Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Easter snuck up on me again this year...

I'm not sure how, but it did.

We traveled down to my parents' house for the holiday weekend. We arrived Friday night, which was awesome, because I got to hang out with Keri and Gen, some of my favorite friends from high school. It's been years since we've all been together, but you wouldn't know it based on our raucous laughter. I love friendships that pick up right where you left off...


Mark was stoked to arrive a full day earlier than his cousins--he claimed the middle bedroom for us, whooping and hollering that he finally got to sleep in a bed at Grandma's! (He's been relegated to couches--and sometimes floors--the past few years.)  My mom was not thrilled with this plan, sighing, "But then I have to change the sheets again for the girls tomorrow."

"No, you don't," I said (I have also been relegated to the couches). "We'll sleep there all weekend. The girls don't live here anymore."

"First come, first served!" Mark cried. "They can sleep on the couches. Boo-ya!"

My mom raised here eyebrows, realized we were right, and said, "I guess you're right." And Mark was a happy, happy boy. (I reminded him not to gloat over this too much, or Gabi might sock him.)
 
By Saturday, Scott and his family arrived, making it a full house. We don't like small celebrations (only 9 people!), so we also invited over the neighbors and their kids for dinner on Saturday night. We had a blast! Lots of kids, wine, and laughter, which makes a pretty great Saturday night in my book. 

My nephew Grant was so excited to Elijah at dinner. But even that wasn't enough time, so he packed his bag up and next door for a sleepover at Elijah's. I use the term "sleep over" loosely, because Grant bragged to us that he woke up at 3:30 that morning.

"To see the Easter Bunny?" I asked (hey, the kids woke up at 2 a.m. before, searching for Santa).

"To play video games," Mark corrected. "Right?"

Grant smiled, and said, "Yup!" Then he frowned and said, "I hope I don't fall asleep in church."

"I hope you don't either," I said. "Especially if you're sitting by Grandma!" 

All the kids shuddered. They love their Grandma dearly, but they also have a healthy fear of her--especially in church!

Grant is the youngest kid, which means all the other kids (and parents) slept in much later than him. Luckily, the grandparents did not. Also luckily, the Easter Bunny left all the kids' Easter baskets in the grandparents room, so they put them out before Grant came home early that morning. Thank God for good grandparents who wake up with the sun!

Because we are good two-time-a-year Catholics, we made our half-yearly pilgrimage to church. We aimed for the 10 o'clock mass, but no one in our family moves all that quick, so we actually made it to the more realistic 11:30 mass instead. 

Turns out the family cleans up pretty nicely.

 

And we have a good-lookin' bunch of kids!




We arrived home from mass hungry. But have no fear, my mother the amazing chef had a fabulous Easter lunch planned for us. She carved up the ham, poured the sparkling cider and champagne, and passed more dishes than I could actually count. 

Unfortunately, certain younger guests were more impressed with the chocolate bunnies table decorations. 


Did I mention the food??? Mom puts on a great spread...holiday decorations included!



I was very excited to find out that our friend Sasha was in town visiting our other "family," the Fera-Schanes'. (They are so integrated into our lives now, the description "family friends" does not do them justice.)

I was already excited to see Ann, Steve, and Sasha--and was just as thrilled to see Seth was home from New York, too! Made my holiday even more perfect!

Gabi, Nathalie and Mark tagged along with me. They love the Fera-Schanes' too (Sasha's always got some fun project for them), but they were most excited to see their new baby, Atticus. Atticus, a golden retriever pup, had grown huge since we last saw him at Christmas. I think Atticus was even more excited to see the kids, because he leaped all over them, ran from them, chased them, and even gave Mark a bath.


Seriously, he licked Mark for like a half hour. He licked Mark so much, Mark's hair was sopping wet. I think Atticus liked his spiky hair, or maybe just the way Mark tasted, because he did take a few tentative bites. Lucky for Mark, Atticus couldn't get his jaws around Mark's big head.

We stayed a couple hours, laughed a lot, and finally, when the kids had worn Atticus out, said our goodbyes. It was so great to see the Fera-Schanes' and I left in a great mood.

