How do you say "ironic" in Spanish?

My Mark is not known for his work ethic. He'll spend 45 minutes scheming to get out of 10 minutes of chores, and he can't understand why that drives me crazy. 

He's equally lazy when whether the work is mental or physical. For a long time, I thought "Just tell me" was an endearing nickname he'd given me, because he repeats it so often during homework time.

"Mom, how do you spell 'Christmas'?" he'll yell, and then groan when I answer, "Sound it out."

"Just tell me!" he'll say, exasperated, and then he'll say, "Fine, 'C-r-i-s-m-u-s-s,'" knowing full well that bad spelling is my pet peeve. As much as it pains me, I don't give in, because I want him to learn. (Ha, joke's on me, he'll never learn!)

So when I told him to do his Spanish homework last weekend, he resisted. He waited until the very last minute on Sunday night before he finally started it.

And I knew, as he sat before the computer doing the work, inevitably, he'd ask for the answers.

"Mom, what does 'perry-so-so' mean?" he asked, two minutes into it.

"Look it up," I answered, at the same exact moment he was saying, "I DID! I CANT FIND IT!"

"Sound it out," I said next. "Pre-ci-oso. What does that sound like?"

"Um, precious?" he asked.

"Yup," I answered. (I'm not 100% sure that's accurate, but my little old Mexican aunt always called me preciosa, so I'm going with precious.)

Then Mark frowned. "It's actually perezoso," he said. "What does--" He stopped, knowing my answer, and grumbled instead, "Why do I have to look it up? Why can't you just tell me? Geez!"

And then, I heard him laugh.

"It means 'lazy'" he said, pointing at his book. "Perezoso means lazy!"

"Now that is funny," I answered. "Since you were so lazy about finding the definition."

Mark continued his work, translating sentences about people and then picking the word that best described them based on their behavior. 

"Miguel le gusta el deporte, pero no hablar por teléfono o jugando juegos de video. ¿Cómo es él?" Mark read, then correctly translated it. "Miguel likes sports, but does not like to talk on the phone or play video games. What is he?"

He stopped, looked at me and said, "What! Who doesn't like videogames?? Or talking on the phone? Miguel's a weirdo!" 

Mark shook his head, but then selected the correct description, Él es deportista. "Miguel is a sports guy," he told me, then said, "OK, I'm done."

"You're not done," I said, redirecting him back to his chair. "Keep going."

Mark clicked on to the next question. He read it out loud, sending us both into a fit of laughter, because it said this:

"Mark doesn't like to work," I laughed.

It was hilarious, and so very fitting. Of all the Spanish names they could've used, they picked Mark, and boy, were they right. My little Marcos spent 20 minutes begging me to just tell him the definition of perezoso, and why? BECAUSE MARK DOESN'T LIKE TO WORK. MARK IS LAZY.

Some moments are teachable moments, and some--like this one--are both teachable and awesome. 

Just ask Marcos. 

Voicemail

I am fortunate to work at home sometimes, a fact I do not always share with my son. Because when he does know I'm at home, I get phone calls like these, which kept beeping in while I was on a phone meeting for work.

9:24 a.m.: "Hi Mom, this is Mark. So, um, I forgot my homework at home. Can you bring it to class? Unless you're in the shower...or at the grocery store. Then can you bring it afterwards?"

9:27 a.m.: "Hi Mom, my mistake. I DO have my homework. So, um, yeah. So, get out of the shower as soon as you can. So, bye."

9:31 a.m.: "Mom, I spaced again, I DID lose my homework. So, bye. Yeah, homework."

I found his homework, and double-checked his name was on it so I could leave it in the school office. It definitely had a name on it--Matt.

So at least Matt will be happy when I bring it to school. Mark, on the other hand, will still be looking for his homework.

Presidential knowledge

What I love most about my 10-year-old son is his confidence. In Mark's own opinion, he's an expert in just about anything important or interesting.

Like the President of the United States, for example. He had to write a short descriptive paragraph about someone or something, and he chose the President.

