They were bright, comfy, and kept my child warm. They were no mere utilitarian garments; they were fashion statements. They offered shelter from the wind, and on days when he needed protection from the cold, or from a yelling mother, a place he could zip up and hide in. They served him well. And now, they are gone.
I'm talking about Mark's sweatshirts. I've written before about his propensity for losing things, especially clothes. But these sweatshirts...the rate at which he loses these is baffling. It's mind-numbing. These sweatshirts are a particular albatross around my neck.
It all started in kindergarten, shortly after I got Mark. I loaded him up with school uniforms, including inexpensive blue sweatshirts. And although the kid returned home from school each day, his sweatshirts did not.
It's frustrating, especially because Mark refuses to wear long sleeve shirts, which means he's cold a lot. I used to worry about him being cold, but then one day, I had an epiphany--if he really was that cold, he'd wear a frickin' sweatshirt, instead of recklessly abandoning it on the playground.
So Mark being cold doesn't bother me any more--if he's cold, he's old enough to do something about it (callous, I know). But it bothers the school staff, who kindly ask if Mark has any warm outer garments at home, or gently suggest Mark might benefit from a jacket on such a cold day. To which I always respond, "I send him to school with a sweatshirt every day--it's his responsibility not to lose it between here and home." They think I'm mean, but I don't really care.
It got so bad that one wintry morning, as Mark headed off to school shivering yet again, I let him have it. I told him if he didn't come home with an armful of sweatshirts, he'd better not come home at all.
What I meant was an armful of his sweatshirts. But he took me literally and came home with an armful of blue sweatshirts--none of them his. He simply scooped up every blue sweatshirt in the lost and found bin.
They included all three kid's sizes and even an adult-sized medium. Whereas I'd only bought him solid pullovers, he brought home an assortment of plain zip-ups, and pullovers and zip-ups with the school logo. These most certainly were not his sweatshirts, but at that point, I didn't care. I figured the other school kids were out there wearing Mark's lost sweatshirts. I looked at it more as a trade--an exchange--than an outright theft.
But now even those sweatshirts are gone. In a weak moment, I let Mark talk me into buying him some Old Navy hoodies; a lime green one that looked like a pigeon pooped on it; a black one with a basketball outline on it and a brown one with an eagle. His Auntie Edra gave him a cool brown Tony Hawk sweatshirt, which he recently tried leaving in a restaurant (we rescued it, only to have him lose it again last week). You guessed it, they are all gone, gone, gone as well. (Gotta admit--I wasn't sad to see that ugly green one go...)
And so begins a new era. Tomorrow morning, at 8:20 a.m., we will leave the house for school, and Mark will return to wearing an uncool, inexpensive blue pullover sweatshirt. He will not only balk at that, he will downright refuse, citing the fact that all the other kids are allowed to wear whatever they want. (To which I'll reply, "Yes, they wear what they want everyday because THEY BRING IT HOME!")
No matter where you are in the country, I'm sure you will hear him scream in indignation that he is soooo not wearing that stupid blue sweatshirt to school. And then he will go about purposefully "forgetting" or "losing" said blue sweatshirts at school.
Which will prompt the second wave of screaming, shortly before winter break, when Mark is told that thank God he gets such a generous weekly allowance, or else he wouldn't possibly be able to replace all those sweatshirts himself.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Introducing the newest blogger on the Internet...
It's Mark! He's been asking me all week to set up a blog for him. He says he wants to write some of his own stories. So I did, and here it is:
http://allthefunihave.blogspot.com/
I'm not sure how often he'll update it (he got a little frustrated with all the typing, so I had him narrate instead), but enjoy. The good news is, he's not nearly as verbose as I am (online, anyway) so I'm sure his blog entries won't be as long-winded as my own. :-)
http://allthefunihave.blogspot.com/
I'm not sure how often he'll update it (he got a little frustrated with all the typing, so I had him narrate instead), but enjoy. The good news is, he's not nearly as verbose as I am (online, anyway) so I'm sure his blog entries won't be as long-winded as my own. :-)
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Chistmas kicked my butt today
(It kicked Mark's booty, too...)
We started the morning with Mark's Cub Scout den, selling fresh mistletoe in front of Trader Joe's. I worried that Mark would whine or complain (because this involved actual work), but he did great.
At first, he was only interested in the money box. He wanted to arrange and rearrange the bills. A few people asked what we were selling, and Mark said, "You can sell it, Mom." I reminded him that no one wants to buy mistletoe from a grown woman--they want to buy it from cute little Cub Scouts.
I gave the kids some advice--smile big and hit up all the moms and grandmas. They can't resist a clean-cut boy in a uniform. Be polite, say thank you. And make eye contact with every person who walks in or out the exit.
It worked! We sold about 100 bag in just under two hours. The boys got very creative, shouting out, "Mistletoe for sale! Only one dollar, and NO tax!" I thought that was a very smart sell, considering the economy.
We only lost one sale the whole morning, when a woman explained what mistletoe is for. "You hang it up and kiss whoever walks under it," she teased, comically puckering up at Mark. He ran away quickly, bag still in hand.
After lunch, we put up the house Christmas lights. I climbed up the little step ladder hanging them while Mark followed behind, handing them up to me. He was very helpful, even warning me not to fall (like last year, when I almost knocked myself out) or cut myself on the broken orange light.
Then it was time for the big Christmas purchase--the TREE! We went to the same lot as last year, because they delivered our tree for a couple extra bucks. Except it was a different group selling trees this year! Dang it. I couldn't figure out how to get a tree home in my little compact car. I drove over to Lowe's to buy myself some time, and perhaps think of a solution.
The solution was...to toss safety out the window! Literally. When you buy a tree, they wrap it up in a mesh bag until it's a skinny little fir tree roll. I figured if I bought a medium-sized tree, I could toss the tree in the back seat, let it hang out the window a bit, and we'd be home in no time, tree (and car) intact.
I just forgot one little thing--the backseat is where Mark sits. And he was not very amenable to riding back there with a Christmas tree on top of him (spoilsport!).
Which left him...the front seat. When we grew up, not only were kids allowed to ride in the front seat, they fought to ride in the front seat. Every car ride of my childhood began with one kid screaming "SHOTGUN!" three other kids groaning, "Awww! No fair!" and one parent yelling, "Just get in the damn car!"
Back then we didn't have fancy front seat airbags--hell, we didn't even have seatbelts. (Or even, for me and my little brother, seats!) But nowadays, they put graphic images of little kids being squished to death by said airbags on the sun visor. Everywhere you turn in the car, it's telling you don't let kids under 12 in the front seat.
Well, those instructions are completely not helpful when it comes to Christmas trees and compact cars. I estimated the ride home was short--only five minutes-- which I've driven a thousand times without an accident.
So front seat airbags be damned, we threw the tree in back, sticking out the window, and Mark in the front seat. He was thrilled. He told me very seriously he wanted to watch me push every button (apparently, he thinks that's how you drive a car), then he set about pushing every button himself.
"What's this button do?" he asked, changing the radio station seven times in a row. "And is A/C on? What's A/C? What's Auto? Can I lock my door?"
It felt kinda funny to have him riding next to me--for once, I didn't feel like his chauffeur. I asked him to stop touching everything--between that and the tree flapping out the window, it was just too distracting. But I let him roll down the window, which he promptly stuck his head out of, and did his best dog impression with the wind whipping through his hair.
Soon enough we were home, and the tree was ceremoniously displayed and decorated. We drank hot chocolate and listened to Christmas music, which he mocked by asking, "Is this your boooooyfriend singing?"
"Yes, this is Harry Connick Jr.," I told him. "Don't talk about your daddy like that!"
In the end, I was really tired, but the house looks great. I am glad to be done with the big Christmas tasks (OK, well, maybe not shopping), even if I have to take it all down again in three or so weeks. But in the meantime, I enjoyed the outside lights and the fresh pine smell inside. And, most of all, I enjoyed the helpful little elf by my side all day.
We started the morning with Mark's Cub Scout den, selling fresh mistletoe in front of Trader Joe's. I worried that Mark would whine or complain (because this involved actual work), but he did great.At first, he was only interested in the money box. He wanted to arrange and rearrange the bills. A few people asked what we were selling, and Mark said, "You can sell it, Mom." I reminded him that no one wants to buy mistletoe from a grown woman--they want to buy it from cute little Cub Scouts.
I gave the kids some advice--smile big and hit up all the moms and grandmas. They can't resist a clean-cut boy in a uniform. Be polite, say thank you. And make eye contact with every person who walks in or out the exit.
It worked! We sold about 100 bag in just under two hours. The boys got very creative, shouting out, "Mistletoe for sale! Only one dollar, and NO tax!" I thought that was a very smart sell, considering the economy.
We only lost one sale the whole morning, when a woman explained what mistletoe is for. "You hang it up and kiss whoever walks under it," she teased, comically puckering up at Mark. He ran away quickly, bag still in hand.
After lunch, we put up the house Christmas lights. I climbed up the little step ladder hanging them while Mark followed behind, handing them up to me. He was very helpful, even warning me not to fall (like last year, when I almost knocked myself out) or cut myself on the broken orange light.
Then it was time for the big Christmas purchase--the TREE! We went to the same lot as last year, because they delivered our tree for a couple extra bucks. Except it was a different group selling trees this year! Dang it. I couldn't figure out how to get a tree home in my little compact car. I drove over to Lowe's to buy myself some time, and perhaps think of a solution.
The solution was...to toss safety out the window! Literally. When you buy a tree, they wrap it up in a mesh bag until it's a skinny little fir tree roll. I figured if I bought a medium-sized tree, I could toss the tree in the back seat, let it hang out the window a bit, and we'd be home in no time, tree (and car) intact.
I just forgot one little thing--the backseat is where Mark sits. And he was not very amenable to riding back there with a Christmas tree on top of him (spoilsport!).
Which left him...the front seat. When we grew up, not only were kids allowed to ride in the front seat, they fought to ride in the front seat. Every car ride of my childhood began with one kid screaming "SHOTGUN!" three other kids groaning, "Awww! No fair!" and one parent yelling, "Just get in the damn car!"
Back then we didn't have fancy front seat airbags--hell, we didn't even have seatbelts. (Or even, for me and my little brother, seats!) But nowadays, they put graphic images of little kids being squished to death by said airbags on the sun visor. Everywhere you turn in the car, it's telling you don't let kids under 12 in the front seat.
Well, those instructions are completely not helpful when it comes to Christmas trees and compact cars. I estimated the ride home was short--only five minutes-- which I've driven a thousand times without an accident.
So front seat airbags be damned, we threw the tree in back, sticking out the window, and Mark in the front seat. He was thrilled. He told me very seriously he wanted to watch me push every button (apparently, he thinks that's how you drive a car), then he set about pushing every button himself.
"What's this button do?" he asked, changing the radio station seven times in a row. "And is A/C on? What's A/C? What's Auto? Can I lock my door?"
It felt kinda funny to have him riding next to me--for once, I didn't feel like his chauffeur. I asked him to stop touching everything--between that and the tree flapping out the window, it was just too distracting. But I let him roll down the window, which he promptly stuck his head out of, and did his best dog impression with the wind whipping through his hair.
Soon enough we were home, and the tree was ceremoniously displayed and decorated. We drank hot chocolate and listened to Christmas music, which he mocked by asking, "Is this your boooooyfriend singing?"
"Yes, this is Harry Connick Jr.," I told him. "Don't talk about your daddy like that!"