So that was how we spent our Easter--laughing, eating, visiting with friends. We packed a whole lot into two days, but it was amazing. When we finally packed up the car and headed home, it was with full hearts and full stomachs, and with big smiles on our faces. 

It was the perfect way to spend the holiday--or any day, for that matter!


Friday, April 25, 2014

Sock it to me

Yesterday was swim day at Mark's spring break camp. I dropped him off in a t-shirt and bathing suit. When I picked him up, he was wearing sweat pants and...well, a new accessory.


"Are those your socks?" I frowned, pointing to his ankles. I was sure I'd dropped him off in matching socks.

"Yessssss, Mom," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Both of them?" I asked.

"Yes, Mom," he sighed. "Geez, what do you think, I stole someone's socks?"

Well, yes, actually. That was exactly my thought. But he scurried away before I could say anything else.

He kicked off his shoes as soon as we got home. That's when I noticed the insignia on his black sock, an insignia I had never seen before (as the resident laundress, I am familiar with all of the clothing insignia in the house!). I realized that was not, in fact, Mark's sock.

"A-ha!" I said, perhaps a little more gleefully than necessary. "I knew this wasn't yours! What'd you do, just grab the first sock you found?"

"Yeah," Mark admitted. "They were yelling at us to get dressed, so I just took that sock."

"You wore some other kid's dirty sock?" I asked, gagging a little.

"It's not that dirty," he said. "Besides, it's black, so you can't see any dirt anyway."

Ewww, I thought. Mark and I definitely have different standards when it comes to clothing (and hygiene).

"And it matches my outfit!" Mark told me, proudly pointing to his black and white t-shirt, and his black sweats with white stripes.

It wasn't really that big a deal until we went shopping after dinner. Mark pushed the cart through Target, stopping suddenly in the men's section.


"Oh, Mom," he said. "I need more socks."

"You...what?" I asked. Sometimes I can't believe the chutzpah this kid has.

"New. Socks." he said slowly.

"I. Heard." I answered back. "No, you have plenty of socks, they're just all in your hamper. Do some laundry--it'll be like getting 50 new pair of socks."

He snorted--that was not what he wanted to hear. I'm pretty sure he thinks socks are disposable, not washable.

"Besides," I said, nudging him in the chest. "Looks like you already got some new socks today. At least one new sock, anyway."

I giggled at my own joke, which Mark didn't think was nearly as funny as I did. (He never does.) He shook his head and ran off with the shopping cart.

And then I let it go. It wasn't the first (or last) time Mark swiped somebody else's clothes, and I'm glad it was just one random sock this time. Well, glad for Mark, anyway, who likes to wear his socks over and over again, until they're so filthy they actually walk themselves to the washing machine. At least today I knew he was wearing one semi-clean sock. And somewhere out there, some poor kid was suffering a much worse fate--wearing Mark's disgusting other sock.

Yuck.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

I'm not talking anymore...

Because when I do, Mark talks back. And our conversations go like this.

Me: I'll be back, I'm running to Ralph's for some salmon.

Mark: What's for dinner?

Me: Um...salmon.

Mark, snapping his fingers: Ooooh, get some lobster!

Me, confused: Why?

Mark: For dinner!

Me: Silence.

Mark: So you're going to Costco?

Me: No, I'm going to Ralph's, at the end of the block.

Mark, confused: But Costco has way better lobster.

Me, slowly: I'm not buying lobster. I'm buying salmon. For dinner.

Mark: Stares into space, licking his lips and thinking of lobster rolls.

Me: So, yeah...I'll be back in 15 minutes.

Mark: Don't forget the rolls! 

Boy, is that kid gonna be disappointed when I put dinner on the table tonight...



Monday, April 14, 2014

New Scout Outing

Mark went on a Scout camping trip this weekend, which he was not happy about.

"It's the new Scout outing," he whined. "I'm not a new Scout!"

"You're going as a leader," I said. "You'll teach the new Scouts."

"I don't wanna be a leader," he said, which is exactly why I sent him.

Mark needs the experience to rank up another level, but it's also good for him. He's great with little kids--babies and toddler boys LOVE Mark. He's also been a teacher aide for a kindergarten class the past couple years, so wherever we go in the neighborhood, five-year-olds yell out, "Hi, Mark!" He may not like it, but he's very popular with the little kid crowd.

