Mark's taking Spanish in school, which makes for interesting dual-language conversations.
"Yo soy un princesa," he told me the other day, explaining why he shouldn't have to wash dishes. That statement confused me more than a little.
"Um...well, technically, I think you're a princeso, since you're male," I explained. "But that doesn't sound like the right word, either..."
"Yo soy un princeso," he corrected himself, smiling.
"Do you want to be a boy princess?" I asked. "Or are you trying to say you're a prince?"
"I'm a prince," he said. "How do you say that?"
"I don't know," I answered. "Maybe you should be king instead, because I know that one--el rey."
"I don't want to be a king," Mark said. "I wanna be a prince. Princes do whatever they want and if they get in trouble, the king takes care of it. It's more fun to be prince."
I wish I was surprised at that, but I wasn't really.
"So you just want the title, but not the responsibility?" I asked.
"Exactly!" Mark grinned. "Kings work too hard."
"Huh," I said. "That's really interesting. Now wash the dishes!"
He snorted at me, and grumbled under his breath. I couldn't hear what he said exactly, but it sounded like "Princes don't do dishes. You're the mom, you should do them."
I just smiled and handed him the dish soap.
"Yo soy una princesa," I told him, and walked away.
We may not really live in a kingdom, but my house is not a democracy, either.
And sometimes our conversations go like this...
Mark, while doing his homework: This is a weird book...it only has Mexican names in it.
Me: What are you studying?
Mark: Spanish.
Me, after a brief pause: Seriously? You're surprised a Spanish book has all Mexican names in it?
Mark: Yeah, that's weird, isn't it?
Me: Not really.
Mark: I think it's weird.
Me: I can tell. What names should be in there?
Mark: Good names, like Mark.
Me: I bet there are a few Marcos in there.
Mark: Yeah, but my name isn't Marcos.
Me: It is in Spanish.
Mark: But we're not in Spain.
And that is when I lost the conversation. Or won it, I suppose. I'm not sure, really, because Mark just confused me into silence, which was probably the whole point.
Either way, I'm just waiting for him to start his math homework now, and to hear his indignation when he realizes it's full of math problems.
Mark's freshman marching band year ended this weekend with a loss at the semi-final competitions. He was bummed, not because they lost, but because he won't spend every weekend with his friends now.
However, he had one final performance last night. It was the school district band spectacular. All seven high school bands performed, first individually, and then all together. It was pretty darn cool.
I'd seen a couple of the bands perform before. But the cool thing about this was that it was a showcase more than a competition. The kids totally treated it as such--the general mood was more supportive than it had been at any other show (which made sense, since they weren't trying to beat each other).
I signed up to volunteer. My contributions to the band thus far were monetary. I'd donated most of my money, and many boxes of snacks or water. But I wanted to give my time, though Mark was not pleased to hear it.
"You signed up for what?" he screeched. "Wait, what are you gonna do?"
"I dunno," I answered. "I just signed up as a parent volunteer."
"Are you gonna ride the bus?" he asked, nervously.
"I don't know," I answered.
"Are you gonna help hand out stuff?" he asked. "Are you gonna be on the field? You're not gonna help bring the instruments on the field, are you? Because you don't know how to do that."
"I don't know what I'm gonna do," I said, because his faith in me was truly flattering. "You've done this all season long, you know better than I do. I'm gonna do whatever the other adults always do."
"Oh God!" he cried, stomping off. I could tell by his reaction that meant I was riding the bus and completely ruining his entire life, although maybe not in that order.
I wasn't sure what my job was, exactly; I just hoped I could help without getting in the way. (The band is a well-oiled machine, partly because the kids know what to do, but mostly because the band leaders and parents are phenomenal. Watching the dads load the equipment into the trucks is like watching a 3-D game of Tetris with musical instruments.)
I arrived at the band room just in time to watch the chaos begin. I watched 80 kids comb through garment bags, slipping uniforms over their shorts and t-shirts. They buttoned their jackets, slipped on their shoes, then came to tell us they were missing a glove, a sock, a gold braid. (Each statement was quickly followed up with, "And yes, I already checked my bag, it's not in there.") Curiously, the only missing items were items that came in pairs. I have a high schooler myself. I wasn't surprised these things were missing; I was surprised there weren't more missing.