In the end, I was really tired, but the house looks great. I am glad to be done with the big Christmas tasks (OK, well, maybe not shopping), even if I have to take it all down again in three or so weeks. But in the meantime, I enjoyed the outside lights and the fresh pine smell inside. And, most of all, I enjoyed the helpful little elf by my side all day.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The difference between kids and adults
Yesterday, Mark heard a radio announcer talking about Hanukkah. I explained what Hanukkah is (yes, for you, Kelley!), but didn't get much past the eight nights of gifts.
"Wait, they get presents for EIGHT NIGHTS?" Mark interrupted.
"Yup."
"Well, I'm Jewish," he said.
I looked at him, and said, "I know for a fact you are not Jewish."
"I'm HALF Jewish," he clarified.
"Well, then you get presents for four nights!" I told him.
But when he realized there's no Santa involved in Hanukkah, he sold out his Jewish heritage pretty quickly.
He was still thinking about holidays when he got home, and asked which my favorites were.
"Um, Christmas and Thanksgiving, I guess."
He wrinkled his nose. "Mine are Christmas, Halloween and Easter."
It didn't take a genius to figure out why--two are centered around candy, and one around toys. You can't fault an 8-year-old for thinking in those terms.
He asked why I liked Thanksgiving more than Halloween or Easter, so I told him, "I get two days off work, and I get to spend them with the people I love most--our family and friends."
"Yeah, true," Mark agreed, but he still wasn't sold on it.
He talked about the letter he was writing to Santa, and his wish list. It was the same as last year--he wants a skateboard, iPod, and cell phone (doesn't matter that he has no one to call). Which lead to a little discussion of how Santa makes toys, not electronics, and maybe he should revise his list a bit or he might be really disappointed.
Mark asked what I want for Christmas. I gave the same answer--"To spend time off with my family and friends." I really meant it.
To me, that's the best present ever. A good bottle of wine, a warm cup of coffee, a shared meal--all those are better with family or friends. Watching my son, nieces and nephews tearing open gifts, or running through the house together. Laughing with my sisters-in-law about my family. Laughing with my brothers and parents about the kids. Laughing so hard with my friends that we snort, or the sound disappears altogether, and we hold our stomachs, laughing silently, like mimes.
Holding my friends' new baby boy, and watching him crawl for the first time, or sit up by himself. Catching up with friends I haven't seen in a while, and hearing about their lives over the past few months. Listening to them comment on how tall Mark's gotten, and how big his cousins have all grown, too. Sharing homemade cookies, or coffee cake, or an evening gondola ride and Christmas lights with my favorite people.
That is what I want for Christmas. I can't think of a better way to celebrate the season than spending time with the people I love most.
And that is what I'm giving Mark for Christmas, too--he may not appreciate it as much an iPod, not now anyway. But someday, when he and his cousins are grown and gathering together again; when Christmas Day includes all of their kids, their friends, and their aunts and uncles; when he realizes that a cell phone conversation is not as important as a face-to-face conversation; then, he will appreciate it.
And then he will know that even though his mom is a big sentimental baby, maybe she's right. Maybe there are presents that we already have, that Santa can't bring. And maybe we can be thankful for that every other day of the year, not just at Christmas.
"Wait, they get presents for EIGHT NIGHTS?" Mark interrupted.
"Yup."
"Well, I'm Jewish," he said.
I looked at him, and said, "I know for a fact you are not Jewish."
"I'm HALF Jewish," he clarified.
"Well, then you get presents for four nights!" I told him.
But when he realized there's no Santa involved in Hanukkah, he sold out his Jewish heritage pretty quickly.
He was still thinking about holidays when he got home, and asked which my favorites were.
"Um, Christmas and Thanksgiving, I guess."
He wrinkled his nose. "Mine are Christmas, Halloween and Easter."
It didn't take a genius to figure out why--two are centered around candy, and one around toys. You can't fault an 8-year-old for thinking in those terms.
He asked why I liked Thanksgiving more than Halloween or Easter, so I told him, "I get two days off work, and I get to spend them with the people I love most--our family and friends."
"Yeah, true," Mark agreed, but he still wasn't sold on it.
He talked about the letter he was writing to Santa, and his wish list. It was the same as last year--he wants a skateboard, iPod, and cell phone (doesn't matter that he has no one to call). Which lead to a little discussion of how Santa makes toys, not electronics, and maybe he should revise his list a bit or he might be really disappointed.
Mark asked what I want for Christmas. I gave the same answer--"To spend time off with my family and friends." I really meant it.
To me, that's the best present ever. A good bottle of wine, a warm cup of coffee, a shared meal--all those are better with family or friends. Watching my son, nieces and nephews tearing open gifts, or running through the house together. Laughing with my sisters-in-law about my family. Laughing with my brothers and parents about the kids. Laughing so hard with my friends that we snort, or the sound disappears altogether, and we hold our stomachs, laughing silently, like mimes.
Holding my friends' new baby boy, and watching him crawl for the first time, or sit up by himself. Catching up with friends I haven't seen in a while, and hearing about their lives over the past few months. Listening to them comment on how tall Mark's gotten, and how big his cousins have all grown, too. Sharing homemade cookies, or coffee cake, or an evening gondola ride and Christmas lights with my favorite people.
That is what I want for Christmas. I can't think of a better way to celebrate the season than spending time with the people I love most.
And that is what I'm giving Mark for Christmas, too--he may not appreciate it as much an iPod, not now anyway. But someday, when he and his cousins are grown and gathering together again; when Christmas Day includes all of their kids, their friends, and their aunts and uncles; when he realizes that a cell phone conversation is not as important as a face-to-face conversation; then, he will appreciate it.
And then he will know that even though his mom is a big sentimental baby, maybe she's right. Maybe there are presents that we already have, that Santa can't bring. And maybe we can be thankful for that every other day of the year, not just at Christmas.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Chop, chop
How do you know you have the best friends in the world? They leave work early to attend your son's cello recital!
Now that, my friends, is love.
I dropped Mark off backstage last night, where he changed into his dark pants and clean white shirt. The kids were all dressed up, hair slicked back, or filled with ribbons. They stood in a long line to get their instruments tuned. A teacher walked by and told them, "Looking good, smelling good--have fun tonight!"
Edra, Monica and Kathleen--Mark's proud aunties--attended the recital with me. It was packed--seriously mobbed! We arrived in time to snag the few standing-room-only spaces left. I saw Mark scanning the crowd for us, so I waved at him. He kept scanning, so Monica and I both waved, until finally he saw us, waving his cello bow at us.
Boy, were we in for a treat. First we listened to the 4th and 5th graders pluck their violins for about 15 minutes. Then we heard them bow the strings for another 15 minutes.
But the entertainment was also visual. Because seated on the stage steps were about 30 wiggly 3rd grade violinists, patiently waiting for their turn. Well, they were patient for about five minutes. Then they started squirming and whispering, being generally disruptive.
And in front of those 3rd graders, seated on metal folding chairs, were the 3rd grade cellists. Which included my son. Who could probably use a few lessons in concert etiquette.
At first, he, too, was fairly patient. He sat quietly, staring at the crowd, taking it all in. Pretty soon, he realized he was tired, and rested his head on the cello. But that wasn't much fun, so he started rolling his eyes and making faces at the crowd. Who must have responded positively, because he then showed them his cello-twirling abilities.
But my son is a social boy, and quickly tired of the solo performance. He needed some interaction, so he turned in his seat to talk to the violinists on the steps. Who were all trying to be good. And were trying not to respond to Mark. They either ignored him, or goofed around with the neighboring kids.
Which is when Mark realized the benefits of playing cello--the bow is much longer than a violin bow! And can be used to prod other children just out of reach. So he involved himself in the wiggling, squirmy mob by poking kids with his bow.
"Oh my God," Edra said, as she watched Mark. "I am going to go down there and sock him."
Except that the crowd was too thick. So I used my telepathic skills, willing Mark to look up at me, which he finally did.
I pointed two fingers to my eyes, then pointed them at him. From across the auditorium, I mouthed the words, "I'm watching you! BEHAVE!" He stuck his hands out, palms up, and mouthed back, "What?!?!"
But he got the message, and he knew I would stomp downstage and quiet him myself if neccessary. But before I could threaten him any more, the music teacher announced it was the 3rd graders' turn.
The violinists jumped up, and followed the teacher's steps to properly hold their violin. I can't remember all the steps, but they included things like "stop sign" (hold the violin out front), "airplane landing" (put in to your chin), "head flop" (put your chin down on the violin), "helicopter" (wave your bow in the air) and "chop chop" (put bow to instrument). They also demonstrated the "crab pinch" and plucked at their instruments. And of course, we were treated to some magical bowing as well.
My irritation at Mark's squirrelly behavior melted away as soon as he started playing. It was replaced with pride, and I'll admit, I got a little teary watching my little man "chop chop" and play the magical four notes they've practiced. He did so great! He waved his bow in the air, he plucked the strings, he kept his bow straight. He even paid attention! It was awesome.
I couldn't stop beaming. Afterwards, I helped him put the cello away. His aunties were waiting outside for him, and started applauding when he walked outside. He hugged them all and thanked them for coming, then we went to dinner to celebrate.
I love music, and I've been to a lot of concerts in my time. But I have to say, this was one of my all-time favorite performances ever.
Now that, my friends, is love.
I dropped Mark off backstage last night, where he changed into his dark pants and clean white shirt. The kids were all dressed up, hair slicked back, or filled with ribbons. They stood in a long line to get their instruments tuned. A teacher walked by and told them, "Looking good, smelling good--have fun tonight!"
Edra, Monica and Kathleen--Mark's proud aunties--attended the recital with me. It was packed--seriously mobbed! We arrived in time to snag the few standing-room-only spaces left. I saw Mark scanning the crowd for us, so I waved at him. He kept scanning, so Monica and I both waved, until finally he saw us, waving his cello bow at us.
Boy, were we in for a treat. First we listened to the 4th and 5th graders pluck their violins for about 15 minutes. Then we heard them bow the strings for another 15 minutes.
But the entertainment was also visual. Because seated on the stage steps were about 30 wiggly 3rd grade violinists, patiently waiting for their turn. Well, they were patient for about five minutes. Then they started squirming and whispering, being generally disruptive.
And in front of those 3rd graders, seated on metal folding chairs, were the 3rd grade cellists. Which included my son. Who could probably use a few lessons in concert etiquette.
At first, he, too, was fairly patient. He sat quietly, staring at the crowd, taking it all in. Pretty soon, he realized he was tired, and rested his head on the cello. But that wasn't much fun, so he started rolling his eyes and making faces at the crowd. Who must have responded positively, because he then showed them his cello-twirling abilities.
But my son is a social boy, and quickly tired of the solo performance. He needed some interaction, so he turned in his seat to talk to the violinists on the steps. Who were all trying to be good. And were trying not to respond to Mark. They either ignored him, or goofed around with the neighboring kids.
Which is when Mark realized the benefits of playing cello--the bow is much longer than a violin bow! And can be used to prod other children just out of reach. So he involved himself in the wiggling, squirmy mob by poking kids with his bow.
"Oh my God," Edra said, as she watched Mark. "I am going to go down there and sock him."
Except that the crowd was too thick. So I used my telepathic skills, willing Mark to look up at me, which he finally did.
I pointed two fingers to my eyes, then pointed them at him. From across the auditorium, I mouthed the words, "I'm watching you! BEHAVE!" He stuck his hands out, palms up, and mouthed back, "What?!?!"
