Friday, December 20, 2013

The gift

Now that Mark's firmly ensconced in his teen age years, his conversational skills haven't just diminished, they've completely stopped. Oh sure, he's talkative when it comes to something he wants  but for everything else, getting him to answer a question is akin to prying a donut out of his hand. It just ain't gonna happen.

I've spent this year re-phrasing the question "How was your day?" to elicit any answer other than "Fine." I've inquired about school projects, friends, the best thing that happened that day. I've asked about sports, current events, skateboards, Fixie bikes and Christmas lists. I've asked every open-ended question I could think of, and I was met with the same answer for each one: a stony silence, followed by a shrug and, "I dunno."

So I gave up. Mark doesn't talk unless he wants to, so I tried to let the conversations occur organically. Nothing happened, except that I spent my dinner times in my own head, wishing for things like dinner conversation, world peace and a private chef--hey, they all have an equal likelihood of coming true.

And then something weird happened. Mark began talking. All on his own. Without any poking or prodding, without any pointed questions. He just started talking.

It had nothing to do with my bazillion questions. In fact, it had nothing to me at all. I simply told Mark I needed some exercise, and was going for a walk after dinner.

I invited him along. I figured he'd decline, opting to stay inside the warm house. But he surprised me and said yes, and off into the dark night air we went.

I was quiet. I'd exhausted all my questions during dinner.

But as we walked, Mark opened up.

"Watch your step," he said, pointing out a high curb.

"Thanks," I answered. I'd almost tripped over it.

"Car," he said at the next corner, putting his arm up protectively so I didn't step into the street.

"Thanks again," I said.

"We had a substitute teacher yesterday in math," he said on the next block. "He was one of my counselors from summer camp."

"That's cool!" I said.

"Yeah, he's a good guy," Mark told me. "He looked waaaaay different than at camp. He was dressed up all nice, and I had to call him Mr., instead of just by his first name. He seemed kinda nervous."

We walked on for another block in silence.

"Step," Mark said again, pointing the flashlight at a busted-up chunk of sidewalk.

We passed a house completely decorated in Christmas lights. A holiday soundtrack was playing, and the lights flashed on and off in sync with the music.

We stopped to watch, and as we stood there watching, Mark said, "I got to conduct the orchestra today."

"You were the conductor?" I asked, surprised.

"Yep," he said. "We had a substitute teacher, and she didn't know how to conduct, so she let us do it. The other kids were out of time, but not me. I did it perfect!"

He started waving his right arm up and down in the air.

"One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!" he said, with great flourish, as the lights flashed off and on in time with his arm.

I smiled, watching my little man conduct the Christmas lights and music.

"I was really good at it," he admitted.

"I bet you were," I said, tousling his hair. "You're the drummer, you have great rhythm."

As we continued our walk, he told me about trying out for the basketball team, his new video game, and how he was worried about an upcoming math test. He talked about his friend Sean, who lost his iTouch when his house, and how bad he felt for Sean. He talked about an upcoming high school fair and admitted he was a little nervous about starting high school.

It was amazing. This was the conversation I was always trying to start at dinner--but I got it all wrong. Mark is a boy, and boys hate pointed conversations. He felt trapped at the dinner table, I realized. Instead of just letting him eat, I was always firing questions at him nonstop, and he felt trapped. But out here, walking around, he felt safe. I focused on traffic and not falling and that took all the pressure off conversation.

It was so cool. I got to know my boy better that night than I had in a month's worth of dinners. I realized that when I shut my mouth, he opened his. I used my ears instead of my mouth, and it made all the difference.

So now we walk after dinner as often as possible. I carry the flashlight and he carries the conversation. He warns me of uprooted sidewalks and over sized curbs, and I listen. He tells me about his day, and again, I just listen. I ooh and ahh and ask questions, but only in relation to the story he's telling me. I let him lead the walk and the discussion, and I've watched him thrive because of it.

It's been an awesome reminder to stop trying so hard as a parent, to remember that my job isn't to just tell Mark how to grow and thrive, it's simply to guide him. He's got it all inside him, he will grow into a strong, wise, caring man all on his own. Right now, he just needs someone to walk beside him, to listen to his hopes and worries, to applaud his bold decisions, to cheer him on when he needs a little encouragement.

And I am grateful, because I'm the one who was chosen. I'm the one who gets to walk beside him and listen. It's the most amazing Christmas gift I've ever received, and I'm not going to squander one minute of it.

Thank you, Santa.

Monday, December 9, 2013

My son, the age-ist

While preparing for Mark's recent backpacking trip, we realized his sleeping bag was waaaaaay too big to carry. So with hours to spare, we schlepped to the local sporting goods store in search of a smaller, lighter bag.

As I pulled into a parking space, Mark gasped and pointed out two middle-aged women in the car next to us.

"What are they doing here?" he asked in his most accusatory tone.

I knew immediately what he was really asking. He wasn't speaking geographically, as in, "How did they come to be in this parking lot?" He wanted to know what these ancient, aged women could possibly need from a sporting good store which was clearly meant for only the youngest and most athletic people. But I wasn't going to point that out--I'd let Mark string his own self up.

"Why wouldn't they be here?" I asked.

"Because, you know..." he said. "Look at them."

"Women can't go to sporting goods stores?" I said.

"Not women," he huffed. Then, finally, he said it. "Old people."

"Only young people can hike?" I asked, surprised.

"Well," Mark started. "I'm just saying, they seem a little...old...to be hiking."

"Huh," I said. "I didn't know there was an age limit."

Mark just shrugged. He felt sorry for me, because I obviously wasn't smart enough to figure out that older people should stay home in their rocking chairs, petting their cats and complaining about the cold weather.

But young Mark was singing a different tune when he came back from the hike. He was sore all over, and could barely walk.

"Mr. Huss tried to kill us!" he complained bitterly.

And then I smiled. I remembered talking to Mr. Huss at the last camp out, when he mentioned his job, prior to retiring. He was certainly much older than the two ladies at the sporting goods store.

"What do you mean?" I asked Mark.

"Mr. Huss made us hike all the way up the mountain," Mark said. "We didn't even want to climb to the top, but he kept on going. He wouldn't slow down."

"Really?" I asked. "He wasn't tired?"

"No!" Mark answered. "He hikes all the time. He's running a marathon next weekend, so this was no big deal for him."

"What about the other boys?" I asked. "Did they want to keep climbing?"

"No way!" Mark said. "They were tired and sore, too. Sean said even his toes hurt!"

And there was my win.

"So all the young kids were tired," I said. "What about the leaders? Who's the oldest leader in the group?"

"Mr. Huss," Mark said. 

"So you're saying the oldest guy in the group kicked all your young butts?" I asked. "And you don't think old people can hike?"