I introduced myself to the other moms, and asked if we were riding the bus with the kids, or driving ourselves.
"All chaperones ride the bus," came the answer. I felt great relief at that; now I knew exactly what my job was, and was not (I was mostly relieved not to break the well-oiled machine before they performed).
Mark hid in the farthest corner of the room that he could, careful not to acknowledge me. I made a mental note to return the favor when he inevitably came looking for concession stand money.
Finally, we loaded up the buses. I made sure to choose the second bus, loaded mostly with the color guard girls. I didn't really want to be on my ingrate son's bus anymore than he wanted me on there.
The bus driver started the engine, and as he did, the color guard started singing. They did a rousing rendition of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," which immediately sent the band members into a tizzy.
"Can you not sing?" the band begged, which made the color guard sing louder. Luckily, they only got to 92 bottles before they finally got bored.
I sat in front of a couple of band boys who discussed important matters such as the iPhone 6, and whether it will eventually become an iPhone 100.
"It's like video game consoles," one boy noted. "They skipped like, 50 versions to go from the XBox 360 to XBox 4."
"They didn't skip 50," his friend answered. "It actually regressed--it went back like 365 numbers."
I frowned--I'm not good at math but 360-4 is not 365. But the boys had moved on to who knew more numbers in the pi sequence.
"I used to know, like, 27 numbers," one boy said. "My 7th grade math teacher said whoever memorized the most got extra credit, and I won!"
"How much extra credit did you get?" the other boy asked.
"Two points," the first boy said. "I wanted to get 3.14 points, but the teacher wouldn't give me that."
I thought he made a good point--the teacher missed an opportunity there!
Soon enough, we reached the school. We unloaded the bus, and the kids made their way over to the trucks to unload their stuff. The dads passed out all the equipment, which the kids immediately started playing. I was amazed to see the instrument pieces fitted together--I never knew tubas came in multiple pieces!
Then it was off to the field for the group rehearsal. The great thing about bands is that if you have a loud voice and a whistle, you can get them to do anything you want. (I could rule the band world if I had a whistle!) The drum majors from all the schools lined up their bands, and within a few minutes, they were playing the group songs.
Mark's band was thrilled, because they play one of the group songs in their show. He was stoked he had to learn one song less than everyone else.
"What are you playing with the group?" I asked, since they don't usually roll out the timpani for stuff like that.
"The tambourine," he said, and I shook my head, because honestly, when you're playing tambourine, does it really matter if you have to learn two or three songs?
The show finally started with the host school's steel drum band. I thought they were awesome, especially when they played "Margaritaville."
The local city college band played too, performing during each of the breaks when the bands took the field.
The next band up was tiny--just the drumline. But they had a secret weapon--cheerleaders. And the minute the music started, those cheerleaders started shaking everything they had. The band boys in the stands went crazy, whooping it up and cheering wildly--they were not cheering for their fellow drummers.
Mark's band went down to practice after them, and I went with them. It was my chance to perform one of the sacred rituals--pluming the hats--and I was nervous. I didn't want to mess this up.
"How about if you get out the plumes and I put them in the hats?" another mom asked. I nodded gratefully. We worked together quickly, until everybody had a tall yellow feather sticking out of their caps.
But just before the band took the stage, the mom came racing back towards me.
"The drumline!" she gasped, grabbing up the bags. Apparently, they'd gone off somewhere separately to practice, and none of the drummers had plumes.
We plumed them all with seconds to spare, and they took their places.
And man, did the band do an awesome job! They've been adding new movements, music and visual effects to each show, and this was no different. The theme was American music, and boy, did they do it justice. My favorite part was when Mark and the rest of the pit crew came marching out at the end, Mark pretending to play a fife, and Abe Lincoln dancing wildly. They were so good, the crowd all around us went crazy (although maybe it just sounded that way because I was sitting with all the other Millikan parents!). I had tears in my eyes at the end, I was so proud of them.