But he got the message, and he knew I would stomp downstage and quiet him myself if neccessary. But before I could threaten him any more, the music teacher announced it was the 3rd graders' turn.
The violinists jumped up, and followed the teacher's steps to properly hold their violin. I can't remember all the steps, but they included things like "stop sign" (hold the violin out front), "airplane landing" (put in to your chin), "head flop" (put your chin down on the violin), "helicopter" (wave your bow in the air) and "chop chop" (put bow to instrument). They also demonstrated the "crab pinch" and plucked at their instruments. And of course, we were treated to some magical bowing as well.
My irritation at Mark's squirrelly behavior melted away as soon as he started playing. It was replaced with pride, and I'll admit, I got a little teary watching my little man "chop chop" and play the magical four notes they've practiced. He did so great! He waved his bow in the air, he plucked the strings, he kept his bow straight. He even paid attention! It was awesome.
I couldn't stop beaming. Afterwards, I helped him put the cello away. His aunties were waiting outside for him, and started applauding when he walked outside. He hugged them all and thanked them for coming, then we went to dinner to celebrate.
I love music, and I've been to a lot of concerts in my time. But I have to say, this was one of my all-time favorite performances ever.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Why moms yell, part 2
Tonight is the Winter Recital at Mark's school, which includes performances by the 3rd, 4th and 5th grade strings ensemble. (The violinists and cellists.)
When he handed me the concert flier last week, I asked, "Are you performing?"
He answered, "Yes!"
I asked, "Are you sure?" (He's only had 8 lessons--didn't know he was ready to perform in public!)
Again, he answered, "Yes!"
So, okay. I marked the recital on my calendar.
As we left the house this morning, I asked if he needed the cello.
"No," he said. "It's Tuesday--violin day."
"I know, but aren't you going to practice for the concert? Maybe they're holding cello lessons today, too."
He assured me they were not. I didn't believe him, and asked him three more times. He gave the same answer--no.
And so we walked to school. He was telling me a story about music class when suddenly he turned and said, "Where's my cello? Didn't you bring my cello?"
My inner voice screamed "ACK!!!!!" My hands twisted into lethal weapons, searching for his throat, but I shook off the imminent throttling. I bit my lip, then said, through clenched teeth, "You shed you din needit." (That's how "You said you didn't need it" sounds through clenched teeth.)
"I need it!" he shouted. "I have practice today!"
No kidding, I thought. That's why I asked you 10 times. But what I said was, "Fine. I'll drive it to school. If you are out front, I will give it to you. If you are not, I will drive on to work. Do you understand?"
He nodded yes. I headed back to the crosswalk, where the crossing guard said, "Wow, that was too fast! How'd you get back here so quick?"
"I didn't make it to school," I said. "I'm on cello-delivery duty." She laughed.
I dropped off the cello, and to his credit, Mark was waiting in front of the school for it. (He knows I'd have driven off to work with it!) I'm glad he was there, because honestly, I can't wait to hear the recital. I can't wait to see my little Yo-Yo Ma(n) in action!
When he handed me the concert flier last week, I asked, "Are you performing?"
He answered, "Yes!"
I asked, "Are you sure?" (He's only had 8 lessons--didn't know he was ready to perform in public!)
Again, he answered, "Yes!"
So, okay. I marked the recital on my calendar.
As we left the house this morning, I asked if he needed the cello.
"No," he said. "It's Tuesday--violin day."
"I know, but aren't you going to practice for the concert? Maybe they're holding cello lessons today, too."
He assured me they were not. I didn't believe him, and asked him three more times. He gave the same answer--no.
And so we walked to school. He was telling me a story about music class when suddenly he turned and said, "Where's my cello? Didn't you bring my cello?"
My inner voice screamed "ACK!!!!!" My hands twisted into lethal weapons, searching for his throat, but I shook off the imminent throttling. I bit my lip, then said, through clenched teeth, "You shed you din needit." (That's how "You said you didn't need it" sounds through clenched teeth.)
"I need it!" he shouted. "I have practice today!"
No kidding, I thought. That's why I asked you 10 times. But what I said was, "Fine. I'll drive it to school. If you are out front, I will give it to you. If you are not, I will drive on to work. Do you understand?"
He nodded yes. I headed back to the crosswalk, where the crossing guard said, "Wow, that was too fast! How'd you get back here so quick?"
"I didn't make it to school," I said. "I'm on cello-delivery duty." She laughed.
I dropped off the cello, and to his credit, Mark was waiting in front of the school for it. (He knows I'd have driven off to work with it!) I'm glad he was there, because honestly, I can't wait to hear the recital. I can't wait to see my little Yo-Yo Ma(n) in action!
Monday, December 1, 2008
Oh, happy day!
It arrived, it arrived!! A big manila envelope, stuffed into my mailbox Friday morning, with a return address reading "Office of Vital Records."
Vital, indeed--it contained Mark's new birth certificate. Which I've been waiting for since October 2007. Which I was first told would arrive in July, then September, then October, then finally January 2009 (maybe). Which I *may* have told a little white lie to expedite, in hopes of procuring a passport by next summer. (It was for the greater good, people!!)
But whatever, it's here, the final piece of the adoption puzzle--with this document and the adoption decree, let there be no doubt in anyone's mind that I am now, officially (according to the State), Mark's mom. (Huzzah!)
It was strange to see the birth certificate in person. I was expecting an amended certificate, something with the words "adoptive mother." But no, I am listed simply as his mother; the certificate looks like any other, with no caveat or disclaimer that this child is adopted or that this mother is not the biological mom. It reads as though I actually gave birth to the little guy myself!
Right there under all of Mark's information (time/date of birth, hospital and city of birth), are the words Mother: Heather Dinsdale, printed in black ink. It lists the mother's birthday (mine!) and her name (again, mine!) at the time of Mark's birth. The "father" field is completely blank--no mention of Mark's birth father at all.
The whole thing was kinda shocking--I am given far more credit in his birth than I deserve, and Mark's birth family is completely obliterated from the record altogether. It was very strange indeed, as though they never existed. Talk about re-writing history--I didn't know you could do that legally.
But, again--whatever. What matters most is that I now have official government-issued documentation of Mark's birth--one of those things birth parents take for granted, a legal record proving a child is theirs. The only proof I had before was a blurry, illegible photocopy of Mark's original birth certificate.
I immediately collected the certificate and other paperwork I'd started, and finished the task from last month--obtaining Mark's Social Security card. I'd already tried once, unsuccessfully. But I tried again today; I signed in to the Social Security office, received my number, and was promptly called to the window.
The window manned by the very same mean man who'd denied me Mark's new card last month! Talk about bad luck.
But I didn't want to fight today--I just wanted it done. And so, I did something completely out of character--I sat down, and shut my big mouth.
It worked! When asked, I silently pushed all the documentation toward him. The only time I spoke was when he asked about the father field.
"Father unknown?" he said.
Which I took as a personal accusation--you don't even know who the kid's father is?? In my head, I launched into a whole explanation about how Mark was adopted, and did have a father, but that the father was removed from the record.
Luckily, my filter was working, and my brain said, "STOP! He doesn't care--just say YES!"
And so I answered, "Yes, father unknown." And bit my tongue.
I was rewarded with a receipt five minutes later, saying the new card will arrive in two weeks. That was it--mission accomplished!
I about skipped out of the office. I couldn't believe how fast and easy the process was. I walked into the sunlight while visions of college plans danced in my head. (And visions of savings bonds, savings accounts, my son's future employment--all things are possible with a Social Security card!)
I didn't physically give birth to Mark, but you'd never know by looking at the certificate in my hand today.
Vital, indeed--it contained Mark's new birth certificate. Which I've been waiting for since October 2007. Which I was first told would arrive in July, then September, then October, then finally January 2009 (maybe). Which I *may* have told a little white lie to expedite, in hopes of procuring a passport by next summer. (It was for the greater good, people!!)
But whatever, it's here, the final piece of the adoption puzzle--with this document and the adoption decree, let there be no doubt in anyone's mind that I am now, officially (according to the State), Mark's mom. (Huzzah!)
It was strange to see the birth certificate in person. I was expecting an amended certificate, something with the words "adoptive mother." But no, I am listed simply as his mother; the certificate looks like any other, with no caveat or disclaimer that this child is adopted or that this mother is not the biological mom. It reads as though I actually gave birth to the little guy myself!
Right there under all of Mark's information (time/date of birth, hospital and city of birth), are the words Mother: Heather Dinsdale, printed in black ink. It lists the mother's birthday (mine!) and her name (again, mine!) at the time of Mark's birth. The "father" field is completely blank--no mention of Mark's birth father at all.
The whole thing was kinda shocking--I am given far more credit in his birth than I deserve, and Mark's birth family is completely obliterated from the record altogether. It was very strange indeed, as though they never existed. Talk about re-writing history--I didn't know you could do that legally.
But, again--whatever. What matters most is that I now have official government-issued documentation of Mark's birth--one of those things birth parents take for granted, a legal record proving a child is theirs. The only proof I had before was a blurry, illegible photocopy of Mark's original birth certificate.
I immediately collected the certificate and other paperwork I'd started, and finished the task from last month--obtaining Mark's Social Security card. I'd already tried once, unsuccessfully. But I tried again today; I signed in to the Social Security office, received my number, and was promptly called to the window.
The window manned by the very same mean man who'd denied me Mark's new card last month! Talk about bad luck.
But I didn't want to fight today--I just wanted it done. And so, I did something completely out of character--I sat down, and shut my big mouth.
It worked! When asked, I silently pushed all the documentation toward him. The only time I spoke was when he asked about the father field.
"Father unknown?" he said.
Which I took as a personal accusation--you don't even know who the kid's father is?? In my head, I launched into a whole explanation about how Mark was adopted, and did have a father, but that the father was removed from the record.
Luckily, my filter was working, and my brain said, "STOP! He doesn't care--just say YES!"
And so I answered, "Yes, father unknown." And bit my tongue.
I was rewarded with a receipt five minutes later, saying the new card will arrive in two weeks. That was it--mission accomplished!
I about skipped out of the office. I couldn't believe how fast and easy the process was. I walked into the sunlight while visions of college plans danced in my head. (And visions of savings bonds, savings accounts, my son's future employment--all things are possible with a Social Security card!)
I didn't physically give birth to Mark, but you'd never know by looking at the certificate in my hand today.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
I love a holiday weekend
Hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving!
Ours was a blast. My brother Scott smoked a turkey, which was wonderful, and made a red wine and mushroom gravy from scratch. To say that was amazing is an understatement--just ask Scott, whose first words to me were, "This gravy is amazing--you'll never replicate it. NEVER!"
I tried to answer that I wouldn't even try, but he cut me short with another "NEVER!"
Our turkey day was everything it should be--lots of family, lots of kids running around all crazy, great food. Mari made a wonderful cornbread stuffing, her mom brought her signature cheeseball, and Kathleen made an awesome corn soufflé. My mom made all the other traditional carb dishes--mashed potatoes, yams, rolls, etc. My contribution was providing the house, and washing the dishes. (Just for the record--no one lets me cook. Honestly--they don't even put up the pretense of assigning me a dish. They just ask if I've ordered the pies yet!)
Friday we caravaned up to Scott and Mari's cabin. We stopped off for lunch, and Mark promptly left his sweatshirt there--a sweatshirt which Scott had just given him back, along with a full bag of other belongings Mark had left at their house.
