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.

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.

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.