested in watching the Republican convention, so I did my best to shut up. (I did not succeed. Oh, and disclaimer, in case it matters--I'm not a Republican. I just like to stay informed, and hear both sides of the debate. Oh, and disclaimer two--if Mark does grow up to be a Democrat, he'll be the first Dinsdale man to do so.)
Mark watched the Democratic National Convention, all three days of it, for as long as he could stand. ("Too much talking," he said. "Not enough action.") I agreed, although I found the talking inspirational.
He watched the highlights of the debates. He was flabbergasted by the threats to Big Bird, and confused about the binders full of women. But mostly he wanted to know why the candidates were yelling so much, and why no one ever really listened to each other.
"They ask a question," he observed, "but no one listens to the answers."
He listened to it all, for as long as he could, which was longer than I'd expect for a 12-year-old. He didn't seem terribly interested (not like he is with the Dodgers!), but he listened.
And then, finally, it all came down to Tuesday, to the Big Day. I walked into the house, and he immediately turned off the TV, guilt all over his face.
"I was watching the news," he admitted. I just smiled.
I brought him with me to vote again. He didn't want to mark the ballot, he just wanted the sticker.
But as soon as we got home, he asked, "Can we the election results? Pleeeeaaaase???" I smiled again and nodded.
I knew he'd taken it all in during the past few months, but boy, it was like Super Bowl Sunday at our house--Mark was into it! At one point, I went into the kitchen, and he was calling out the states and electoral college votes to me.
"Romney won Indiana and Kentucky!" he called out nervously. "They're red!"
Or, "Fifty-three percent counted in Florida--it's 48% to 49%!" he yelled. He was cracking me up.
Mark also brought up the primaries, and why he couldn't vote for who he wanted. I patiently explained again, but he didn't want an explanation, he wanted change.
"Well, if it bothers you that much, register as an independent," I told him. "Then you can pick whoever you want."
That perked him up. He liked having a choice again.
"I just want to vote for the best candidate," he explained. "What if I vote for a Republican? Will you be mad?"
"Not at all," I told him (even though, truthfully, it would break my heart!). "You're entitled to your opinion, and to believe in whatever you want to. The only thing that would make me mad is if you didn't vote at all."
For a couple hours there, it was too close to call, as the candidates passed the lead back and forth. Mark sat in front of the TV with my laptop, calling out the headlines.
When it got to be too much, we took a short break and watched a different show. We went back to the news, not really expecting much, but the minute we turned it back, the news anchors were chattering excitedly. Suddenly, they projected Obama the winner. It happened so quickly, I didn't quite understand at first. I changed the channel, then glanced at Facebook, and sure enough, we had a new/old president.
The neighbors started cheering, and we joined in. I jumped up to do a happy dance, but Mark just stared at me funny, like he's never seen me silly happy before. (He has. A lot.) It was a fun, joyous moment.
"Can I stay up to watch the President speak?" Mark begged. It was already past his bedtime, but it was a special occasion, so I nodded.
"But he won't speak until after Romney," I explained. "Romney's got to concede first, then the President will speak."
I said that not knowing it would take Romney another hour and a half to get out there. Mark was so tired he could barely keep his head up. I told him to go to bed and I'd tape it, but he wanted to watch live. He stayed up long enough to watch Mitt Romney concede, and then watch the President take the stage. But five minutes into his speech, Mark also conceded and said, "I'm too tired--I'm going to bed."
Moments later, he was asleep. But happy.
I could relate--I was also sleepy, and very happy. About the election results, sure, but even more than that, I was happy at this sweet, concerned little citizen, and how excited he really was for the election. It was awesome to watch.
And it will be awesome to watch going forward. Because in the end, I really don't care how he votes, or if his views really do differ from mine. I just want him to be passionate, concerned, and to care for the greater good of the nation. I want him to use his voice, and to be respectful of all the other voices, too.
I want him to embrace democracy, and to realize how lucky we are to have it. After Tuesday, I can see that he does. He understands; he gets it.
And of course, being Mark, he's already looking forward to changing it...starting with the primaries.
Ah, Halloween. I love seeing all the tiny kids in their adorable costumes. Mark's well past that stage, and now into costumes that are either funny or gory/scary.