There was no traffic along the curvy road, so we felt like we had the whole mountain to ourselves. But it was cold once we got up there. We unloaded the cars (I brought a cooler full of leftovers) while Scott started up a big fire. He also fired up the giant projection screen, so we spent the afternoon by the fire, watching an 8-foot-tall version of Planet of the Apes. That was very fun, since Mark, my two nieces and my nephew, piped in a question at five second intervals.
"Where are the apes?" Gabi asked right after the opening credits.
"Is that a monkey?" Grant asked 30 seconds later. I told him there were no monkeys, just apes. ("It's called Planet of the Apes, not Planet of the Monkeys.")
"Apes are monkeys," Nathalie said, and I told her no, they're different. "Monkeys are the same as apes," Grant reiterated, and again, I said, "No, they're different--they're both simians, but they aren't the same."
"What's wrong with that lady?" Mark asked one minute later.
"They're apes, not monkeys; there are no apes yet; the glass on her chamber broke and let the air out. She's dead," Scott answered in one fell swoop.
But that didn't slow down the children's questions at all. They went into a full discussion of why the lady died. ("The gas broke," Grant explained. "No, the glass broke!" Nathalie corrected.) Then the scary music started and freaked them all out.
"Is this an appropriate movie?" Nathalie asked, while Mark proclaimed, "I'm not afraid of monkeys!"
"I see a monkey!" Grant yelled, pointing at the screen.
I just looked at Scott, who sighed. "They do the same thing at the movie theater!" he told me. "They never stop talking." Ten minutes and a hundred questions later, he flipped on Star Wars instead. The questions stopped immediately, since the kids have all seen that movie about a hundred times.
Saturday we went on a "hike," which consisted of a nice path around a little lake bay. The kids ran off the path immediately, grabbing up every rock they saw, and promptly tossing it into the lake. Within seconds, they had chased away every duck in the lake.
Grant stood on top of a sewage pipe jutting out of the sand, and said, "Look at this big shell!" Mari and I just laughed; it did kind of look like a shell.
Mari reminded the kids to stay away from the water, since we didn't have any extra clothes for them. "Remember how you lost your shoe last time, Grant?" she asked. "We had to wait an hour and a half for it to float across the bay." He nodded somberly. ("You waited for it?" I asked, and she said, "They were his favorite shoes!")
The only thing more tempting than throwing rocks in the lake was climbing the rocks in the lake. Giant rocks, in fact. We scurried across the inlet to climb some monstrous sized boulders. Mark, Nathalie and Gabi flung themselves up and down the rocks, while I tried not to envision them tumbling down the cliffs into the lake, or into the busy street. They had a great time; I had a better time when we finally climbed down.
We left the mountain late in the afternoon. Mark and I met up for dinner and a movie with Edra and Kathleen. We saw Bolt, which was kinda sad, but very funny.
And now, we still have one day of vacation left! We haven't done much with it yet, except clean the house, but later this afternoon, we're going to help the Cub Scouts pack mistletoe, which we'll sell next week as a fundraiser. And tonight we're going to a Christmas tree lighting in the park.
Thanksgiving was great; and now, as we spend our afternoon with the mistletoe, it just reminds me that the next season (Christmas--my favorite) is upon us. So let the yuletide begin!
Ours was a blast. My brother Scott smoked a turkey, which was wonderful, and made a red wine and mushroom gravy from scratch. To say that was amazing is an understatement--just ask Scott, whose first words to me were, "This gravy is amazing--you'll never replicate it. NEVER!"
I tried to answer that I wouldn't even try, but he cut me short with another "NEVER!"
Our turkey day was everything it should be--lots of family, lots of kids running around all crazy, great food. Mari made a wonderful cornbread stuffing, her mom brought her signature cheeseball, and Kathleen made an awesome corn soufflé. My mom made all the other traditional carb dishes--mashed potatoes, yams, rolls, etc. My contribution was providing the house, and washing the dishes. (Just for the record--no one lets me cook. Honestly--they don't even put up the pretense of assigning me a dish. They just ask if I've ordered the pies yet!)
Friday we caravaned up to Scott and Mari's cabin. We stopped off for lunch, and Mark promptly left his sweatshirt there--a sweatshirt which Scott had just given him back, along with a full bag of other belongings Mark had left at their house.
There was no traffic along the curvy road, so we felt like we had the whole mountain to ourselves. But it was cold once we got up there. We unloaded the cars (I brought a cooler full of leftovers) while Scott started up a big fire. He also fired up the giant projection screen, so we spent the afternoon by the fire, watching an 8-foot-tall version of Planet of the Apes. That was very fun, since Mark, my two nieces and my nephew, piped in a question at five second intervals.
"Where are the apes?" Gabi asked right after the opening credits.
"Is that a monkey?" Grant asked 30 seconds later. I told him there were no monkeys, just apes. ("It's called Planet of the Apes, not Planet of the Monkeys.")
"Apes are monkeys," Nathalie said, and I told her no, they're different. "Monkeys are the same as apes," Grant reiterated, and again, I said, "No, they're different--they're both simians, but they aren't the same."
"What's wrong with that lady?" Mark asked one minute later.
"They're apes, not monkeys; there are no apes yet; the glass on her chamber broke and let the air out. She's dead," Scott answered in one fell swoop.
But that didn't slow down the children's questions at all. They went into a full discussion of why the lady died. ("The gas broke," Grant explained. "No, the glass broke!" Nathalie corrected.) Then the scary music started and freaked them all out.
"Is this an appropriate movie?" Nathalie asked, while Mark proclaimed, "I'm not afraid of monkeys!"
"I see a monkey!" Grant yelled, pointing at the screen.
I just looked at Scott, who sighed. "They do the same thing at the movie theater!" he told me. "They never stop talking." Ten minutes and a hundred questions later, he flipped on Star Wars instead. The questions stopped immediately, since the kids have all seen that movie about a hundred times.
Saturday we went on a "hike," which consisted of a nice path around a little lake bay. The kids ran off the path immediately, grabbing up every rock they saw, and promptly tossing it into the lake. Within seconds, they had chased away every duck in the lake.
Grant stood on top of a sewage pipe jutting out of the sand, and said, "Look at this big shell!" Mari and I just laughed; it did kind of look like a shell.
Mari reminded the kids to stay away from the water, since we didn't have any extra clothes for them. "Remember how you lost your shoe last time, Grant?" she asked. "We had to wait an hour and a half for it to float across the bay." He nodded somberly. ("You waited for it?" I asked, and she said, "They were his favorite shoes!")
The only thing more tempting than throwing rocks in the lake was climbing the rocks in the lake. Giant rocks, in fact. We scurried across the inlet to climb some monstrous sized boulders. Mark, Nathalie and Gabi flung themselves up and down the rocks, while I tried not to envision them tumbling down the cliffs into the lake, or into the busy street. They had a great time; I had a better time when we finally climbed down.
We left the mountain late in the afternoon. Mark and I met up for dinner and a movie with Edra and Kathleen. We saw Bolt, which was kinda sad, but very funny.
And now, we still have one day of vacation left! We haven't done much with it yet, except clean the house, but later this afternoon, we're going to help the Cub Scouts pack mistletoe, which we'll sell next week as a fundraiser. And tonight we're going to a Christmas tree lighting in the park.
Thanksgiving was great; and now, as we spend our afternoon with the mistletoe, it just reminds me that the next season (Christmas--my favorite) is upon us. So let the yuletide begin!
Monday, November 24, 2008
Why moms yell
Yesterday started out pleasantly. My sweet little boy brought me breakfast in bed--a big, heaping plate of chocolate chip granola bars, caramel rice cakes, and cherry danish (I think the breakfast theme was sugar). Oh, and some sort of sour gummy worm rolled in sugar, which he hoped would put me in a generous mood--enough to reward him with breakfast gummy worms as well.
He also had a can of whipped cream, and when I asked what he was gonna do with that, he said, "Shoot it in my mouth!" Duh! Like, who doesn't know whipped cream is breakfast food???
All this was presented on two cascading plates covered in paper towels--he's watched enough Top Chef to know plating is an art.
"You can have breakfast in bed!" he exclaimed, spilling crushed rice cakes onto my sheets. I kissed him, told him how wonderful he was, and declined the offer.
"Those crumbly bits might hurt later," I said, and he agreed.
And then, as though that one good deed had depleted him of any remaining common sense, he lapsed into a series of misjudgments. He went outside with strict instructions to stay away from the broken slate tiles--and promptly ran them over with his bike five times. For good measure, he also ran over an aloe vera plant.
He dragged a bag of potting soil over to me, and instead of pouring it into the pot, he dumped it ceremoniously into the grass all around the pot.
He turned the T.V. on to the most disgusting show he could find, and then cranked the volume up so I could hear cartoon characters vomiting from the other side of the house.
He yelled, "What? WHY??" when I asked him to put away the reading books he'd scattered throughout the house. He protested by taking the ittiest bittiest tiny steps possible through the dining room and down the hall, squeaking his shoes across the laminate floor as loudly as possible. He dragged this out for 15 minutes.
He fed the cats, dropping a trail of sharp, pointy, dried food all over the garage floor, which I promptly stepped on, barefoot.
I listened to the complaints that accompanied each task. I countered with encouraging comments in my most sympathetic voice. (Except when I stepped on the cat food--I unleashed a few expletives then, but he didn't hear me.) And finally, after wearing me down all morning, Mark pushed me over the edge.
"Go brush your teeth," I told him, and he launched into a detailed story of how he'd already done that. The more he objected, the angrier I got.
"Stop arguing!" I finally told him. "I don't want to hear it. Just go brush your dang teeth!"
He stomped off, and I took a deep breath. I can get through this, I told myself.
And then, instead of Mark's electric toothbrush, I heard a completely different sound. A harmonica, to be exact.
I don't know why there was a harmonica in the bathroom, but there was, and it was played loudly by a defiant little boy who was supposed to be brushing his teeth.
The blues jam ended abruptly, as the harmonica was snatched from his hands. This was followed by stomping down the hall--this time, not from the boy, but from the frazzled mother whose patience was gone.
I'm not sure if that child will make it to his 9th birthday after all. He almost didn't make it to Thanksgiving!
He also had a can of whipped cream, and when I asked what he was gonna do with that, he said, "Shoot it in my mouth!" Duh! Like, who doesn't know whipped cream is breakfast food???
All this was presented on two cascading plates covered in paper towels--he's watched enough Top Chef to know plating is an art.
"You can have breakfast in bed!" he exclaimed, spilling crushed rice cakes onto my sheets. I kissed him, told him how wonderful he was, and declined the offer.
"Those crumbly bits might hurt later," I said, and he agreed.
And then, as though that one good deed had depleted him of any remaining common sense, he lapsed into a series of misjudgments. He went outside with strict instructions to stay away from the broken slate tiles--and promptly ran them over with his bike five times. For good measure, he also ran over an aloe vera plant.
He dragged a bag of potting soil over to me, and instead of pouring it into the pot, he dumped it ceremoniously into the grass all around the pot.
He turned the T.V. on to the most disgusting show he could find, and then cranked the volume up so I could hear cartoon characters vomiting from the other side of the house.
He yelled, "What? WHY??" when I asked him to put away the reading books he'd scattered throughout the house. He protested by taking the ittiest bittiest tiny steps possible through the dining room and down the hall, squeaking his shoes across the laminate floor as loudly as possible. He dragged this out for 15 minutes.