I dropped him at the church before the camp out. Doesn't feel like he's been in the troop that long, but I guess it's been a while, because all the new Scouts were half his size. Seriously, they were tiny. And hyper. And moving non-stop.

What they weren't doing much was helping. They were supposed to load the trucks with camping gear, but two young boys passed by me, saying, "Come on, let's look busy so they don't yell at us." They shouted out "Who needs help?" then walked in the exact opposite direction of the trucks.

I noted proudly that Mark was actually helping. He carried some heavy boxes to the truck, then barked some orders at some smaller boys. Maybe he already does possess some leadership skills, I thought.

But that thought disappeared quickly as Mark and Sean drifted off toward the fence, searching for snacks.

"They ripped out all the raspberry bushes!" Mark yelled. "Why would they do that?"

"Maybe because the Scouts spent all their time eating raspberries instead of loading the trucks?" I yelled back.

"That's dumb," Mark scoffed. But he didn't give up--he and Sean walked the entire length of the fence searching for rogue raspberries.

Finally, the trucks were packed and the boys were ready. We loaded up the cars and headed off to camp--a regional park three minutes away. Hey, ya gotta break these new Scouts in easily!

The park is also about a mile from our house--Mark and I ride our bikes there all the time. I actually didn't worry once while he was gone--I knew in case of any diabetes emergencies, I could be there in a couple minutes (and there's even a fire station with paramedics across the street).

So off I went to spend the day with my friends and bottomless mimosas. I figured the Scouts weren't the only ones who deserved a fun day!

Mark did great. He managed his diabetes and the younger Scouts perfectly, but he was ready to come home first thing Sunday morning.

My phone rang just as I was leaving to pick him up.

"Come get me!" he yelled into the phone. "It's time to go."

He made it sound like the troop was leaving right then, but I knew better. When I got there, they were doing the "leave no trace" walk, where they clear the area in a line, picking up any trash. Of course, the Scout leaders keep on this all weekend, so there's never any trash left behind. Instead, the boys pick up way more interesting things, like giant sticks and rocks, which they toss or smack each other with. (I jokingly call it the "Leave No Sticks" philosophy.)

Mark was off on his own, not even pretending to pick up trash. He waved and ran over.

"Let's go!" he said.

"Not until you guys are done here," I said. "How was the camp out?"

"OK," he shrugged. "I'm hungry."

"Nice to see you too. How'd the new Scouts do?" I asked, nodding at the little guys.

"Terrible," Mark sighed. "They tried to get out of working the whole time. They didn't want to help out ever!"

"A Scout who doesn't want to work? A kid who shirks all responsibility? Doesn't sound like anyone I know!" I said, rubbing his head. I love his righteous indignation, especially when it's over stuff he does all the time!

As we drove off, I grilled him a little more.

"What'd you do during the camp out?" I asked.

"I taught the new Scouts about first aid," he answered.

"Cool!" I said. Then I noticed a weird little circle on his wrist and asked what happened.

"Oh, I burned myself," he said.

"In the camp fire?" I asked, inspecting his wrist.

"No, with a magnifying glass," he said. "I was showing the new Scouts how to start a fire."

I stared at him, confused.

"I started a fire with the magnifying glass," he explained slowly, like I'm an idiot. "I started it on my arm."

I wondered who the real idiot 
was.

"Did it hurt?" I asked, because I had no other responses.

"Yeah, it hurt!" he said. "It was FIRE!" He shook his head at me.

"Then, uh..." I started. "Maybe you shouldn't start fires on your body."

"Sebastian said you can't burn yourself with a magnifying glass," he said. "But I told him you could." He smiled, happy to prove Sebastian wrong, even at his own expense.

"And how'd you sleep? Were you warm enough?"

"No!" he said, shivering. "My sleeping bag was freezing!"

I pointed out his tiny backpacking bag was rated to 40 degrees, and it was only 60 degrees that night. He scoffed at me. What did I know, I slept in a warm, comfy bed all night--not roughing it like the tough Scouts.

As we drove out of the park, we saw two great blue herons--they were gorgeous. Giant, gray, unmoving, standing about four feet tall in the fields. I stopped the car to watch them.