Luckily, he fell into the former category this year. I'm not sure how to describe his costume, other than to say he was an...ostrich jockey?
Whatever, it was hilarious.
He tried it on for a party on Saturday, only to find the battery pack for the fan that inflates it had a tiny screw in it, and I did not have a screw driver to open it. (I did my best to strip the screw with my house key, though--almost succeeded, which would've ruined the whole thing.)
Luckily, we got that whole debacle out of the way, so last night we were super prepared. Mark climbed into the ostrich, and tightened it up around his waist. He turned on the fan and immediately complained it wasn't working.
"Give it a minute," I said. And sure enough, his pants started filling up with air, and the ostrich came to life. Mark literally became an inflatable ostrich, and I couldn't stop laughing about it.
I always get lots of questions about Mark trick or treating at Halloween. People mean well, but they worry about a little diabetic kid eating tons of candy. The ironic thing is, all the running around usually makes Mark go low, and he eats the candy because he NEEDS to, not just because he wants to.
This year, Mark set a new record--he STARTED out low. His blood sugar was down to 48--talk about a Halloween scare! (It should be between 70-120.) So he started his sugar intake before he even went trick or treating! (He was trick-or-treating a low. ;-)
We headed over to his friend Jonah's house, but Mark had to deflate himself for the car ride over. I was still giggling.
Jonah's house looked AWESOME--his dad Greg had decorated it like a graveyard, with screeching monsters and flying ghosts. There were random body parts littering the lawn, strobe lights illuminating the whole scene, and occasionally, a fog machine hiding it. It was spooky and exactly what Halloween should be.
My friend Karen was sitting in the front yard, passing out candy. She was dressed as a witch, but a happy one, and she was greeted us cheerfully, in total contrast to the spooky yard.
Jonah was all decked out in a Jason costume, complete with a blood-spattered chainsaw he revved up as soon as he saw us. He kept disappearing into the shadows, alternately trying to scare people and to reload his candy bag.
The boys were itching to get out and get sugar, but I made Mark re-test first. His blood sugar had come up, but only to 96, which wasn't great, considering all the running he was about to do, and the fact that he'd eaten a whole dinner (including soda to bring him up) without giving himself any insulin. I knew I was risking a re-bound high, but I insisted he down a couple Pixie sticks before he left, and for once, he was happy to comply.
Our friend Liz showed up. Sean had gone to another friend's house, but Liz came to hang out with us, and we decided this should be a yearly event, even after the kids grew up. Who says trick or treating is just for kids?
Mark and Jonah returned a few times, almost as if they were unsure what to do with the independence they so badly craved. We kept sending them back out until the third time, when Mark insisted he couldn't run in his big old air-bag ostrich outfit. He borrowed a black cape from Jonah, then started crawling around the dark lawn, freaking me out. They left, and returned a bit later, when Mark borrowed another costume from Jonah:
He sat dead still in a chair, and looked like a decoration. Until someone reached out to touch him, and he scared the bejesus outta them!
Jonah was really into scaring people. He did a great job, carefully picking his victims. He sat dead still in a chair, until a few middle-schoolers asked if he was real. We said no, so they bravely inched closer and closer to him...
...Until he jumped out, chain saw roaring, and sent them screaming. One kid literally jumped a foot in the air, and we all burst into laughter. Well-played, Jonah, well-played!
Some other friends came by, and the boys ran off into the neighborhood again. It was fun and sad to see them go off into the night on their own. My little boy suddenly seemed like such a big boy, and I wasn't quite ready for that yet, but hey, nobody ever asks me.
Greg, Liz, Karen and I sat out front until the trick or treaters stopped coming. Mark and Jonah ran inside to sort and trade their candy, but that ended when Mark just donated all his to Jonah. (A consequence of the Great Marshmallow Creme Fiasco the day before.) I was expecting a lot more resistance from Mark, but was proud to see him accept his punishment like a man.
And so ended another great Halloween. I'm guessing we only have one good one left before Mark decides to hang with his friends instead of his mom (even if it was only in brief spurts). So I relished this year...and I still can't stop laughing about that ridiculous ostrich!
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