I knew it was going to be an awesome paragraph as soon as he started it.

"Hey Mom, how do you spell 'Barack Obama'?" he called out to me.

"Just like it sounds!" I yelled back.

I could hear him spelling it out loud. "B-A-R-A-K O-B-M-A," he said.

"There's a C in Barack," I told him. "And Obama is exactly like it sounds--O-ba-ma."

"That's what I said," he told me, voice dripping with condescension.

He started in on the second paragraph. "Barack Obama was the first African-American President," Mark read. "He's got a wife and two kids."

He paused for a moment, thinking. He then followed that up with, "Ummm...that's it, I guess."

"Two sentences is not a paragraph," I reminded him. "What else do you know about the President?"

"I don't know," Mark shrugged. "He owns the White House?"

I sighed. This was going to be a long discussion.

"He lives in the White House, he doesn't own it," I explained. "You don't know anything else about Obama? Come on, you went to his inauguration, you've gotta know something!"

Mark shrugged.

"One more sentence," I ordered. "Where's he from?"

"I dunno."

"I'll give you a hint: He was a Senator from a state you have friends in."

Mark lit up. "Oh, Maine!" he answered.

"No!"

"Arizona?"

I shook my head.

"Florida?" he asked, hopefully.

"Try again."

He thought long and hard, then asked, "Big Bear?"

"No, the President is not from Big Bear!" I said, stifling a giggle.

"I give up," he said. "I don't have any other friends anywhere."

"Yes, you do," I chided him.

"Oh!" he said suddenly. He started writing furiously, then looked up with a smile. I was glad he'd finally thought of our friends the Brunks in Illinois.

"'Obama lives in the White House in D.C.' Done!" he said.

I sighed. "I thought you were gonna write where he was from," I said.

"I don't know where he's from," Mark said. He closed his notebook, and said, "You said one more sentence, so I'm done."

I wonder if this is the same process other Presidential biographers follow when they write.

The Book Report (from hell)

Last month, Mark told me in horror that his teacher expects him to read an ENTIRE book and write a book report about it EACH AND EVERY MONTH.

"That's like, 12 book reports!" he gasped.

I reminded him school's only nine months long, so he actually has nine book reports due. I then wondered aloud (based on his miscalculation) if one of those books could be a math book.

Last month's book report was a rousing success, if you are a card-carrying member of the Mean Mom's Club. What started out as loving, encouraging support ("You can do it! We'll read together!") quickly melted down into a yelling, screaming session at 9 p.m. the night before the report was due. I'm pretty sure I threatened to take away everything Mark owns, including his skateboard, his cat, his college education, and any future children he might have, if he didn't write the damn report RIGHT NOW.

I kicked myself mentally afterwards for being such a horrible mom. Then I realized redemption was possible with the next report. I vowed to be a nicer mom with the second try.

And Mark lapped it up. He loved the positive reinforcement, and the genuine encouragement I gave him. We began on October 1st, so that he would have the whole month to read the book. We planned to write a quick summary of each chapter, so that when it came time to write the report, he'd have notes to remember the entire story by. Things were going wonderfully, right up until October 15th.

"Look, Mom!" Mark said that day. "Check out the cool books I got from the library today!"

I looked over the two Garfield books.

"Where's your Chet Gecko book?" I asked, referring to his book report book.

"I turned it in so I could get these," he said.

"How are you going to finish your book IF YOU DON'T HAVE IT??" I asked. Calm down, I told myself. Loving and supportive moms always remain calm, even in cases of extreme adversity.

The light of recognition went on in his little head. "Uh oh," he whispered. But he quickly recovered, and said, "I'll check that one out again on Monday."

Which gave him exactly 10 days to finish the book AND write the report. It had taken him two weeks to get through six chapters--there was no way he'd finish the book in 10 days. I declared it happy hour, and opened a bottle of wine.

By the beginning of this week, I gave up. I realized, sadly, that my kid is the kind of kid who has to learn lessons the hard way. I could keep nagging him about that dang report, and it would probably get done. And then I could repeat that same harping for the rest of the school year.

