Number 1 on the list: Why boys stick their heads in weird places--like the kitty condo.
Number 2: Why those same boys are surprised that their decidedly large heads get stuck in said kitty condo.
Number 3: Why those aforementioned boys are surprised that I posted a photo of that ridiculous situation on the web.
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I was alerted to the situation by a cry for help.
"Mom!" Mark cried, immediately after jamming his head into the kitty condo. "I'm stuck!"
Some moms (more loving moms than I) might have panicked at the sight. Some moms (bad, mean moms) might have laughed at it.
The very meanest moms (who cannot pass up amazing opportunities like this, even though they bit their tongues and tried to really, REALLY hard for about three seconds) might reach for the camera and photograph the kid before helping him out. (The worst mom might also have filmed a brief video that you'll never see because the sync feature isn't working on her smartphone, and the video's too large to email. That mom also can't figure out how to transfer the video onto her computer, which means you won't ever see it, and therefore, she never filmed it, which means she's not really the worst mom ever, so stop judging.)
"Ummm...why are you in there?" I asked. I wasn't expecting a good explanation, but I really didn't know what else to say.
"Because I'm STUCK," replied my perfectly logical son, who missed the implied question of "WHY did you jam your head into the cat's play house?"
I giggled, and tried to discreetly snap a photo. Mark heard the smartphone click when I took it.
"ARE YOU TAKING MY PICTURE??" he roared, completely insulted.
"Come on," I laughed. "You cannot do something that...dumb...and expect me NOT to take pictures."
Seriously, it's the unspoken rule--if you do something that dumb, you WILL be mocked on social media. You can't just hand me these golden nuggets and expect me to keep them to myself!
The best part was our cat Frankie, who was napping in the perch above. He never even blinked an eye--just looked down briefly at Mark, as though it were completely normal to have a kid stuck in there, then yawned and resumed his nap.
Mark rolled around a bit, trying to pull his head out (how many times have I wanted to tell him exactly those words!). He finally gave up and made his second mistake.
"Fernando!" Mark called. I guess his decided that if he was stuck, he might as well be stuck with a friend.
But I knew immediately he'd picked the wrong playmate. Fernando's no Lassie--he wasn't interested in saving Mark. Nope, he ran over to the kitty tree, saw Mark's head through the opening, and swatted at him.
"Ouch!" Mark yelped. He swatted back at Fernando, who loved this game, and further attacked Mark's trapped head.
I'd like to say that I was horrified by the sight of my son trapped in the condo being attacked by the world's largest kitten, and that I ran to save him. But that's only partially true--once I wiped away the tears and stopped laughing, I DID help him, but only because we had an appointment and I didn't want to be late. (A good, quick yank on his ankles freed him, though he screamed while I did it.)
Seriously...sometimes life just hands you these moments on a silver platter. And boy, am I grateful for every one!
Saw this product in a store yesterday:
At first I thought, "Why does a wooden dog need a toy chest?" but then I realized the chest is wooden, not the dog. (Ah, grammar is tricky!)
My next thought was, "That totally depresses me," because I've been asking my kid to put away his toys FOR YEARS, and he still can't figure out how to do that. And yet, there's Fido, all happy, showing off how he put all of his giant dog toys away in an equally giant toy box. He's staring at the camera, taunting me, smiling because he's more obedient than my son.
It was quite a discouraging moment, until I realized, no, wait, it's the very opposite! It's actually a very ENCOURAGING moment, because hey, if that little pup can learn to put his toys away, then maybe someday Mark will do the same! So now, instead of being bummed, I'm totally excited. Because if you can teach an old dog new tricks, maybe you can teach an old kid, too.
I can't wait to show Mark this picture, although he may not share my enthusiasm...maybe I need to think outside the (wooden) box and focus my training efforts elsewhere. (I'm talking to you, Fernando!)
Mark and I were driving in the car the other day, listening to NPR (see, I'm a good mom, exposing my son to intellectual radio programming). A story came on about the mayoral race candidates in New York City, but before I could change the channel, the damage was done.
"Did she just say what I think she said?" giggled my middle-school-aged son.
I sighed and put on my best mature mom voice. "Yes, she did. That's his last name--Weiner."
Mark laughed out loud. This was the best thing he'd ever heard on NPR--a man named Weiner.
I was about to flip the station when I realized this was, in fact, a teachable moment. Mark goes to high school next year, and his friends all text and send photos to each other. This was a good time to discuss the rules of texting, and to reiterate what is and isn't appropriate to send in a text.
I ended my impromptu lecture with words I never dreamed I'd have to say out loud: "No matter what you think, no matter what your friends say, no girl wants to receive pictures of your private parts. EVER. Understood?"
I glanced over at Mark and realized I'd totally wasted my breath. He was still giggling.
"Did you hear anything I just said?" I asked.
"I would hate it sooooo much if my last name was Weiner," said my child, acting every bit his age.
I dropped the subject. I also decided we'd heard enough NPR, and changed the channel.
