Abducted by aliens

Summer camp ended last week, and there's a two-week gap until school starts. So what to do with the kid during that gap? You guessed it, call in my mom -- Super Grandma!

Yes, she gets superhero status. She's earned it -- not only is she a babysitter extraordinaire, she's also a bit hyperactive. She simply can't sit still. Which is awesome for me, with my sorely-lacking domestic and organizational skills. Within an hour of arriving, she'd already straightened out the contents of my kitchen cabinets, and was eyeing the plants in the backyard. I knew they'd succumb to her pruning and clipping soon enough.

Mark was also thrilled about Grandma's visit. He loves her visits, at least half the time (the half when she's giving him cookies, taking him on long scooter rides, and letting him watch T.V.). The other half he tolerates, just barely, gritting his teeth and groaning at all the chores she gives him. I love watching it -- she gives him a task, and where he'd sass me for similar orders, he simply bites his tongue and completes it. He knows better than to talk back to Grandma -- as he told me once when he was 5, "Grandma doesn't take any crap!"

The afternoon she arrived, Mark sauntered into the office, complaining he was bored, which meant Grandma was watching what she wanted to on T.V., and not the Disney Channel. I suggested that if he was so bored, he could water the plants in the backyard. He balked at first, until he realized it wasn't really a suggestion. I warned my mom he'd be spraying the hose all over the backyard shortly.

Next thing I know, Mark appeared in the office, asking for an old towel.

"Why do you need a towel?" I asked, confused.

"To dry off the windows," he answered glumly. Apparently Grandma thought "watering the backyard" meant plants only, not windows.

I gave him a towel.

Soon enough, he returned with another request.

"Grandma needs a hammer," he said.

This alarmed me. "Why?" I asked, worried. I hurried outside to investigate.

Turns out Mark watering the backyard turned into Mark watering the windows, which turned into Mark drying, then cleaning the windows under Grandma's supervision. My mom took down some screens and couldn't put them back in; hence, she wanted to hammer them back in.

I ordered them both back inside before they broke my windows or anything else. Mark hadn't learned his lesson, and proclaimed he was still bored. But he took one look at Grandma, ready to assign him another task, and quickly corrected himself.

"I mean, I'm not that bored. I'm not bored at all," he clarified. "I'm gonna go play in my room."

I smiled, pleased with his Grandma's positive influence. And the influence has continued -- today, Mark was up, dressed and fed when I awoke, and his bed was neatly made. He was sweet, happy and charming, not part of his usual morning ritual.

"Who is this kid?" I asked my mom, shocked.

"I don't know," she answered. "I think Mark was abducted by aliens."

I smiled and said, "Well, I'm glad they left such a well-mannered kid in his place."

I'm really gonna enjoy the next couple weeks...

Last days

This was Mark's last week of school, and it was a veritable junk food fest at school. Monday was root beer float day during c lass, followed by cupcakes in after school care. Tuesday was cake day. Wednesday was another cupcake day, and yesterday was Slurpees at lunch followed by more cake in the afternoon.

Needless to say, Mark's blood sugars have been all over the place, and he's had a fairly constant sugar buzz going since Monday.

Today, however, was the crash.

Today is the first day of summer vacation, and so far, it's been a dreary one. It's cold and gray outside, and as of 11:30 a.m., there have been no parties or celebrations yet. Mark is not a happy camper.

Instead, he has the excruciating task of spending the day at home while I work. (Summer camp starts Monday.) He is less than thrilled by this.

At first he was happy. He jumped out of bed at 7 a.m. and rushed to the T.V. (He recently discovered that getting up before me allows him some prime cartoon-watching opportunities.) After breakfast, he decided to check on his Webkins, and started up my lap top. He was again very happy, but his mood switched when the computer shut down due to a low battery.

And....cut to the world's unhappiest child.

"I'm SOOOOOOOO bored!" he sighed, since all entertainment had stopped exactly three minutes earlier. "There's nothing to do..."

"Find something," I told him. "I'll make lunch in 20 minutes, but find something to do until then."

He sighed again, then said in his snottiest voice, "Let me guess -- nothing with screens, right?"

"No screens," I agreed, and was met with another, "There's nothing to do."

I nipped that in the bud -- my son has a flair for the dramatic, and he could repeat that one phrase for the rest of the day. Instead, I sent him outside to water the plants, knowing full well how that would turn out.

I heard it almost immediately -- the hose splashing water against the windows instead of the plants. (Drought? What drought?) I also knew that in a few short moments my son would enter the h ouse sopping wet, after converting the front porch into a small lake. He walked in the front door like a zombie, arms raised from his sides, and told me he needed to change shirts.