Or, I could give him a little tough love. Let him suffer the consequences, and get the lesson out of the way now.

I chose the latter. I emailed the teacher and explained there's a really good chance Mark won't turn his book report in on time. I asked not for leniency or deadline extensions, but for consequences. Good consequences if he finished it, other consequences if he did not. Luckily, the teacher was on the same page, and assured me there would be consequences if the report was not turned in.

And so here we are, three full school days later. The good news is Mark finally finished the book yesterday. The bad news is that he spent every morning and lunch recess on the red line to do it. Which meant that because he's not playing during those breaks, his blood sugar's also been through the roof (If ever you needed living proof that exercise lowers your blood sugar, Mark's your man).

But the upside is I haven't had to micromanage it. I got to let go of the issue, of all the stress. I got to let Mark own up to the problem, and realize that while I was here to help, it wasn't my job to make sure it got done. And I got to watch him fix it without yelling and screaming at him, and then regretting it all later.

I think we both learned our lessons.

Cash incentive

Molding and shaping a kid takes a great deal of work, and even more patience. Because I spend most of my day working full-time, commuting between work or Mark's extracurricular activities, feeding a child who's a bottomless pit, and late-night blood-sugar testing, patience is the one thing I am most often lacking.

As a result, some important things in our household (such as homework) take a hit. Mark's attitude toward homework is much more casual than my own. His attitude plus my limited patience results in more arguments than I'd like to admit.

I turned to my wise friend Kelley for help. She came back with some stellar advice.

"Pay him," she said. "You keep telling him that school is his job, so pay him for it."

"Pay him?" I asked.

"Yes. Instead of allowance, pay him for his homework. If he does his job, he gets paid. If he doesn't, he pays you," she explained. "Make homework his responsibility, not yours."

It was so simple, it was genius. Mark is all about instant gratification -- the whole allowance-once-a-week model doesn't work for him, anyway. Mark's used to being poor all week, then blowing his entire allowance in a single purchase. But what Kelley was proposing -- money every day -- would work. I raced to the bank and brought home a fat wad of $1 bills to pay him with.

It's been about three weeks now, and it's totally working! There have been a few blips, where Mark actually paid me when he didn't finish his homework on time. But mostly, he's earned his daily dollar. Now, when I pick him up from kid's club, he greets me with, "I finished my homework!"

Yesterday he showed me his homework, and went over each page he'd completed.

"Good job, buddy!" I said. I hugged him, then praised him lavishly, telling him how proud I was, and how I'd known he could do it.

He just smiled and waited for me to finish. When I did, he held out his palm, smiled, and said, "There's a better way to thank me." He wiggled his fingers expectantly and waited for the dollar I owed him.

I immediately burst into laughter. Apparently, the Kelley Incentive Plan is working.

Maybe a little too well.

Just peachy

Or, "The Only 5 Adjectives You Really Need to Know."

Mark brought home his homework last night, which is always a test in patience (mine -- and I don't always pass that test!). When he works at home, his brain goes completely blank, and it turns into a guessing game. ("What's 5 x 2?" I'll ask, and he'll answer, "8? 12? 16?")

Last night, we tackled adjectives. Mark needed three adjectives to describe himself, his best friend, a recent trip, his teacher and his Halloween costume.

He'd filled out the adjectives for himself -- "cool," "peach," and "funny." ("Peach" refers to his skin color -- last year he told me his friends were brown and black, and that he is peach.)

But after working a couple minutes, it was obvious he needed some help. I explained to him what adjectives are ("they describe a noun -- this blue coat, this gold box, this small car, this silly boy") and he nodded his head, as though he understood me. I was pretty proud of my teaching skills.

"OK," I said. "Now tell me three words to describe your best friend, Josh."

This completely stumped him. "Um...." He scratched his head, and picked up a little car from the table. "I brought these cars to dinner so that --"

"No! No cars!" I told him. "Focus on the adjectives. When you think about Josh, what one word do you think about?"

