It's all about the garnish

With much help from and gratitude to my village, I survived the weekend. I attended an awesome support group in San Diego for parents of kids with diabetes, and got to have lunch with my parents. All of this was possible because of the best cousin ever, Kathleen, who watched Mark all day.

Mark's done his part, too. He's worked really hard to improve his behavior this week, and very smartly attempted to suck up to me at every available opportunity.

He even went so far as to make me breakfast in bed yesterday. I could hear him banging around in the kitchen, and wondered what...um...delicious fare was coming my way.

First, came the coffee. It was in a ginormous cup, filled to the brim, splashing on to the floor as he eased down the hall to my bedroom (thank God for laminate floors!). Next, he returned with a tray onto which were placed these two small plates:




That's right, mine was peanut-butter toast and grapes, with rosemary sprigs shaped like an "H." That melted away what was left of my angry heart.

Mark created his own breakfast recipe as well: peanut-butter toast with macadamia nuts. He said it tasted okay, but not as good as he'd hoped.

"Rise and shine!" he called out, placing the tray on my bed. "I wanted to say 'Rise and shine, it's a beautiful day!' but somebody was too busy sleeping to enjoy it." He smirked at me, and I smiled back.

And so we enjoyed our breakfast in bed. Mine was a little extra crunchy, thanks to the new toaster we'd bought the night before.

"It burnt the first piece," Mark explained. "But it worked okay after that." A quick flip of my toast revealed I was the lucky recipient of the first piece. But I shrugged and ate it anyway.

Because really, the sun was shining, my breakfast was hand-delivered, and it was indeed a beautiful day outside. And really, what more could you ask for on a Sunday morning?

Is this the part where he tests my patience?

A few years ago, a co-worker greeted me and asked me how Mark was.

"He's lucky to be alive," I answered. "Just barely."

My co-worker, also a mom, nodded understandingly.

"You can't kill him," she answered, wisely. "It took you too long to get him."

I agreed she had a point. It had taken me two years to get him; no matter how sorely tempted I was, I couldn't strangle him after only a few months.

Well, now it's been almost four years. And if we're being honest here, I will admit it. Although I made things sound all sweet and rosy in a recent blog entry, really, I was just trying to convince myself a) that I love my kid and b) not to kill my kid.

I really do love my kid, but he came closer this week than he ever has to dying by the hand of his enraged mommy. Narrowly (very VERY narrowly), he escaped death.

He came out of the experience much humbler than he went into it, all full of teary "I love yous" and "I know you love me, too, even when you're really, really, REALLY mad." (That last part was debatable.)

We got through it all, and today, two days later, I am almost sane once again. But the worst part was that today was a school holiday.

That's right, as in a whole day off with the kid. To make matters worse, it was not a work holiday, so I had to work at home. I got to spend the whole day trapped at home with a kid I'm mad at.

Fun times, this being a parent. But today I made it work. Or rather, I made him work. He cleaned the kitchen, his room and the litter boxes; watered the plants, inside and out; put away laundry; and finished all other various tasks I assigned him. He also did some online research, on great white sharks and on high blood sugars and what happens if you don't control them. (The blood sugars, that is; I've yet to meet a person who could control a great white shark!)

But the point is, I survived. Thanks to my ever-present village (the one helping to raise my son), Mark is still alive. I wouldn't go so far as to say he's thriving, but sometimes life in itself is a major achievement.

Sigh...I will be back to funny Mark stories soon enough. If he lives...

Yes, that is illegal

Thursday night was Mark's Cub Scout meeting, which focused on the importance of being a good citizen. The boys learned all sorts of citizen-ly stuff, like the difference between rights and duties. ("Rights are something you get, and duties are...um, something you have to do," said one smart Cub Scout.)

Mark was more concerned with bending the brim of his hat up and bugging out his eyes. He stopped every time the den leader mentioned jury duty, and pointed at me because I'm on call to serve this week. Which was fine, until the den leader further elaborated, telling the boys that everyone is entitled to a fair trial by a jury of their peers.

"Yeah, Mom!" Mark sneered, and I shushed him immediately. Embarrassed, I whispered, "I've got jury duty next week," so the other parents would realize I was a potential juror, and not a criminal awaiting my fair trial.

The boys also learned that some rights, while protected, aren't always appropriate.

"Who can name a right?" the den leader asked, and the boys eagerly waved their hands.

He picked one boy, who immediately lowered his hand and said, "Um, I forgot."

So he picked another boy, who correctly identified the freedom of speech.

"What does that mean?" the den leader asked, and the boy answered, "It means you're allowed to say whatever you want."

"Right," answered the den leader. Then he frowned, and asked, "But can you always say whatever you want? Or are some things maybe...illegal to say?"

This made the boys scratch their heads. They couldn't think of anything you'd actually say that might warrant arrest.

Until one boy's hand shot up in the air.

"I know!" he called out. Then he dropped his voice, and quietly said, "The F word."

All the other boys gasped, then nodded. Surely, this was a serious crime.

The den leader, bless his heart, nodded too, and managed to keep a straight face. "Yes, that is very bad," he agreed. "It's not appropriate, but it's also not illegal."

The other boys raised their hands, and each took his turn at giving roughly the same answer. Apparently, for Cub Scouts it's illegal to say the F word, a cuss word, a bad word or even a naughty word.

The den leader eventually pointed out the correct answer -- that we aren't allowed to threaten the rights of other people, as in saying we're going to harm or kill them. This actually shocked the boys, who asked, "Why would you tell someone you're gonna kill them??"

We also learned other important civic information, such as the days you should fly your flag outside. I thought that might include the Fourth of July, Veteran's Day, and maybe President's day. Instead, I was shocked to learn that acceptable days also include Mother's and Father's Day. (Not sure how you commemorate those days if your parent is from another country.)