Mark glared at me, then burst into laughter. He knew he was beat.

"Mr. Huss is a marathon runner," he reminded me.

"And the oldest guy in the group," I reminded him back.

"Whatever," Mark said. He walked away, and I just smiled to myself.

Score one for the old guys, I thought.


Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Track and field star

Mark made it onto the school track team again this year. That was the good news.

The bad news is that he only ran one race, and he didn't qualify for the big district track meet. He's fast, but not as fast as the giant 8th graders who stood a good head above him, sporting humongous muscles, and, in some cases, facial hair. I swear, these "boys" must be raised on Muscle Milk and pure protein.

But what I love most about Mark is his attitude. He was a little bummed he didn't qualify, but he still wanted to go to the meet to support his teammates. I thought this was a grand idea, not only because I love his sportsmanship, but also because it meant I didn't have to spend another three hours sitting in the bleachers to watch Mark run for 15 seconds.

So he suited up and I dropped him off at the stadium. I went on to breakfast with my friends Edra and Chas, and Mark went to cheer on his team.

Halfway into our meal, my phone buzzed with an incoming text. I figured it was Mark, ready to come home, and was surprised to see it was my friend Karen instead.

"Mark just accepted the first place ribbon for shot put for Eric with lots of panache," it said.

I just shook my head. I've seen Mark collect awards and merit badges onstage before--he is not AT ALL shy. "Panache" was code for "Mark accepted an award and hammed it up."

I shared the message with Edra and Chas, and we all cracked up. Mark loves any opportunity to make people laugh, and we could only imagine him up at the podium.

"Heard you had quite a morning," I said when I picked Mark up. "You won a first-place ribbon, huh?"

He smiled. "Yup," he said. "Eric went home, so I went up there and said, 'I'm Eric.' They said, 'Congrats, you won first place!'"

"They didn't even check?" I said. "They just gave you the ribbon?"

He nodded. "It was awesome. All the other guys were HUGE--they were like, six feet tall with huge muscles," he said. "There I was, five feet tall, skinny, no muscles. They just stared at me and said, 'How'd you do it? How'd you throw it that far?'"

And then I laughed out loud. I could just picture Mark shrugging, then throwing his hands in the air victoriously, waving them triumphantly. I could also picture the giants staring agape at Mark, equal parts jealous and disbelief.

"The Cubberley team was laughing so hard," he said. "And the parents, too. But everyone else was kinda confused--they didn't understand what was so funny."

And I laughed again. I laughed about it the rest of the afternoon, too. Because honestly, that is Mark in a nutshell. He didn't even participate--he was just there for moral support. It was 100% Mark--he did none of the work, and got all of the glory.

That's my kid for you. In addition to being a champion shot-putter, he also keeps me very entertained.




Thursday, November 14, 2013

Conquering the mountain

I hate diabetes because it's physically hard on my son--it's hard to watch Mark suffer when his blood sugar's too high or low. But I also hate diabetes for the emotional toll it takes on him.

And this week, selfishly, on me.

I try not to give too much credence to the emotional toll, like if I don't acknowledge it, it's not really there. But that's just wishful thinking...like diabetes, it's always there.

I don't let Mark use diabetes as an excuse. I remind him he can do anything--that diabetes might slow him down a bit, but not knock him out entirely. He can do whatever he wants despite diabetes--sports, travel, swimming, camping, eating. Everything just takes a little extra work. Our diabetes motto is the same as the Boy Scout motto--be prepared.

"Always take your meter and glucose tabs with you," I tell Mark.

And your mom, I add silently, because Mark would roll his eyes in disgust if I actually said that comment out loud. (Heck, even I roll my eyes thinking it!)

But it's true, I feel it, even if I never say it. I chalk it up to that other feeling I don't want to acknowledge that is also always there. Fear. I don't let Mark use diabetes as an excuse, but sometimes, I use it because I'm fearful. I hate diabetes for making me scared, for turning me into a big ball of anxiety over simple childhood passages like slumber parties or overnight camping trips, for making me want to hide Mark and protect him forever.

It scares the crap out of me, sending him out into this big world alone every day. Since the state requires he attend school daily, I've gotten used to the days. But the nights still scare me. Night time is when all the scary stuff happens, the unexpected lows or random wicked highs, and it usually happens quickly, without warning. No one knows how to care for Mark like I do--no one else sees him wilt as his blood sugar drops, or sees the anger rise as his blood sugar does. No one else has that mother's intuition, which jolts me awake at midnight to check his blood sugar (it's always low when this happens). No one knows Mark like I do, or can care for Mark like I do.

And yes, even as I write that paragraph, I realize how selfish and arrogant it sounds. I don't want to be either, arrogant or selfish, I just want to keep my kid safe.

But my job isn't just about safety, it's also about healthy. Raising him to be emotionally strong and confident, sure of himself, able to care for himself, giving him opportunities to succeed so he knows he really can do anything. Because one day, he'll be off to college, and he will have to do all that. The short-term answer is always the easiest--just do it myself, because I'm faster and more accurate, but really all that does is rob Mark of experience he'll need later in life.

All of which comes back to my worst nightmares: the fear, emotional toll, and selfish feelings I experienced when I saw something as simple as an email about an overnight Scout backpacking trip.

"You wanna go?" I asked Mark, halfheartedly. I didn't want him to miss out, but I also didn't want to chaperone.

"Yes!" Mark answered enthusiastically. "If Sean and Jonah are going."

Sean and Jonah were going.

"It's sleeping out in the open," I told him. "No tents."

"So?" Mark said.

"Lots of hiking," I reminded him. "Probably seven or eight miles."

"Psssh," Mark scoffed. "I can do that, no problem."

And with that, I was officially out of excuses.

The trip was nearby, within 25 minutes of home and across the freeway from civilization, including hospitals and emergency services. The leader-to-Scout ratio was high (five leaders for 20 boys) and one knew Mark well (he was Mark's Cub Scout den leader). Sean and Jonah also know Mark well, and take great joy in annoying Mark by reminding him to check his blood sugar and bolus. There really was only one excuse to keep Mark home.

Fear.

My fear. That stomach-churning, sweat-producing, anxiety-fueled sinking feeling that immediately took over my body. Damn you! I cursed the fear, in my head. But outwardly, I smiled at Mark and left the room, so as not betray my true feelings.

I struggled internally for a few days. He'll do fine, I told myself. He knows how to take care of himself, he's been learning all these years. He's with people who know him, he's with grown-ups I can trust to care for him. Those were the positive thoughts.