"Did you see any other wildlife?" I asked, hoping the local coyotes hadn't ventured in too close.

"Some squirrels," Mark said, shrugging. "Oh, and a chicken."

"A chicken?" I asked. I've seen tons of birds in the park, but never a chicken. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said. "It was outside my tent all night, clucking."

I looked at him doubtfully. "You sure it was a chicken?"

He rolled his eyes and said, "You don't think I know what a chicken sounds like?" And then he started clucking, to show me he did.

I still stared at him, silent.

"Fine, maybe it wasn't a chicken--maybe it was a rooster," he said, and then, I swear to God, he started clucking in a deeper voice!

I lost it, and started laughing. I hadn't realized how masculine roosters sound until just then.

"Whatever kind of chicken it was, it bugged me," Mark said. "It clucked outside the tent and kept me awake the whole night."

"Did Isaac hear it?" I asked. I figured it it bothered Mark, it bothered his tent mate, too.

"No, Isaac slept right through it. He said he was a light sleeper, but he slept through everything!"

"Huh," I said, pulling into the church parking lot. I really didn't know what else to say.

Soon enough, the boys had unpacked the trucks, and I was free to take my grubby young son.

"I can't wait to get home," he said. "And I can't wait to sleep in my own bed tonight!" He smiled, thinking of all his creature comforts.

I didn't remind him he'd been gone a mere 24 hours, not 24 weeks. I also didn't say that for all intents and purposes, he'd pretty much camped in his own backyard. He enjoyed acting like he'd spent weeks out in the wild, so I just let him.

Because hey, at the end of the day, he did go camping, and I did get a much-needed night off. I got to hang out with my friends, laugh, and even go to a movie. All this complaining was a small price to pay for that.

"I'm glad you had a good time, Mark," I said. "And I'm proud of your leadership skills."

He scoffed again. He couldn't answer me, because he was still thinking about something far more serious--the giant killer chickens (or roosters) outside his tent.

 

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Helping?

I am not a morning person, which is a very clear and established fact. My favorite way to spend an early morning is to bypass it completely and sleep in late.

But I work, so that's not really an option. Instead, I rely on a crutch--coffee--to get me to a semi-coherent state before I hit the freeway.

I love my morning coffee. I love the rich, hazelnutty smell wafting through the kitchen as it brews; I love the sweet, creamy richness of it on my tongue; and I love the jolt of caffeine that hits my nervous system suddenly, immediately, sending me from that groggy, sleepy state to an alert "Let's do this!" state.

So yes, I love my coffee. I am very particular about my coffee, and honestly, the only thing I want before coffee is for everybody to leave me and my coffee alone.

As was also clearly established, I have a son named Mark. Mark is not a morning person, either, which makes things a bit...delicate...in those early hours. I try not to engage him too much upon waking, and honestly, I'd be most happy if we just got up and got ready with no interaction at all until after breakfast. I don't need a lot out of the mornings; mostly, I just need Mark ready to leave on time.

But Mark sees things differently. The boy who never wants to help cook or clean suddenly wants to help make my coffee. I think it makes him feel mature; he likes making a grown-up beverage.

And here's where we run into the problem.

As with most other things, Mark likes to do things his way. Never mind that it's not his coffee, and he won't drink any of it...what's most important to Mark is having control, and exerting that control, even over something that's not his.
 

Like my coffee.

When he first started making it, I tried to channel my kind, loving sister-in-law Mari. I thanked Mark profusely for his help. I praised him for his creativity (marshmallows in my coffee--how original!). I agreed he was improving my health (you're right, I could use less--or no--sugar) and encouraging new tastes (you're right, this coffee is much, much, MUCH stronger!).

But I am not Mari. I could only emulate her kind and loving ways for so long until my true nature burst through. (Being Mari is hard to begin with; being Mari before coffee is impossible!)

So I tried to be myself, only less so. I resisted my primal urge to yell "LEAVE THE COFFEE ALONE!" I once again thanked Mark for helping, then pointed out his efforts were better spent elsewhere.

"I love that you want to help," I told him. "You know what really helps me the most? When you're ready to leave on time!"  He smiled and nodded, I smiled and nodded, and I thought we had an understanding.