Even though he spent most of the lesson goofing around, Mark was listening when the den leader described watering your lawn. He explained that because of the drought, we can only water our lawns on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. I don't know why that one struck a chord with Mark, but he chastised me profusely Sunday morning when I watered the back lawn.

"What day is this?" he asked me, accusingly.

"Hey, I only water the backyard once a week," I said. "If I don't do it now, I'll forget!"

He glared at me, until I explained that technically, I can do it any day, because I'm not using my other two allotted days. I'm actually saving the city water by only watering once a week. He didn't buy it, so I turned the sprinklers off.

And so we all came away from the lesson better citizens. I also came away agreeing with the boys on their points -- that bad words would be illegal (especially from the mouths of Cub Scouts) and that flags should be flown every day (just to make sure we didn't miss any important days).

I struggled a little with the watering one, but I'll survive. Because of course, if I forget, I'll still be protected by my right to a fair trial.

Let's just hope that jury of peers doesn't include any Cub Scouts.

Rough week...is it Friday yet???

I was pretty great with kids when I was just an aunt. I had unlimited patience, creativity and energy. I knew my nieces and nephews were the smartest, funniest kids around, and I spent as much time telling them that as I could.

Well, things are a little different when you become a parent. First off, turns out the job is full-time. You can't just leave when you're tired; "OK, kids, Mommy'll see you next week" doesn't really fly.

You realize that sleep is overrated (for you, not your kid) and your appreciation for the mundane expands in ways you never thought possible ("Yes! I've got 30 minutes of free time -- I can totally do laundry and empty the dishwasher!").

As a mom, you realize that even if your kid is smart and funny, he's also pretty demanding. For starters, he requires at least three meals a day, plus snacks, which is a huge deal if your previous cooking experience was defrosting frozen boxed dinners. And that was on the days you actually did cook -- more often than not, dinner consisted of happy hour appetizers or Taco Tuesday.

Pre-child, my life was full of social engagements and cultural events. It still is, though now those social engagements are solely my child's, not mine, and I am relegated to chauffeuring him back and forth. And cultural events are more along the lines of Sponge Bob than art exhibits or concerts.

There are plenty of upsides, though. For example, my multiplication and long division skills are improving, after lying dormant for a good 30 years. But sadly, my grammar skills are diminishing. Mark asked today for help distinguishing common, abstract and concrete nouns, and I looked at him blankly. I had no idea there were more than one type -- and I'm a professional writer!

But I don't mind all the work. I really love my kid, and though he sometimes drives me crazy, he also cracks me up. He's taught me a lot about life (savor it), about my capacity for love (limitless when it comes to him), and about patience (not quite as unlimited as my love).

And he's taught me to appreciate the simple, wonderful things about being a parent. That no matter how burnt out or fatigued I become, no matter how rough the day, there's always hope, there's always another chance tomorrow.

I may run out of patience and forget he's just a little kid who needs constant reminders to wear clean clothes and brush his teeth (with toothpaste). But when I do, he reminds me, in his own sweet way, that I have more patience (and love) than I think.

My friend Jill always says God makes 'em extra cute so you don't kill them. She's definitely right about that...

I'm going to bite your neck...when I wake up

Last Friday was the highlight of Mark's school year -- the Halloween carnival. He basically gets to run around the school yard freely, going on rides and buying junk food. There's nothing he loves more than that, except saving his own money by convincing his friends to spend theirs. (The question "How many carbs are there in a root beer float?" was quickly followed by, "Damian bought it for me!")

He also likes playing the games, especially the ones with food prizes. He succeeded again in winning a two-liter bottle of diet soda in the pumpkin walk, which thrilled him to no end.

When I arrived to pick him up, he collected all his winnings: the soda, a big bag of candy and toys, some purple Halloween socks the nurse gave him, and two pair of pink vampire teeth. Which he promptly popped into his mouth.

The teeth didn't bother me so much as the slurping noises that came at the end of every sentence he tried to say.

"Ishn't it coo I won anudder bodda a shoda?" he asked, slurping noisily.

"I have no idea what you just just said," I answered. I turned around in my seat to look at him holding up his bottle of Diet Dr Pepper. "How many pair of teeth do you have in there?"

"Chew," he answered, raising up two fingers as I stared at him blankly.

We were on our way to San Diego, and he talked excitedly (if incoherently) about the carnival. I couldn't understand him, so I just nodded and answered, "Um hum," "Really?" "Cool!" and "Wow" at each slurping interval.

By the time we hit San Juan Capistrano, he'd stopped talking. I tipped the rear view mirror down to see him in the backseat, and the sight made me smile. There was my scary little vampire, fast asleep, still wearing his pink fangs.

Traffic was completely stopped, so I aimed my camera phone at him and snapped a picture. I completely forgot one of the big vampire rules -- that their reflections don't show up in mirrors or on film. Here's what I got:



But I was pretty sure that despite the pink fangs, Mark isn't really a vampire. So I shot again, and succeeded:



I know I'm legally obligated to believe my son is the cutest kid around, but seriously...how much cuter does it get than a sleepy vampire in the back seat?

Vampires, mummies and the Holy Ghost

We traveled to San Diego this weekend, since Halloween is one of those holidays better spent with a horde of kids. Mark was thrilled to spend it with his cousins.

First on the agenda was a trip to the pumpkin patch. Before I was even through the gate, Mark was holding a large, lopsided pumpkin with an $8 price tag on it.

"I want this one!" he shouted. I glanced around the lot, but it was kinda like buying a Christmas tree on Christmas day; not much to choose from. There were but a few rows of lonely, leftover pumpkins.

