"I don't wanna," was his immediate answer.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "You always wanna shoot stuff in video games."
"Yeah, but they don't shoot back," he said. "Video games don't hurt."
"They hurt me," I said. "Your video game obsession pains me. You're going outside to play, and that's final."
He sighed and picked up the event description.
"The fee includes all day entry, gun rental, mask rental, and 200 pounds" he read, then yelped, "What?? I can't carry 200 pounds of equipment. I don't even weigh 100 pounds!"
I grabbed the card while he he loudly protested that he couldn't carry twice his body weight.
"ROUNDS," I corrected. "You get 200 rounds of paintballs, not 200 POUNDS!"
"Whatever," he said. As he always reminds me, thorough reading's not his thing.
On the morning of the event, he was almost in tears, refusing to get out of bed.
"I'm not going!" he shouted, pulling the covers over his head.
"It's not a punishment!" I answered, completely confused. "I signed you up because it's FUN!"
"It's FUN to get shot with paintballs?!?" he demanded. "It hurts! You don't even know how much it hurts!"
"Neither do you," I reminded him. "You've never been."
No matter what I said, he kept arguing, saying I'm mean for waking him early on a Saturday morning.
"It's 8:30," I told him. "You get up at 7 a.m. every other Saturday of your life to play video games."
He got up and dressed, wearing his favorite old hat, which is covered in splatters that look like exploded paintballs.
I hoped he'd cheer up when we got there, but no go. He stomped off to sulk in a corner. I talked to another mom, and when she asked if Mark had ever played paintball before, he yelled "NO!" from 10 feet away. I smiled uncomfortably.
A few grown men in battle fatigues passed by. They wore boots, protective vests, knee pads and huge masks that covered their whole heads. They looked like a SWAT team or professional soldiers going into combat. I glanced over at small, skinny Mark, wearing cotton shorts and a t-shirt, and realized he was in trouble.
The park, often used as a movie set, looks like a space center, with a giant space ship in the middle. The battleground covered a huge swath of land with burned out concrete buildings. It was a giant maze of obstacles to run through and over. It was also serious boy heaven--a place to get all filthy and physical. Any other boy I know would've loved it, but Mark was having none of it.
Some girls called out, "Hi, Mark!" but Mark rushed past them, planting himself in another far away corner.
I sighed--Mark was really pushing all my buttons, which another mom noticed.
"They should let us parents go in there with them," she said, pretending she had a paintball gun in her arms. She aimed it, and said, "That's for not checking your blood sugar! That's for not bolusing! That's for talking back to me!"
I laughed as she shot off the imaginary rounds.
"Yeah, they'd probably love taking a crack at us, too," I said. "Could be very rewarding for everybody!"
I walked over to the group leader and nodded toward Mark. I wanted someone to know he was there in case he tried to slink off.
"Great!" the leader said, enthusiastically. The he saw Mark's shorts and asked if he'd brought any pants.
"No," I said, biting my lip. It was supposed to be 90 degrees--I thought he'd be too hot. But everyone else wore jeans and long shirts.
"That's okay," the leader said quickly. "He'll be fine."
"SEE!" Mark spat out. "I TOLD you it's gonna hurt! I'm gonna get all bruised!" He puffed out his righteous little chest at me, the rotten mother sending him off to die.
"You can rent coveralls," the leader told us. "And a vest. Those help."
I handed Mark extra money for protective gear. I thought about walking him over to get the gear, but stopped. It was Mark's time to make a grown-up decision, to decide if he was gonna overcome his bad mood and have fun, or if he was gonna be a martyr. I hoped for grown-up, but knew martyr had a higher chance.
"Rent the stuff if you want it," I said, waving goodbye.
And off I went. I had a great day, enjoying a movie and lunch with some friends. I worried a little that Mark was unhappy, but he's always like this when he tries new stuff. I figured he'd have fun and probably even get shot intentionally to get bruises he could make me feel guilty about. I knew it was gonna be all about the bruises.
And it was. He was wandering around the park with a giant bottle of root beer and a smile when I picked him up--he'd had a blast despite himself.
"Hi, Mom!" he called, running over. "Check out this giant welt on my leg!"
He did indeed have a purplish lump.
"Wow, that's pretty gross!" I said.
"Told you it hurt!" he admonished me.
"Well, did you have fun anyway?" I asked.
He wouldn't admit that he did, saying only that it would've been more fun if he'd gone with his friends.
"I didn't know anyone here," he said. Just then, a couple boys walked past, saying "See ya, Mark!"
"You know those kids," I pointed out. "They were in your cabin last year at Catalina camp. And those kids over there--they went to summer camp with you!"
"Well, I didn't know anybody else," he grumbled. He called to another group of kids, by name, and waved good bye.
I'm glad he had a good time, I just wish he wouldn't fight me so hard about it. Because honestly, I spend enough time arguing about things that aren't fun--like homework, chores and drum practice. I don't need to argue about fun things too.
But I guess that's Mark in a nutshell. He wants to be in control of everything, and he'll take the whole ship down with him if he can't.
After this little fiasco, maybe leaving him at home with his video games isn't such a bad idea after all. It'd certainly be easier, cheaper and less stressful for me.
Or maybe, like the other mom suggested, Mark just needs to go a few rounds with dear old mom in the paintball course. He might not feel better about that, but I would.
Personally, I like that idea a whole lot.
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