"Oh!" Mark exclaimed. "The playground! And one touch! We like to play one touch during recess."

Did you notice the adjective in that sentence? No, neither did I.

"OK," I said. "Let's try again. I will say a sentence, and you will complete it with ONE WORD. ABOUT JOSH. Got it?" Mark nodded.

"OK. Josh is..."

I looked at him expectantly. He shrugged.

I was starting to lose it a little. I tried again. "OK, why do you like to play with Josh? Because he's what?" I was fishing for "nice," "funny," "playful," something.

"He likes one touch," Mark told me.

"OK, let's try something else. What does Josh look like?"

"He's peach," Mark said.

"You already used that one," I said.

"How about pink?" Mark asked.

"What does his hair look like?" I asked, and Mark answered, "It's kinda curly. It's actually really curly, and then it -- "

"One word answers!" I yelped. I was searching for a hair color or length, but I got a shrug instead.

And so Josh's adjective became "curly." I guess that's not an actual descriptive word for Josh, but at this point I didn't care.

By the time I finished the next two questions, Mark had figured out what adjectives were, and had used the same five for the rest of the answers. They were:

• Cool
• Funny
• Awesome
• Peach
• Pink

"You've used all those already," I told him. "You can't use them again. Keep thinking."

At this point, my voice was rising and my patience had worn thin. My parents were staying with us, and my mom came over to relieve me. "Let me try," she said.

She rocked! She did much better than I did, by giving Mark descriptions, and having him say the opposite. It worked really well.

"My teacher is mean," she said. "Your teacher is..."

"Nice!" he answered.

"My teacher is dumb," she said. "Your teacher is..."

"Smart!" He was getting it now.

But he still couldn't quite pare them down to one word answers yet.

"My teacher is short," she said. "Your teacher is..."

"Tall!" Mark answered. "Well, kinda medium-ish, actually. He's not really all that tall -- "

My mom snapped him back before he could keep rambling. "He's tall," she said definitively, so Mark just nodded.

And so he finally completed his homework with my mom's help, not mine. I tried, I really did, but there's a reason I'm a writer and not an educator, like my parents were. I may not be able to help Mark with his homework, but I could help him write a novel. Even if he won't be able to describe it when it's done.

I can just hear it now. "My novel is...peach."

My son, the redneck

Today was my conference with Mark's teacher. It was before school, so Mark was off to Kid's Club for a little early morning playtime. That is, until I realized he had five unfinished math pages (and two spelling) left in his homework packet (all due tomorrow).

So I parked him outside the classroom instead. "Get to it," I said, handing him the packet. He was already grumpy about getting up early, and man, did this push him over the edge.

The conference went really well. I am happy to say that Mark's doing very well in class, and that the letter E (for Excellent) was liberally sprinkled throughout his report card. I was most happy to see those Es in the behavior sections--I don't think Mark's ever received an E for behavior or listening before!

But that wasn't my only surprise. Mr. Robinson showed Mark's improvement from his noun pre-test to his post-test. In the pre-test, he couldn't describe a noun. In the post test, he correctly identified it as a "person, place, or thing" and gave some examples. I scanned the sheet--he'd named his principal (person), San Diego (place) and beer (thing).

Yes, beer! My face turned bright red, and I sunk down a bit into my seat. I quickly flipped the paper over, hoping Mr. Robinson hadn't noticed it (duh, he graded it, OF COURSE he saw it). I said a silent prayer to the god of vices (Bacchus?) and hoped no others revealed themselves in his classwork.

I fumbled to change the subject. "Well, um, how's his writing?" I asked.

Mr. R told me what I already knew--Mark's got a lot of potential, but he's sloppy. (Hi, ring a bell?) He handed me some writing samples.

I scanned them, grateful to be away from the beer sheet. However, the blood instantly rushed back into my face as I read over a paper called "The Gun Day." It was a narrative describing a day he'd gone shooting with his Uncles Scott and Brad. It was descriptive, passionate, and completely false. (He's never held a gun in his life, much to his dismay.)