Some nice man gave us his leftover ride tickets on his way out, and the kids immediately used them on the giant inflatable slide. They raced up and down for 20 minutes, until finally they stumbled over to us, pink and sweaty. It was 85 degrees and hot outside; so much for a change of seasons!

Their next stop was a game booth. First, they threw plastic balls into giant pumpkin cutouts. Then they moved down a few steps to try their hand at fishing for magnetic turtles. Each turtle was labelled with a size that referred to a box of inflatable toys. All our kids won medium or large, which meant they got to choose an inflatable hammer or bat. They immediately raced off to beat each other silly with them.



My parents invited their neighbors over for dinner, which consisted of pizza, baked beans, mummy dogs and chili that was so hot, my brother Scott couldn't stop sweating.

"That's GOOD!" he gasped between bites. (He made it, and was very proud of himself.) He insisted I try some, and for a few minutes afterwards, I saw stars, as though I'd been pounded in the head with an inflatable bat. It was that hot!

My mom and I created the mummies by painstakingly wrapping hot dogs in crescent roll dough. I must admit my mom was much better at this than I was. "My patients don't look so good," I noted, as the "bandages" fell off once again.



My nephew Grant was intrigued and bothered by the mummies. "What are you putting on them?" he asked Scott more than once.

"Bandages," Scott told him, which did not sate him. "It's just bread dough, Grant," he explained, but Grant didn't believe him.

"What are you putting on there?" he asked me, and I answered the same thing. He frowned, and questioned my mom.

Finally, his mom gave him a bite of the "bandages" and he finally let it go.

Even though it was hot outside, the kids couldn't wait to dress up. They were in full costume by 5 o'clock, and quickly scarfing down their dinner. They wanted hit the streets as soon as possible, and didn't like hearing they had to wait until dark.



Finally, at 6 o'clock, we could hold them back no longer. The five adults filled our plastic ghost cups with wine, and headed out. The kids raced up the street, filling their plastic pumpkins with all the refined sugar they could get. Which turned out to be quite a lot; the neighborhood is an older one, with few kids. The homeowners were glad to see the kids, and loaded them up with handfuls of candy.

I've got to hand it to the kids, they did pretty well. The complaining didn't start until about 45 minutes in, when Mark grabbed at my cup and peered inside.

"I'm thirsty," he panted. "Is this water?"

I swiped it back. "No, it's wine. Keep going!"

Luckily, Michelle the neighbor, had brought along a bottle of water, which she graciously shared with my dehydrating son.

Ten minutes later, the complaints started up again, with cries of "My pumpkin's too heavy!"

"Do you have a bag I can put this in?" Mark asked me, apparently unable to see that all I was carrying was one plastic cup.

"I've got bags!" Michelle said. She was waaaaay more prepared than we were.

"There you go," I told Mark. "Go get one from the good mommy."

The kids circled the cul-de-sacs, and when the complaining grew loud again, Scott and I chastised them.

"Seriously," I said. "It's Halloween. It's the one night of the year you can run up to any house in the country, and people will give you free candy! What are you complaining about??"

Scott asked them what other night of the year that happened, and they all agreed none. They rallied for a few more minutes, until Grant tripped and fell, and announced he was done.

So we returned home at 7:30, and the mayhem began. The kids dumped their pumpkins out onto the table and began trading candy furiously. Mini-bars flew from hand to hand so quickly I was sure the chocolate would melt.

Everyone was finally happy with their take. Mark separated out all the Skittles and Starbursts, which I allow him to keep for low blood sugars. Next, he picked out his 10 favorite candies and set them aside to eat later. Then, he picked out three candies to eat immediately. The rest he handed over to me, and I handed him $10 in return. He got candy immediately, and for the next couple weeks, and $10 to boot. He was a happy camper.


We let them run wild for a bit afterwards, since they were fully revved up and enjoying a nice sugar buzz. But eventually, the sugar crash followed, and they settled down to sleep.

Oh, and as far as the diabetes...it made itself known, especially on this holiday dedicated solely to consuming massive amounts of sugar. All the walking actually made Mark a little low by bedtime; even after the junk food dinner and three mini-candy bars, his blood sugar was 70. I gave him some milk, and apparently, diabetes roared its ugly head and protested at the healthy food. His blood sugar shot up to 418 (!) two hours later.

But that was just a sidenote to the whole story. The best part of the story didn't even involve a meter; instead, it focused on six happy kids, their smiling parents and grandparents, and loads of happy childhood memories they made that night.

Now this is more like it

One of Mark's daily chores is setting the dinner table. I'm never quite sure how it will look when he's done -- he always forgets the condiments, he often forgets the silverware or napkins, and sometimes he even forgets the plates.

But sometimes, like last week, he adds things.

I really appreciated the festive touch -- it definitely made taco night seem more exotic.

And I liked it much better than other nights when he's decorated my beer -- by adding a colorful straw for me to sip with.

Because let's face it, while I appreciate the effort and thoughtfulness of a good bendy straw, a cold beer is much better when chugged straight from the bottle. Which is exactly how I intended to drink it...

Right up until I saw that angelic, sweet little face smiling and waiting patiently for me to use the straw he lovingly placed in the beer bottle.

I didn't think it got any cuter than that face, until I sipped my beer from the straw, and the face broke into a gigantic smile.

So if you ever join us for dinner and drinks, don't be surprised if they come with a paper umbrella -- or a straw.

Highlight of my day

The other day I was overcome by a strange desire to clean. This doesn't often occur, so I gave in and cleaned my house until the feeling subsided.

Not only did I vacuum the living room floor, I spot-treated it as well. My heating and A/C vent had leaked a bit during the last storm, so I sprayed some carpet cleaner over the stain.

And to my amazement, spraying the carpet also revealed this:



That's right, a smiley face drawn INTO THE CARPET with a highlighter pen! And not just any smiley face, but Mark's signature smiley face -- the one he draws on his homework, his folders, any random piece of paper or junk mail he finds readily available.