But the next day, he handed me my coffee again. I cursed silently, then smiled and sipped it. I swallowed a mouthful of coffee grounds and gagged.

"Yeah, something went wrong," Mark frowned, inspecting the coffeemaker. "All the grounds fell in the coffee pot."

And you poured it anyway??? I wanted to scream. Channel Mari, I thought instead.

"Well, thanks for trying anyway!" I said, smiling like I meant it.

The next morning, I raced to the coffeepot, just barely beating Mark.

"Already took care of it!" I said, hitting the Start Brew button. "You don't have to make my coffee again. Ever. Seriously!"

It sounded a little harsh, so I tried softening the message.

"What helps MOST in the morning is you feeding and dressing yourself," I said. "Just do that--it helps me more than ANYTHING else, even making my coffee. So...PLEASE don't make my coffee any more!"

I was sure that was specific enough even for Mark.

I showered, dressed, and hummed a little tune, anticipating the caffeinated joy that awaited me. But my joy completely disappeared when I saw this next to the coffee pot:




"I made you a mocha!" Mark beamed. "I'm already dressed, and I already ate. I hurried so I could fix your coffee."

I sighed, crestfallen. All I could think of was the song "Helping" from the '70s album Free to Be, You and Me:

Now, Zachary Zugg took out the rug
And Jennifer Joy helped shake it
Then Jennifer Joy, she made a toy
And Zachary Zugg helped break it.

And some kind of help is the kind of help
That helping's all about
And some kind of help is the kind of help
We all can do without.

This was definitely the kind I could do without. But I had two options here: Smile and fake it, or bite his sweet little head off and forever hide the coffeemaker. I went with the first one.

I smiled and sipped the "mocha," then gagged.

"That is...awful!" I admitted, wiping my mouth. I looked to my little barista, worried I'd hurt his feelings, but Mark's a tough guy. He just shrugged, and said, "Tomorrow, I'll--"

--drink the coffee at work, I thought. Because sometimes, you really just have to pick your battles. 


Especially if those battles occur before 7 a.m.



Wednesday, April 9, 2014

The Habitual Truant

 I always know when Mark's heading to a come-to-Jesus discussion. He stops doing what he's supposed to--homework, chores, managing his diabetes--and eventually, we address it. He's predictable--his bad behavior amps up with each new season, and peaks in the spring when the warm weather and school fatigue set in. 

But this week, Mark did something unusual--he caught me completely off guard.

He was telling me a story while I opened a letter from his school. I wasn't expecting much--the school constantly floods me with letters and phone calls--so what I saw completely floored me.

"And then Tyler said--" Mark started, but I cut him off.

"Hold on," I said. "What's this all about? I've been reported to the truancy board??"

I didn't know there really was a truancy board--I thought truant officers were just a myth, a boogieman to scare kids into getting to school on time.

Mark snorted, miffed that I'd interrupted him.

"It says here you have six unexcused absences," I said. "What happened to all the notes I wrote?"

He waved his hand at me.

"Did you turn them in?" I asked. "Any of them?"

He snorted again. "No," he said rolling his eyes at me. "It doesn't matter. They don't care!"

"It DOES matter. They DO care!" I exploded, waving the letter at him. "And now they've reported me to the truancy board!"

Mark rolled his eyes again, so I very slowly explained what this all meant, how he's legally obligated to attend school until he's 18, and as his parent, I'm legally obligated to ensure he does. I also explained that unless he turns in the absence notes, the school assumes he is simply truant, running amok and wreaking havoc in the streets. 

(At which point, an image of Truant Mark flashed through my brain as I said that--I saw him in a leather jacket, tipping back a flask, cigarette tucked behind his ears, throwing dice with other truant hoodlums. I shuddered.)

Mark sighed, bored with the conversation, so I brought it down to his level, in terms he could easily understand.

"You are breaking the law," I told him. "The school thinks I'm breaking the law, too. So they called the school police on me. They think we're criminals. Do I look like a criminal?

Mark gave me the once over, but was smart enough not to say, "Nah, you look more like a crazy insane soccer mom."

"They will take you out of school," I ranted. "Send you to Saturday school or to an alternative school for kids who skip school. You know...bad kids."

