Fourteen

Yesterday, my funny, wonderful, goofy son turned 14 years old.

He said that so far, it doesn't feel any differently than 13 did, but I disagree.

It feels a lot different. It feels like the years are passing in a flash, in dog years, or maybe light years. It's mostly on my part, though--I'm not sure how, but every time Mark celebrates a birthday, I'm the one who actually grows older.

Mark's growing so quickly, and I can't keep up. I'm just now hitting my parental stride, just now getting good at this mom thing, and suddenly, I'm almost out of job. In a few months, Mark starts high school, and then he's off to college. I'm desperately trying to live in the present, to embrace and enjoy these moments, but all I really wanna do is scream ACK! and smoosh him back down to a chubby-cheeked 6-year-old. I just wanna stuff him in my pocket and keep him young forever.

But I won't. Mark loves getting older. He's your typical kid, telling me all the things he's gonna do when he's an adult, and in charge of his own life. (The things are all variations of his two favorite past times--eating candy and playing video games). I smile, and say "Tell me more," because I don't wanna be the dream crusher who scoffs and tells him what it's really like to be a responsible adult.

But candy and video games aside, he really is maturing. He didn't want a big deal family dinner, which I understand, because we just got home from vacation the night before. But he also didn't plan his birthday party since the day after Christmas, like most years. It wasn't until I kept prodding that he finally agreed to a small party with just a couple friends, sometime in the near future.

"I just wanna stay home and rest for the next couple weekends!" he told me.

But before I could get too melancholy or worried, Mark reminded me he wasn't all that grown up. He excitedly picked out his own birthday ice cream cake topped with M&Ms. He stuck in all the candles himself, though I stopped him when he tried cramming on the whole box.

"I want 24 candles!" he told me.

"You'll get them," I said. "In 10 years. But today, you only get 14."

He agreed to 14, but only if I let him light them all. Which he set about doing, starting with all the outer candles.

"Uh oh," he said, trying to light the inner candles without burning himself. "Can you help me?"

I did, glad that he wasn't old enough to do everything on his own after all. It took us a good five minutes and an additional layer of melted wax on the cake, but we lit them all.

Mark smiled as I started to sing to him.

"Happy birthday to--" I started.

But Mark immediately blew out all the candles before I even finished the first line. I stopped singing, shocked, and watched the smoke curl up around the cake. Mark started laughing hysterically.

"You little rat!" I said, also laughing. "You didn't let me finish the song!"

"Who cares," Mark said. "Let's eat this cake!"

And so we did. Happily. Because just maybe my kid wasn't growing up so quickly after all...

12

A dozen years ago, a brown-haired little baby made his entrance into the world. The doctors probably thought it was a healthy sign that he started crying right away, but I'm telling you now it had nothing to do with health or his new womb-less environment. Oh no, that baby was complaining that his onesie was too baggy ("I want skinny jeans! Waaaah!"), and that he was wearing the same little socks as every other baby in the hospital nursery. Because you know, even at only a few minutes old, all brand-new Mark wanted was some flashy new kicks on his tiny little just-born toes.

Yes, it's true, my little man turned 12 on Friday. He's one year closer to being a teenager, which puts the fear of God in me, and one year closer to being a genuine, certified grown man, which scares me even more. But I'm trying not to focus on all that; instead, I'm clinging to the last few moments of him as my little boy.

On Friday, Mark jumped out of bed early, happily, but not because of my cheerful birthday wishes. He was dressed two minutes later, eager to claim his annual birthday donut breakfast.

This year he wasn't satisfied with just a donut or two; he convinced me to buy enough to feed his entire fourth-period math class.

"Thirty-six kids," he told me. "Plus Mr. Estrada. He looooves donuts."

And that's how my diabetic child ended up at school with two giant pink boxes full of donuts, while I drove off envisioning every worst-case high blood sugar scenario. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, I hyperventilated. I was determined to let Mark celebrate his birthday with junk food just like any other non-diabetic kid, but try as I might, I couldn't fully do it. He called me throughout the day, and each time, I ever-so-casually suggested he test his blood sugar and correct any highs.

Dinner was a little easier in that the kid was craving protein. By easier, I mean on his blood sugar, not my wallet. I've lucked out the past few years, because little kid Mark always insisted on gross but cheap food for his birthday dinner. (Six-year-old Mark chose KFC, and my entire loving family filled a KFC and pretended to really enjoy it for Mark's sake. Four years later, Mark tried to blame the whole fiasco on me, to which I replied, "No. Just...no. Not one single person who was at that meal choose it willingly. That was pure love right there--for you, not for fried chicken!")

So this year, my mom convinced big-kid Mark to aim a little higher, gastronomically speaking. He took up her challenge--he choose filet mignon. Which cost a lot more than last year's Taco Bell feast, but I didn't mind. I was just glad to have a dinner that wasn't accompanied by tiny plastic condiment packages.

Dessert was even better than dinner. Mark picked this restaurant for the sugary delights. We'd been there for my mom's birthday, and he couldn't wait to return for the fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (It also had marshmallow fluff in it.)

Because we couldn't decide on either the cookie monster or the fried PB&J, we got both. And because there were six of us, and some people who didn't want to share, we actually got TWO of each. I'm pretty sure Mark wasn't the only one with high blood sugars after these babies were served!