I remembered seeing a highlighter pen on the nearby coffee table, but Mark's almost 10 years old now. I thought we were past the stage where random pens left out in the open become an open invitation for vandalism.

Apparently, I thought wrong. I immediately threw my head back and roared, "MAAAAAAAARK!"

Mark could tell I was mad, and he sauntered into the room running various scenarios in his head. He was trying desperately to figure out which one I was mad about.

I pointed to the carpet. Mark shrugged and asked, "What?"

"Look closer," I commanded, and finally he saw it. He picked this precise moment in time to finally keep his mouth shut.

I knew he was stalling. "Well?" I prompted.

"Well, what?"

"WHY did you draw on the carpet?"

He looked at me and very quickly said, "Grant did it."

Not only did he deny it, he blamed it on his 5-year-old cousin -- who lives two hours away, mind you.

"Seriously?" I asked him. "That's the best you can come up with -- 'Grant did it'?"

He nodded.

"I've personally watched you draw that smiley face on everything you own," I reminded him. I gave him another uncomfortably silent moment to fess up. He did not take it.

"You're sticking with the story that Grant did it?"

He nodded again.

"Well then, lucky for Grant he's not here." I handed over the bottle of carpet cleaner and a rag and ordered him to "Make that disappear."

I walked away, shaking my head, while Mark set about scrubbing forcefully at the smiley face. I figured punishment had been judiciously meted out, until I heard a grumbling and a spate of angry words that ended in "Grant!"

"Grant didn't do it!" I called out from the kitchen. "Let it go."

And as I watched him scrub away at the smiley face, I realized the next graffiti will probably not be quite as cheerful.

And now I know where that phrase comes from...

I often use this phrase to describe a difficult situation: "It's like herding cats." I've used it most often when describing Cub Scout meetings or soccer practice, but I don't think I've ever actually used it to describe cats. Until today...

In addition to housing two humans, two cats, and one baby lizard, our home is also sheltering termites. Which is about 1,000 occupants too many. Since I pay the mortgage, I determine who stays and goes, and I voted the termites out.

Unfortunately, eviction consists of poisonous gas being pumped throughout the structure. Which meant moving the humans, food and cats out for a few days.

The first two gave me no trouble, but the last one...wow!

It started on Thursday, when I brought the cats in for their shots. Somehow they just knew I was taking them to the vet. Frankie skittered around the house nervously, and Elvis flat out hid and refused to come out. Instead of taking them both to the vet, I only took Frankie, who objected by wetting his crate. Fun times.

Elvis, who spends 99% of his time sleeping on my bed, somehow knew I would try again on Saturday (I think Frankie told him). I had to grab and drag him out from underneath the bed, while Mark waited in the garage with the carrier.

"Open the door!" I yelled at him from the office. "I've got Elvis, and he's MAD!" I threw the growling, hissing cat into the carrier and wiped the sweat from my brow.

And that was only the dress rehearsal! The real show came yesterday, when I had to transport BOTH cats to the pet hotel at the same time.

Once again, I enlisted Mark's help. I picked him up from school, his hair still painted blue and red in celebration of Red Ribbon week.

I ran through the plan with him, which was this: I would scoop up the sleeping Elvis, put him in the carrier and put the carrier in the garage so Frankie didn't hear him yowling. Mark would play with Frankie and keep him occupied until I could get him in his carrier.

Elvis executed his part of the plan wonderfully. He was in the garage before I could say boo.

Mark also cooperated. Frankie, however, was the lone holdout.

"I've got Frankie!" Mark called out, and when I entered the room, I saw that he certainly did. He was sitting on top of Frankie, trapping him, while Frankie furiously tried to free himself.

I grabbed Frankie and made a run for the carrier. Frankie spit, hissed, and eventually dug his heels into the side of the carrier so I could not push him in. He hissed some more, then threw up on the bed, then busted the door off the carrier. Mark scrambled to help me, but Frankie even hissed at him.

We finally got him in, but it was like caging a rhino. He kept smashing against the carrier. I found a lanyard and tied the busted door shut, but that only slowed him down a little.

I opened the door out to the garage, and was met by Elvis.

"What the..?!" I said, completely surprised to see him roaming freely. Apparently, while shoving him into the top door of his carrier, I hadn't noticed the side door was open. Elvis had simply walked out, and was wandering around.

While I grabbed him and put him back in, Mark informed me Frankie had wet his carrier. The acrid odor confirmed this, but I gagged and said, "Push on!"

We loaded the screeching cats into the car. Mark tried soothing them, telling them in a sweet voice, "Don't worry, it's not that far away." He immediately changed his tone with me and asked worriedly, "It's not that far, right?"

I assured him it was not. Five minutes later, we unloaded the cats, their food, their paperwork and the plastic bag lining the car seat (Frankie had ruined my last car's upholstery in a similar fashion). Mark slooowly unloaded the food and papers, and when I begged him to hurry, he reached for a stray juice box and inquired if he could have it.

"Seriously?" I asked him. "Now, while I'm trying to keep Frankie from escaping in the parking lot?"

"I feel low," he told me. That would have been good information about, oh say, 10 minutes ago!

And so we arrived at the pet hotel -- my stinky, wet, barfing cats protesting in their carriers; my blue-and-red haired low-blood sugar son, whose sweaty hair was melting into what looked like bloody red rivers flowing down his face; and me, just plain frazzled and trying not to drench myself in Frankie's urine. And then, just when I thought it couldn't get worse, the attendant brought out a huge, barking dog who announced himself eagerly to the cats.

"I'll be right with you," the attendant told us, and I almost burst into tears from the stress of it all. My patriotic red-white-and-blue son found a chair and drank his juice.