He's gonna die, I also told myself. This was the unproductive, super not-helpful thought. There were multiple variations of this thought, but essentially, they all boiled down to one simple fear: that he was gonna die. (I know I'm not the only parent with this fear--all parents have it, in one form or another.) He was gonna die because I wasn't there to watch over him, protect him, care for him. And then diabetes would laugh at me afterwards, triumphantly waving its victory flag above me, finally winning the battle Mark's been fighting since he was two years old.

And that's what finally turned me. I didn't miraculously overcome the fear. There was nothing brave I did, or any noble Yoda moments of wisdom that turned me around. It was just these two simple thoughts: Mark is ready, and I'm not gonna let the fear win.

I let him go. I trained the leaders about diabetes and high/low symptoms to watch for. I still worried, but not exclusively about diabetes. I worried his pack was too big, he didn't have enough warm clothes or water--the things all parents worry  about. I took my sister-in-law's wonderful advice, reminding Mark the day before about everything diabetes-related. And then, on the morning of the hike, I sent my grumpy, sleepy son off to the mountains, telling him simply to have fun.

I wanted to curl up on the couch then, but thanks to my amazing village, I did not. My friend Liz invited me to the movies to get my mind off the trip. My friend Karen texted me when the boys arrived safely from the hike. My cousins took me to dinner, and reassured me I was doing the right thing. One cousin even works for the company that makes Mark's insulin pump, so she's an expert on diabetes. I told her how I'd prepared him, and how nervous I was. She told me I'd done everything right, and I almost burst into tears.

And then, before I knew it, it was Monday. Liz sent me a congratulatory text ("You made it through the night!"). Mark called to say they were on their way home, and just hearing his voice brought me to tears again. He's safe, I told myself. Take that, fear.

I asked Mark a million questions on the way home. I wanted desperately to ask about diabetes--did he check his blood sugar? How often? How was it? Did you bolus? When?

Instead, I asked every other question. Was it cold? How was the food? How was sleeping outside? How was the hike? Did you make it to the top of the mountain?

I asked questions for 20 minutes, about every detail, until finally, I could ever-so-casually ask about diabetes. Like it was an after thought, like it hadn't consumed my every thought until just right now.

"My blood sugar was fine," Mark said. "A little high this morning, but fine. I took care of it."

"I'm so proud of you," I said. "You did a great job managing it. I bet you feel really proud of yourself, too, huh?"

He just stared at me. I thought this would be a big, dramatic moment where it hit Mark that he could do this. I pictured a light-bulb moment, angels singing, harps playing, the epiphany where Mark realized, I got this. I'd beam at him, so proud of his new-found maturity.

Instead, Mark stared at me. Then, finally, he shrugged, and said, "I do this every day. I did the same thing I do every day. What's the big deal?"

And for the third time in 24 hours, I nearly burst into tears. Because it turns out, the epiphany was not Mark's, it was mine. It wasn't Mark who needed the lesson, it was me.

"You're right," I said, giving him a hug. "You do a great job with this every day."

"Are you crying?" he sighed.

"No," I said.

He stared at me, deciding whether to call me on my lie. Finally, he made a safer move and changed the subject.

"We made it to the top," he said. "I am sooooooo sore, but we climbed all the way to the top of the mountain."

"That's awesome!" I said.

Because he did it. He climbed that mountain, literally and figuratively, and came back safely. He took diabetes to the top of the mountain, kicked its butt, and dragged it back down. While I was busy worrying, he was busy scaling mountains.

So, yeah...take that, diabetes.

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Halloween horrors

I asked Mark a few weeks before Halloween what he wanted to be this year. He thought about it, then answered, "The Kool-Aid Man." 

So I scoured the internet, but all I came up with were patterns for making your own costume. I told Mark, who looked horrified, and shut me down with a simple, "Ummm...no!" I agreed, and we both exhaled, relieved, because on the list of super crafty people, I'm pretty much near the bottom.

But Mark never came up with a second choice--in fact, he seemed completely indifferent to the entire concept of Halloween.

"What do you want to do this year?" I asked. "Go trick or treating with your friends? Your cousins?" 

He just shrugged, saying "I dunno."

"It's a whole night of free candy!" I reminded him. "You don't care about that?" 

He just shook his head. He's done a lot of things to confuse me, but this was one of the craziest.

"OK," I said. "We'll figure it out when it gets closer."

And so there we were, the day before Halloween, with no plans and no costumes. I fixed the first issue by texting my friends Karen and Liz, who we'd spent the last four or five Halloweens with.

Karen said her son Jonah was going to scare kids at the house, and invited us to stop by. That solved our first problem.

"What about a costume?" I asked Mark again. 

"I'll be a football player," he said, donning a jersey. I suggested wearing his flag football belt as well, and he looked at me like I was insane. 

"What kind of a player wears flags?" he spat out.

"I don't know...a flag football player?"  I spat back. Geez, it's not like I suggested tennis shorts or a basketball shirt. (Awww, moody teens...hours of fun, they are!)

When we arrived at the Koch's, Jonah's graveyeard looked awesome. Strobe lights were flashing, and the fog machine intermittenly went off, giving the yard a creepy, scary look. I would have totally skipped the house if I was a little kid!




Mark joined Jonah and the other five or six kids on the lawn. This picture doesn't do it justice, but when the strobe light was on and the fog was going, you could barely see the kids lying on the lawn. 


 

The trick or treaters couldn't see them at all. And so whenever teens braved the path in search of candy, the kids rose silently rose from the fog, then shouted and scared the crud out of the trick or treaters. It was awesome!

I was especially proud of how our kids picked their marks. They refused to scare the little kids, and sat completely still on the lawn until the little kids left. They looked like statues, or part of the scenery.

Sean and Jonah devised a plan for really scaring the big kids. Sean (dressed below as a werewolf) sat stock still in front of the candy bucket. Whenever a teen reached in to pick some candy, Sean grabbed the bucket and pulled it toward him. It scared the teens half to death!

One nervous little candy seeker walked slooooooowly up the path, eyeing the scary stuff all around her. She picked her candy. Sean, not wanting to scare her, sat quietly until she turned to leave. He then walked over to his friends. But the sight of a walking werewolf scared the little girl nearly to death. She literally raised her arms in the air, let out a blood-curdling scream, and ran away, still screaming. She looked exactly like a cartoon character running off like that, and though I felt bad for her, I couldn't help laughing at the image of a cartoon character coming to life.


My other favorite was a little kid dressed as a ninja. He was about four or five years old, all decked out in black, with two swords on his back forming an X. He surveyed the scene, turning his head slowly from left to right, taking it all in. Then, just as slowly, he reached his hand over his head, slowly gripped one of his swords, and drew it out carefully. He held the cheap, curvy toy blade in front of him, then took five steps toward us before issuing a guarded, "Trick or treat." I loved that kid, and all the faith he held in that plastic sword. 