Mark left the restaurant full and happy. I left the restaurant trailing behind him, wondering when he'd gotten so tall, and how the heck the last six years have passed so quickly. Seems like just yesterday he was flying around in a Superman costume, batting down the pinata with all his little friends. Now some of those friends tower above me, and Mark's not all that far behind them.

Happy birthday, my 12-year-old son. I can't wait to celebrate many dozens more with you...

You might as well jump (JUMP!)

My little man turned 11 last week, and celebrated with a party this weekend.

When can we jump?!?

The party was at a warehouse filled with trampolines. There was a football-field-sized block of trampolines on one side, and a huge foam pit on the other. Next to the foam pit was a dodge-ball court, where the boys could add a new dimension to an old game.

There was even a set of trampolines for the smaller kids, though the one small kid (my nephew Johnny) ignored it, choosing instead to jump with the big boys.

Like father, like son

The whole thing was hilarious. I watched as Mark and his friends spilled on to the giant block of trampoline squares. They bounced like kangaroos from square to square, occasionally flinging themselves at the walls, which were also covered with trampolines. They bounced off everything they possibly could, including each other, or any unfortunate passersby who happened to get in the way.

My friends kinda dug it, too.

Vic and Monica make like Tigger.

After bouncing their way across the entire floor like a herd of wild kangaroos, the boys hopped back past me, running toward the dodge ball court. This is where I learned the only thing more fun than chucking a dodge ball at someone is chucking it while you're jumping up and down. I watched as Mark and his friends simultaneously jumped and pelted each other with dodge balls, laughing hysterically the entire time.



The last area to conquer was the giant foam pit. The boys lined up and took turns hurling themselves into the pit. They were remarkably agile, ricocheting off the side trampolines, or turning somersaults mid-air. I couldn't believe they ways they could twist and turn their bodies, and I laughed as they sunk into the foam, and then immediately bounded up out of it.

Mark flipped a pretty good somersault.

Jonah got airborne, too!

Halfway through the party, the announcer called the boys in for lunch. They straggled into the party room, red-faced and sweaty, begging for water. They chowed down on pizza and did their best to consume the frozen ice-cream cake, which I forgot to bring out earlier to defrost. When they heard they had only 20 minutes of jump time left, the boys deserted their rock-hard cake and ran back to the trampolines.

The repeat cake. Mark loved the Oreo cake so much on his 6th birthday,
he got it again for his 11th birthday!

When the party ended after two hours, the boys looked exhausted. Mark slept like a log that night.

"That was SOOOO much fun," he said, yawning. "It was my best birthday yet!" He closed his eyes, still smiling, as happy memories of endless jumping filled his sleepy head.

I smiled, too, because what better birthday gift can you give your kid than that?

Eleventy

Every night I put my exhausted son to sleep with strict instructions not to grow. Then I realize how bad that sounds, and I amend it to the teeniest tiniest space between my pinched fingers, and say he can grow "This much." And not 100th of an inch more.

Of course, each night he ignores me and sprouts up a little taller. But last night, he really outdid himself. I put him to bed as a tired 10-year-old, and he emerged this morning as an energetic 11-year-old.

He bounded out of bed, excited to celebrate. "It's my birthday!" he yelled. "Give me a hug!" Then I realized he was talking to his cat, not to me.

He was in no hurry to waste his birthday; he wanted to savor every minute of it. Of course, savoring and getting ready for school are contradictory, so I had to snap him to attention to get dressed. (I literally had to snap--lost my voice, which I realized when I croaked, "H...py bir...day!" like a pre-pubescent Peter Brady.)

Mark thought me losing my voice was his birthday gift, and he set about pressing all my buttons, since he knew I couldn't physically yell at him. He laughed and danced around the house, ignoring me, until I finally squeaked, "No...donuts!" and that caught his attention. He's learned the hard way that I don't issue empty threats. (And man, does that kid love donuts. Seriously, they are his favorite thing on Earth.)

The birthday boy jumped in the car, and we drove to the local grocery store. He's a generous boy, especially when it comes to my money, and wanted to pick up cookies to share with his classmates.

"Or donuts..." he said, slyly. "Some kids bring donuts for their birthdays. Or ice cream cakes, or..."

"Do you want cookies or not?" I croaked. I'm all for celebrating his birthday, but only if it involved something easy like cookies.

"Yes, cookies," he said. "I need 36." He picked out three boxes of bakery cookies, and happily skipped toward the cash register. He stopped suddenly, turned, and asked me, "Do I get a cookie too?"

"Yes!" I told him. "Of course, you're the birthday boy!" He resumed skipping toward the cashier.

Five minutes later, I found myself sitting inside the local Yum-Yum donut shop, as I do every February 24th. I realized I may not be sending my diabetic child the right messages about food, as his birthday is a virtual sugar-fest every year, but hey, that's what birthdays are for, right?

As Mark munched happily on his cookie-crumb-topped donut, a man in an electric wheelchair zipped by. This prompted a heated discussion between a couple of old codgers sitting in the back of the store.

"That guy wanted me to give him some money, and I told him he makes more than me!" grumbled the first guy. "I mean, look at him. That wheelchair alone cost him 3000 bucks!"

Mark and I raised our eyebrows at each other. The grumpy guy went off a little more, and I shook my head at Mark.

"What an old grouch," I told Mark, as we left the donut shop.

"I know!" he answered back. "It's my birthday, and I'm glad I'm still young!" he sang into the empty parking lot. "I'm glad I'm not 80 and grumpy, I'm only eleventy!"