A few minutes later, a commercial came on the air for a new waterproof smartphone. You can use it in the pool, in the bathroom, even in the shower, the announcer said.
Now it was my turn to giggle.
"Seriously?" I asked. "That's just creepy. 'Hey Mark, I'm texting you from the shower!' Really, who needs to text FROM THE SHOWER!!"
Mark laughed too, then smiled slyly and said, "Anthony Weiner would love that phone."
Now it was my turn to lose it. I laughed out loud at my completely inappropriate son. Apparently, he was listening to the story after all.
And that right there is the epitome of my life as a mom. An embarrassing story pops up, I turn lemons into lemonade by teaching about consequences, and Mark turns it into a joke. Which I find funny, thereby rendering all my serious words and lessons completely useless.
Like my friend Jill always says..."Motherhood is not for sissies."
I've always loved music, from my very first record album (John Denver's Greatest Hits!) to my very first stereo (OK, it was actually a clock radio, but it was mine, and only I could change the stations).
As a teenager, I became obsessed with music. If there was a New Wave band playing, my friends and I were there, and we even managed to get onstage (General Public!) or backstage (Thompson Twins!) a few times. We waited for the bands after concerts, collecting signatures on whatever was available--a drumstick, a program, even our own clothes. We pretty much met every 80s band that played in San Diego--a-ha, Howard Jones, The Cult, Simple Minds, INXS, Madness, Spandau Ballet, Fishbone, the Untouchables, even my boyfriend Harry Connick Jr.
I spent the better part of my teen years loitering by tour buses or theatre exit halls after concerts. But I'd kind of forgotten about all that until last week...
I took Mark to see last year's American Idol winner Phillip Phillips at the Grammy Museum.
Phillip did a Q&A, then played six or seven songs with another guitarist and a cellist. It was AWESOME. Those three guys rocked, and the only thing I hated was not being able to dance without causing a scene or extreme embarrassment to Mark.
Mark was really excited to see Phillip, and even more excited to get his autograph. He told me he had the perfect idea.
"I'm gonna have him sign my drum head," Mark confided, holding up the snare head he'd just replaced. "Then, next month, I'll have Macklemore and Ryan Lewis sign it." He beamed, and I told him that was an excellent idea.
The only glitch in the plan was Phillip Phillips. The venue was small (only about 200 people), but as soon as he finished singing, Phillip darted upstairs, leaving young Mark at the bottom of the escalator, clutching his drum head and a Sharpie. It was a sad, pathetic sight.
Mark was visibly bummed. I tried consoling him, but he just shrugged it off, and tossed it aside as only a teen can do.
"Whatever," he said, heading for the exit.
But as we walked out the door, hope once again appeared. A black van sat before us, doors open, the driver nervously scanning for his passengers.
I pulled Mark quietly off to the side.
"That's his van," I whispered, nodding toward the driver.
"How do you know?" Mark asked, and I scoffed. Amateur! Ye of little faith!
"I know," I said.
Just then, some lady asked the driver the same question. The driver, who had no idea who Phillip Phillips is, said no, he was waiting for .
Mark sighed. "He's waiting for some woman," he repeated.
I stood still. I knew what was coming. "Trust me, Mark," I said. "Give him 20 minutes."
We weren't the only ones waiting. A small group formed, including a young girl who jumped every time someone left the building.
"What if he won't sign it?" Mark asked, biting his nails.
"Of course he's gonna sign it," I said. "If he won't sign autographs for little kids, he's a jerk."
After a few minutes, the trickle of museum employees stopped. The backup guitarist and cellist came out and loaded their instruments into the van. Mark shot me a look of excitement.
And then, the door opened again. The little girl ran forward, and Mark followed right behind her. There was Phillip Phillips, and the kids could barely contain themselves.
I watched proudly as Mark let the little girl go first ("She was soooo excited," he said later. "I couldn't jump in front of that!"). She got her program signed, and then Mark held out the drum head, which some lady used as a table for her own program. Phillip signed both, looking up at Mark as if to say, "A drum head? That's cool, kid!" He smiled at the kids, then hopped in the van.
Mark was thrilled. He played it really cool, but he couldn't stop staring at the signature.
"How'd you know he'd come out there, Mom?" he asked. He had that surprised tone he uses when he can't believe I actually know something valuable.
"They have to come out somewhere," I said. "They always wait until the crowd is gone. You just have to figure out where the exit is, where their ride is, and wait."
He nodded. Seemed reasonable.
And I nodded, too. I never thought my groupie knowledge would come in handy, but it sure did that night. Seeing Mark so happy felt awesome.
I'll never be able to share stock tips or explain quantum physics to Mark...but who cares? He isn't interested in those things, either. He loves what I love--music--and I can certainly explain that.
Which is the most awesome thing of all.
I am good at a lot of things...OK, maybe not "a lot," but certainly a couple things. (Don't ask for examples--I can't think of anything specific right now, but there's gotta be something.)
What I'm not good at is Ikea furniture--you know, putting it together. I used to be able to put it together when the pieces came with like, four screws and a turny S-shaped metal tool to screw them in. But now the furniture is so complicated it comes with a set of 97 pegs, screws, nails and a 10-page set of instructions (all pictures) with 17 steps.