Eventually, his blood sugar came up. Frankie and Elvis were escorted to their private kitty cottage, and while not entirely happy, at least they were quiet. They were still mad, though, and refused to acknowledge us. But the kitty next door meowed eagerly at Mark, who happily pet him.

We left the hotel, exhausted. Mark ran along the wall, looking closely in all the fish tanks. I envisioned a cold beer waiting at home for me, and smiled.

Until I remembered that beer, along with all our other food and drinks, was double-bagged in the fridge, and inaccessible. I sighed.

But I suddenly realized the magnitude of what I'd just accomplished -- I was now, officially, an expert cat wrangler!

And so, the next time I say, "It's like herding cats," it won't just be an empty phrase. I'll be speaking from experience!

Big game hunting

I recently returned home with a big bag of groceries and a distracted mind. As I set down the groceries on the dining room table, something moved in my periphery.

I glanced that way, and it moved again -- a quick, fluid movement which momentarily looked like a snake scurrying away. Then I realized what it really was, and let out a nerve-wracking shriek.

Yes, I really did shriek -- like a little girl. I scared Mark half to death, poor guy. He looked at me quizzically, and I sounded another ear-splitting shriek.

"LIZARD!!!!"

Mark jumped back, equally frightened, then jumped into my arms. Where he found no solace, as I was visibly shaking myself.

I'm not normally scared of lizards, but then again, I don't usually find them in my house. That's right, indoors. In MY HOUSE. Crawling around in their creepy, snake-like lizardy ways. Yet here he was, breaking our unspoken human-lizard contract -- the one where I agree not to bother lizards in their homes if they agree not to bother me in mine.

But this was a little lizard, a baby one, and maybe he didn't know about the contract yet. So he slithered away toward the living room.

Mark was quietly freaking out; I had to take charge of the situation.

"We've gotta do something," I commanded in a shaky voice. Mark nodded, and did exactly as I've taught him to for any emergency -- he ran to the phone and called a much braver family member. He explained the situation to Uncle Brad.

Who is maybe not the most sympathetic member of my family...

I could hear Brad barking through the phone.

"Well, go catch that lizard!" he told Mark. "You're the man of the house, take care of it!"

Mark shook his head at the phone. Brad broke the silence, asking, "C'mon Mark, are you a man, or a little girl?"

Mark looked nervously at the scared little lizard and replied, "Um, both."

"You're a little girl?" Brad boomed back.

"No, I'm not a girl, but..." He trailed off. He didn't want to sound weak to his uncle, but he sure didn't want to catch that lizard, either. If manning up meant catching the lizard, then he wasn't quite ready to do that.

"Get a broom and a box, and catch him, Mark!" Brad thundered. "You can do it."

Mark realized no help was coming. He hung up the phone, took a deep breath and raced to the garage in search of a box. He was gone so long, I feared he wasn't coming back. And I'm not proud to admit that my biggest fear wasn't for my son's safety, but that the little rat had left me alone with a live lizard.

I grabbed a broom and stood guard over the lizard. When Mark returned with a plastic box, I tried to guide Lizzy toward it. Instead, the little guy slithered behind the armoire, and then under a giant subwoofer. Mark raced in after him, but was relieved not to find him.

"We'll build a trap!" Mark told me, tilting the box on its side. He grabbed a paper bag from the kitchen and set it on the ground as well. I was not convinced either trap would be very successful.



But I was wrong. Mark did catch a little critter -- our cat Frankie! Frankie thought the paper bag was a wonderful new toy, and spent the afternoon crawling in and out of it.

Which led me to my next worry -- the cats would get the lizard before we did. They love chasing insects, flies, scrap paper -- anything that moves. While I wasn't exactly a fan of the little lizard, I didn't want him to become Frankie's lunch. Or worse, Frankie's gutted play toy.

I never did see the lizard come out, and I freaked out a little bit just knowing he was lurking somewhere close by, ready to scare the wits out of me again. But my fear proved unfounded as I saw him the next morning, scurrying along the living room wall. The OUTSIDE living room wall. That's right, he made it outside safely, to the great relief of all parties concerned.

Except maybe Frankie...

One sundae with extra sugar, please

On Saturday, I took Mark out for our belated Adoption Day celebration dinner. We celebrated with two humongous ice cream sundaes and a whole lot of sugar-induced giggles.

Mark mulled over his choices carefully before we left. He was afraid he'd forget something, and I was afraid they wouldn't have the nutritional values readily available. So we ran through the various ice creams and toppings, with Mark screaming out his choices and me writing down the carbs.

He ended up with half-mocha/half mint-chip ice cream, cookie dough and coconut mix-ins, and caramel syrup, all in a waffle bowl. I added up all the carbs for that, then had a minor heart attack -- 150 grams of carbs! (He usually averages 60-80 per meal.)

That was his previous highest carb intake EVER, after a huge meal at Soup Plantation. He was so excited by his massive carb count that he called my mom to tell her, "Grandma, I'm eating ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY carbs!!!" She was suitably mortified, which made him smile even bigger.

But it was our Adoption Day, so I didn't care. Needles and insulin be damned, we were going to have ice cream for dinner!

Mark bounced all around the store as the woman scooped up his sundae. He posed for me, but refused to stop eating long enough for me to snap the pic:



It didn't take long for the sugar to kick in. Within 10 bites, Mark asked, "Who needs a spoon anyway?" and dunked his face directly into the sundae. (Apparently, spoons are not a quick enough delivery mechanism.)


However, while not quick, spoons do provide other advantages, such as civility and good table manners! Neither of which were evident at this meal...