And then he understood. His eyes grew three sizes, and he put out his hand.

"Let me see that letter," he demanded.

I handed it over, and he read it, quickly. I pointed out the important parts.

"See here?" I said, tapping the letter. "You're truant with three unexcused absences--and you have SIX unexcused absences. It says you're a habitual truant."

He gulped. It was finally sinking in. 

"And Friday," I said, reminding him he'd stayed home sick that day. "Did you turn in your note for Friday?"

His mouth was silent, but my mind was not. Don't strangle him, it told me. Don't strangle him, don't strangle him, don't. strangle. him. I hoped (but doubted) I could comply.

"So SEVEN unexcused absences," I sighed. Mark's eyes welled up with tears. I told him no more sick days or absences for the rest of the school year.

"I don't care if you're coughing up blood or vomiting all night long," I said. "You will 
be in school every day for the rest of the school year. If you can't return a simple absence note, then you can't be absent. EVER." And I walked away.

Mark could tell I was really ticked off. He spent the rest of the night sucking up to me and doing chores without being asked.

But it wasn't enough that the little snit threw me under a bus--he also tried pulling me down in the gutter with him.

"Did you ever get Saturday school?" he asked, knowing full well I did for skipping school on Senior Ditch Day. He batted his long-lashed puppy dog eyes and asked, "Did you ever make a mistake, too, Mom?"

"One time," I said. "Not seven. And I paid for it."

But Mark's guilty conscience disappeared the next morning, replaced by righteous indignation. He immediately started, before I had my coffee or a chance to fully wake up.

"They should tell you that note's important," he said angrily, testing the waters. I ignored him.

"They should remind you to bring a note in," he repeated, but still I ignored him. I ignored him the whole morning, in fact, until I needed his help.

"Where's the letter?" I asked, shuffling through the papers on the table. He shrugged.

"I'm calling the principal," I said, slowly. "I need that letter."

And then, he did it. Mark just couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"I think you recycled it," he said. 

"I...what?" I asked. We stared each other down, like an old-time Western gun battle at high noon, both of us itching to draw our guns first. He never once blinked or wavered.

"You recycled it," he repeated.

I continued to stare at him. Finally, he blinked and looked away--I'd won the gunfight! I blew the smoke away from my imaginary pistol and congratulated myself.

"Go get it," I said, quietly.

"But it's out in the big bin, on the street," he protested. "I already took the trash and recycling out."

And that, my friends, is when he shot me back, from the ground, as he lay bleeding in the dirt. My assessment was premature--I hadn't killed him with my imaginary pistol. I'd merely maimed him. He rolled over in the dirt and shot me back.

I'd like to say I went down graciously, that I accepted my fate appropriately, as a mature, patient adult. But in fact, the stress finally got to me and I went in the exact opposite direction. It was ugly.

I eventually calmed down enough to call the school from work. The school told me his absences were a problem, but the bigger issue was Mark being late to zero period every morning. I told them it wouldn't happen again, that I'd personally escort Mark to class each day.

I also found a couple stories online and printed them out. They discussed a law allowing the city to fine and imprison parents of truant students for up to a year. 

I hoped to make an impression on my budding felon, but as always, I was wrong. 

"It DOES matter," I said, as he sat contritely and remorseful at the dinner table.

His remorse disappeared. He read the paper, scoffed, and said, "Psssh, this kid missed 50 days of school!"

And there we were, back in the Western gunbattle again. Mark was still lying in the dirt again, still bleeding, still refusing to give up. The threat of me paying a $2000 fine or spending a year in jail didn't scare him off. He was a lost cause, refusing to accept any blame, even while he was bleeding out.

I could've finished him off then and there, once and for all, but I was spent. So I holstered my imaginary pistol, tipped my hat, and did what any good gunslinger does--I hit the saloon. 

"Meet me for a beer?" I texted my friend Edra. And bless her supportive, wonderful heart, she did.

Lucky for me, the truancy sheriff still hasn't contacted me yet. But if he does, I'll point him to the real criminal here--that 5'1" puppy dog-eyed, mouthy, little scoundrel. 



Monday, April 7, 2014

If you give a mouse a cookie...