He fed the cats, dropping a trail of sharp, pointy, dried food all over the garage floor, which I promptly stepped on, barefoot.
I listened to the complaints that accompanied each task. I countered with encouraging comments in my most sympathetic voice. (Except when I stepped on the cat food--I unleashed a few expletives then, but he didn't hear me.) And finally, after wearing me down all morning, Mark pushed me over the edge.
"Go brush your teeth," I told him, and he launched into a detailed story of how he'd already done that. The more he objected, the angrier I got.
"Stop arguing!" I finally told him. "I don't want to hear it. Just go brush your dang teeth!"
He stomped off, and I took a deep breath. I can get through this, I told myself.
And then, instead of Mark's electric toothbrush, I heard a completely different sound. A harmonica, to be exact.
I don't know why there was a harmonica in the bathroom, but there was, and it was played loudly by a defiant little boy who was supposed to be brushing his teeth.
The blues jam ended abruptly, as the harmonica was snatched from his hands. This was followed by stomping down the hall--this time, not from the boy, but from the frazzled mother whose patience was gone.
I'm not sure if that child will make it to his 9th birthday after all. He almost didn't make it to Thanksgiving!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
From the mouths of babes
Yesterday, Mark's friend Tyler came over to play. Mark said something silly about Tyler being adopted, and Tyler just looked at him blankly.
"Mark's adopted," I explained. "That's why he's joking about it."
"Oh," Tyler replied, but I could tell he didn't really understand.
The adoption revelation stuck with him. Later, the boys were playing in Mark's room, and I heard them talking about it.
"Where did your mom get you from?" Tyler asked.
Mark didn't quite understand the question, so he said, "She got me from America."
"Yeah, but from where?" Tyler persisted.
"Um, from EARTH," Mark answered, a bit snotty.
Tyler tried another tact. "Did she get you from a house?"
Mark snorted. "Yes, I was in a house."
Tyler: "Were you by yourself?"
Mark snorted, "No."
Tyler: "Did she say, 'Can I have you?'"
Mark, summing up my two-year-journey to bring him home: "No, it was just a regular adoption. There were lots of papers to sign and stuff."
And that was it. The adoption discussion was closed, and they went on playing Legos. I giggled to myself at the whole conversation, at the child-like questions and the simple answers. Mark doesn't usually like talking about things that make him different, like being adopted or having diabetes, but sometimes, like today, it's not a big deal at all.
Except to me. And to my heart, which was spilling over with pride at my little man.
"Mark's adopted," I explained. "That's why he's joking about it."
"Oh," Tyler replied, but I could tell he didn't really understand.
The adoption revelation stuck with him. Later, the boys were playing in Mark's room, and I heard them talking about it.
"Where did your mom get you from?" Tyler asked.
Mark didn't quite understand the question, so he said, "She got me from America."
"Yeah, but from where?" Tyler persisted.
"Um, from EARTH," Mark answered, a bit snotty.
Tyler tried another tact. "Did she get you from a house?"
Mark snorted. "Yes, I was in a house."
Tyler: "Were you by yourself?"
Mark snorted, "No."
Tyler: "Did she say, 'Can I have you?'"
Mark, summing up my two-year-journey to bring him home: "No, it was just a regular adoption. There were lots of papers to sign and stuff."
And that was it. The adoption discussion was closed, and they went on playing Legos. I giggled to myself at the whole conversation, at the child-like questions and the simple answers. Mark doesn't usually like talking about things that make him different, like being adopted or having diabetes, but sometimes, like today, it's not a big deal at all.
Except to me. And to my heart, which was spilling over with pride at my little man.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
And sometimes our conversations go like this...
Apropos to nothing, Mark asked me last night: "Has the Naked Cowboy ever been arrested?"
Me: "No, I don't think so."
Pause.
Me: "What made you think of that?"
Mark: "I don't know. I just think sometimes he dresses a little bit...inappropriate."
Me: "Well, he is the Naked Cowboy, after all."
Guess I won't show him this picture, taken in my previous (pre-Mark) life.
Mardi Gras 2005
Me: "No, I don't think so."
Pause.
Me: "What made you think of that?"
Mark: "I don't know. I just think sometimes he dresses a little bit...inappropriate."
Me: "Well, he is the Naked Cowboy, after all."
Guess I won't show him this picture, taken in my previous (pre-Mark) life.
Mardi Gras 2005 Friday, November 21, 2008
Hurts Donut
Today was Dad's Donut Day at Mark's school. Which was both painful (no live-in dad) and exciting (free donuts!) for Mark. He immediately thought to invite my dad. "Grandpa LOOOVES donuts!" he said excitedly, and I had to agree.
I'm glad the school celebrates dads, I really am. They deserve it! But I also hate these events for a more personal reason. It makes Mark really sad, which in turn, pains me. I hate that he can't take his dad to special events like this, and I hate the obvious reminder that he doesn't have any contact with his biological parents. I spend all my time making sure Mark is happy, secure, and well-loved, but no matter how hard I try, the one thing I can't give him is his dad (or even his bio-mom).
It breaks my heart when Mark is sad and there's nothing I can do to fix it. All I can do is talk him through his sadness and loss. (Like my brother Tim always says--hurts, donut?)
That was the sad news. The happy news is that Mark doesn't have contact with his dad, but he certainly has it with my parents. Who are the kind of grandparents that drive two hours for a donut breakfast just because their grandson asked. And so, while I feel sadness for Mark, I also feel immense love and respect for my parents, and am grateful that my son has them in his life. I can't give him his dad, but I can give him loving, doting grandparents who think he's pretty awesome.
And so off to school we trudged, two grandparents, one mom, a Cub Scout and a giant cello. The line snaked around the cafeteria--there were a lot of people there! Luckily, there were a lot of donuts, too. We watched one little girl eyeing them all, and saw her tiny finger reach out and poke one. I didn't see her mom, but I immediately saw her mom's finger, which smacked the tiny finger away. Then the mom's hand grabbed the donut and offered it to the girl before she could touch any more. (I could almost hear my mom telling Mark, "If you touch it, you take it!")
We secured a seat at the lunch tables, and listened to a couple of middle-school flutists. They were overtaken by a trio of rockers--two electric guitarists, and a drummer--who proceeded to play music written waaaay before their time (even before my time--"Wild Thing," and "Stairway to Heaven"). It was as good as you'd imagine.
Then it was on to Mark's class, where we helped with an art project--painting Native American beads the kids made. Apparently, Mark's Native American lived near the ocean, because he rolled most of his beads into shark's teeth. Which he insisted on painting black. ("I see a shark's tooth, and I want to paint it blaaaack..." Sorry, still got '60s music stuck in my head!)
All the family members--dads, moms, uncles, grandparents, etc.--were encouraged to paint, too, but my parents were content to watch. Or rather, in my Mom's case, content to suggest which colors the painters should use, on which beads. Mark and I had a contest to see who could paint the most beads--I wanted his necklace to be colorful, and he wanted it all black, so we each painted as quickly as possible to outwit the other person. (Grandma's not the only one with control issues!) He won, but only because I had to leave for work. Mark was not sad to see me go.
I'm glad the school celebrates dads, I really am. They deserve it! But I also hate these events for a more personal reason. It makes Mark really sad, which in turn, pains me. I hate that he can't take his dad to special events like this, and I hate the obvious reminder that he doesn't have any contact with his biological parents. I spend all my time making sure Mark is happy, secure, and well-loved, but no matter how hard I try, the one thing I can't give him is his dad (or even his bio-mom).
It breaks my heart when Mark is sad and there's nothing I can do to fix it. All I can do is talk him through his sadness and loss. (Like my brother Tim always says--hurts, donut?)
That was the sad news. The happy news is that Mark doesn't have contact with his dad, but he certainly has it with my parents. Who are the kind of grandparents that drive two hours for a donut breakfast just because their grandson asked. And so, while I feel sadness for Mark, I also feel immense love and respect for my parents, and am grateful that my son has them in his life. I can't give him his dad, but I can give him loving, doting grandparents who think he's pretty awesome.
And so off to school we trudged, two grandparents, one mom, a Cub Scout and a giant cello. The line snaked around the cafeteria--there were a lot of people there! Luckily, there were a lot of donuts, too. We watched one little girl eyeing them all, and saw her tiny finger reach out and poke one. I didn't see her mom, but I immediately saw her mom's finger, which smacked the tiny finger away. Then the mom's hand grabbed the donut and offered it to the girl before she could touch any more. (I could almost hear my mom telling Mark, "If you touch it, you take it!")
We secured a seat at the lunch tables, and listened to a couple of middle-school flutists. They were overtaken by a trio of rockers--two electric guitarists, and a drummer--who proceeded to play music written waaaay before their time (even before my time--"Wild Thing," and "Stairway to Heaven"). It was as good as you'd imagine.
Then it was on to Mark's class, where we helped with an art project--painting Native American beads the kids made. Apparently, Mark's Native American lived near the ocean, because he rolled most of his beads into shark's teeth. Which he insisted on painting black. ("I see a shark's tooth, and I want to paint it blaaaack..." Sorry, still got '60s music stuck in my head!)
All the family members--dads, moms, uncles, grandparents, etc.--were encouraged to paint, too, but my parents were content to watch. Or rather, in my Mom's case, content to suggest which colors the painters should use, on which beads. Mark and I had a contest to see who could paint the most beads--I wanted his necklace to be colorful, and he wanted it all black, so we each painted as quickly as possible to outwit the other person. (Grandma's not the only one with control issues!) He won, but only because I had to leave for work. Mark was not sad to see me go.
It started as Dad's Donut Day, but for us, evolved into Grandparent's Donut Day. I watched my parents with Mark, and I have to say--it was even sweeter than the donuts were.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
January Roadtrip
I am SOOOOOO excited I can barely stand it--seriously, I could break into cartwheels at any moment now. The Senator's office called yesterday, informing me that I'm the lucky recipient of Inauguration tickets. (Just writing that makes me giddy!)
In honor of full public disclosure: no, I do not have any high-ranking political connections; and no, I did nothing unsavory to acquire them. I simply gathered up a heap of optimism in early October and emailed the Senator asking for tickets. (I didn't mention either candidate--I figured I'd just decline them if the other guy won.) And, although I remained humbly optimistic, I also exercised my pragmatic side (yes, I do have one--it's in hibernation most of the year, but awakens occasionally). I emailed both Senators and my Congressman, begging for tickets, tours, whatever. I just want to be in D.C. when it all happens--tickets are icing on the Inaugural cake.
I immediately called my mom, who's going with us. She was equally stunned, and equally excited. She started whooping it up, which got me started all over again. Then I had to cut it short, so I could pick Mark up from school.
I was still on a high when I got him, and told him immediately.
"I have the best best best best BEST news ever!" I said, excitedly. This certainly piqued his interest.
"What?" he asked.
"I got tickets to the Inauguration--we're gonna watch Barack Obama sworn in as the President!" I let out a whoop of joy.
He was clearly underwhelmed. He simply shrugged his shoulders, scanned the ground, and asked, "Now, where's my backpack?"
I started to explain WHY this is so exciting, but he clearly didn't care. I realized I'd have gotten a better response if I said I bought an Inauguration game for his Gameboy.
I know he's excited to go to D.C. and I know he's excited about Obama, but he is only 8. I suppose I can't expect too much from him, politically.
But I wasn't ready to let go of my ticket high just yet. It was fun sharing the news with my mom over the phone, but I needed some in-person excitement. And so I pulled out the big guns.