The sugar was almost too much for Mark -- his little body couldn't handle it! Pretty soon he was dancing in his seat, and singing. He finally couldn't take it anymore, and had to burn off some energy. With a loud howling noise, he jumped out of his chair and ran through the Pavillion's next door. He returned, passed me by, screamed "Ooooga booga!" and repeated his laps three more times. I was falling off my seat with laughter.

By the time we left, he was hopping up and down, pulling me through the parking lot. "Let's go!" he shouted, scaring an elderly woman nearby. "It's time for the VROOM VROOMIES!"

He dove into the back seat of the car. As I drove away, he shouted at every passerby. "VROOM VROOM!" he called out, cackling. When we hit the street, he decided to pant and bark like a dog at the other cars.

I couldn't take him home in that condition -- he'd wreck the house! So instead, we went shopping for Halloween costumes. He raced up and down the aisles excitedly, like every other kid was doing. He was, however, the only kid dancing in the aisles.

We shopped until the sugar rush finally wore off, then headed home. I checked his blood sugar religiously two hours afterwards, then at four and six hours later. Ironically, that six-hour window was the lowest his blood sugar was all weekend!

By bedtime, he was exhausted but happy. He had a new Halloween costume, a full belly, and a happy memory.

As for me...I was just happy the sugar finally wore off!

How could I forget??

With all the craziness of our previous weekend (birthdays, Disneyland, a houseful of guests, a soccer game, a birthday barbecue), I completely forgot one of the most important days of my life.

Kathleen arrived early to help with the last-minute details for the barbecue. She handed me a card, and I just said, "What's this?"

Turns out "this" brought me to tears.

It was a card that said Happy Adoption Day, and a gift card to Coldstone Creamery. Kathleen smiled again, and said, "The ice cream sundaes are on me!" (Last year, on the first anniversary, Mark and I decided to celebrate every Adoption Day with a trip to Disneyland and sundaes for dinner.)

I immediately welled up and hugged her. And then I smacked myself for forgetting. (Bad mom!!!)

I kicked myself mentally all day long, until finally, I stopped. I realized maybe it wasn't such a big deal after all -- maybe it was actually a really healthy thing that I forgot. I don't think in terms of when we legally became a family anymore; I just think of us as a family.

See, the thing is, sometimes I actually forget Mark is adopted. I never think of him as my "adopted" son, and he never thinks of me as his "adoptive" mother. We're just Mom and Mark.

We talk about adoption occasionally, but not nearly as much as we did that first year. In fact, I think we talked about it so much that year, he's had his fill.

Which is not to say we ignore it, either. He talks about his birth parents sometimes, when something reminds him of them. But he calls them by their first names and with each passing year, the distance grows a little farther and he talks about them a little less.

I bring them up if he hasn't in a while, especially on days like Mother's or Father's Day, when he's sure to be thinking of them. I tell him how grateful I am they gave birth to such a wonderful little boy, and how lucky I am to raise him. I tell him I'm glad he's had so many people throughout his life who love him.

I asked Mark how he felt about our second Adoption Day, and he just shrugged. The he immediately asked, "When do we get our sundaes?"

"Soon," I promised. I tried a different tact, asking, "Have you been thinking about the adoption? I bet that was kinda scary for you, being adopted into a whole new family."

He just shrugged again, and said simply, "Nope." Then he asked if he could go back to playing with his cousins.

I know he does think about it, even if he won't admit it, and I'm glad. I don't pretend he doesn't have a before...a history, a lifetime, heck, even another family, before he had me. I had all of those things, too, if in a completely different way. But nobody ever tried to quash my history pre-Mark, or pretend like it never happened, and thankfully, they've never tried to ignore his either.

Last year's celebration was a huge sigh of relief, commemorating a day that took two long years to happen. It was joyful because the previous two years were so fraught with emotion. It was bittersweet, because while it was the beginning of one family, it was also the end of another. But mostly it was loving, because wherever we looked, wherever we turned, we were surrounded by love, by friends, by family hugging and congratulating us.

So it was fitting that we spent this same day, two years later, celebrating with many of those same people. We were celebrating someone else, my cousin Kathleen (it was her birthday), but that didn't matter, because we were still surrounded by love and family.

And really, at the end of the day, that's what matters most. Not where you started from or how you came to be loved, but simply that you are loved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's the definition of "dream"?

Last night Mark was running a little high when I checked his blood sugar, so I woke him to use the bathroom.

He's such a deep sleeper that rousing him from his dreams sometimes has unexpectedly hilarious results. Once, Mark actually tried to karate chop me when I shook him awake. Sometimes he engages me in nonsensical conversations, and often, I have to guide his body toward the bathroom as he turns down the hallway instead.

But he was having some crazy dreams last night, because when I woke him, he told me, "I was falling into the dictionary."

I smiled and asked, "Wow, that sounds bad. What words were you by?"

He shrugged and mumbled, "I dunno, some weird word."

He never really woke up, which was good, and was back asleep in no time at all. When I asked about it this morning, he laughed along with me.

That's what I love about this kid. He's funny when he's awake, and just as funny when he's sleeping.

Creative reading

I am proud to say that Mark is a chip off the ol' block when it comes to reading. He loves it, and I encourage it by providing him with a stocked bookcase and easy access to the library.

I also encourage it for another purely selfish reason. Story time is my very favorite part of the day -- when we cuddle up on my bed, read to each other, and wind down from our busy days, together.

Mark is a great reader. However, when he's really tired, his mouth trips a bit, and he skips lazily over whole sentences. I usually take over at the point, because I know he's tired and ready for bed. But last night his errors were so funny, I let him read a good three or four pages before I took my turn.

He'd picked out a book called Star Wars: Epic Battles. Since Star Wars has a language all its own, I knew I was in for some interesting interpretations.

"Star Wars: Eric Battles," he started.

"Epic Battles, not Eric," I corrected.

"What's epic mean?" he asked.