Alternate title to this post: Why people with ADHD shouldn't garden.

Last month, we were perusing the local hardware store when Mark spotted an outdoor fountain.

"Look at this, Mom!" he said, excitedly. "This would look good in our backyard!"

It was a couple hundred dollars, but I agreed it would look cool. I congratulated the kid on a great find, loaded it onto the cart, and took it home.

I wanted to set it up right away, but I had one issue--a giant fake-banana plant that consumed half the yard. It took up so much space, there was no room for the new fountain.

No big whoop, I thought. I called a gardener to come take out the tree (which was seriously huge). He agreed, then flaked and never showed up.

No big whoop, I thought again. Who needs a gardener? I can do this. I armed myself with saws, hedge clippers, and bags, and went after that tree myself.

After two weekends of hacking (and Mark complaining about picking up the branches), I was closer, but not done. The bottom part of the tree, with all its giant roots, was too big for me.

So I called in a tree guy. I stood in the backyard describing the situation to him on the phone. And while I talked, the park lantern caught my eye.

I love the lantern, because it's cute and lights up our otherwise pitch-black yard at night. It's seen better days, though--the paint has long since faded, and the globe was cracked. Also, because my dusk-to-dawn sensor doesn't work with the white frosting in the globe, the light stays on 24 hours a day.



I decided to freshen up the lantern with a new globe and some paint.

The paint was easy. I sprayed on a whole can of black paint, leaving the pole shiny and new. Unfortunately, I also painted the plants and shrubs behind it black, which cost me a couple hours of clean-up pruning.

I also found that replacing the globe wasn't as easy (or cheap!) as I thought. I went to a couple garden and lighting stores, but no one sold clear replacement globes. So I scoured the online shopping sites, finally found one expensive replacement that didn't fit, returned it, and found another that did fit. I don't love it, but it's clear, fits, and the dusk-to-dawn sensor works.

After three weeks of shopping and returns, my refurbished park lantern was done. It looked great, worked better than ever, and I was happy.




I turned my attention back to the fake banana tree. I'd hacked away enough to put the fountain up now, but I held off. My fountain had been in the garage almost a month now, but I didn't want the tree guys to cut the fountain cord while removing the banana tree.

When the tree guys arrived, I showed them the banana tree and a small palm tree underneath I'd discovered while hacking away. I asked if they could remove that, too. And since they were there, could they also remove the giant palm tree stump in my front yard and the six pieces the tree had been sawed into? (Those hundred-pound pieces sat next to my kitchen door the past four years.)

"Did you get a friend to do it, or just pay someone to do it cheap?" The tree guy asked, kicking a stump.

"Both," I said. He laughed.

And so, four trees, six stumps and
$200 later, my yard looked much, much better. I took the evening off from yardwork to play basketball with Mark.

"Let's play before it gets dark," Mark said.

"No worries," I said. "The park lantern will light up the yard."

I should have shut my mouth. Because lo and behold, dusk came on, but my park light didn't.

"C'mon, Mom," Mark whined, while I stared at the dark light. "Let's play!"

"Why isn't the light on?" I asked. I walked to the plug, tracing my hand down the line, until I found my answer.



Yup, a severed cord. The tree guys had chopped the cord in half.

And here we were, back at the beginning. My beautiful lantern was operational for two whole days. My poor fountain was still in the garage. And I was back on the phone, this time to an electrician/handyman.

The handyman arrived and 50 bucks later, the cord was fixed.

And now, finally, I could set up the dang fountain. I did, quickly, filled it with water and plugged it in. It. Was. AWESOME.

I grinned wildly, slapping Mark on the back.

"I love it!" I told him. "It's so cool!!!"

I stepped back to admire it. And noticed all the dirt, where the trees had previously been. The rest of the yard was filled with bright red bark, but here, just gray dirt. Between that and the shrubs I'd hacked down behind it, it was ugly.

"Let's get some new bark," I told Mark. "And some flowers to give it a little burst of color."

And there we were, back at the hardware store where it all started. We walked down the fountain aisle, where Mark pointed out our fountain was gone.

"They sold out of our fountain!" he said. I thought about all the work I'd done, all the money I'd spent, and wished they'd sold out four weeks ago, before we'd arrived.