Our kids took turns running off through the neighborhood, and scaring kids. They'd run off, two or three at a time, to collect candy, or to search for people to scare. At one point, the whole group ran off, and I sat back, enjoying the evening, and chatting with Greg, Karen and Liz.

A few moments later, my joy turned to concern. I heard screaming from a block or two away.

"Is that our kids?" Greg asked, and I answered, "I think so." We couldn't tell if they were scaring people or being scared.

Mark explained later that it was neither.

"Sean was throwing packs of peanut M&Ms at our arms," he grumbled. "It really hurt."

Liz gasped--Sean may be small, but he's a star pitcher on his baseball team. Mark's told me before how Sean can pitch 63 miles an hour.

"He's got good aim," Liz said, and Mark nodded, repeating, "Yeah, and it hurt!"

I decided it was as good a time as any to wrap up the night.

"But it's only 9:30!" Mark whined.

"And you have school tomorrow," I reminded him. I also pointed out that nobody was gonna open their doors to trick or treaters this late. Mark started to argue, and I asked if he would open our door to someone knocking at 9:30. He allowed that he wouldn't, and that killed any further arguments.

I ordered Mark straight to bed, but he asked if he could sort his candy first.

"Nope," I said, then he looked at me, pleading.

"But it's my favorite part of Halloween," he said, and then I melted. It's every kid's favorite part of Halloween, and really, was 10 more minutes gonna make that big a difference? I decided it wouldn't.


Mark set about dividing up his candy. It was then he realized sorting is not as much fun by yourself--the fun part is actually trading the candy.

I pointed out that he wasn't exactly sorting by himself--he had a big fuzzy friend who was totally absorbed in what Mark was doing.


"Here, Fernando," Mark said, giving Fernando a little treat.


But Fernando was not interested--he wanted to play, or to at least distract Mark from ignoring him. So he stepped over the lollipops, and sat right on top of Mark's candy pile.

Mark just sighed, and moved him. Fernando might be a pain in the neck, but I smiled as Mark popped one last bite-size candy bar into his mouth. He might insist he's too old for Halloween, but watching him eat and sort the candy reminded me that he really is not.

And being reminded that my boy still enjoyed the spoils of one more Halloween...well, that made me very, very happy.



Monday, November 11, 2013

Running amok in the pumpkin patch

No Halloween is complete without a requisite pumpkin patch photo of Mark. At least, that's what I tell myself every year. I'm not sure why I do this--in theory, I do it so I can look back one day at a littler Mark, a sweet, tender young Mark smiling broadly among the pumpkins. In reality, I'm gonna be looking at a collage of smirking, eye-rolling, camera-avoiding photos of Mark doing everything he can to ruin my photos and simultaneously drop or break any of the surrounding pumpkins. 

And still, every year, I try.

This year was a little different. The first difference was that I took Mark to an actual pumpkin patch--a real field of pumpkins for as far as you can see. The second difference was that I brought along his friend Sean and his mom, Liz. The third difference was that I didn't give Mark his ADD pill that day. So yes, I brought a hyperactive wild child and his best friend to a farm, turned them loose, and was disappointed when they refused to sit still for portraits. Really,  I have no one to blame but myself.

I did manage to get a few photos before completely losing them...my photo session went a little like this...

A photo showcasing Mark's gum, instead of the pumpkin:


Mark photo bombing Sean's picture:
 

An almost-good photo, except that we're still focusing on Mark's gum:
 

I finally gave up, and sent the boys running off. They found a corn maze, and proceeded to race through it in just over two minutes. They ran through again, improving their time by 30 seconds, then ran a third time in just under 20 seconds.

"We cheated," Mark gasped.

"We just ran around the perimeter," Sean explained. 

They ran one last time, and as they took off, another boy who'd been standing on the edge of the maze watching took off with them. He just couldn't stand it any more, and returned out of breath with Sean and Mark.

All that running made the boys hungry, so we stopped for a snack. The boys begged for Hawaiian shaved ices, but Liz and I realized the last thing these amped-up boys needed was sugar and artificial dyes to wind them up even more. They settled for corn--first one ear, then two.



Sean went in for a third, and I asked Mark how many he could eat.

"He's gonna keep eating corn until his mom buys him a Hawaiian ice," Mark informed me.

Apparently, three was the magic number. Liz relented then, but to Sean's dismay, the snack bar ran out of Hawaiian ice just before he walked up.

So the boys turned to some physical activity instead--jumping hay bales. They leaped back and forth like wild men, completely oblivious to the fact that moments earlier, the bales were occupied by another group.

This group consisted of four smaller kids. One was decked out as a princess, and two smaller guys wore Monsters, Inc. costumes. The little princess was not at all pleased with Mark for taking over her impromptu playground, and she quietly let him know it.



Her friends were not happy, either. I don't know exactly how it started, but suddenly, the little monsters were attacking Mark! Sean tried to help, but those little kids were quick.



Their dad saw them go on the offensive, and reigned them in.

"Mike Wazowski, stop!" he yelled at the little one-eyed green Monster. "Sully, come here, now." 

It cracked me up that he yelled at them their character's names instead of their real names. (And they responded to their Monsters, Inc. names!)

The boys still had lots of energy, but they'd worn Liz and I out. We shuffled them toward the exit, but when we noticed the setting sun, we stopped for one last photo.

Which the boys immediately ruined by tossing handfuls of hay into the air.



And that was it. I declared the pumpkin patch photo session for 2013 officially over, and finally put us all out of our misery. I may not have gotten any amazing portraits, but I definitely did record some real-life moments. 

 

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Unlikely inspiration

The parenting advice I hear most often is "Pick your battles." That's good advice, but it's kinda like saying, "Feed your unicorn every day." You can certainly pick the battles you want, but that's no guarantee you'll walk away any more successful than if you picked every single battle you wanted.

I know this, because twice a day, I engage in battle with my son. I'm not sure if that makes me a good, consistent mom, or a glutton for punishment. I suspect it's a little of both.

The battle I've picked is brushing teeth. Or, more specifically, Mark brushing his teeth. I feel like this is a righteous battle, and one the universe should side with me on. And yet, every day I realize I'd really be more successful feeding a unicorn than getting Mark to brush his teeth.

I've tried everything--rewards, encouragement, praise, threats...well, that's it, actually. I don't know what else to try.

I taught him good habits when he was little, how to brush and for how long. He'd shrug his shoulders, then tell me it didn't matter, because these were baby teeth and he was going to lose them all anyway. (It's hard to argue with that.)

I tried buying fun, spinny toothbrushes, which he treated as toys, not dental tools.

I scared him with stories of "sugar bugs" and cavities. He just looked at me and rubbed his fingers and thumb together in the universal sign for "more money."