"Really big."

"Oh." He started the story. "Each planet, large or small, made its voice heard in a huge Senate building on the capital planet, Croissant --"

"Coruscant," I interrupted.

"Coruscant," he echoed. "As the conflict grew, the Republic later deployed its own army." He stopped abruptly and said, "That's messed up! They destroyed their own army?!"

"Deployed," I corrected. "It meant they sent the army out to battle. They didn't kill the army."

"Ohhhh," he said, nodding. He continued for a while, until he came to this: "Sith Lords often hire assistants, spies and bounty hunters to do their dirty work for them."

"That's assassins," I noted. "Sometimes assistants have to do dirty work, too, but not usually killing people."

He moved on to a sidebar about battle droids. "The Trade Federation built many million machine-shoulders called battle droids," he read.

"Machine-soldiers," I corrected. "I think only the Six Million Dollar Man had a machine shoulder."

"Who?" Mark asked, and I reminded myself not to reference '70s TV shows around a 9-year-old.

He gave it a good effort, but eventually started yawning after every other sentence. As amusing as it was, I took over the story. And faithfully read the words correctly, as they appeared on the pages.

Personally, I think the story suffered because of it. I definitely preferred Mark's version better!

Picture this

Today is picture day at Mark's school. That, combined with the wet, rainy weather, has me a little worried.

Mark, of course, is thrilled. For him, it's a free dress day, which meant he immediately picked out his rattiest t-shirt and shorts to wear to school. I explained that yes, technically it is a uniform-free day, but the whole point is to wear nice clothes for the photos. That took the shine off of free dress day.

I actually thought picture day was on Wednesday, and I was planning to take him shopping tonight. So I panicked a bit about his wardrobe, which consists entirely of school uniforms, faded t-shirts and bloody skull-and-snake shirts, none of which I deemed appropriate to wear to school, let alone capture on film forever.

Instead, I braved his messy closet. He has some nice dress shirts I bought for our Alaskan cruise, but I knew there was no chance in hell he would wear a dress shirt and tie to school. (Might as well tell him to wear a "Please Beat Me Up" sign instead.)

But I found the next best thing -- a semi-dressy blue shirt. It had a Tony Hawk label, so I knew I could sell him halfway on that alone, but I needed some big guns to really clinch the deal.

"You can wear your blue Tony Hawk shirt," I said casually, and he disappeared without an answer. He reappeared moments later carrying a faded striped shirt that's seen better days.

"I'll wear this Tony Hawk shirt!" he said, happily.

I pointed out it was faded, which didn't bother him, and that he'd already been photographed in it before, which he hadn't (I'm not above lying to get a good school picture!). Finally, I just shrugged and said, "Well, it's pretty wrinkled," and he tossed in in the closet, disgusted. That kid hates wrinkles!

I let him toss out a few more suggestions before I returned to the blue shirt. He nixed it, and suggested some different t-shirts. I played along, negotiating back and forth, until I sensed the time was right to show all my cards.

"Tell ya what," I said slowly. "That blue shirt would look really good with your skinny jeans. If you wear the shirt, you can also wear the skinny jeans."

And we had a deal! Mark smiled, because he got to wear his beloved skinny jeans, and I smiled because I'd convinced him to wear the only nice shirt he has. I considered it a win on both sides.

Of course, there's no guarantee that his nice clothes will stay nice until his photo session. He regularly uses his shirt as a napkin at lunch. And there was just enough rain last night to mess up the playground, and potentially Mark's shirt (he comes home filthy every day). So I'm praying he'll be photographed before recess and lunch, before he has a chance to dirty himself up.

I also agreed he could pack an extra t-shirt -- I didn't want him to ruin his blue shirt wearing it all day at school. However, that was a gamble, because there's a 50-50 chance he'll wear it for his photo instead of the blue shirt.

Lots to worry about until I get those photos into my hands...

That's an understatement

Back to school is a terrible time for Mark -- because it really means back to school uniforms. For a kid who loves expressing himself through clothes, there could be no fate worse than being forced to dress like everyone else.

I thought he'd eventually realize this is a battle he can't win, and is therefore not worth fighting. It's not the first (or last) time I've been wrong.

Today's clothing battle was over socks. I'm in the camp that firmly believe socks are best when clean; Mark is in the opposing camp. Kathleen recently bought him a new pair of Tony Hawk socks that he loved so much, he wore them three days in a row. Straight. Without washing. And argued indignantly when I ordered them into the hamper. (And cried, "Ewwww, my feet STINK!" when he finally peeled them off.)

He informed me today that he had two different socks on.

"They don't match?" I asked him.

"Nope," he answered. "They never match. In fact, that word isn't even in my vocabulary."

I smiled and agreed. "Well, is 'clean' in your vocabulary?"

"Yes," he answered, though I had my doubts. He glanced over at me, and shook his head, wondering how I dared to ask him such a preposterous question.

"What?" I asked. "I have to check!"

He just shook his head again, and sighed.

"Let's go," I said, and we headed off to school, me and my son with the limited vocabulary.

My little entrepreneur

Last Sunday, Mark washed my car to earn some money for Kathleen's birthday present. He made $5 and it got him thinking...

"Hey, I should ask Kathleen if I can wash her car for $5," he told me. "And Edra, and Monica, and Vicki, and..."

He proceeded to name any and all of our friends with cars. I could almost hear the little cash register ringing nonstop in his head, and see all the toys he imagined himself buying with the loot.

So as soon as he'd finished washing my car, he hit the phone. He left a message for Edra and Monica, and when they called back, he set up appointments for them.

I thought he might whine or grouse a little when the time came, since he's deathly allergic to work of any kind. But he surprised me. He got out his white bucket, clean washrags and drying towels, and even his step stool. He was ready to go.