We loaded up a cart with bark, and found some pretty blue flowers. We also found some cool fruit trees, which then needed planters, and soil. Two hundred and fifty dollars later, we slowly pushed the heavy cart out the door.

I spent the rest of the day planting trees and flowers, hauling and spreading bark, cleaning up debris and dodging basketballs. (Mark wanted to hang out in the yard with me but
didn't want to help.) By five o'clock, I was spent, but I was finally, finally finished, and the yard looked great.


The updated orchard--now contains orange, avocado, peach, cherry and lime trees.

New apple tree, and new banana tree (will produce REAL bananas!) in the background.



The fountain!!!


The fountain has LED lights that make it look like it's shoots out flames at night! (Yes, that's what sold Mark on it.)

"Looks good!" Mark said, surveying the yard.

"Thanks," I said.

Because it does. The fountain looks awesome, and it only cost me a month of weekends, one sore back, two weeks shopping online for lantern globes, two service guys, four trips to the nursery/hardware store, and about $750. And I'm exhausted!

So please, please, please...don't give the mouse any more cookies!!


Thursday, April 3, 2014

Mark no like writing, either

Mark broke my heart once again by admitting that in addition to being a bad speller, he also hates writing.

"Yeah, but--" I started, in writing's defense.

"No," Mark interrupted, shutting me down. "I hate it. That is all."

I sighed. He doesn't like math either, but that's not a knife to my heart like the writing sentiment is.

I consoled myself by thinking maybe he doesn't really hate writing--maybe he's just lazy. (Yes, I would prefer lazy to anti-writing.) Writing is made up of words, and good writing is made up of correctly spelled words, and it takes effort to spell those words right. I can see where he'd hit the disconnect.

But I didn't realize just how much he hated writing until he wrote a report for language arts class. The first part of the task was to answer questions about the subject, then turn those answers into the paragraphs making up the paper.

"What do you think, Mom?" he asked, handing me the paper.

I glanced over his answers.

"Well, we've talked about plagiarism before," I said. "You can take the ideas from the book, but you have to put them in your own words."

He bristled, clearly insulted.

"They are my own words," he insisted. Then, a little less indignant: "Why do you think I just copied them?"

"Because they're all spelled correctly," I pointed out. "And there are some pretty big words here."

Mark deflated. He may be sensitive, but he's also realistic, and knows when he's beat. He grinned mischievously, but unlike the rest of the world, I am immune to his charms.

"Stop stealing someone else's work," I said. "You're smart enough to have your own opinions."

Turns out I was right--he is opinionated.

"Huh, listen to this," I said a few days later, reading a news article. "The SATs are being revised--when you take them, the essay will be optional."

"Yes!" Mark yelped, throwing his arms in the air. "I don't have to write a stupid essay!"

"Optional," I repeated. "Meaning, extra credit--higher scores mean higher chance of acceptance at better schools."

"Optional," Mark corrected me. "Meaning, don't have to do it."

"What if you wrote about something you're really passionate about?"

"I'm passionate about not writing," the little smart-alek answered.

"You could write about that--why essays are a bad idea," I said.

"Nope," Mark replied. "That's a trap. You can't write about not writing--instant fail."

"What about an essay on cat behavior?" I asked.

"Cat's don't behave," he shot back. "End of essay."

"Sports?" I asked, giving it one last shot.

"I only like to read about sports," he said. "What part of 'optional' don't you understand?"

"All of it," I said, sighing. "You don't like writing, you don't like math--what kind of jobs does that leave open when you grow up?"

"Professional basketball player," said my 90-pound, 5-foot-1-inch 8th grader. "I've got mad basketball skillz."

And maybe he actually thought "skills" instead of "skillz," but I doubt it. I know Mark, and I know his spelling. And now, obviously, I know his dreams of becoming an NBA player.

"Cool," I said, since Mark's not the only one who knows when he's beat. "But maybe brush up a little bit on the math and reading, just so you don't get ripped off on your contract."

"That's what lawyers are for," he said, and mimed throwing a ball into the hoop. "All I gotta worry about is shootin' buckets."

Indeed. I wish that was all I had to worry about, too.