"Tooth Fairy," he'd say, then spend the next hour deciding what to buy with his riches.

"No girl will ever want to kiss you," I tell him now that he's older.

"GOOD!" he says, though I'm sure he'll change his mind about that in the next couple years.

I've about given up. I'm pretty sure he's gonna grow up into a toothless hillbilly. And yet,
I can't help myself. I still engage in the twice-daily battle.

"Brush your teeth," I tell Mark every morning. He replies, "OK," then shuts the bathroom door for approximately three seconds before shouting, "Done!"

"Brush your teeth," I tell Mark every night.

"I did," he insists, before going straight to bed.

I touch his toothbrush, which is always pristine and dry. (Don't worry, I'm not passing any germs onto him--he's never actually put that toothbrush into his mouth.)




Toothbrushes are the same age. One needs replacing, one is barely used. Guess which one's Mark's?


"I know you're lying!" I shout in what I'm sure is the exact opposite of June Cleaver's voice and demeanor. But hey, Beaver Cleaver always felt guilty when he did something wrong. My little angel does not share that trait.

And then, a couple days ago, out of the blue, a miracle happened.

We were talking about work, and what went on at my office that day. I mentioned that my poor friend Frankie went to the dentist for gum surgery.

"Gum surgery?" Mark asked, nervously running a finger across his mouth.

"Yep," I said. "She said they shoot a big needle into her gums to numb them first!"

Mark seemed to pale at that. He gulped, took a few steps backwards, then said, "I don't know why, but I suddenly feel like brushing my teeth." And he ran off to do exactly that.

I just sat there, dumbfounded. I didn't tell him the story to scare him, but hey, who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth? (Seriously--the most apropos cliche ever!)

And now I'm glad to report that in the past few days, Mark has brushed his teeth without fail. He gave me attitude about it once, and I just casually remarked, "Frankie said that needle was BIG," which sent Mark scurrying to the bathroom.

And sent me to work, to thank Frankie for what those parenting experts call a "teachable moment." Because finally, finally, I picked my battle and won.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

A dusty, dirty, awesome weekend in a ghost town

I spent the past weekend camping with the Scouts in Calico Ghost Town. Can't say that's something I would've ever done pre-kid, but turns out, I had a really great time.

Calico's out in the high desert, just past Barstow. The campground is not much to look at, mostly hard-packed dirt, rocks and a couple trees (not in our sites). But the mountains surrounding it are gorgeous, and the wildlife is pretty cool. (And once again, the foxes stole a loaf of bread!) 



 I thought these were really big quail--they were actually partridges. And there weren't even any pear trees around!
 
I was very excited to try out my new tent and double-high air mattress on this trip. 

Home sweet home.

Mark still worried that my tent has no rain fly, but I explained that I don't need a rain fly because if it's rains, I'M GOING HOME. To my warm, enclosed house. I have nothing to prove to Mother Nature--the first time she rains on me, I'm going home. End of story.

The tent was AWESOME! The description and accompanying video swear you can set the whole thing up in under a minute. Because I'm not the most advanced camper and because I'm bad at almost everything, I convinced myself I could probably pitch the tent in maybe 10 or 15 minutes. But the tent lived up to its hype--I honestly had the tent assembled and ready to go in less than a minute. BEST. TENT. EVER.

Not as impressive? The wimpy little tent stakes.



Yeah, those stakes and that little rock will keep this tent grounded.


I'm sure they work just fine in grass, but there's not one blade of grass in Calico. I wasn't even going to bother with the stakes, until I remembered the crazy wind that sent all the tents flying last year. So I improvised--Calico doesn't have grass but it has plenty of big boulders. I chucked the stakes, and carried in a bunch of giant rocks, distributing them around the tent floor.




Stop judging. My tent did NOT fly away, so this was brilliant.

The troop spent the afternoon hiking to some nearby caves, which meant all the boys and most of the adults were gone. I briefly thought about joining them, then laughed at that silly notion and set out my chair instead. I spent a quiet afternoon with a good friend I rarely see anymore because of my hectic schedule--my People magazine. I tore through four issues before the boys came back--it was an unexpected luxury.

I ventured up to the boys' camp around dinner time to take some photos. 


Scout camp.


The Scouts were preparing their meals when I interrupted a discussion on hygiene.

"Use soap and water to wash your hands," one boy told another. "Don't use hand sanitizer!"

"It's all the same," the second boy retorted.

"No, it's not!" the first boy said. "Use soap and water. You're making burgers with your hands--we don't want them to taste like hand sanitizer!"

I was suddenly grateful we had our own cooks down at the adult camp. 


Young boys and a full-size propane tank. Nothing to worry about, here, right? 


Turns out the boys weren't making just any old burgers--they were making "manburgers." They distributed about a pound of beef to each boy, who then shaped it into a giant manburger. I wondered how long it takes to grill a manburger (hopefully not as long as a hobo packet--Mark once created a monstrous meatball that took over an hour to cook!).

After they ate, the boys cleaned up. They were trying to hurry, so they could go into town, but I watched as a steady stream of boys trickled past our camp. One unlucky guy, Dan, had a nosebleed, which traumatized him a bit. Another boy walked by carrying something long and heavy. An adult leader also saw him and immediately boomed, "What is that and why are you carrying it?"

"I dunno," the boy shrugged. "I just found it."

Turns out it was a thick metal pipe, as tall as the boy was, painted and filled with cement. It fit snugly into the ground by the bathrooms, a barricade to keep cars from backing into the building. I can't believe that kid carried that heavy thing as far as he did--and I have no idea what he was going to do with it if he'd gotten it up to camp!



The leader then decided to check on the boys, to make sure "no one was lighting anything on fire"--a very real concern. Always an adventure, Scout camping.

After dinner, we followed the boys into town. There weren't any of the crazy characters that usually roamed the town--no big tall guy, or sneaky chainsaw guy. I was a little bummed at that--my favorite Calico memory is of the chainsaw guy stalking and scaring my friend Karen. :-)

The boys skipped the dance this year, instead heading over to the saloon. It's a little unsettling to see them all in the saloon, moseying up to the bar and downing dark bottles of root beer, rubber band guns at their sides. It's what I imagine the Wild West would be like if had it been tamed by Boy Scouts.

I returned to camp exhausted, but got a great night's sleep on my new double-high air mattress. I felt like a bit of a diva, but since I woke up happy and well-rested, who cares. The only problem was that I put the tent and mattress up so quickly, it was on a bit of a slope, and I almost rolled off the bed at first. (I caught myself quickly since a double-high mattress + falling three feet onto rocky, hard dirt = PAIN.)