"I'm glad, too," I said, hugging him. I kissed his head and wished him happy birthday again. It was my moment to savor his birthday, but it didn't last long. All the sugar coursing through his veins made it impossible for him to stand still.

But that's okay. I watched him head off to school, juggling his backpack and three boxes of birthday cookies. I smiled as I watched him go, happy, healthy and growing like a weed. He had a huge smile on his face, and it made me smile, too.

It may be his birthday, but every year on this day, I reflect and give thanks, realizing I'm the one who got the gift.

On turning thirty-'leven

A year ago today, I entered my 40s. It wasn't really a big deal, because I still felt young and stupid, and hey, I went to Alaska with my parents and friends, so that made me happy. But my cousin Kathleen insisted it wouldn't last--she warned me that in your 40s, everything gives out, and your body just falls apart. I thought "in your 40s" meant spread out over the decade, not all at once.

Luckily, I've always been really healthy. So when Kathleen warned, I scoffed. And the gods scoffed back, and proved her right.

The first injury occurred the day after my birthday, when I heard something pop in a delicate area. That's when I met my new friend sciatica, who's spent the better part of my year with me. Ironically, my friend Vicki and I used to joke about being little old ladies together. She'd groan, "Oooh, my bursitis!" and I'd moan back, "Aaahh, my sciatica!" and then we'd laugh and laugh and laugh (we didn't even know what bursitis or sciatica were, they just sounded like old-people diseases). I didn't know it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy, or I wouldn't have laughed nearly so much back then. (Watch out for that bursitis, Vic!)

August brought with it a bout of the swine flu, which landed me an extra day in Arizona and a miserable plane ride home. My friend Kelley insists it wasn't swine flu (probably because she keeps a kosher home), but what other flu do you get in the summer??

I was well enough until April, when my prescription med ran out. The doctor insisted he'd only refill it if he saw me in person. That simple visit turned into blood work, which turned into a diagnosis of elevated blood sugars (I won't say the D word), and a new prescription for cholesterol meds. And before I could mope over either, I contracted Fifth's disease, which left me as crippled and weak as an arthritic 92-year-old woman. The good news is that all the Advil I popped for my inflamed joints finally cured the sciatica (seriously--I just wrote a sentence with the word "my inflamed joints"--and I was describing myself!! Hasn't this year been humiliating enough already?).

And in a final slap to the face, it weakened my immune system so that as soon as the Fifth's disease left, I caught a cold.

I'm not sure if I just hit the genetic jackpot (thanks, parents, for the wonderful genes) or if the bill finally came due from my roaring 20s (boy, did I have a good time in my 20s!!). But I am finally well now, not contagious, and must insist (to my body) that I stay that way. I'm done being sick, and am ready for a do-over into my 40s.

Everyone says that 40 is the new 30, but I'm not so sure. So instead, I am wishing myself a very happy thirty-eleventh birthday today. I promise to live a lot less crazy than I did in my 20s, a little bit calmer than I did in my 30s, and to care for myself better for my upcoming...uh, years. (I just got used to saying 40, don't make me say...the decade after. Which I'm not making fun of. At all. I swear!!!)

And if you're wondering what to get me for my birthday...well, ya probably can't go wrong with a jumbo-sized bottle of ibuprofen. Seriously. Because if the next nine years are anything like the past one, I'm gonna need it!

A decade ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

...a woman gave birth to a screaming, yowling baby boy with a head full of black hair and a healthy set of lungs. That baby cried and shook his fists at the world until someone wrapped him tightly in a warm blanket, fed him a donut, and turned on the T.V. And then, all was right in his world.

OK, just to clarify, that woman was not me, but that baby, based on the kid I know now, could have been Mark. It's how I imagine his first days, exactly 10 years ago today, Mark mad as a hornet until comforted with his favorite things (just kidding about the donut).

I may not have been with him those first few days, or even those first few years, but I was with him this morning. I nudged him awake, sang happy birthday (the version that says he looks like a monkey, and smells like one, too) and gave him the biggest birthday hug ever. I told him I loved him, and then I silently thanked another mother, the one that brought him into this world, and later, into my life.

Wherever she is, I know she's thinking of him today. Of that cute little boy she had, with the roundest chubby cheeks, and the longest eyelashes you've ever seen. No matter what was to come during the next few years, I know that she loved and cherished him that day. (I know that she still loves and cherishes him -- who wouldn't?)

It's funny, this split custody I share with that woman and a man I've never even met. They birthed and raised him for his first few years, and now relish memories I'll never know -- his first tooth, his first words, his first steps. And then he came to me, angry and unsure, proclaiming he already had parents and that I would never replace them. I agreed with him, and promised I would never try to. How do you replace the people who made you? I can't, not any more than I can replace the memories he had with them, the history he had before me.

And so I do what other parents sharing custody do -- I focus on what I have now, not what I missed out on then. I relish the time I have with him now, and hope the time he spent with his other parents didn't damage him too much. And I hope they do the same -- cherish their memories of him, and trust that I am doing the best I can to raise him into a man they can be proud of.

I pray for them, and hope their lives have progressed -- not that they got over losing a son, or moved on, but that they are in a better place than they were four years ago today, the last time they saw him. Because it's weird to share something so life-changing (a son!), so intimate, so grand, as a child, and to now celebrate the day of his birth so completely separately.

