Kick the bucket

Yesterday Mark was mouthing off a bit, so I rewarded him with a chore. "You get to water the plants," I told him, and he grimaced.

He was outside all of two minutes before the complaining began.

"Mom, where's the thing?" he called out.

I had no idea what he was talking about, but sometimes it's easier to answer than ask for clarification. "I don't know," I called back.

Apparently he found it, because soon enough he asked if I would tighten the sprinkler nozzle on the garden hose. "It's leaking!" he shouted. "Come tighten it."

I know Mark, who's a real-life example of what happens when you give a mouse a cookie. I'd tighten the nozzle, then he'd ask me to show him how to water, and pretty soon, I'd be doing all the work while he was playing basketball. So I stood my ground, pretending to read the newspaper.

"Try tightening it yourself," I answered. "You're a strong kid, use those muscles."

Momentary silence, which was interrupted by Mark informing me the hose was broken.

I sighed, and reminded myself to respond to the situation, not to react. (I've been reading my Have a New Kid by Friday book.)

"The hose works," I responded. "I've been watering the backyard with it for six years."

"Six years, huh?" He snorted. "Then I guess you broke the hose."

"If the hose doesn't work, find another way," I suggested.

He seethed outside for a couple minutes, then stomped inside and demanded to know where I put the watering can. When I reminded him he'd used it last, with his Grandma, he stopped looking and picked up the phone.

"Fine," he said, smirking. "I'll call Grandma, and she'll tell me where it is. What's her number?"

I shrugged. "You can call her if you know her number."

He stared at the phone for three minutes, then put it down. He walked into the kitchen, scrounged around the cupboards a few minutes, and found this:

I kept reading, and listened as he filled it with water, then dumped it out. He refilled it, and I heard another long whooooosh as he dumped another gallon of water down the drain.

"What are you doing in there?" I asked.

He answered with a loud, "GRRRRRRR!" and resumed slamming the cabinets again. Finally, he stomped by with this:

Mark brought it outside, and filled it five or six times with the hose. When he finally finished, he scooted away before I could find another task for him. I never did find out why he kept dumping the bucket water down the drain...

...Until this morning, when I put the bucket away, and noticed noticed two large cracks in the bottom. He wasn't pouring the water out of the bucket, it was just draining itself.

I always say Mark spends 30 minutes plotting to get out of a two-minute chore, and this was a prime example. He didn't even need a sprinkler head on the hose in the first place; most kids would've simply watered the plants with the hose.

But not my boy. Just goes to show that sometimes, if you give a mouse a cookie, he'll bake a cake instead.

At least nothing died

Last night when I got home, I smelled a peculiar odor. Couldn't place it, and it got stronger as the night went on.

It was even stronger this morning, and I was afraid maybe something died in the living room ceiling. Now that thought put a panic into me--I can handle needles, blood sugar tests, even the occasional vomiting cat, but dead things...well, those send me over the edge.

I cautioned Mark about the smell, and left him to his breakfast. (A strawberry Ensure shake, which he loves, and can eat easily and quickly.) After breakfast, he proudly told me that he'd watered the living room plants. I was pleased that he'd used his extra time productively.

That is, until I walked past the ficus tree. The dirt had a strange tint to it, and as I walked closer, I realized I'd found the source of the offensive smell.

I hurried outside with the plant, only to discover that the strange tint in the dirt was a pinkish color--it looked strangely familiar. In fact, it looked EXACTLY like Mark's strawberry shake. What he'd neglected to tell me was that he'd "watered" the plants with his breakfast!

I don't know why he poured it in there--"I was full" was as close as I got to a confession. What's more troubling is that he was closer to the sink than he was to the plant. If he'd poured it down the sink, I never would've known he didn't drink the whole thing. And who the heck pours stuff in plants, anyway?? (I'll tell you who--little boys!)

I just sighed. At least this explained the scary low blood sugar he had yesterday morning, when he slipped down to 40 just an hour after breakfast (in-range blood sugar is between 70-150). I poured him a small glass of milk to replace the missing carbs from the shake.

Now I have to think of a fitting punishment for him. I feel bad for the kid, I really do--because of his diabetes, he doesn't get the luxury to stop eating when he's full (I ask him before every meal how much he's going to eat, and bolus appropriately--and he can always eat more later if he's still hungry). But If he's been bolused with insulin, he HAS to eat, or he goes low, with some pretty serious consequences. He doesn't get to say, "I'm not hungry" like other kids and go off to school, where 2 hours later, his grumbling stomach tells him maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

But tell that to the poor ficus, who just wanted a little water this morning, and instead, ended up with an extra dose of strawberry shake.