The next morning, the Scouts packed up their tents and cleaned the camp in record time. Seriously, I don't know what got in to them (maturity? experience? the lure of In N Out burgers for lunch?) but the whole place was packed and ready to go by 10 a.m., a new record. We ended the camping part with a group circle, where the boys and parents all named one thing they were grateful for. Food was a popular choice, as was the time spent with family and friends. One Scout looked pointedly (OK, accusingly) at the older Scouts, and said he was thankful the big boys didn't wander off trail this year, and that they actually finished their hike to the caves. But my favorite was Dan, who said he was thankful he didn't bleed out from his bloody nose.

After finishing the thankful circle with a laugh, it was on to rocket time!

We drove down to a nearby dry lake bed to shoot off the rockets. Mark broke off two of his rocket's wings when he packed for the trip. He then sat on the rocket, bending the nose and breaking off all the other wings. He also managed to glue the parachute into the nose, so by the time we got there, his rocket was both a mess and a danger. The troop leader refused to let him fly it.



Menace to society--the rocket, I mean.

"It's too dangerous," he told Mark. "It'll come down at us like a missile." That is, if the engine didn't burn through the parachute and rocket first...and come down at us as a flaming missile!

Since Mark had engines, the leader lent him another rocket, so the trip wasn't a total loss. Besides, it was fun to watch the other boys. They'd get the whole group to count down from 10, then they'd launch the rocket, while the younger boys raced down the lake bed to catch it. 


 Scouts warming up--they were ready to chase down those rockets.

 
 Lift off!

The race to catch it before it lands with a thud.


Dan and his brother realized a little late that the rockets don't come assembled. Poor kid sat on the cracked, dry dirt with a million little rocket pieces before him, looking kinda sad and lost.

But Scouts look out for each other. The older Scouts quickly assembled his rocket, forgetting only one minor piece--the parachute. We watched Dan's rocket soar straight up, and everyone cheered. Then they gasped, realizing the parachute didn't open, held their breath, and watched as the rocket turned down and shot back to the Earth even faster. I realized then what the troop leader meant about Mark's rocket turning in to a missile.

The rocket crashed into the ground at breakneck speed, and the boys cheered even louder. They ran to retrieve it, and brought back a dented, zig-zagged rocket. The nose had a new Z-shape, and looked a little like a lightning bolt. They boys excitedly asked if they could launch it again. One leader said no, the other said "Tape it up straight," and two minutes later, it soared into the air again, and then into oblivion somewhere out by the highway. No one could top that, so we decided to leave on a high note.

Mark and I returned home filthy and tired, but happy. Although we spent most of the trip in passing, we both had a blast. Mark got to be a grubby boy, playing in the dirt with his friends, and I got to hang out with the cool Scout parents. It was an altogether awesome trip.

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

The very bane of my existence

Or maybe just my nose's existence.

This picture looks like a pair of perfectly innocent shoes, but let me tell you, it is not. Right now you should thank your God and all other deities that this photo is not four-dimensional, or else you might be gagging at the smell a wee bit.

If there's something smellier than a 13-year-old boy after football practice, I've yet to meet it. A skunk almost destroyed my neighborhood a few nights ago with its noxious fumes, but I sniffed the air slightly and thought, "Nope. Still not as ripe..."

And just to make things worse, Mark leaves these shoes by the couch. My couch. My refuge at the end of the day. My safe, happy place. So when I'm exhausted and just want to veg in front of the TV, I am assaulted by the smells wafting from them.

Something had to be done. I called in the big guns.


That's right, a giant bottle of What Odor? spray, guaranteed to eliminate the most foul fumes around. It was actually invented to kill odor in sneakers, and it works really well. 

I gently grabbed the heel of Mark's shoes, sprayed them down, then repeated. If that didn't kill the smell, I was tossing those puppies out.

I washed the funk off my hands and returned to my couch, pleased with myself. But my joy quickly died when Mark entered the room, sniffing the air dramatically.

"DID YOU JUST SPRAY MY SHOES?" he thundered.

I looked at him in disbelief. I was the victim here--what the heck was he going on about???

"You DID spray my shoes," he accused, hugging his precious, dripping wet sneakers to his chest.

"Yes, I did," I shot back. "You're welcome."

"I didn't want you to spray them!" he whined. "I HATE that smell!"

"You--what?" I asked.

"I hate that smell! What Odor? smells terrible--I can't believe you sprayed my shoes with it!" He stood there, glaring at me.

And this is the part where, as in most Mark stories, I just looked at him and shook my head. Because only in Mark's world is the disinfectant spray more offensive than the deadly taint of smelly, sweaty, disgusting tennis shoes. It's almost like he said, "See that meadow of spring flowers over there? The one just beyond the bakery setting out fresh loaves of bread and cookies? Well, that meadow smells WORSE than the trash dump full of dirty diapers down the street."

"Sorry," I finally told him. "Maybe you don't like the What Odor? smell, but honestly, those shoes made my eyes and nose burn. This odor beats that odor. There's no contest. Now go put those shoes outside!"

He stomped out of the room, then off to bed. And I resumed my place on the couch, which no longer smelled like an entirely family of sickly skunks died there.

And yes, the What Odor? did its job beautifully. I wasn't brave enough to do an up-close smell test, but the room didn't reek when Mark left it, so that is a job well done.

For one of us, at least.

Monday, October 14, 2013

(Slow) Race to space

As a mom and a woman, I know my limitations. I'm not handy around the house (personal flaw, not female stereotype) and I'm not good at putting together things that have intensive, multi-page instructions (ironic, since I'm a tech writer). Rockets definitely fall into that latter category. 

About two years ago, I bought Mark a model rocket ship to shoot off at a Boy Scout activity. But we ran out of time to build it, and it sat in Mark's closet a whole year.

Last year, we took it out of the box again. I saw all the tiny part and glanced at the detailed instructions, and I put that rocket back in its box. We decided I am not the person to help Mark achieve the goal of building a model rocket ship, but I promised him Grandpa or Uncle Scott would.

This year, I was determined to build that damn rocket. Mark collected his box and engines, and we drove up to Uncle Scott's house. I figured that a) he'd get a better built rocket if Uncle Scott helped him, and b) it would be a good male bonding activity for them both.

I was wrong on both accounts.

My first clue was when they dumped out the box and realized they were missing a part. 


"Can't you just forget it?" I asked. "Is there any way to work around it?"

"Nope," Scott said, studying the box. "It's the piece that holds the engine."

So we did what any well-respected rocket builder would do--we went to the hobby shop and purchase another brand new rocket.

Forty-five minutes later, Mark and Scott started assembly. They spread the pieces out all over the table, then took the body downstairs to paint. They returned with a lime green rocket.



While the body dried, they started assembling the rest of the rocket. I sat in the kitchen talking to my sister-in-law, occasionally glancing at the boys. Uncle Scott was digging deep into his tool box, while Mark was staring deeply at the TV.