Edra had the first appointment, on Saturday. She parked her Ford Explorer in the driveway, and Mark's eyes grew big.

"I can't wash the top of that car!" he exclaimed. "It's too high!"

Edra excused him from the top, then joined me in the garage. We drank sodas and watched my little guy work.

When he finished, he pocketed the money into his folding velcro wallet. He even changed his clothes, because his shorts had no pockets. He found a pair that did, so he could carry his wallet in them.

On Sunday, Kathleen's boyfriend Tim came over. He hired Mark to clean Kathleen's tires, and paid him a couple bucks. He also left Mark a scrubbing broom, and gave him some helpful tips ("Start from the top, and rinse off the soap before it dries").

Mark listened carefully to Tim, and when his next customer, Monica arrived, he put Tim's words into action. Monica asked if Mark also vacuumed the cars, and without missing a beat, Mark answered, "Yes -- for another dollar." Monica agreed that was a bargain.

While he was working on Monica's car, our neighbor backed out of her garage. She rolled her window down and said, "What does it cost to be next?"

"Five bucks!" Mark answered.

"That's a deal!" she replied. She hired him to do her car when she returned.

By the end of the weekend, Mark had washed four cars and cleared $25. He was thrilled with the money, and I was thrilled at his work ethic. (I'd never seen him voluntarily work before!)

By the end of the day, he was exhausted, but that money was burning a hole in his pocket. I took him to Target so he could spend some. He picked out some little toy skateboards popular with the fourth-grade crowd.

Mark spent 30 minutes in front of the toys, choosing which ones he wanted, and running back and forth to the scanner to check their prices. He added up the prices over and over again, to make sure he had enough money.

Even though he'd added up the prices 10 times, Mark held his breath as the cashier rung them up. He ripped open the velcro on his wallet, and counted out 19 dollars, handing them over to the cashier. And then, with a joyful grin on his face, he grabbed his bag and ran out the door.

It was such a great lesson, from beginning to end. He worked hard, earned money, and got to buy a new toy with it. He even had money left over, because he wanted to save some to buy a bigger skate ramp later on.

And I was happy, too. I saw my son work hard, and earn his money. I also got to visit with my friends while they got their cars washed. The best friends a person could ask for -- the kind who supports and pays my kid to wash their cars, even though they were washed professionally last week.

Costume craziness

It's officially October, which means Mark will spend most of the month figuring out what to be for Halloween. He's actually been thinking about it for a couple months already, with Michael Jackson being the front runner.

However, we received a catalog to a party store in the mail the other day. It was devoted solely to Halloween costumes. I immediately handed it over to Mark, who keeps it in the car and reads it over whenever we're driving.

Some of the costumes befuddle him, like this one:



"What toddler wants to be a hobo for Halloween?" he asked incredulously, and I had to admit I didn't know.

Or this one, about which he asked, "What kid wants to be a whoopie cushion?"


"Not mine," I answered. I refuse to trick or treat with a four-foot whoopie cushion!

Mark's even started looking for me, too. He thought it would be funny if we went as this:





He likes that the hot dog is wearing mustard, and not ketchup (he hates ketchup).

Mark also became very excited when he saw one of my favorite things.

"Hey, Mom!" he shouted. "You wanna be a bottle of beer for Halloween?"



I giggled, but assured him I did not.

Right now, he's leaning toward the skate punker costume because he thinks he'll get a new skate board out of it, and will be sorely disappointed when I point out it's not included with the costume.



He's also thinking of being a Mac Daddy. But he's not quite sure what a mac daddy really is (looks suspiciously like a pimp to me), so that's his second choice.



I'm sure he'll change his mind as soon as we enter the store. I'm a mean mom, so I've already eliminated some of the choices right off the bat -- nothing that costs more than $30 or is violent. (He's only going to wear it once, so I refuse to spend $50 for a costume with a serial killer, or some other inappropriate choice.)

In the end, I don't think it'll matter much anyway; for him, the ultimate goal is really the trick or treat candy anyway.

For me: I'm just hoping to avoid chaperoning him dressed like a giant hot dog.

My own personal barrista

I've found being a mom is hard work. It takes a lot of time to raise a little person up right. You've gotta instill all the traits and characteristics you value most -- t e a ching good manners, gratitude, compassion, fairness, and loyalty. Some kids know instinctively how to do the right thing, but most do not; they are blank slates and must be taught, just like we were taught once long ago.

However...not all the lear n i n g in our house is so lofty. In addition to molding a compassionate, well-balanced child, I've also nudged him to master more practical, everyday tasks, like laundry and housework. And cooking, which has become a priority since having a child, and realizing cereal is not really dinner food. (Not on a regular basis, anyway.)

And so, I'm teaching Mark to cook.

OK, I'll admit, I'm not much of a chef. I've started off slowly, teaching him the basics. So far, he has mastered the art of opening packages of dried pasta and dumping them into pots of boiling water. He's also pretty good at heating up a tortilla -- though, he prefers doing that in the microwave, much to my dismay.

But I'm most proud of his coffee. That's right, my kid can make a mean cup of joe. I've recently discovered the only thing better than a cup of coffee is a cup of coffee someone else made. I'm proud to say that Mark can add the water, measure out the grounds (more or less), and push the button that turns it all into nectar of the gods.

Yesterday, he even filled my travel mug, then added four heaping tablespoons of sugar, telling me "You'll have sugar in every bite!" (Can I get my coffee black, with a side of cavities, please?)

Mark's only 9, so he can't actually enjoy the fruits of his labor yet (he does sneak little sips). I know you can't live on coffee alone, so I'll have to expand the cooking lessons eventually. But for now, I'm relishing my morning coffee, and the idea that I'm teaching Mark a life skill and possible future job training.

Someday, Starbucks will thank me...