The next band was my favorite (after ours). They walked quietly to the field, until the drum major blew her whistle. That sent them all running in a hundred different directions across the field, but somehow they ended up in precise lines. They played current pop songs, danced around, and the tuba player even sang "Rapper's Delight." (Yes, she put down her tuba first!) She rocked it, although she lost her place a couple times because she was laughing so much. Again, all the bands hooted and hollered, loving the silliness.
At the end of the school performances, the kids filed down onto the field en masse. Even though they only practiced once, they knew exactly where to go, and how to play all together.
I strained to find Mark among them all. I finally did, and was not surprised by where he was--smack dab in the middle of the field. He was near but not with his band, and he was not playing the tambourine. He was playing the cymbals, crashing them together loudly, dramatically, high above his head, with a huge grin on his face. He was having the time of his life.
But he stopped playing during the next song. He held the cymbals at his side, and simply looked around. He watched the different bands playing, and even turned around to watch the musicians behind him. He was slowly taking in the whole scene, and even from the stands, I could see the smile on his face grow bigger and bigger.
And that was my favorite part of the whole show--watching my kid in the middle of all the chaos. He was one of them---he'd found his place, his people, his moment, and he was thoroughly enjoying it all. He wore his school sweatshirt proudly, and he laughed with all his friends, soaking it all in, one happy kid. The sheer joy on his face brought me to tears for the second time that evening.
It was a band spectacular, indeed.
I spent this weekend with my mom, sister-in-law, and Oprah Winfrey, and had the most amazing time ever!
OK, fine, so maybe Oprah didn't sit anywhere near us, but honestly, it didn't matter. She spoke, we listened, and everyone left happy.
Let me back up a bit...Oprah hosted the Life You Want conference in eight cities around the country, and this was the last stop on the tour. I purchased tickets as fast as I could, and dragged my mom and Kim along for the ride. Luckily, they loved it as much as I did.
I wasn't sure what to expect from the event. The web site was vague, stating that we'd have a wondrous adventure with Oprah and her hand-picked trailblazers Deepak Chopra, Elizabeth Gilbert, Rob Bell, and Iyanla Vanzant. It promised to help me envision my next steps to the life I want, and it touted O Town, a pop-up village where I could learn and shop with fellow fans.
Well, I wasn't sure I needed all that, but it certainly sounded interesting. I was in.
My mom and I started our adventure in a long line, where we collected our event wristbands. They were chunky white plastic blocks that looked and felt like house arrest bracelets. I wasn't sure what they were for, but I suspected the tour sponsors used them for marketing purposes.
Mom and I wandered over to O Town next.
I overheard a woman asking her friends what O Town was, and one answered, "It's a place to stand in long lines."
She wasn't kidding--there were lines for all the sponsors. We walked past booths for skin care, cars, and furniture stores, and one that simply read "Go boldy." I wasn't sure what they sold, but I cracked up at the woman behind me who read the sign out loud.
"Go baldly," she read, then asked, "Who wants to go baldly?"
On the center stage, an OWN TV lady interviewed some of the network stars, including our favorite, Kym Whitley. She was hilarious. Iyanla Vanzant came onstage and she was pretty interesting, too. She's usually a little annoying, but she gave some great advice, especially when one woman asked how to make her life happier.
"Being happy is a choice," Iyanla told her. "Just like being sad or miserable is a choice. If you aren't happy, change that. If don't like your life, change it. You have to make the choice, and you have to do the work. No one else can do that for you."
I nodded in agreement. Happy doesn't just come to you--you've gotta go after it. I realized I was gonna learn a lot this weekend, and I was excited!
Finally, it was time to start the show. We followed 10,000 giddy women (and a few less-giddy men) into the arena. Usually, I hate crowds, but this one was different. There was an electric energy in the air. These women were excited, happy, and unbelievably friendly. Everywhere we turned, they started a conversation, offering up chairs, asking where you were from. There were 10,000 people there, but they all felt like friends, neighbors, community...It was fantastic!
We climbed the stairs to the cheap seats, where Kim met us. The crowd waited for Oprah to take the stage, but in the meantime, they were there to party! A DJ played 80s dance tunes, which the crowd loved. (Apparently, all the Oprah fans are my age!) My mom, Kim, and I jumped up to join in the dance party, singing loudly, and busting our best moves.