Maybe I'm over thinking it all, or getting too emotional -- it is my son's birthday, after all. Most mothers spend the day re-living that first day together with their babes snuggled close to their heart. I don't have the luxury of remembering Mark like that, but somewhere out there is another mom who does. I hope she treasures it, and him, as much as I do today.

It may be Mark's birthday, but I'm the one who received the best gift of all -- my son. Happy birthday, kiddo.

A birthday miracle

Mark's behavior at school has taken a turn for the worse this year. Nothing major, but lots of little irritating get-in-trouble incidents resulting in one unhappy Mom.

I had to take action. I'd tried incentives and positive reinforcement -- none of it worked. I had to threaten him with something really drastic.

So I pulled out the biggest gun I had. I threatened to cancel his birthday party.

That sure got his attention.

Behavior in Mark's class is measured daily by color cards, in this hierarchy:

• Purple -- Excellent. Had a great day!
• Green -- Good. Where everyone starts the day.
• Yellow -- One warning.
• Orange -- Two warnings. Lose a recess.
• Red -- Disciplinary action taken.

Prior to our talk, Mark's behavior chart was littered with yellows and oranges. I hadn't seen a green mark in months. I told him that he had five weeks to improve -- if he didn't earn 10 green marks during that time, there would be no party.

"We'll still celebrate your birthday," I assured him. "We'll go to dinner, you'll get cake and presents. But I'm not shelling out money for a party unless your behavior improves. I don't expect you to be perfect, but you've got to try harder!"

And so began the long march to the party deadline. He earned two green marks the first week, one the second week, and one the third and fourth week. Things were looking grim at the beginning of this week.

I was buckling under the pressure. I wanted to stay strong and follow through, but the guilt was killing me. I was beginning to wonder what kind of rotten mom withholds a birthday party from her kid.

Luckily, my friends kept me strong. Jill reminded me that above all, I must stay consistent and hold true to my word. Kelley reminded me that I hadn't set the bar all that high -- only 10 out of 25 days. I expected him to be good less than 50% of the time, she reminded me, only two times a week. That quickly brought back my resolve!

Mark, as usual, blamed his behavior on everyone but himself. One day a kid talked to him, and made him go to yellow. Another day he was late for class because his shirt was all wet and the office wouldn't give him a new dry one (he neglected to say it was wet because he slid through puddles at lunch). He started the fourth week by telling me he was going to get green marks every day, but before I could cheer him on, he added, "Then I don't have to behave at all next week."

"That's not how it works!" I said, as my plan came back against me.

So when this week, his last chance, started, he was panicked. He had only five green marks, and five days left. He was desperate to earn that party.

"Mom, you need to hypnotize me," he told me Sunday. "Tell me to be good everyday, then wake me up."

"No, you have to be good on your own," I told him.

He went to Plan B. "OK, I'm going to do it," he said. "I'm going to get a green mark everyday. Do you think I can do it?

"Of course!" I replied. "I KNOW you can!"

But secretly, I doubted it. He'd only earned five green marks in the previous month -- there was no way he could get five in one week. I found myself plotting with him.

"You're focusing on not being bad," I said. "You need to focus on being really good instead. Do something super good so you move up to purple -- then, if you get in trouble, you'll just get moved down to green." (Never imagined those words would come out of my mouth!)

I still doubted it could done, but he surprised me! On Monday, he got a purple! I was so proud, I told him that counted as two greens. He was up to seven now...

Tuesday he came home with a green! (There was a small blip when the vice principal called to say he'd gotten in trouble at recess. He still justified the green mark, saying, "But I was good in class!" And I had to concede that was the deal.)

On Wednesday, he brought home another purple, bringing the total to 10. He'd earned his birthday party with just moments to spare.

We happy danced all around the house, until it struck me I now had a big party to plan. I panicked a little bit then.

"Good job!" I told him. "I'm so proud of you!"

And I was, too...right up until the next day, when I got another call about bad behavior from the vice principal. Two in one week, an all-time record!

But that's Mark, in a nutshell -- he simultaneously hit his best and worst week in behavior all at the same time. I'm still a little leery about whether that merits a party, but I promised, so I'll live up to it.

And now I have to come up with another reward for him to earn starting next week...send 'em my way, I'm open to all suggestions!

They say it's your birthday...at the Happiest Place on Earth!

Last weekend was a bit of a madhouse. It started with a trip to Disneyland on Thursday to celebrate my cousin Kathleen's birthday, and ended with my brother Scott, his wife Mary and their three kids staying over at my house. (There's nothing I like better than a houseful of family!)

Disneyland was a blast. It was a lot more crowded than I expected for a random Thursday. And poor Kathleen started her birthday celebration by getting a flat t i r e in the parking lot, but not even that could ruin our day. It was still better than being at work!

We also had a minor glucose emergency. The previous day, Mark had a low blood sugar at Cub Scouts before I got there, but no glucose tabs. One of the moms ran over to Kid's Club and saved the day. But I freaked a bit, and immediately stuffed all the tabs I had into his backpack. Which didn't help me at Disneyland when he felt low and I realized I had no glucose tabs. So we got in line at the bakery, where I came up with a brilliant solution.

"Scarf these sugar packets!" I ordered, and I could almost hear the people behind me gasp. I watched him gulp one, then another packet, half of which he spilled down his shirt. People were openly staring at me force feed sugar to my kid, and I'm sure they were all thinking what a horrible, crazy mom I am. To which I say -- hey, welcome to a day in the life of dia betes!