"Mark," I hissed, nodding at Scott.

"What should I do, Uncle Scott?" he asked dutifully.

Scott handed him the body and told him to glue on a wing. Mark did.

But when I checked in an hour later, they were still trying to glue on the wings. They'd used white glue and Gorilla Glue. Neither was working. 



"Do you have any Krazy Glue?" I asked. "That stuff works on everything."

I know from experience--I've used Krazy Glue to fix broke plates, bike parts, furniture, garden gnomes, you name it. If it's cracked or broken, I'm Krazy gluing it--and if that doesn't work, I throw the broken stuff out because it's not worth my trouble. That's how much I love Krazy Glue.

"We're using Gorilla Glue," Scott replied, a little irritated.

"Gorilla Glue is the best," Mark said, as though I were a complete idiot.

"But it's not working," I pointed out.

"Because the paint is still tacky," they said.

"OK," I shrugged. "But Krazy Glue sticks to everything."

I could see I was bugging them, but hey, we were two hours into this project with no end in sight. Scott sighed, dug in his toolbox and retrieved a tube of Krazy Glue.

He applied a thin layer, and sure enough, the wing stuck! Not great, but good enough.

"Huh," Scott said. He handed over the tube and wings to Mark, who was still absorbed in the TV, and told him to get to work.

I helped Mark attach the wings, then Scott added an extra layer of white glue. Scott finished off the rest of work, which required finer motor skills or patience than I have. He gingerly attached the two tubes used to mount the rocket onto the launch pad, then slid the skewer out.

Three hours after they started, they had a rocket. The paint was smudged a bit, the wings were a bit off center, and the boys' hands were covered in various types of glues.

"There you go," Scott said, handing the rocket to Mark. "I don't know how they managed to make it so difficult--it's just a tube, but they really made it complicated."

"Thanks," Mark said. He grabbed the rocket as though it were a hot coal. "Bye, everyone," he called. "Thanks for lunch. Thanks for helping me with my rocket."



I said goodbye to Scott and Mari, then went downstairs to say goodbye to the kids. When I was done, I looked around for Mark, who was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Mark?" I asked the kids.

"Outside," Grant said. Sure enough, he was sitting on the curb next to the car, rocket in hand. He couldn't wait to leave.

"Did you have fun?" I asked him on the ride home.

"That was the WORST afternoon ever!" Mark whined. "It was so boring. I don't ever wanna build another rocket again."

"It'll be fine," I soothed. "Juts think how much fun it'll be to launch it."

"I don't care," Mark said. "I'm done with this rocket. You never would've been able to help with it--you would've been sooooooo mad."

"I know," I said. "That's why I brought you to Uncle Scott's." 


I wouldn't let him shoot off a rocket I helped with, anyway--I'd be afraid something would explode in Mark's face during the launch. I was grateful for Scott's help, even if Mark wasn't.

Mark was so grumpy, I just shut up. I turned up the car radio, and two minutes later, I started laughing when Elton John's song "Rocket Man" started playing.

"Hey, Mark, it's your song!" I said. "You're a rocket man!"

"No, I'm not," Mark said. "
I hate rockets. I don't ever want to talk about rockets again." And with that, he snapped off the radio.

Wow, I thought. So much for the male bonding. And for rockets...

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

...and *nobody* wants to see that

Mark and I went for a nightly stroll last night. We live smack dab in suburbia where the houses all look the same, and I'm embarrassed to admit that sometimes, I get a little lost. It's an older community, "mid-century modern" as my friend Michelle calls it, so the houses aren't identical, just similar enough to confuse me a bit.

It confuses Mark, too.

"I have no idea," he said, when we came to a corner and I asked if we should go left or right. "I don't recognize any of this."

I shined my flashlight around, and the corner house suddenly looked familiar.

"Right," I told Mark. I nodded toward the corner house and said, "Remember that place? You went trick or treating there a couple years ago."

Mark looked at the place, shook his head and told me he didn't remember it.

"It had a haunted tunnel," I reminded him. "You had to go through the tunnel to earn your candy."

And suddenly, the light went on.

"I HATED that place!" he yelled.

"What did you hate so much?" I asked.

"Umm, EVERYTHING," he said. "People were scaring us inside! I hated them. I hated those two words. Haunted. Tunnel. What makes you think I'd like THAT? I hated it all!"

His outrage made me giggle. He'd seemed a little nervous about going in at the time, but not like this.

"And they wouldn't let me take a flashlight in," he grumbled.

"They didn't want you to ruin the illusion," I said. "They didn't want you to see them up close."

"Did they want to see me wetting my pants?" Mark asked. "Because that's what they WOULD have seen, if I had a flashlight."

I couldn't even giggle, I straight up laughed out loud.

"You didn't really wet your pants, did you?" I asked, when I could finally catch my breath.

"No," Mark admitted. "But I was scared."

"OK," I said. "No more haunted tunnels this, year. I promise."

"I don't care," he said. "I'm going to Tristan's party anyway."

I nodded. I didn't remember the story the same way Mark did, but last year's Halloween now made more sense. I couldn't figure out why, given parental permission and almost unlimited freedom, Mark hadn't run off further to collect free candy with his friend Jonah. Instead, he and Jonah kept slinking back to the house, under the guise of scaring littler kids.

But now I understood. It wasn't independence Mark longed for, it was actually protection. From haunted tunnels, scary adults and publicly wetting his pants.

Huh...can't say I blame the kid!

 

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Worst babysitters ever (or the BEST, if you ask Mark)

I will preface this post by saying that I have the most awesome family in the world. I appreciate them tremendously, and I'd never survive as a single mom without their support--it is both humbling and amazing how quickly they say yes to watching Mark when I need a babysitter.

However...that being said, the quality of child care has dropped quite a bit.

When I received a last-minute ticket to see Maroon 5 this weekend, my mom graciously agreed to watch Mark. It got even better when we arrived--because we were taking a party bus to/from the concert, my mom insisted I stay at my friend Nicky's. 

"I can handle Mark overnight," she said, and I couldn't love her any more than I did in that moment.

My brother Brad and his wife Shanda were also in town.

"Come on, Mark," they said. "We're going to Oktoberfest."

"Is that okay?" my mom asked, as they walked out the door.

"Of course," I replied. I knew he'd be safe and have fun with the family (and what else could I say? I took him to Oktoberfest myself last weekend!).

My worries started when I arrived home the next morning.

"Hi, Mom," Mark called, as he zipped past me in the hallway.

"Is he wearing the same clothes he was yesterday?" I asked my mom, who was right behind him.

She looked at Mark running away and said simply, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" I asked.

Mark ran by again, and smiled at me. All I could see was a mouthful of fuzzy teeth. 