And then, abruptly, the music stopped. The house lights went off, throwing the arena into darkness. Then Oprah herownself came over the speakers, talking about the beginning of time, when all that existed were the stars in the sky. Suddenly, my house arrest bracelet lit up--it turned blue, flickering like a star. All the bracelets in the arena turned blue, and it did look like a night sky full of stars. The crowd went insane.
Then the blue lights changed to red and yellow, just like the stage colors. A giant sun appeared onscreen, as Oprah said it was the dawning of a new day. The crowd cheered wildly as the sun rose, and then even louder as Ms. O took the stage. It. was. awesome!
When the crowd finally settled down, Oprah spoke. She talked for almost two hours, telling her story. A common thread ran through her stories--of triumph and failure, of second chances, of realizing that your biggest challenges and weakest moments are the ones that make you grow the most. She spoke of life as a series of mountain tops and valleys, and warned us not to get stuck when we hit the valleys.
"Don't let those valleys define you," she said. "Life is a series of highs on the mountain tops and lows in the valleys. But the challenging times are what make you strong, so use what you learn in the valley to make you stronger the next time you're there."
I loved the message. It wasn't anything new, or even wildly original. But it was sincere, and honest, and it was a good reminder. It was like sitting down with an old friend you admire, someone who's always given your good advice. It was a wonderful way to end the evening.
The second day started out with another dance party. It was so much fun to just let loose, to dance wildly without a care in the world. I can't remember the last time I had that much energy so early on a Saturday morning.
Oprah came onstage, and then she brought out Deepak Chopra. He explained the difference between spirituality and religion (spirituality is your connection, your experience with God; religion is someone else's experience, their interpretation of how that relationship). I realized that's how I feel, and why I never really felt much kinship to religious institutions or (in my case) the priests that ran mine. I always felt like I was following their rules and their beliefs, not my own.
Next up was group meditation. I didn't know if that was possible in that giant arena--seriously, just moments before, the music was blaring, and the people were cheering and dancing. But Deepak did it--he quieted the crowd until you could hear a pin drop. He told us to close our eyes and focus on our breathing, and we did. (Well, I did, but then I opened my eyes--the silence was so sudden, it was like the people all disappeared. I had to see if they had!)
When Deepak brought us out of the meditation, I opened my eyes again, feeling strengthened and renewed. It was crazy how relaxed I felt.
The next speaker was Elizabeth Gilbert, author of the book Eat, Pray, Love. I totally dug that book, and I was excited to hear her. She was a great speaker, relaying her story with passion, but it felt different. I'd felt the common thread with Oprah and Deepak Chopra--their stories weren't mine, but I could relate to them.
I couldn't relate to Liz Gilbert's story--it was one of misery and hopelessness. She recounted how she hated her life, her marriage, how she spent every night on the bathroom floor sobbing, searching for a way out. She relayed her desperate conversations with God, and how stifled she felt by her life, but how she didn't was so fearful of changing it and disappointing her family.
It just made me so sad. I've felt low, and I've felt depressed, but that level of unhappiness, at feeling totally trapped in your whole life...I haven't felt that.
So I listened with new ears. Instead of feeling sadness, I felt gratitude.
"Thank you," I whispered to my mom. For not making me doubt everything in my life, or for feeling like all I wanted out of life was an escape, is what I wanted to say. I couldn't really verbalize all that, but she knew what I meant.
I did enjoy the second part of Liz Gilbert's story, though. The soul-searching and relief when she found her way out of the darkness, and The Quest. Her Quest. I was even a little jealous at that point, not because I need a year away from everything to find myself, but because I want to spent four months each in Italy and Bali. That would be amazing...
Rob Bell was up next, and he was pretty good. He also emphasized the breathing, saying that if you are breathing, you get another chance (second chances, breathing, and listening to your spirit were the big themes here). I also liked his message of Love Wins--love always does win, and you have to love everyone, especially yourself.
We slipped out a little early to beat the lunch crowds. It was a good plan, because we beat the lines, enjoying fat shrimp po'boy sandwiches in the sun, and recounting our morning.