"That's right, Mark," I said. "We'll be there live for the swearing-in ceremony. And did I mention you'll be out of school for a WHOLE WEEK? No homework for a WEEK!"
That did it--Mark erupted into his own celebration dance. "Ya-HOOO!" he shouted, pumping a fist into the air.
Cheap trick, I know. But I'll take it. I don't get many chances to be part of history, and I wasn't giving this one up with a mere shrug.
Chalk it up to scoring a point for the greater good...
In honor of full public disclosure: no, I do not have any high-ranking political connections; and no, I did nothing unsavory to acquire them. I simply gathered up a heap of optimism in early October and emailed the Senator asking for tickets. (I didn't mention either candidate--I figured I'd just decline them if the other guy won.) And, although I remained humbly optimistic, I also exercised my pragmatic side (yes, I do have one--it's in hibernation most of the year, but awakens occasionally). I emailed both Senators and my Congressman, begging for tickets, tours, whatever. I just want to be in D.C. when it all happens--tickets are icing on the Inaugural cake.
I immediately called my mom, who's going with us. She was equally stunned, and equally excited. She started whooping it up, which got me started all over again. Then I had to cut it short, so I could pick Mark up from school.
I was still on a high when I got him, and told him immediately.
"I have the best best best best BEST news ever!" I said, excitedly. This certainly piqued his interest.
"What?" he asked.
"I got tickets to the Inauguration--we're gonna watch Barack Obama sworn in as the President!" I let out a whoop of joy.
He was clearly underwhelmed. He simply shrugged his shoulders, scanned the ground, and asked, "Now, where's my backpack?"
I started to explain WHY this is so exciting, but he clearly didn't care. I realized I'd have gotten a better response if I said I bought an Inauguration game for his Gameboy.
I know he's excited to go to D.C. and I know he's excited about Obama, but he is only 8. I suppose I can't expect too much from him, politically.
But I wasn't ready to let go of my ticket high just yet. It was fun sharing the news with my mom over the phone, but I needed some in-person excitement. And so I pulled out the big guns.
"That's right, Mark," I said. "We'll be there live for the swearing-in ceremony. And did I mention you'll be out of school for a WHOLE WEEK? No homework for a WEEK!"
That did it--Mark erupted into his own celebration dance. "Ya-HOOO!" he shouted, pumping a fist into the air.
Cheap trick, I know. But I'll take it. I don't get many chances to be part of history, and I wasn't giving this one up with a mere shrug.
Chalk it up to scoring a point for the greater good...
Monday, November 17, 2008
Safety first
I love our local crossing guard. She's always cheerful and outgoing--it's a nice way to start your day, talking to happy people.
Walking Mark to school this morning, I noticed a fine layer of ash blanketing the ground. Seems like there aren't as many ashes floating around in the air, and the sky seemed a little cleaner. Yesterday, we saw lots of people wearing surgical masks to protect themselves, and as we approached the crosswalk, I noticed the crossing guard wore one, too.
She had it pushed down on her neck, though, so she could greet people. We talked briefly about the fires, and how sad it was all those homes burned down.
But when I returned from school, her mask was gone.
"I had to take it off," she told me. "I couldn't blow my whistle with the mask on."
We both started laughing. It was just a funny visual image.
The air may not be safe today, but the crosswalk certainly is.
Walking Mark to school this morning, I noticed a fine layer of ash blanketing the ground. Seems like there aren't as many ashes floating around in the air, and the sky seemed a little cleaner. Yesterday, we saw lots of people wearing surgical masks to protect themselves, and as we approached the crosswalk, I noticed the crossing guard wore one, too.
She had it pushed down on her neck, though, so she could greet people. We talked briefly about the fires, and how sad it was all those homes burned down.
But when I returned from school, her mask was gone.
"I had to take it off," she told me. "I couldn't blow my whistle with the mask on."
We both started laughing. It was just a funny visual image.
The air may not be safe today, but the crosswalk certainly is.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down
The fires moved much closer to us (30 miles away) and the powerful winds blew tiny, ashen remainders toward us all day. Little white and gray bits rained from the sky, covering the ground and cars in a fine mist. I closed the partially-open garage door after watching silty ash fall onto my freshly-laundered clothes.
The air was bitter, acrid--you could smell the smoke in it, until the burn moved into the back of your throat and settled there uncomfortably. I cancelled the long bike ride I promised Mark today, concerned about the unhealthy air. Even the mailman wore a surgical mask as he walked his route.
The sky was really strange, sharply divided in color like a little kid's drawing: clear blue on the bottom half, smoggy brown on top.
It even affected the sun. Shrouded by a brown haze, it peeked over the trees, glowing an eerie red like the fires. It looks like a sunset, but I took this picture at 2 in the afternoon.
We just stayed home all day, trying not to breathe in the foul air. Mark played his drums, and is now serenading me with his cello.
The air was bitter, acrid--you could smell the smoke in it, until the burn moved into the back of your throat and settled there uncomfortably. I cancelled the long bike ride I promised Mark today, concerned about the unhealthy air. Even the mailman wore a surgical mask as he walked his route.
The sky was really strange, sharply divided in color like a little kid's drawing: clear blue on the bottom half, smoggy brown on top.
It even affected the sun. Shrouded by a brown haze, it peeked over the trees, glowing an eerie red like the fires. It looks like a sunset, but I took this picture at 2 in the afternoon.
I feel just horrible for all the people who've lost their homes, or are being evacuated. I hope the evacuees, and their homes, all remain safe.
Here's another photo I took in the back yard:
We just stayed home all day, trying not to breathe in the foul air. Mark played his drums, and is now serenading me with his cello.In happier news, Jacki Brunk is in town for a conference. She's staying with us, which has been great fun. She's so good with Mark, challenging him to play The Game With No Name (aka Loose Hair) and to give her drum lessons.
We visited Jacki's local favorite haunts, the places she misses since moving to Illinois. Last night Mark helped my mom babysit Johnny--Mark wore his baseball batting helmet to protect himself from the cars and trains Johnny tosses at his head.
Which gave Jacki and I a mom's night off. We went to dinner at our favorite brewpub on the beach, followed by a pitcher of beer at the local no-longer-a-dive dive bar. Tonight, it's dinner at a local Mexican restaurant; apparently, there's not a lot of good, authentic Mexican cuisine in the Chicago 'burbs.
I've forgotten how much fun it is to have houseguests. Anyone else wanna come visit? (You might wanna wait till the fires are out...)
Thursday, November 13, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
But it's a controlled chaos
Have I mentioned lately that my parents are saints? Because truly, they are. (And I say this without any hint of sarcasm!)
They watched Mark and Scott & Mari's kids yesterday. They raised four kids, so they can hold their own, but that was a long time ago.
I arrived after work to pick Mark up. The house was quiet, which worried me at first, but turns out everyone was just watching T.V. (kids in one room, grandparents in another). It was the only quiet moment of the night.
Here's how the evening went.
6:00--Mom says apologetically that Mark's blood sugar is probably high--he ate pizza, an ice cream cone, and Halloween candy. He bolused for all of it, but still...
6:02--I send Mark to wash and test. He heads toward the living room, where I know there isn't any running water.
6:03--I send the girls to wash up for dinner. They run away, laughing maniacally, in a direction opposite of the bathroom.
6:04--I tell Grant to go wash--he ignores me. Charles the dog jumps all over me.
6:05--I tell Charles to get down. I tell Grant to hand over the Gameboy and nobody gets hurt.
6:06--Both Charles and Grant ignore me.
6:07--I hear the girls crash into each other upstairs. Somebody starts crying.
6:08--I take away the Gameboy and head upstairs. I console Gabi, and send Nathalie downstairs.
6:09--Mark and Grant are both in the bathroom. No good will come of this.
6:10--Mark's blood sugar is 345(!!!). He ignores me when I tell him to correct it, and turns the bathroom lights out on Grant.
6:10:03--Grants starts screaming.
6:11--I herd the kids into the dining room. One sits at the bar, and Grandma says, "No, you're all sitting at the table!" She leaves out the phrase "...with Auntie Heather" but I know it's implied.
6:12--Mark switches his carefully pre-measured glass of milk with Grant because he doesn't like the cup. At least I know how many carbs of milk Grant is drinking.
6:13--The special dinner requests start. Mark wants croutons but no salad; Gabi doesn't want pineapple; Grant wants butter but no bread; Nathalie wants my undivided attention as she talks a mile a minute.
6:14--All special requests are denied.
6:15--Everyone is eating, and quiet.
6:16--Logan, the neighbor kid, comes running into the house. He wants to show off his new bear. Now no one is eating.
6:17--Logan is still talking. Grant tells him to go home, we're eating.
6:18--Gabi steals Grant's chicken. Grant bursts into tears.
6:19--Nathalie is still talking. I think it's the same sentence she started 6 minutes ago.
6:20--Papa gives Grant more chicken. "My lip hurts," Grant says. Mark tells us that Grant smacked himself in the head with a Lego. "Does that make you a blockhead?" I ask. The kids all laugh.
6:21--Grant puts a piece of chicken in his mouth, then screams, "My lip!" He bursts into tears.
6:22--Papa calms Grant down. He also gives Mark and Gabi more chicken.
6:23--I notice my mom hasn't said anything in the last 23 minutes.
6:24--Nathalie and Gabi simultaneously steal the rest of Grant's chicken. Grant--well, you know the drill--cries.
They watched Mark and Scott & Mari's kids yesterday. They raised four kids, so they can hold their own, but that was a long time ago.
I arrived after work to pick Mark up. The house was quiet, which worried me at first, but turns out everyone was just watching T.V. (kids in one room, grandparents in another). It was the only quiet moment of the night.
Here's how the evening went.
6:00--Mom says apologetically that Mark's blood sugar is probably high--he ate pizza, an ice cream cone, and Halloween candy. He bolused for all of it, but still...
6:02--I send Mark to wash and test. He heads toward the living room, where I know there isn't any running water.
6:03--I send the girls to wash up for dinner. They run away, laughing maniacally, in a direction opposite of the bathroom.
6:04--I tell Grant to go wash--he ignores me. Charles the dog jumps all over me.
6:05--I tell Charles to get down. I tell Grant to hand over the Gameboy and nobody gets hurt.
6:06--Both Charles and Grant ignore me.
6:07--I hear the girls crash into each other upstairs. Somebody starts crying.
6:08--I take away the Gameboy and head upstairs. I console Gabi, and send Nathalie downstairs.
6:09--Mark and Grant are both in the bathroom. No good will come of this.
6:10--Mark's blood sugar is 345(!!!). He ignores me when I tell him to correct it, and turns the bathroom lights out on Grant.
6:10:03--Grants starts screaming.
6:11--I herd the kids into the dining room. One sits at the bar, and Grandma says, "No, you're all sitting at the table!" She leaves out the phrase "...with Auntie Heather" but I know it's implied.
6:12--Mark switches his carefully pre-measured glass of milk with Grant because he doesn't like the cup. At least I know how many carbs of milk Grant is drinking.
6:13--The special dinner requests start. Mark wants croutons but no salad; Gabi doesn't want pineapple; Grant wants butter but no bread; Nathalie wants my undivided attention as she talks a mile a minute.
6:14--All special requests are denied.
6:15--Everyone is eating, and quiet.
6:16--Logan, the neighbor kid, comes running into the house. He wants to show off his new bear. Now no one is eating.
6:17--Logan is still talking. Grant tells him to go home, we're eating.