"One more!" I barked, then moved ahead to buy him a big bottle of chocolate milk and a croissant. I stuffed a few extra sugar packets in my bag on the way out.

It was a beautifully sunny day, and it was fun to watch Mark and his cousins run wildly through the park. Mary and Kathleen braved Space Mountain with the older kids, while Scott and I accompanied Grant on Buzz Lightyear and Star Tours.

We stopped briefly for lunch and as we were leaving, Mary announced that she was "taking Grant to Pooh." I know she meant the Winnie the Pooh ride, but it just sounded so wrong! I was the first one to inappropriately giggle, and when the kids realized I couldn't stop snickering, they all joined in. (I am quite often the "bad example" adult in the crowd -- you know, the immature, snickering one; the one who riles all the kids up right before bedtime. I even do that to my own kid sometimes!)

Nathalie, Gabi and Grant all had birthday money burning a hole in their pockets. Grant, who wanted boxing gloves for his birthday, settled for giant padded Mickey Mouse gloves instead. He kept folding all the fingers but the two middle ones down, so that they formed a peace sign. He'd hold up the two fingers and ask, "You want a PEACE of me?" Cue unstoppable giggles part two.

Gabi purchased a large green Goofy hat, which she wore for the next three days straight. She couldn't hear very well with them on, but that might have been the point. You'd think four kids would be four times louder than just one kid, but they're actually about 25 times louder!

When it was time to leave, I took Mark and Nathalie in my car. We sang funny songs and talked in silly Southern accents the whole way, and I realized how lucky I am to have not just a great kid, but some pretty great nieces and nephews as well. I really dig hanging out with them.

As does Mark. When Mary asked if she could pick him up after school on Friday, he jumped at it. "I go to Kid's Club every day," he told me. "But I don't get to see the kids every day!" I was proud of him and his good choice.

We all had such a great time celebrating Kathleen's birthday. And the best part was, the party was just starting! We'd planned a big birthday barbecue for Kathleen at my house on Saturday, so the fun was just beginning.

OK, fine, I'll admit it

Today is my birthday. I'm not exactly proud to say I'm 40 years old today, but I'm not all that embarrassed to say it either.

Forty's kind of a funny age. When I was a kid, 40-year-olds were grandmas and grandpas, or just about. 40-year-olds were oldsters, dining and retiring to bed early. They weren't, well, me.

Truth is, I don't feel all that different than yesterday, when I was still young, hip and in my 30s. (OK, I was never really all that hip, but I was still in my 30s. Nowadays, I'm more worried about breaking a hip than being hip.)

What has changed is the way I celebrated my birthday. When I was a little kid, I always had swim parties, with lots of friends and a pinata. When I turned 16, my friends threw me a surprise party, which I loved. When I turned 18, I celebrated because I could finally vote, and I did exactly that in November, for Michael Dukakis (turns out my vote didn't help).

When I was 21, I started the celebration early, at midnight, at a bar, with some friends and a shot of liquor somebody lit on fire. (What better way to prove I was finally a responsible adult than to drink my 21-year-old self into oblivion?) The last big milestone, 30, was also accompanied by shots, but at a much nicer bar, where my good friends had rented out the patio. The theme was over the hill, which didn't seem so funny at the time.

But this year, the celebration was much tamer. It started Thursday night, when my friend Cindy brought a huge beach scene birthday cake to book club. I couldn't stop smiling!

Then yesterday, I had a family barbecue, hosted by my cousin Kathleen and her boyfriend Tim. Tim cooked up some tasty tacos, and Kathleen made all the side dishes. (My aunt brought a yummy cake cooked by Mrs. Albertson's, who sometimes provides our Thanksgiving feast.) There were children running everywhere, and their parents (my brothers and sisters-in-law) sitting close by. My parents were there, too, and as I surveyed the yard, I felt so proud, and happy. It was perfect.

I even got a lovely striped goblet with a polka-dotted 40 on it, wearing a little party hat. I loved that. I loved it even more when I discovered my goblet held a full beer! I immediately proclaimed that I'll be drinking out it for the next week straight, and that it's coming with me to Alaska, where I'll be celebrating my birthday with friends. (I tell everyone I picked Alaska for its beauty, but really, I've heard the average age of tourists there is like 65 -- which will make me a young, hot mama!)

And today, the actual day, was pretty good, too. I got a lot of birthday wishes, by email and by phone, including a happy birthday song that degenerated into howling dogs. (Good job, Hannah and Nick! :-)

Maybe that happiness I felt all day Sunday was the real gift this year -- the contentment of turning 40, without all the showy trappings (or hangovers) of other milestone birthdays. I got the best gifts of all yesterday -- laughter, memories, and being surrounded by family. And I got a pretty spiffy goblet, too.

(And yes, so far, I've kept my promise -- I lugged my goblet to dinner with me to dinner tonight.)

Nice hat

I was walking Mark to school this morning when he pointed out some oddly groomed shrubs. "They look like fish skeletons," he said, and I nodded in agreement.

"Or like trees in a Dr. Seuss book," I said. They had that wacky cartoon-esque quality to them.

Suddenly, a kid zipped by us on his scooter. That in itself was not unusual; but the tall red-and-white striped hat he wore was. It was the same one worn by the Cat in the Hat, one of Dr. Seuss' best known characters.