After that po'boy (OK, and a beer), I was a worried I might be a little sleepy for the afternoon sessions. But Oprah thought of everything--she brought our some Soulcycle instructors, who got the crowd on their feet and moving. We waved our arms, our legs, exercising in our tiny spaces, 10,000 lit-up bracelets moving up and down in sync. It was the perfect way to get everyone motivated--I was wide awake for the rest of the afternoon!
The last speaker was Iyanla Vanzant. She was good, much funnier than she is on her TV show.
"I like her better as a comedienne," my mom said, and it was true, she was pretty dang funny.
Oprah closed out the show. She brought all the trailblazers back onstage for a final round of questions and applause, but they turned the tables on her. It was the very last show of the tour, and they wanted to thank her. Their heartfelt speeches made everyone in the arena, including Oprah, tear up. We all left feeling great--invigorated, inspired, and ready to change the world.
But first...dinner with my family. It was great to see my brother Tim, and my niece and nephew. (Heck, it was just nice to be around teenagers who were actually glad to see me--my surly teen is never happy to see me!) We laughed so much around the table that my face actually hurt. And we laughed just as much the next day, hopped up on cupcakes and sugar.
Overall, the weekend was one of the best ever. I learned a lot, but mostly, it was just a great reminder that I am living the life I want. I surround myself with uplifting people, I travel and spend time with my family--the things that really fuel my spirit. I don't waste time anymore on people who don't have time for me, or energy-sucking people.
So I didn't walk away with any new, shocking revelations or fixes--I walked away with reminders to keep moving forward on my path. Follow the light, like the ever-changing colored bracelets showed me. Remember what I learned in the valleys, remember that every day is a second chance, like Oprah said.
And most importantly, remember that being happy is a choice. I choose happiness, and I will do the work.
I am filled with gratitude--to my parents, for raising me to be strong and loving, and to this weekend, for reminding me that I'm on the right path.
Thank you, Oprah!
Mark loves to smell good. Not good as in, "I shower daily to smell fresh and clean," but good as in "I love me some artificial spray that covers up my natural...scent...so that I don't have to shower!"
Yeah, that kind of good.
He once received a Christmas-themed can of body spray that made him (and the 20 feet surrounding him) smell like pine trees. Mark wore it year-round, a waft of pine forest mingled with grubby boy sweat following wherever he went. It was not my favorite smell.
Now that he's a teenager, he doesn't mind showering, and he's got a whole new set of smells to apply. He uses approximately one cup of mouthwash daily, and showers with a pungent Axe body wash. He uses a musky Old Spice shampoo and conditioner, which coordinates nicely with his Old Spice Fiji deodorant. And occasionally, he still adds the pine tree body spray, which apparently has a life-time supply in that bottomless can.
He is a walking cornucopia of what a man should smell like. (According to teens...) On a related note, I now take a daily allergy pill thanks to the artificial sprays.
Usually, I can combat these overpowering smells by just opening the windows. But the other day, I walked in to a full-on nasal assault so strong, it actually made my eyes water.
"Oh...my...GOD!" I cried, rubbing my eyes. I thought maybe the local SWAT team had lobbed in a couple tear gas grenades while I was out.
Luckily, I was home just long enough to grab some papers and get out. I figured whatever that smell was, it would die down by the time I came home later.
But I was wrong. It was just as strong. I tugged at my shirt, pulling it over my nose in a makeshift mask, and investigated.
After a brief search, I found the culprit:
I also found the top to the culprit, unceremoniously tossed nearby, and immediately re-capped it. My eyes stopped burning as soon as I put the top back on.
Mark entered the house a few minutes later, and had the exact opposite reaction. He breathed in deeply, smiling, using his hands to direct the scent toward his own nose.
"It smells so gooooooood in here!" he sighed. "Did you buy a new candle?"
I just stared at him in disbelief. Finally, I handed the deodorant over to Mark.
"You forgot to put this away," I told him. "It was stinkin' up the place!"
"That one's for school," he told me, stuffing it into his backpack. "I use it for basketball."