6:18--Gabi steals Grant's chicken. Grant bursts into tears.
6:19--Nathalie is still talking. I think it's the same sentence she started 6 minutes ago.
6:20--Papa gives Grant more chicken. "My lip hurts," Grant says. Mark tells us that Grant smacked himself in the head with a Lego. "Does that make you a blockhead?" I ask. The kids all laugh.
6:21--Grant puts a piece of chicken in his mouth, then screams, "My lip!" He bursts into tears.
6:22--Papa calms Grant down. He also gives Mark and Gabi more chicken.
6:23--I notice my mom hasn't said anything in the last 23 minutes.
6:24--Nathalie and Gabi simultaneously steal the rest of Grant's chicken. Grant--well, you know the drill--cries.
6:25--I declare dinner over, and tell the kids to clear their plates.
6:26-6:40--Kitchen cleanup. Gabi is wiping the table crumbs onto Charles' head, Mark is dancing in the middle of the kitchen, and Nathalie is supposed to be washing dishes (but is really telling me another story).
6:50--I send Gabi and Grant up for bathtime with Grandma. They are huddled as close as possible to the bathtub faucet, waiting for the water to come out. My mom assures me it's okay to leave. I know there's a good chance all three kids (and both grandparents) will be in bed by 7:15.
6:51--Mark and I leave, and I wonder how in the world my parents survived the last 8 hours. Have I mentioned they are saints???
I don't know how people with multiple kids do it...I didn't even last an hour! But I did gain a whole new respect for my parents, who ran a tight ship with four kids.
And I have to say that Angelina Jolie, who's adopted every other kid in the world but these four, is INSANE.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Where I learned my mothering skills...
My parents are in town to babysit the 4 school-age grandkids, who have Veteran's Day off. When I thanked my mom for this, she said, "Don't worry, I'm writing it in the big book."
Meaning, she keeps track of all the things she does for us (which is a LOT, trust me!).
"I know you are," I told her. "Don't worry, I'll put you in a nice home when the time comes -- or at least, get you the good drugs so you think it's a nice home."
This is a long-running joke between us. (She also teases me about my "real" mother--a gypsy who left me on the doorstep.) I've promised my dad he's going to an old folk's home I saw in Virginia--it has a real caboose out front. He's very happy about that.
Then, as we were laughing, the Today show reported that a 56-year-old woman gave birth to her own granddaughters. She carried the babies (triplets!) for her daughter, who couldn't have a baby.
Meaning, she keeps track of all the things she does for us (which is a LOT, trust me!).
"I know you are," I told her. "Don't worry, I'll put you in a nice home when the time comes -- or at least, get you the good drugs so you think it's a nice home."
This is a long-running joke between us. (She also teases me about my "real" mother--a gypsy who left me on the doorstep.) I've promised my dad he's going to an old folk's home I saw in Virginia--it has a real caboose out front. He's very happy about that.
Then, as we were laughing, the Today show reported that a 56-year-old woman gave birth to her own granddaughters. She carried the babies (triplets!) for her daughter, who couldn't have a baby.
"Now that's a good grandma," I said.
"What!" my mom exclaimed. She looked at me and said, "Sorry, you're on your own." She doesn't mind babysitting, but she draws the line at baby growing.
"Come on, mom," I teased her. "What if I want a baby?"
"I'll buy you one!" she said. "I'll give you a check."
We started cracking up, and I told her it better be a big check--big enough for three babies. Mark, who's never quite sure about our humor, turned and gave us a long look. The he shook his head and turned back to the T.V.
The check was a nice offer, Mom, but I bet my real mother (the gypsy) would have carried the triplets. ;-)
Friday, November 7, 2008
Can I get it for two easy payments of $19.99?
Yesterday, I heard a familiar voice on T.V. It was the screaming bearded infomercial guy, who's always trying to sell you the latest kitchen accessory ("It slices! It dices!") or a 55-gallon-drum of OxiClean. You know the guy--he's always yelling at the top of his lungs, like you're deaf, or maybe not smart enough to see what a great deal he'll get you, if you and your credit card would JUST LISTEN!
Only this time, he wasn't selling extra absorbent towels or magic putty--he was selling medical insurance! I stopped to watch, fascinated.
I couldn't believe it. I know health care is a mess, but has it come to this? Health insurance infomercials? Really?
Yep, really. He yelled at me onscreen, asking if I was one of the 47 million Americans without health insurance. He yelled at me that I should call even if I do have health insurance. (Not sure why.) He just yelled his way through the whole commercial, telling me it is called affordable health insurance because folks, it really is affordable. And man, is he passionate about it! (His words, not mine.)
I felt kinda weird about it all. I'm used to seeing this guy sell wacky stuff using an easy payment plan. Sometimes he even has an admiring audience, who ooh and ahh over his wares. But this was just odd.
His medical plan offered doctor's visits, surgery, even maternity coverage, but maybe those costs are so low because they use not-quite-state-of-the-art equipment. I worried that maybe the doctors save money on stitches by patching you up with magic putty instead. Or that they use those extra absorbent towels in the operating room, which are stain-free thanks to washing them in OxiClean. Or that maybe they sterilize their surgical equipment using the Steam Buddy.
I dunno...I'm glad those 47 million uninsured Americans now have an affordable option for medical care. And I'm glad that WAIT--THAT'S NOT ALL! That if they act now, they'll probably receive an extra added bonus (at no extra cost!).
But it still seems a little weird to me...
Only this time, he wasn't selling extra absorbent towels or magic putty--he was selling medical insurance! I stopped to watch, fascinated.
I couldn't believe it. I know health care is a mess, but has it come to this? Health insurance infomercials? Really?
Yep, really. He yelled at me onscreen, asking if I was one of the 47 million Americans without health insurance. He yelled at me that I should call even if I do have health insurance. (Not sure why.) He just yelled his way through the whole commercial, telling me it is called affordable health insurance because folks, it really is affordable. And man, is he passionate about it! (His words, not mine.)
I felt kinda weird about it all. I'm used to seeing this guy sell wacky stuff using an easy payment plan. Sometimes he even has an admiring audience, who ooh and ahh over his wares. But this was just odd.
His medical plan offered doctor's visits, surgery, even maternity coverage, but maybe those costs are so low because they use not-quite-state-of-the-art equipment. I worried that maybe the doctors save money on stitches by patching you up with magic putty instead. Or that they use those extra absorbent towels in the operating room, which are stain-free thanks to washing them in OxiClean. Or that maybe they sterilize their surgical equipment using the Steam Buddy.
I dunno...I'm glad those 47 million uninsured Americans now have an affordable option for medical care. And I'm glad that WAIT--THAT'S NOT ALL! That if they act now, they'll probably receive an extra added bonus (at no extra cost!).
But it still seems a little weird to me...
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Whittling away again in Margaritaville
My friend Jill always says that motherhood is not for sissies. She is soooo right!
Last night Mark had a Cub Scouts meeting. I was more than a little worried when I read the emailed agenda:
Weds., Nov. 5th: Whittling. There's nothing more enticing to a boy than a sharp knife!
Did you hear that momentary silence? That was my heart stopping.
I realized this is the difference in parenting styles of fathers vs. mothers--no mom I know would actually give her son a knife and permission to carve stuff up with it.
But I went along with it. The more I resist, the more likely Mark is to grow up a knife-obsessed psychopath (or, at the very least, a bad chef who can't properly handle knives).
The dad in charge did a great job teaching knife safety--how to open a pocket knife, how to close it, and how to safely whittle away a bar of soap. I felt better until his older son taught the boys about the "blood circle." He waved his closed knife in an invisible circle to show how far apart the kids should sit from each other for safety. I'm glad he used a closed knife, but I'd have preferred something a little more soothing than "blood circle"--maybe "safety circle"?
Then the fun began. The boys went to the tables, where they received a bar of soap, instructions for whittling a polar bear, and a wide berth. Mark whittled away at his bear, which evolved into a fish, then a seal, and finally, into a race car. He couldn't stop carving away at it.
The kid next to him also started with a bear, but whittled away his soap until it was as big as my thumb. "Look!" he shouted. "I made a chair!"
The boy on the other side of Mark whittled a really good polar bear, but he wouldn't stop either. The boys realized this might be their one shot at using a knife, so they refused to give it up. They just kept shaving away the soap pieces, making miniature versions of...well, not polar bears.
I stood behind Mark, showing him how to hold the soap and knife. ("Grip the soap," I said. "I don't want to see any fingers!") He rolled his eyes and ignored me, silently wishing me away. (I could almost hear him thinking, "You're a bad mom! A very BAD mom! TO THE CORNFIELD!")
He grunted and pulled the soap away from me--he clearly did not want help. I realized maybe a small cut would teach him more about knife safety than my words ever could.
And so I let him whittle. The dads were very helpful without being nervous or overbearing, so I took my cue from them. One dad even remarked that if a boy did bleed, the other kids could earn their first-aid badges. I thought that was a fine example of making lemonade when life hands you lemons.
I watched Mark's soap disappear down to a tiny car, which he placed into a soap box he pronounced the garage. He parked it between a tiny white chair and a polar bear. And when he ran off to the sink, I quietly slipped the knife into my pocket and breathed a sigh of relief.
"We did it!" a dad proclaimed. "I can't believe we got through the activity injury-free!" I smiled--I wasn't the only nervous parent after all.
At the end of the night, the kids got snacks, and the parents got a spreadsheet of future activities. I scanned the list and immediately found the one we're doing next--watching T.V. Sure, it's a sub-step of the "Getting Information" activity, but I don't care. Watching T.V. doesn't require a "blood circle."
Which is more than I can say for whittling...
Last night Mark had a Cub Scouts meeting. I was more than a little worried when I read the emailed agenda:
Weds., Nov. 5th: Whittling. There's nothing more enticing to a boy than a sharp knife!
Did you hear that momentary silence? That was my heart stopping.
I realized this is the difference in parenting styles of fathers vs. mothers--no mom I know would actually give her son a knife and permission to carve stuff up with it.
But I went along with it. The more I resist, the more likely Mark is to grow up a knife-obsessed psychopath (or, at the very least, a bad chef who can't properly handle knives).
The dad in charge did a great job teaching knife safety--how to open a pocket knife, how to close it, and how to safely whittle away a bar of soap. I felt better until his older son taught the boys about the "blood circle." He waved his closed knife in an invisible circle to show how far apart the kids should sit from each other for safety. I'm glad he used a closed knife, but I'd have preferred something a little more soothing than "blood circle"--maybe "safety circle"?
Then the fun began. The boys went to the tables, where they received a bar of soap, instructions for whittling a polar bear, and a wide berth. Mark whittled away at his bear, which evolved into a fish, then a seal, and finally, into a race car. He couldn't stop carving away at it.
The kid next to him also started with a bear, but whittled away his soap until it was as big as my thumb. "Look!" he shouted. "I made a chair!"
The boy on the other side of Mark whittled a really good polar bear, but he wouldn't stop either. The boys realized this might be their one shot at using a knife, so they refused to give it up. They just kept shaving away the soap pieces, making miniature versions of...well, not polar bears.
I stood behind Mark, showing him how to hold the soap and knife. ("Grip the soap," I said. "I don't want to see any fingers!") He rolled his eyes and ignored me, silently wishing me away. (I could almost hear him thinking, "You're a bad mom! A very BAD mom! TO THE CORNFIELD!")