I smiled and thought it was a funny coincidence, until another kid walked by sporting a similar hat. I smiled again, but this time it was a quizzical grin. Seemed kinda weird that we mentioned Dr. Seuss, and then two kids immediately appear wearing those hats.

Half a block later, three more boys passed me wearing the hats. It freaked me out a little. I've seen a lot of silly things walking Mark to school -- parents skipping, parents riding skateboards and scooters, parents dressed in pajamas, little kids in costume. But I'd never seen one (let alone five!) kids wearing the same goofy hat!

I wasn't the only one confused, though. As I approached the crosswalk, the crossing guard called out, "What's with all these crazy hats?"

I shrugged and answered, "I don't know!"

It wasn't until I got home that I remembered something I'd read on Mark's school calendar. I couldn't find it, though, so I had to wait until I got to work to confirm my suspicions.

As soon as I logged on, I opened Google, intending to search for "Dr. Seuss' birthday." As it turns out, I didn't need to. The Google banner was transformed into this:


And suddenly all the hats made sense. Obviously, there's a birthday party at school today, even if the guest of honor won't be there.

Happy birthday, Dr. Seuss!

Happy Birthday!

Today is Mardi Gras, and normally, I'd celebrate with a plethora of plastic beads and a King's Cake. But this year, I'm celebrating with a birthday cake instead. It's Mark's birthday, and today, I am the proud mother of a 9-year-old boy.

I woke him up by singing "Happy Birthday," and to my dismay, he rolled over in his bed, pulling the pillow over his ears. (Hey, I'm no American Idol, but my singing's not that bad!)

"No, Mom!" he shouted through the pillow. "No!"

"What do you mean, 'No'?" I asked. "It's your birthday! I think you're legally obligated to wake up happy."

But he was having none of it, not even when I gave him his first present.

"Since it's your birthday, I'm giving you a choice," I said. "You can sleep in late this morning, or go get donuts for your birthday breakfast."

And, in typical Mark fashion, he asked, "Can I do both?"

Now, let me just tell you, the only thing that boy loves more than his cat Frankie or sleeping in late is a donut. Sometimes he'll stop whatever he's doing, look up to the skies with glazed-over eyes, and say dreamily, "Donuts -- I love donuts!" I think it was the first thing he bonded with my dad over -- their mutual love of donuts.

Eventually, he chose donuts over sleep. He hopped out of bed, and danced around his room. He brushed his teeth while singing, and dressed very quickly, shaking his booty at me. He even drank his morning shake without complaint when I said I couldn't send him to school all jacked up on fried dough and sugar alone. (He's gotta have some protein, or he'll go low by 10 a.m.)

And finally, he was ready. We drove to the donut shop, where he took one look at the display and asked, "Can I have two donuts?"

"Sure," I said. It's his birthday, and I was feeling magnanimous.

It took a few minutes, but he finally decided on a maple bar and a devil's food covered in coconut. He sat at the table, still singing and wiggling in anticipation. "I looooove donuts!" he reminded me.

He savored the maple bar, licking his fingers between bites so he didn't miss a single bit of it. He took a while to eat it, and when he finally finished it, he patted his belly and blew out a long breath.

"You okay?" I asked, and he nodded.

"I'm getting kinda full," he said.

"Well, you don't have to eat the second one," I told him.

He looked at me like I was insane, and threw his arms into the air. "What are you, CRAZY?" he shouted. "OF COURSE I'm gonna eat the other one!" He shook his head in disbelief. He couldn't believe I'd even suggest such a thing.

He took about three bites of the coconut one, then looked back over at the display and sighed.

"I should've got a glazed one," he said wistfully.

"You can get one next time," I said.

"When? In another YEAR?" He shook his head at me again. I swear, he may be newly 9, but he's got the teenage attitude pefected already.

Finally, after watching him take the smallest bites ever for 20 minutes, I insisted we leave. I wanted him to have a few minutes to run all that sugar off on the playground before class started.

I dropped him off across from school, and watched him run along the sidewalk, racing my car to the crosswalk. He danced across the sidewalk, and I just smiled.

There's goes my 9-year-old, I thought to myself. And I smiled at the happy, confident, loving little boy he's grown into.

Happy birthday, little man. Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Party time!

If you heard a loud, joyous noise earlier today, fear not. It was not a thundering stampede or even the wild cries of dogs wailing at the sky while fireworks rain down. Yes, the cries belonged to wild beings, but they were not beasts; rather, they were 15 9-year-old boys (and two girls) set free in a room full of inflatable bounce structures.

That's right, it was Mark's birthday party today, and I have to say, it was pretty darn fun. We went to Pump It Up, a private warehouse full of inflatables. They had a bounce house for the little kids, a bigger one for the bigger kids, an obstacle course, and my favorite, a giant slide.

The boys arrived full of energy and ready to bounce. First they watched a video explaining all the rules, including what to do when the whistle blows (stop), what to wear at all times (socks), and if it was okay to push five kids down the slide at once (no). Of course, each time the video asked these questions, the kids yelled the opposite answers back at the T.V. My 2-year-old nephew Johnny didn't like the rules at all, and jumped up to smack the T.V., to the delight of the 9-year-olds. Johnny fit in really well with the big kids!

Then it was time to let loose. The door opened, and the screaming kids ran into the room, scattering. They climbed the obstacle course, they bounded up, then down, the slide, they raced across the obstacle course until they were sweaty and red in the face. Then they raced across it again, flinging themselves down the slide at the end.