And sure enough, he was right. Because when I went in to the bathroom, there was a another (capped) deodorant on the counter.
It had this sticker on it, which cracked me up:
I giggled as I put it away. Because I certainly don't like the smell, but at least I like Old Spice's sense of humor (and now I know what sunshine and freedom smells like!).
Mark started high school a couple months ago. Coincidentally, that's also the time he amped up his snarky teenage attitude. He's perfected the art of snarling under his breath, talking back to me at every opportunity, and, inevitably, stomping out of the room because how else can he deal with such an idiotic mother?
Of course, he can also immediately reverse that attitude from surly to charming as necessary. Those moments usually preface requests for money or permission to attend an extracurricular activity (which requires money). It's gotten so bad that whenever Mark's nice, I automatically sigh and pull out my wallet. (Or sometimes, when I've had enough, I don't.)
But Friday morning, I'd had it. I'd been awake all of 10 minutes, and I'd already checked Mark's blood sugar, fed him his morning breakfast shake, helpfully opened his blinds, and gently encouraged him to wake up.
"Time for school!" I said, as cheerfully as I could muster. (Which is not much, at 6:20 a.m.)
Mark immediately and angrily rolled over, slammed off the lights, and screamed at me to shut the blinds.
"I'm trying to sleep here!" he yelled. "Geez...back off!"
And that woke me up a little bit. My eyes opened, my jaw clenched, and my fists tightened. I envisioned wrapping Mark a little tighter in that blanket, at least enough so that he couldn't talk. But then I took a deep breath and left. I figured the best thing I could do was give myself space.
I took three short steps across the hall, into the bathroom. Physically it wasn't much distance, but now there was a door between me and Mark, and that was just enough to keep him alive a little bit longer.
I was still steaming, though. I'm not a morning person, and I hadn't even had my coffee yet. Under better circumstances (i.e., any time after 11 a.m.), I'd ignore bratty Mark. But waking up to that--it's a lot harder. My brain wasn't coherent enough to have rational thoughts, let alone patience.
I turned on the shower. As I did, I accidentally brushed the bath towels next to it.
Suddenly, something fell from Mark's towel. It dropped to the ground, where it wriggled, and my instincts kicked in. I grabbed some toilet paper and squished the darn thing.
It was a spider--a big one. A big, black, squished spider, who'd just suffered an untimely death.
At first, I felt kinda bad. I try not to kill spiders (except black widows--they're fair game!) but this one caught me off guard.
Then I felt relief--glad the spider fell when I was in the bathroom, and not Mark. Because Mark is deathly afraid of spiders. He totally freaks out when he sees them.
And then, suddenly, I felt...giddy. I giggled to myself, because it was funny that the spider fell out of Mark's towel. Well, a good and proper mom might not think it was funny, but a newly-awakened mom who'd already been disrespected...well, it was pretty funny to that mom.
It was funny because here I was, feeling defeated and insulted, and the universe kinda winked at me.
"Wanna see something?" the universe whispered to me, before unleashing the very thing that scares my snarky kid the most--an eight-legged dose of karma. And it helped immensely!
I knew I could never tell Mark. He'd flip out and refuse to shower or dry off ever again. But it was okay--I didn't need to tell Mark anyway--it was enough that I saw the spider, that I got the message. The universe saw I'd been wronged, and righted it.
I felt validated. But just to be sure, I shook out my own towel before using it. ;-)
I always wondered when Mark would lose interest in Halloween...the answer, apparently, was this year.
He feigned interest last month long enough to con me into buying a "costume"--a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sweatshirt. I realized there was only a 50% chance he'd actually wear it on Halloween (he's fickle), but I bought it anyway.
And true to form, on Halloween, he refused to wear the sweatshirt.
"Free dress day at school!" he sang happily to me instead. (That kid really hates school uniforms.)
"It's not free dress day," I reminded him. "It's COSTUME day. You are free to wear a costume."
"That's what I said," he repeated, slowly enough for my stupid parent brain to comprehend. "Free. Dress. Day."
We stared each other down for five seconds, until I broke.
"Not free dress. Costumes," I repeated. "Or uniforms."