All that took exactly 10 minutes -- only five more hours to fill!

I offered him lunch, but he declined. Until five minutes later, when he was suddenly ravenous and about to keel over from starvation.

"Test your blood sugar and I'll feed you," I said but he howled, "NOOOOO! I don't want to test, I just want a snack!"

"GO TEST!" I warned. "You'd better be really high or really low!" From his crabby behavior, I expected to see either 400 or 50. Instead, he was 159 -- right on target. He was just being grumpy all on his own.

Silently, I went back to work. No point trying to reason with Mr. Grumpy Pants in this mood.

Soon enough, I heard him rattling around in the kitchen, and calling out, "Don't we have any other bread?" He found a loaf in the freezer and started making his own lunch.

"Whatcha making?" I asked.

"Peanut butter and butter," he answered, trying to annoy me. I stifled my gag reflex and returned to the office.

And now we have the whole afternoon before us. Mark has finished his lunch, including some hot Cheetos. It was only half a bag, but enough to bring back his junk food buzz, and he's once again a happy little kid. (Paging Dr. Jekyll! Paging Mr. Hyde! Pick up your tickets, the Mood Swing Express is about to leave the station!)

Hot Cheetos hands -- messier than jazz hands!

We're off at lunch to buy a new Boy Scout uniform (he's becoming a Webelo, for those of you who speak Boy Scout), and I'm pretty sure that won't go well either. I am fully anticipating a meltdown at the store when I ask him to try on the new uniform without the reward of a root beer float, cake or cupcake.

Sigh. Life is indeed tough for my poor, bored kid who never has any fun at all.

Sometimes the cure hurts worse

I'm proud to say we walked 31 miles to help cure diabetes yesterday! (OK, it was actually only 3.1 miles, but it felt like 31.)

It was the American Diabetes Association's annual Step Out walk, a fundraiser for diabetes education. But when you're a little kid, that's kind of a broad concept.

"So we're raising money to cure diabetes?" Mark asked, and I nodded. He was cool with that.

My cousin Kathleen, ever the good sport, walked with us. We melted into the large crowd, which was very inspiring. People wore team shirts and memory stickers-- "I'm walking in memory of my mom" or "I'm walking for my daughter." There was a boy from Mark's school with his team--"Roman's Motley Crew"--all dressed in blue shirts. It was impressive to see how many middle schoolers (and even the school nurse!) he'd dragged out of bed early on a Saturday morning to join him.

We did a group stretch and headed for the starting line. They rang a bell, and we were off.

It was a gorgeous day--sunny, and warm. We walked along the ocean, taking in the beautiful views. You could only go as fast as the people surrounding you, so it was a nice, leisurely pace. Mark, ever the rebel, decided to walk just off the path, in the dirt next to us.

That was mile 1. It went pretty quickly, but soon, Mark slowed down a bit. I thought he was going to complain, but then he saw a water station. Talk about motivation! He bolted through the crowd, and grabbed a bottle of water--there's nothing that kid loves more than free stuff.

Unfortunately, even the water couldn't distract him for long. Ten minutes later I heard the words I'd been dreading for the first time.

"How much longer?" Mark asked.

"You're doing great, Mark!" I replied, cheerfully. "Isn't it great how many people are walking to cure diabetes?"

But he wasn't falling for it. He just growled.

Kathleen and I resumed our conversation, but it wasn't long before the next interruption.

"How much further?" asked Mr. Grumpy Pants. "This is boooooring..."

"Not much," I lied. I pointed to the ocean, and encouraged him to look for dolphins or seals. I reminded him how I saw a dolphin at this very spot and he responded--yes, again--with another growl.

Now he was walking 10 feet behind us, and grandmothers were passing us. Seriously! I'm not talking young, fit, first-time grandmas here--I'm talking older, stooped, white-haired grandmas, pushing frail, elderly grandpas in wheelchairs, followed by ADULT grandchildren!

I did my best to ignore Mark, silently pulling Kathleen to the side to wait whenever he got too far back. "Come on, buddy!" I called to him. "The faster you walk, the faster we'll find the cure!"

(Which yes, I'll admit, is a flat-out lie, but whatever. You motivate with whatever works!)

Only it wasn't working. We passed mile 2, and I called out, "Only 1 mile left! Keep going!" It didn't help at all. In fact, he started falling even further behind.