It was sheer madness! There were kids flying past me in every direction. I saw Mark zip past with a couple friends, and then saw him perched at the top of the slide, ready to descend. He let out a whoop, and flew to the bottom. He was quickly followed by three other boys.

Mark had a blast, tumbling down the slide and boxing giant inflatable punching bags. But he was never in one place for long, and people kept asking me where he was. (The answer was always the same -- a vague hand wave in the distance, and the phrase, "He's over there -- I think...")

He had such a good time, he bounced himself a little low. I fed him granola bars before we got there, trying to boost his blood sugar so he wouldn't go low from all the jumping. It almost worked, until at one point, I found him lying alone in the bounce house, not moving much.

"You okay, buddy?" I asked. "You feel low?"

"No," he answered. "I'm just tired."

Which is a low blood sugar symptom. I insisted on checking him -- but he refused to come out, so I finally just tested the finger he shoved out the bounce house entrance. He was 73, and lunch was still half an hour away. So I juiced him up, fed him another granola bar, and sent him on his way. Poor kid, diabetes wouldn't even let him celebrate his birthday without feeling sick.

I followed Mark to the giant slide, just in time to see these three jokesters come down:

They were laughing their heads off, and I couldn't help laughing, too.

"Come on, Heather, you've gotta try it!" Kathleen shouted. So the next thing I know, I was climbing up the slide, and then zipping down at an alarming speed. There was a speed bump at the bottom of it, which I completely rolled right over. When I reached the bottom, I couldn't even get up, I was laughing so hard.

It was hilarious! And fun! I tried it a whole bunch more times; once with baby Carver, once with Kathleen, once with Vic, and a couple times by myself. And as only I could do, I managed to hurt myself -- I scraped my arms along the inseam, and gave myself a road rash down my whole arm! I loved that my grownup friends had just as much fun as Mark's friends. I loved seeing a third-grader fly down the slide, immediately followed by one of my laughing grown friends.

After 90 minutes of jumping, the kids were exhausted and hungry. However, they managed to pose for this very nice group shot before running off to lunch:

As soon as we said go, they were running off to the lunch room, where many pizzas awaited. The kids wolfed it down faster than we could replace it! Jonah told me he ate five pieces, and Kyle walked by with pieces 8 and 9. Mark told me Kyle was trying to break his previous record of seven pieces!

"Don't throw up, Kyle!" I warned. I was thankful the jumping part was over!

They also scarfed down strawberries, grapes and lemonade. I turned around at one point to see five boys in a circle lifting their shirts and rubbing their swollen bellies. "My stomach's soooo FULL!" said one boy, patting it lovingly.

But they weren't too full for cake! Back to the tables they went, to demolish a mint chocolate chip ice cream cake. I still can't believe they had any room left...

When they were all good and sugared up, it was time to leave. I gave Scott a box of goodie bags to hand out, and the kids clamored around him, hands out.

"Me, me!" they shouted. "I want a bag!"

"Let me hear you bark like a dog!" Scott told them, and suddenly, the room was filled with barking. "No, bark like a BIG dog!" Scott said, and the barks got much bigger. He rewarded them each with a bag.

It was an awesome day. Mark had a great time with all his friends, and it was just as much fun watching him run rampant with them. He was in heaven -- things to bounce on, climb on, and slide down. I'd worried that he and his friends were too old for a bunch of bounce houses, but they proved me wrong. They loved every minute of it, even trying to sneak back in after lunch.

He was equally excited about his gifts, which included plenty of Star Wars Legos, a few Nerf guns, and other cool stuff. He also got some gift cards and even a semi-inappropriate birthday card. He was thrilled with it all, and spent the afternoon building Legos and shooting Nerf arrows at us.

I'm sad to see my little guy growing up so fast. But if it means watching him enjoy a day like today, among his friends, eating pizza and ice cream, and running wild, then I guess it's a small price to pay. I loved every minute of it, hanging out with my friends and family, watching my boy have so much fun. I loved watching him jump and play, blow out his candles, rip open his presents. And I loved being able to say, "Yep, it's my son's birthday" for the fourth year in a row.

A tough choice, because the cuisine is so similar

Last night, Mark was discussing where to go for his birthday dinner. He gets to pick any restaurant he wants, and I have to suffer through it. So I was pleasantly surprised to hear his choice.

"I want to go to the fritter place," he told me, and my stomach replied, "Yay!"

It's a quaint little restaurant with a country-esque interior and an outdoor patio with a koi pond. The cuteness also extends to the food presentation. Each dinner comes with a salad, and an accompanying basket of fresh veggies. You choose the ones you want in your salad, and the waitress whips it up at the table.

They also make amazing yeast rolls, and fried chicken with mashed potatoes to die for. However, their specialty, as Mark noted, are the fritters (he doesn't even know the restaurant's real name, he just calls it "the fritter place"). They're little round balls of dough fried up and dusted with powdered sugar. It's about as close to eating a donut for dinner as you can get, and the waitresses pass them out liberally.

So I was VERY happy with his choice. Until he scratched his chin and said, "Or maybe I'll pick Taco Bell instead. Ummmmm, TACO BELL!" He actually licked his lips at the thought.

Damn! I was so close!

I'm actually very proud of how far his culinary appreciation has grown in 3 1/2 years. When he first moved in, all he would eat was boxed mac n' cheese and hot dogs. Peanut butter and mayonnaise or peanut butter and butter sandwiches were frequent requests. (I could never bring myself to make either -- I literally gagged at the thought!)