He stomped off to his room, returning with a smirk, a Jamaican running jersey, basketball shorts, and his sweatshirt. He also sported a baseball cap and basketball shoes--basically, free dress.
"I'll wear the sweatshirt until I get hot," he explained. "Then my costume will be a Jamaican runner."
And that's how Mark talked himself back into his uniform for Halloween.
"Fine, bye," he called out, walking out the door. He was totally unfazed, not angry or snotty--a dead giveaway he was up to no good.
"Let me check something," I said, before he got too far. I motioned to his backpack, and he handed it over with a loud sigh. I pulled out the clothes he'd stuffed in there for later. Mark thinks I'm totally predictable, but the truth is, he's just the same. He snatched his bag back, then stomped off to school.
Mark was much happier by the time I got home from work. He was still bummed to miss a friend's Halloween party (because of grades), but he helped me fill the candy bowls and wait for trick or treaters. And there was a Lakers-Clippers game on TV, so he was thrilled about that.
"That's a lot of candy," Mark observed, popping a candy bar into his mouth.
"I know!" I said. I'd never stayed home on Halloween, so I wasn't sure how many kids would come, but I expected a lot. Usually, we got 10 or 12 before we went trick or treating on our own.
But not this year. I don't know where the trick or treaters went, but they skipped our house. We got a total of four small groups of kids, all girls, and that was it.
Mark jumped up when the first group knocked, racing toward the door.
"Slow down!" I said. "It's okay, you can give them candy."
"I don't wanna," Mark said, ducking past the front door. "I'm hiding."
And sure enough, that's what he did. He repeated this with the three other groups, jumping behind the couch, or slinking behind a wall.
"There weren't any monsters at the door," I told him. "Just a bunch of little girls."
"They might know me," Mr. Self Conscious said, climbing out from behind the coffee table.
"They don't know you," I said. "They looked like sixth graders."
"Exactly," he said. "I know a lot of sixth graders."
I left that alone. I've learned you can't fight Mark with logic.
By 7:30, it was clear we'd get very few (if any) more kids.
"Wanna go see some spooky houses?" I asked Mark. "I saw one scary house with a fog machine on the way home from work!"
"Nah," Mark said. He chomped another candy bar and changed TV channels.
"Wanna walk around the neighborhood and see kids in costumes?" I asked, but Mark just shook his head again. He'd realized that this was his most productive Halloween ever. He had all of his favorite things--TV, sports, and candy he didn't have to beg from the neighbors. And best of all, the candies were all his favorites.
"I kinda miss sorting through my candy and trading for the good stuff," he said. Then he fished out some M&Ms and brightened up. "But hey, this bowl is all good stuff anyway!"
By the end of the night, the living room looked like he'd been on a bender. Candy wrappers littered the floor, where Mark lay, holding his stomach and moaning.
"So...full..." he complained. That was my cue--with a little prodding, he cleaned up his mess and went to bed.
I thought this year might be a milestone for another reason. Mark doesn't have enough will power to ever turn down Halloween candy, but I thought this year, he was old enough to handle it, diabetically speaking.
"Just cover it," I pleaded. "You don't have to hide candy in your room and sneak it. If you eat it, just give yourself insulin."
"I will," he said, confidentally. "Geez, I know how to handle myself around candy, Mom."
Which I totally agreed with--right up until the next morning. I made my coffee, then noticed his huge cup of hot chocolate with weird things floating in it.
"I added M&Ms," he told me. "It's the best hot chocolate ever!"
That's when I realized that no matter how hard I tried, or how much faith I had in him, he's just a 14-year-old boy. Who sees nothing wrong with starting his day with a giant cup of sugar.
So that's how our uneventful Halloween ended, as all the others before it had--with me taking away a giant bag of candy to keep my son out of a diabetic coma.
But this year, it was much easier to do--I didn't have to buy the surplus candy from Mark (a kid only gives up his candy for cash). Technically, I'd already purchased the candy so Mark couldn't protest--he'd put no effort into collecting it.
And, in the end, that sugary collection did make a lot of people happy, even if they weren't cute little trick or treaters. Just ask my co-workers, who gladly accepted the leftovers.