"Did he brush his teeth at all?" I asked.

"What do you want from me?" she said, holding up her hands. "He's alive, isn't he?"

I burst into laughter.

"Yes, he is," I answered. "But I didn't know that was the level of care we were striving for here."

"He's fine," my mom said. "He ate really well at Oktoberfest. He drank two sodas--"

"Three!" Mark interrupted. "I had three sodas!"

My mom saw my concerned face and shrugged. "OK," she said. "So I didn't see that last soda...but he's fine."

"Let me get this straight," I said. "He's wearing the same clothes I dropped him off in, he drank THREE sodas, and he hasn't brushed his teeth since he's been here?"

"Like I said...what do you want from me?" my mom repeated, and this time, we all burst into laughter. (I wasn't really mad, just thought it was funny.)

Mom and I went off to buy a gift for a birthday party that afternoon. When we got home, the house was strangely quiet.

"Where's Mark?" I asked my dad.

"He went with Brad and Shanda," Dad answered.

"To the brewery?!?" I asked.

"To the birthday party," Dad clarified.

"They were going beer-tasting at a brewery first," I told him. This was news to my dad.

I knew Mark's motives--it wasn't quality time with his aunt and uncle. No, he was lured by a more basic instinct. He knew where there was beer, there was also soda (maybe even root beer!), and he was all over that.

By the time I arrived at the party, Mark was pretty sugared up. Two cans of carbonated juice were lined up before him, and he was about to pop open a third.

"He's already had two cans," Shanda warned me. I shot him a look.

"This is my SECOND can," he announced. I silently pointed at the empty cans beside him.

"Fine, it's my third," he admitted. "But I bolused."

"Get some water instead," I told him. He groaned but did it. He drank the water, then 15 minutes later when no one was looking, he downed the third juice as well.

In the end, I just went with it. Like my mom said, Mark was still alive, there was no permanent damage and that seemed good enough for me. I got to hang out with my friends, and a grubby, hyperactive kid all hopped up on sugar seemed a small price to pay for it.

And hey, I wasn't going to look into the whole situation too deeply. Because if I did, I'd realize that the bad parents in this scenario weren't the ones who fed him soda or took him to the brewery...it was the parent who entrusted him to those parents!

Whatever. Like my mom said, Mark was alive, and he had a great weekend. And now I know where we've set the bar, and the standard of care I can expect. I guess you really do get what you pay for!

Monday, October 7, 2013

Sympathy

Fine, I'll admit it--sometimes when my son is hurt, I run out of sympathy too quickly.

I'm not proud of this, I just never know exactly how sympathetic I'm supposed to be. My first reaction is always to immediately rush in and help my boy, but I've watched Mark smack his head on a giant planter when he was little, and immediately push me away. Conversely, I've seen a (removed) splinter require days of attention, bandages and antibiotic cream.

At least once a week, Mark appears with some appendage wrapped in gauze from the school nurse's office. He regales me with tales of how he fell in P.E., basketball or, sometimes, just walking. (He really is my kid.)

But I knew things were bad yesterday when I walked in the door. Crutches were propped against the wall, and as soon as I made eye contact, Mark burst into tears.

"I hurt my foot," he sobbed, rubbing his shoe. "I was running in football, and I tripped."

I sat beside him, and touched it gingerly. "Does it hurt here?" I asked. "Or here?"

He nodded both times.

I wasn't sure what to do. He had a drum lesson in 15 minutes, which was already a re-schedule. I couldn't cancel it now, at the last minute, but I didn't want Mark drumming with an injured foot.

"Get your bag," I said. "We have to go to drums, but if it hurts too much, don't use your foot. Just work on your snare."

Mark nodded, wiping the tears away. Then he stood, and with the most affected limp I've even seen, he dragged his seemingly dead foot to the door.

When we got to the lesson, he forgot he was injured and stepped out of the car. He quickly remembered, and resumed his limp, which actually took more effort than real walking did.

My gut said Mark was fine, but he was putting so much work into garnering sympathy that I gave it to him. I sat him on the couch when we got home, elevating his foot on a pillow. I gave him ice and Advil, and promised to take him to the doctor if it still hurt in the morning.

I put away the crutches while he slept, but he didn't seem to notice when he woke up. He limped awkwardly to breakfast, and I knew he was about to lay it on thick. I couldn't tell what he was angling for exactly--was he really working for a whole day off from school because of this?

"Your foot still hurts?" I asked.

He nodded, rubbing his sock.

"Let's put ice on it," I said, but he shook his head. "More ibuprofen, too, to keep the swelling down."

"It's not swollen," he snapped. "And no ice. It didn't help last night."

"You have to ice it more than once," I said. "And take more than one ibuprofen. It doesn't get better after one pill and one ice pack!"

But he refused. "No," he said bluntly. "It didn't work. I won't do it again."

I wasn't sure what brought about the snottiness, other than that it was morning, and he's not a morning person. I bit my tongue, refusing to be baited into an argument.

"So..." he said, after a few silent moments. "Are you gonna take me to the doctor?"

"The doctor's gonna tell you to ice it and take Advil," I told him.

He didn't like that one bit.

"So you're not gonna take me the doctor?" he spewed. "Only you get to go to the doctor when you're sick?"

I didn't like that tone at all, so I called his bluff.

"You're right," I said. "You should see the doctor. You need a flu shot anyway. Call me at lunch, and if it still hurts, we'll go to the doctor this afternoon."

That shut him up. The only thing worse than no sympathy is a shot. Mark wasn't going for that.

When I dropped him off at school, I reminded him to call at lunch. Curiously, my phone did not ring during his entire lunch break.

It did ring 15 minutes afterward, though. It was the school nurse, and for a brief minute, I felt like the world's worst mom. I instantly knew she was calling to say his foot was broken!

"Don't worry," she started out. "Mark's fine, but his head is a little banged up."

"I know--" I started, then stopped. "Did you say his head?"

"His head," she repeated. "He was playing football at lunch, and collided with a buddy. They crashed into each other, but he's already gone, so I think he's fine."

She stopped talking when she realized I was laughing.

"I'm sorry," I explained. "He hurt his foot yesterday, and I felt guilty for not taking him to the doctor. But he must be fine after all, if he was running all over the football field."

"Yeah, his foot is fine," she said. "I just wanted to give you a heads up about his head."

Then we both giggled at her pun. I thanked her for calling, and hung up, preparing myself. I needed to practice some sympathy, because I'll need a bucketload when I get home tonight and Mark shows off his latest injury.

I just hope today's injury is similar to yesterday's--and that all Mark really hurt was his pride. Because I'm gonna treat it the same as I treated his foot--with ice, Advil and as much sympathy as he'll allow or I can muster.