It makes my head hurt, all that attention to detail and all those little parts. Which is why I am thankful to have Mark around, now that he's old enough (and far more patient) to put this stuff together.
He wanted a nightstand for his room, and suggested Ikea. He picked out the stand he wanted, complete with a drawer for all his stuff and a shelf for all his books. He showed me a picture of it, but all I saw was a ruined afternoon and a lot of frustration.
"I'm gonna put it together," he told me later that night, making him my very favorite kid in the world. And put it together he did!
He did have some problems along the way, but none of them were with the furniture. The biggest problem was the world's largest kitten, who harassed Mark the whole time.
Mark dutifully took out all the wooden pieces and placed them on the floor--Fernando immediately laid on them.
When Mark took out all the screws, nails and pegs, separating them into neat piles, Fernando's eyes grew huge. He creeped in to send them all flying, but Mark caught him, saving us from chasing a million loose pieces.
Mark brought over the cat's new kitty condo. Each time Fernando interfered, Mark put him on the condo, distracting him with a toy. Then Mark returned to the floor, attaching the pieces, while Fernando swatted him in the head.
Mark did an awesome job. I helped him occasionally, but he did 95% of the work himself. He worked on that nightstand for an hour and a half, with a rotten cat trying to ruin it every step of the way.
Finally, he turned to the last page, installing the drawer. We studied that page over and over, but couldn't figure out exactly what the picture wanted us to do. I finally figured it out, and put together the rollers and wheels.
"Are you ready for the big reveal?" I asked Mark, and he nodded.
He flipped over the nightstand, and I slipped in the drawer. The wheels clicked in, I shut the drawer. But instead of a smooth glide, it rolled in clumsily, stopping with a thunk an inch out of place.
"Uh oh," I said. I tried prying it back out, but the wheels had clicked in, and there was no way to get it back out. Mark had just worked on this stand for 90 minutes, and I ruined the whole thing in five seconds. Apparently, Fernando wasn't the only one impeding his progress.
But unlike Fernando, I know my limitations. I tugged and pulled on that drawer for a good three minutes, until I realized that it wasn't coming back out. I was dangerously close to just ripping it out, which would have ruined all of Mark's hard work.
So I did what I do best with Ikea furniture--I walked away.
"Uncle Brad will fix it for you," I promised Mark."He's super good at detailed stuff like this." And sure enough, he did.
I was so proud of Mark, and the awesome job he did. The nightstand turned out great, despite me and Fernando's best efforts to ruin it.
And now I no longer fear Ikea furniture--because I have Mark! He'd better get his little metal S-shaped Ikea screwdriver ready, because I'm gonna put that kid to work.
In my house, one conversation occurs on an almost nightly basis:
Me: "Mark, get in the shower."
Mark (incredulous): "WHAT? I just took one THREE DAYS AGO!!"
Me: "Exactly."
After five minutes of complaining, three minutes of stomping around his room, and one minute of slamming, then re-slamming the bathroom door (to make sure I heard it), Mark gets into the shower.
Where he stays for at least 30 minutes, until I pound on the door.
And then he screams, "WHAT??? Come on, I just got in!!!"
And I sigh, and pound my head on the wall.
The back-and-forth doesn't irritate me as much any more, mostly because I go on autopilot immediately after telling Mark to shower. Most of the time, I don't even remember the ensuing negotiation.
But last night...last night was the night that reminded me Mark's real purpose in life is to drive me insane.
Mark went into the bathroom, and eventually started the shower. It was running for a good five minutes when I walked down the hall, and suddenly heard the sink faucet go on. (Who's turning on the faucet if Mark's in the shower??)
I frowned, opened the door, and there was Mark, wrapped in a towel, head down in the sink, hair sopping wet, with the shower running full blast directly behind him.
I immediately knew what he was up to--faking a shower. (He was dumb enough to tell me he does this at camp to fool his counselors--and I was dumb enough not to check him every time after he told me that.)
Mark then did what he always does when I catch him misbehaving--he freaked.
"SHUT THE DOOR!" he screamed, tugging tightly on his towel, as if I'd intruded on his modesty, instead of his ethics. "What are you doing???" He slammed the door, then clicked the lock.
I just stood there, stunned. I wondered how many years this has been going on for, and how many times I've been duped into thinking Mark's showered, when really, he's just hanging out, reading his books and relaxing. And running up my water bill.
I walked to the guest room, where my sister-in-law Mari was sitting. With barely contained laughter, I relayed what I'd just witnessed, including the panicked look on Mark's face when I opened the door.
"That is Mark in a nutshell," I said. "He'll spend 30 minutes faking a shower, and 15 minutes pretending to dry off, instead of just getting in the stinking shower for five minutes!"
We laughed our heads off, stopping only when Mark turned the shower off and could hear us. Even then, we reverted to silent giggles.
Seriously...anyone want a half-clean (but full attitude) 13-year-old?