But sloooowly, his tastes became more refined, until one day he told me, "Hmmm, we haven't had a crab feast in a long time." A few days later, he requested, and finished, an entire filet mignon, and I realized I must be careful what I wish for, because my wallet was feeling the pain of my little foodie's increasingly sophisticated palate.

I wasn't totally shocked by the Taco Bell request -- mostly because last year he chose KFC for his birthday dinner. I shared the wealth on that one, inviting my parents and family along. I treated them all, because heck, it was my only son's birthday dinner, and that's how I roll. (OK, and because none of them would go if I didn't promise to buy!) I got a fried chicken dinner all right, but in no way did it resemble the delicacy served at the fritter place.

And so we'll see which restaurant wins out. Come February 24th, I'll either be dining al fresco beside the koi pond, or inside, on a hard plastic bench, next to the drive-through window.

And the party location is...

...Pump It Up!

I took Mark to Pump It Up, and he surveyed the room. "OK," he said slowly, still a little unsure.

"Oh, there's also a giant slide around the corner," a Pump It Up employee pointed out. "Check it out!"

"OK, I'll have my party here!" Mark exclaimed suddenly, and I turned the corner to see what made him...well, turn the corner.

I was not surprised to see video games. Mark's idea of a great afternoon with his friends is to play video games and totally ignore them. I constantly remind him that Sonic the Hedgehog is not a real friend (not even if he can fly like Superman).

Whatever. I didn't tell Mark the video games are extra, and that I'm supplying him with pizza, cake and jumping, not quarters. I know he'll talk someone into giving him quarters (he always does), but I also know he'll jump around like a madman with his friends when we get there. (He hates to be left out of anything!)

So now my conscience is clear, and my deposit is safe. I don't care if Mark said yes because of video games, I'm just glad he said yes. I know he and his friends will have a great time.

And we'll probably have this very same conversation next year, when he cries because I've scheduled his party at a [bowling alley, ice skating rink, roller skating rink, fill in the blank] when he really wanted it at -- WAAAAAAHHHH!!!! -- PUMP IT UP!

And for my next trick, I'll ruin Christmas

Talk about the road to Hell being paved with good intentions...

Mark's 9th birthday is coming up, and we've been discussing party plans. He wants a skating party like last year, even though I've suggested other new activities such as bowling, ice skating, you name it. Each suggestion was met with, "Maybe...no, I want a skating party."

Until I found a really cool place called Pump It Up. It's a party place filled with inflatables kids can jump on for two hours straight. It sounded perfect for a group of hyperactive 9-year-old boys! And it seemed even more perfect when I told them my party date, and they said they'd just had a rare cancellation.

"Usually, you need to book a party 3 to 4 months in advance," the woman told me. Come on, any place that requires booking that far ahead of time must be a blast.

I showed Mark the Web site, and he seemed all right with it. "OK," he said quickly. "I'll have my party there."

I asked if he was sure about it, and he said yes. "I have to call back today and put down a deposit," I warned. "So be sure!"

"I am!" he promised.

So I made the deposit, and finalized the plans. I was so excited to find a cool party place -- Mark can invite up to 25 kids, and adults are all free. I thought we were good.

Until I got home. Mark was sitting at the table when I casually mentioned that I had booked his birthday party at Pump It Up. He immediately burst into tears -- not exactly the reaction I was expecting.

"I wanted a skating party!" he wailed, and all I could think of was, "What the...?"

"You told me to book the party," I said. "You said you wanted to go here!"

"No, I said I wanted a skating party!" He wouldn't stop crying. He grew more and more upset, until he couldn't even talk, he was crying so hard.

So, great. Instead of Thoughtful Mother Who Planned the Perfect Birthday Party, I'm now the Mean Wicked Mother Who Ruined My 9th Birthday. (Guess I've given him more fuel for his tell-all Mommy Dearest book!)

Or, as I now like to call myself, Mean Wicked Mother Who's About to Lose Her $100 Deposit.

I know my sisters-in-law are much kinder souls, who all put their children's happiness first. I know all three of them would immediately cancel the party, take their kids out for ice cream, and apologize profusely for inflicting such stress upon them.

I, however, am a Dinsdale by birth (not marriage), which unfortunately means sometimes I think more like my brothers than like my sisters-in-law. And in this case, I reacted the same as my brothers would, which is to say, "It'll be fun, you'll like it, SUCK IT UP!"

I've never wanted to say suck it up more than I wanted to last night, but I bit my tongue instead. The dang kid kept crying, and I started thinking, Geez, I'm going to hear about ruining his birthday for the rest of my life!

But I'm still kinda mad about the whole thing. I mean, it's not like I picked a jail or work camp to hold his party -- I wouldn't have it somewhere he'd hate! I honestly thought he'd have a great time there -- he's always the first kid in the jump house whenever we see one, and the last kid out. I didn't purposefully pick a rotten party venue just because I hate roller skating parties (which I don't, for the record).

If he really wants a skating party, I guess I'll give in. However...I'm not giving up that $100 deposit without a fight!

"How about a compromise?" I asked. He finally stopped sobbing long enough to hear me out.

"What if we go to Pump It Up on Saturday and look around? If you absolutely hate it, I'll cancel the party." He wiped away his tears, and nodded.

So we're going on a field trip Saturday morning. And I'm sending out party invitations this weekend -- even though I'm not sure where the party will be!