He grunted and pulled the soap away from me--he clearly did not want help. I realized maybe a small cut would teach him more about knife safety than my words ever could.
And so I let him whittle. The dads were very helpful without being nervous or overbearing, so I took my cue from them. One dad even remarked that if a boy did bleed, the other kids could earn their first-aid badges. I thought that was a fine example of making lemonade when life hands you lemons.
I watched Mark's soap disappear down to a tiny car, which he placed into a soap box he pronounced the garage. He parked it between a tiny white chair and a polar bear. And when he ran off to the sink, I quietly slipped the knife into my pocket and breathed a sigh of relief.
"We did it!" a dad proclaimed. "I can't believe we got through the activity injury-free!" I smiled--I wasn't the only nervous parent after all.
At the end of the night, the kids got snacks, and the parents got a spreadsheet of future activities. I scanned the list and immediately found the one we're doing next--watching T.V. Sure, it's a sub-step of the "Getting Information" activity, but I don't care. Watching T.V. doesn't require a "blood circle."
Which is more than I can say for whittling...
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
YES, WE DID!!
This morning, I woke up with a song in my head. "Feeling Good," by Michael Bublé, to be exact, with these magical words:
It's a new dawn
It's a new day...
It is a new dawn, indeed.
Last night was awesome. I feel like I lived through history, and I shared it all with my son.
I took Mark voting with me, and I would've let him ink the Barack Obama bubble except I thought it might invalidate my ballot. ("You can fill out your own ballot when you're 18," I told him, and he replied, "Awwww!")
After Mark's drum lessons, we got ice cream and settled in at home to watch the election results. We listened as analysts counted electoral college votes, which I explained to Mark. ("Once upon a time, our forefathers thought we were too stupid to vote, so they created the electoral college...") Mark was more interested in his ice cream than in electoral votes.
It was just a lot of cautious speculation, until 8 p.m. Charlie Gibson of ABC announced the polls were closing out West in less than a minute, but it was too soon to call the race, so stay tuned. I flipped to MSNBC, and suddenly, the screen was filled with people dancing, crying, and cheering. The caption read, "NBC News proclaims Barack Obama the winner!" or something to that effect, and in the corner, it had his electoral college votes at 284.
I immediately flipped back to ABC, which showed similar images of overjoyed people. Somehow we missed the announcement, even though we'd been glued to the T.V. for two hours!
But the announcement didn't matter--what mattered was that Barack Obama was elected the 44th President of the United States, and man, we were happy!
"Do the happy dance, Mark!" I shouted, but he told me to go first. So I did, pulling out my silliest dance moves, while he laughed at me. Then he started jumping on the couch, and I didn't even care. "WOO HOO!" he cheered, jumping to the loveseat, and I cheered with him. We sounded like a couple of wild banshees.
The phone rang, and I revelled in the great news with Edra, Vic, Kathleen, Nicky, and Kelley. We were all ecstatic. Mark was still screaming, and I had to shush him a few times.
He settled down long enough to watch McCain's concession speech. I thought it was a very nice speech, and said what a good sport he was. They showed a teary Sarah Palin, and I told Mark, "She's crying because right now she's thinking, 'I don't wanna go back to Alaska.'"
When Obama finally came on at 9 p.m., poor Mark was fighting to stay awake. He laid down, and when I asked if he wanted to go to bed, he nodded yes.
"Too bad!" I said. "You're watching history!"
But I left him alone, and five minutes into the speech, he fell fast asleep. I was bummed he didn't hear the speech, but I'll play it for him later. The important thing was that we celebrated together.
Next stop, Washington D.C. on January 20th, 2009. The living history lesson is taking a road trip--look for us in the crowd...
It's a new dawn
It's a new day...
It is a new dawn, indeed.
Last night was awesome. I feel like I lived through history, and I shared it all with my son.
I took Mark voting with me, and I would've let him ink the Barack Obama bubble except I thought it might invalidate my ballot. ("You can fill out your own ballot when you're 18," I told him, and he replied, "Awwww!")
After Mark's drum lessons, we got ice cream and settled in at home to watch the election results. We listened as analysts counted electoral college votes, which I explained to Mark. ("Once upon a time, our forefathers thought we were too stupid to vote, so they created the electoral college...") Mark was more interested in his ice cream than in electoral votes.
It was just a lot of cautious speculation, until 8 p.m. Charlie Gibson of ABC announced the polls were closing out West in less than a minute, but it was too soon to call the race, so stay tuned. I flipped to MSNBC, and suddenly, the screen was filled with people dancing, crying, and cheering. The caption read, "NBC News proclaims Barack Obama the winner!" or something to that effect, and in the corner, it had his electoral college votes at 284.
I immediately flipped back to ABC, which showed similar images of overjoyed people. Somehow we missed the announcement, even though we'd been glued to the T.V. for two hours!
But the announcement didn't matter--what mattered was that Barack Obama was elected the 44th President of the United States, and man, we were happy!
"Do the happy dance, Mark!" I shouted, but he told me to go first. So I did, pulling out my silliest dance moves, while he laughed at me. Then he started jumping on the couch, and I didn't even care. "WOO HOO!" he cheered, jumping to the loveseat, and I cheered with him. We sounded like a couple of wild banshees.
The phone rang, and I revelled in the great news with Edra, Vic, Kathleen, Nicky, and Kelley. We were all ecstatic. Mark was still screaming, and I had to shush him a few times.
He settled down long enough to watch McCain's concession speech. I thought it was a very nice speech, and said what a good sport he was. They showed a teary Sarah Palin, and I told Mark, "She's crying because right now she's thinking, 'I don't wanna go back to Alaska.'"
When Obama finally came on at 9 p.m., poor Mark was fighting to stay awake. He laid down, and when I asked if he wanted to go to bed, he nodded yes.
"Too bad!" I said. "You're watching history!"
But I left him alone, and five minutes into the speech, he fell fast asleep. I was bummed he didn't hear the speech, but I'll play it for him later. The important thing was that we celebrated together.
Next stop, Washington D.C. on January 20th, 2009. The living history lesson is taking a road trip--look for us in the crowd...
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
It's my favorite day of the year
That's right, my favorite day because I get to vote--at the FIRE HOUSE! And you know how much I love firemen. :-)The big day is finally here--our chance to change the world. And by change the world, I mean change T.V. and radio programming, which will finally stop airing all those stupid political commercials (I'm Heather Dinsdale, and I approve that message).
Just kidding. It is a very big election, and I'm excited not only at the prospect of change, but that a reported 80% of the population is voting today. I could dwell on how ridiculous it is that people in our country usually don't vote, but I'll focus instead on the fact that today, they're turning out in droves.
I'm taking Mark with me to vote. I want him to see democracy in action, that voting is not just a right, but a civic obligation people should fulfill (which sometimes leads to other civic obligations, like jury duty, which people try to not fulfill).
I want him to feel part of the process--he watched the Presidential debates, the conventions (both parties), the news programs discussing the election. He's listened to his grandparents endorse one candidate, while his aunts and uncles emphatically endorsed another.
I want him to realize that his voice does, indeed, count, and must be heard.
And of course, I want him to feel connected to the voting location--the fire house. Because if any cute fire men wander out front, I can use my civic-minded son to strike up a conversation, which will invariably lead to the fact that his mom is single, smart, and a lot of fun. And loves fire men.
After all, this election's all about HOPE, right?Monday, November 3, 2008
The looting was a success
We went trick-or-treating Friday night with Scott, Mari and the kids. We drove to their rental house, then caravan-ed over to the new house/old lot to trick-or-treat. Their neighbors came along with us, and it was quite the sight to behold--it took four cars to transport the five kids, two babies, five parents, two grandparents and one nanny.
Before we hit the streets, we toured Scott and Mari's new house. It looks awesome, and will be done next month. It's amazing how much it changes each week--this week, there was a new sidewalk and the stairs from the street actually connected to the house. Four-year-old Grant showed me the rooftop patio, and its amazing view. "I can see all the way to Africa," he told me. He pointed out in the distance, and said, "See that factory over there? That's Africa." I agreed that was some great view.
Then it was candy time. We set down the trick-or-treating rules: No running in the street, and...well, I guess that was really the only rule, which they broke 15 seconds after we started. Luckily, the streets were teeming with children, but very few cars.
It was great fun to watch the kids. They were so excited they couldn't form a plan (i.e., go up one side of the street, then down the other) and instead, just ran as a mob from house to house. You'd see three kids running one way, and two kids running the other way. Luckily, there were enough adults to watch them all, and remind them to say thank you.
In a long-honored tradition, Scott pulled the beer-and-wine wagon. Halfway through the night, the kids asked for water, and we realized we didn't have any.
"You don't have any water in the cooler?" a neighbor asked Scott.
Scott answered, "No water--that would take up valuable beer space!"
I agreed with Scott. The kids got their candy, and we adults got our beverages. Turned out okay--the neighbor gave the kids a couple bottles of water, and everyone was happy.
We stayed out for a couple hours. The kids ended up with a grocery bag full of candy each, trading favorites in the car. I sat next to Grant, who silently handed me each candy to open, popping it into his mouth blindly. He couldn't name one candy he ate! By the time we got home, they were all sufficiently hopped up on sugar.
It was a really great Halloween, from beginning to end. All the school activities were fun, and Mark did pull a few tricks. But for me, the real treat was watching Mark and his cousins enjoy the night. It reminded me of my childhood--my brothers and I, all dressed up, followed by our flashlight-carrying parents, running house to house, swapping candy and gorging on chocolate. The biggest treat for me was reliving all that through my son's eyes, and seeing the tradition live on.
Before we hit the streets, we toured Scott and Mari's new house. It looks awesome, and will be done next month. It's amazing how much it changes each week--this week, there was a new sidewalk and the stairs from the street actually connected to the house. Four-year-old Grant showed me the rooftop patio, and its amazing view. "I can see all the way to Africa," he told me. He pointed out in the distance, and said, "See that factory over there? That's Africa." I agreed that was some great view.
Then it was candy time. We set down the trick-or-treating rules: No running in the street, and...well, I guess that was really the only rule, which they broke 15 seconds after we started. Luckily, the streets were teeming with children, but very few cars.
It was great fun to watch the kids. They were so excited they couldn't form a plan (i.e., go up one side of the street, then down the other) and instead, just ran as a mob from house to house. You'd see three kids running one way, and two kids running the other way. Luckily, there were enough adults to watch them all, and remind them to say thank you.
In a long-honored tradition, Scott pulled the beer-and-wine wagon. Halfway through the night, the kids asked for water, and we realized we didn't have any.
"You don't have any water in the cooler?" a neighbor asked Scott.
Scott answered, "No water--that would take up valuable beer space!"
I agreed with Scott. The kids got their candy, and we adults got our beverages. Turned out okay--the neighbor gave the kids a couple bottles of water, and everyone was happy.
We stayed out for a couple hours. The kids ended up with a grocery bag full of candy each, trading favorites in the car. I sat next to Grant, who silently handed me each candy to open, popping it into his mouth blindly. He couldn't name one candy he ate! By the time we got home, they were all sufficiently hopped up on sugar.
It was a really great Halloween, from beginning to end. All the school activities were fun, and Mark did pull a few tricks. But for me, the real treat was watching Mark and his cousins enjoy the night. It reminded me of my childhood--my brothers and I, all dressed up, followed by our flashlight-carrying parents, running house to house, swapping candy and gorging on chocolate. The biggest treat for me was reliving all that through my son's eyes, and seeing the tradition live on.
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