He should have called it "The Big Lie Day," which would've been more accurate. At least he was smart enough to include the line, "My mom did not go shooting with us, because she does not like guns."

Mr. R was so impressed with Mark's printing that I didn't have the heart to tell him the story was made up. I chalked it up to creative writing, although I will insist all future writings must be non-fiction, unless specifically noted otherwise.

I left the conference happy, very proud of Mark's improved behavior. I was all smiles, ready to congratulate him, until I saw his empty chair. The only sign of him was the backpack on the desk.

"Hmmm, he must've gone to the bathroom," Mr. Robinson said, but I knew better. I knew my little beer-swilling, gun-toting redneck was not on an innocent potty break; he'd skipped parole and was out playing with the other little hoodlums on the playground.

Which was exactly where I found him. I marched him over to the benches, where he sat on a time-out, fuming. I realized I'd probably star in his next writing sample, in a completely unflattering light.

Whatever. As long as he spells my name right (M-E-A-N M-O-M), I'm cool with it.

Hocus pocus

I'm happy to report that we went to a magic show at Mark's school last night.

Happy mostly because it meant Mark finished his math homework, a condition to our attendance. He was furiously scribbling on his worksheet with an orange pencil when I arrived, surrounded by a crowd of wide-eyed children holding their breath, watching him race the clock.

As I walked across the room, Mark yelled out, "I'm almost done!" and the kids all whipped their heads around to look at me. Obviously, he'd relayed the dire consequences, because as I approached the table, a little boy told me solemnly, "I did my homework, and I'm going to the magic show tonight."

"Good job," I told him. "I hope we're going, too!"

I said that because "I'm almost done" means either a) Mark really has four pages of homework left, or b) he actually is almost done. I can't tell which until I look over the pages, and I guarantee that Mark will be equally indignant that I dare to question either option. That's what happened Monday night.

"How many pages did you do today?" I asked him Monday, on the way home.

"I'm almost done!" he told me, happily.

But when I checked, he'd only completed two pages. "You still have nine pages left," I told him. "That's not even CLOSE!"

"Yeah, I did two pages," he repeated, like I was an idiot. "That's what I said, I'm almost done!"

And so we had our own math lesson, wherein I explained that 11 - 2 = 9, and 9 / 2 = 4.5. "You must do five pages tomorrow and four pages Wednesday. Can you do that?" I asked.

He snorted. "I can do that, easy! I can do it with my eyes closed!"

I glanced at the two pages, which looked like that's how he'd done it. "OK, but please do it with your eyes open," I said. I was afraid the only part of the conversation he'd remember was the eyes closed part.

Luckily, when I arrived today, he really was almost done. He had one row of problems left, and since I was 15 minutes early, I let him finish.

I'm glad I did, because the magic show was really fun. Families piled onto the lawn, enjoying their pre-show picnic dinners. The kids danced around and asked, over and over again, "When's the show gonna start?" Without fail, every parent answered the same: "As soon as you finish your dinner!"

The magician put on a great show. We watched in amazement as he chopped off a little girl's hand, which she displayed, intact, moments later. He made another kid levitate, then pulled his own two children out of an empty box. He even turned the school principal into a bunny rabbit, which made the kids scream excitedly. They screamed even louder when the principal reappeared, nibbling on a carrot.

So I'm glad Mark finished his homework. It was a fun evening out there on the lawn, munching popcorn and laughing at lame magician jokes.

I even imagined myself as a magician for a few minutes. Dressed in black clothes and a sparkly vest, I moved easily across the stage, as the smoke machines spewed puffy clouds dramatically.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, for my final trick!" I'd wave my wand toward Mark, and say, "On the count of three, my trusty assistant will make his finished homework appear!"

We'd all count to three and POOF! Mark would pull his completed spelling words and sentences from his backpack. The crowd would burst into applause, and I would bow gracefully. I'd thank the cheering crowd, and my assistant, and we'd exit stage right, before the raucous clapping stopped.

Hey, c'mon, a mom can dream...