By mile 2.75, I was starting to drag a bit. I was getting hot, my shoe was rubbing a blister into my foot, and waiting every five minutes for Mark to catch up was wearing thin. Kathleen took over the inspiration baton--"Think how good it'll feel when we complete the whole thing!" she called out. "Come on, Mark, keep walking!"

By mile 3, Mark finally caught up to me, and grabbed my hand with his own sweaty little one. "How much looooonger?" he whined, tugging at me, and I automatically answered, "We're almost there..." Luckily, he saw the water station again, and raced for another free water, even though he was already clenching a half-full bottle.

Now walk volunteers were manning the route, clapping and cheering us on. "You're doing great!" they shouted, "It's almost over!"

Instead of inspiring me, their cheeriness irritated me. "Why are they so damn happy?" I asked, grumpily, and Kathleen (who was still chipper) answered, "Because they didn't walk anywhere!" I thought of our own cheerleading role at the marathon last week, and wondered how many walkers we'd irritated.

But in the end, we made it. I tried to challenge Mark--"Let's race to the finish!" I called, but he wasn't having it. Kathleen and I crossed the finish line to cheers and ringing cowbells, and Mark sauntered in after us. "You got beat by a couple of old ladies," I told him, but he just shrugged.

And so we did our part toward raising awareness and finding a cure for diabetes. Mark talks a lot about what will happen when they do find a cure. As for me--well, I just hope when they do find the cure, it doesn't turn out to be at the end of a 3.1 mile line. Because if it does, I know a certain little boy who really will have diabetes for the rest of his life!

I'm bored...

Most people know me as Mark's Mom, an all-encompassing term for chauffeur, cook, housekeeper, laundress, story-reader extraordinaire, band-aid applicator. (I'm also a pretty good carb counter and yes, I CAN estimate the total carb count of your entire lunch in less than 20 seconds--skills that are woefully underappreciated by general society.)

I think of myself as Mark's personal assistant. My boss may be little, but he is outspoken. He debates even the simplest seemingly-non-debatable suggestions ("Why do I always have to wear clean socks??") and is shocked when I insist he repeat tasks on a daily basis ("Why do I have to feed the cats EVERY night?"). I've read that celebrity personal assistants also have immature, demanding clients but to them I say--"PFFFT!! Stop your whining, you get a paycheck and you can actually quit your job."

But my young prince himself likens me more to a court jester--someone whose sole purpose in life is to allay his boredom and keep him entertained.

Now this, as you may guess, is not a role I enjoy or encourage. I remind him that he does, indeed, possess an active imagination, an overstuffed bookcase, and a room full of toys, an observation that is met with the same blank stare every time.

Yesterday we went to lunch with some friends. It was a beautiful day, and afterwards, we decided to take the little water taxi around the bay. We waited for the boat, and I pointed out the little fish in the water and the big paddle boat moored beside us. Mark just shrugged.

Then the water taxi arrived. It cost two bucks, and lasted an hour--a pretty good deal, I thought. We putt-putted across the bay in a boat, and saw a seal sunning himself next to some giant pelicans. We saw an old Russian spy submarine, and a gigantic cruise ship with a twisty water slide on top. We saw people fishing, and having family picnics. We saw a bright yellow power speed boat. We saw the jutting downtown buildings and the coast all the way up to the pier and beyond. I thought it was pretty cool--definitely worth two bucks, and way more fun than sitting around the house doing nothing.

My bored son disagreed. The water taxi was only fun as long as he teetered precariously along the edge while I faced the other way. It was also fun when he provoked me into chasing him as he leapt from the back of the boat to the front. And of course, it was fun when he pretended to throw his plastic cup into the water so many times that Edra took it away from him.

But as soon as I strongly "invited" him to sit down and live (vs. running around and being strangled), the fun stopped. He looked at the captain and asked when the pilot was gonna start the boat again. He corrected himself--"I mean, the sailor"--but then decided it didn't matter what the guy was called, his job was obviously to torture Mark. All interest in the pilot/sailor ceased.

"Here we go!" I announced brightly when the sailor started the boat up again, but Mark was done. He laid down on the bench with great flourish, ensuring he could see nothing but my knees. And then, with a huge sigh, he rolled his eyes at me, and silently wished he was anywhere else in the world but on this boring boat.

Soon enough, we were home. Mark immediately asked if I wanted to play cards, or shoot baskets, or play something else. "I'm tired," I told him. "Go find something to play with."

And with that, my young child--the same boy I could not convince to sit anywhere near me on the boat--pouted and stomped off. "You NEVER want to play with me!" he hissed, and somewhere, I just knew there was a pilot/sailor shaking his head sadly.