Girls are gross

Mark was recounting a story about his friend Kyle, who likes a girl at school.

"And she likes him back!" Mark exclaimed, with surprise.

I was curious as to what that meant -- it's been a long time since I was in fourth grade.

"Huh," I answered. "So...what now? Do they eat lunch together?"

"No!" Mark snorted. "Why would he do that?"

I shrugged. "I dunno...do they hold hands?"

This one was met with a growl.

"Sorry!" I told him. "Are they gonna go to the movies together?"

This time, Mark didn't even answer -- he just walked away. "They can't even drive yet!" he called back at me. "How are they gonna go to the movies?"

"I'm just trying to figure out what it means that they like each other!" I called out to him.

"Get a boyfriend yourself, then you'll know!" answered my loving son. Yes, the same jealous boy who growls and gives me the stink eye when I talk about my pretend "boyfriends" (Harry Connick Jr. and George Clooney). His little head would explode if I brought a real boyfriend into the house!

Later, I asked if Mark liked any girls in his class, and he just stomped away again. This scene has repeated itself numerous times, including once when we were goofing around.

I hugged him, and kissed his head, then told him to stop being so dang cute.

"Never!" he said. Then he paused, and asked, "Why wouldn't you want me to be cute, anyway?"

"Because you're so cute, I'm gonna have to chase all the girls away!"

"OK, then yes," he answered. "I'll stop right now. Immediately!"

I just smiled at him. He may not be all at all interested in girls right now, but I know he will be some day. Some day sooner than I'm ready for.

So I'm just going to enjoy my sweet little boy now, while he is still sweet and little, until that terrible day comes. :-)

My speling iss bade

I'm a writer by trade, so words are important to me. I have an affinity for the spoken word, and an appreciation of any smart, witty, or touching combo of words put together in poems or song lyrics.

But my true love is the written word. I relish it; to me, there is no greater joy than a new book, a comfy couch, and an afternoon all to myself to enjoy them. It is this love of words, and of reading, that shaped my childhood, and fed my ever-growing imagination. It's also what lead me into my chosen career, first as an editor, correcting everyone else's grammatical missteps, and then as a writer myself, twisting and joining phrases to share my thoughts with readers. (OK, so points off that my livelihood revolves around the very driest form of writing -- technical writing -- but hey, I make a living off words, so I guess it still counts.)

And so, when my young son picked up my love of reading, it filled my heart with gladness. His skill at math and science impressed me, but his love for books truly made me happy.

Until...the other shoe dropped. The spelling shoe, that is. I figured that exposure to the written word, actually seeing how words look on a page, would help him. It's definitely helped his vocabulary, but his spelling...not so much.

At first, spelling didn't matter much. That's what the kindergarten and first-grade teachers told me. Even the second grade teacher said it was okay to spell phonetically, but by third grade, I was beginning to worry. And fourth grade...oy, don't even get me started on that! It actually hurts me to look at his papers sometimes.

I thought it was just me, until a recent breakfast with friends and Mark's new Mad Libs book. He had a great time playing, until my friend Monica, who's a teacher, commented on Mark's spelling.

"We are gonna work on that spelling this summer!" she warned him, and he just sighed.

But he's been thinking about it all week. Tonight, he told me, "Monica says my spelling is terrocious."

"I think she said atrocious," I corrected, but he shook his head.

"No, she said terrocious."

"Is that a combination of terrible and atrocious?" I asked. "Because she's right!"

He gave me the evil eye.

"You're terrocious," he told me, and I just giggled. Then he stomped off to his room to pick a bedtime story.

Oh well. The spelling, with time (from Monica and I!), will improve. So for today, while it's terrocious, I will just be thankful that he loves to read.

First aid (and other disasters)

Mark recently took a first aid class, to earn his Cub Scout Readyman activity pin. He was kind of excited about the class -- before attending, that is.

"Where's the class again?" he asked.

I told him, and he laughed out loud.

"At the silly college?" he called back to me.

"No, CITY college," I corrected. Unfortunately, his misnomer set the tone for the day.

I dropped him off with the other Cub Scouts, and enjoyed a leisurely morning to myself. When I picked up Mark and his friend Sean, I learned that first aid is very, very, totally, extremely waaaaaay boring. They were almost offended that I'd sent them to a potentially life-saving class.

"What'd you learn?" I asked, and they answered "Nothing!" in unison.

"Really?" I asked. "So, if I was laying on the ground dead, could you save me?"

"Not if you were dead," Sean answered, and I thought, Duh! That was a dumb question!

"What if I were bleeding?" I asked.

"Yes, then we could tie some gauze around the cut," Sean answered.

"And if we don't have any gauze, we could use our shirts!" Mark piped in.

"What if you're not wearing a shirt?" I asked.

"Then we'll use our pants -- I mean, our SOCKS!" he answered, obviously embarrassed at the thought of taking off his pants to save his own mother.

"Do me a favor," I told him. "Don't use your socks on me. I've smelled those things -- I think I'd rather die!"

The boys both laughed. I asked them what else they'd learned, and they told me about the disgusting dummy they had to breathe into. Sean also admitted to exploring the dummy's nose cavity, and I was relieved to hear he hadn't found anything inside.

"What about if I were choking?" I asked. "What would you do?"

Without hesitation, Mark jumped behind me, and I suddenly had a tiny fist shoved up into my rib cage. He tried freeing the pretend choking hazard, and set me to coughing.

"This is called the Lick Maneuver!" he shouted excitedly.

"The Heimlich Maneuver," I corrected. "Wow, that does not feel good!"

And then the lessons stopped abruptly. Mark changed the subject, pointing out a kid passing by.

"That kid's name is Lame!" Mark whispered.

I looked at the boy's name tag. "No, it's Liam," I told him. "Not Lame!"

"Oooooh!" Mark nodded. "I thought maybe his mom was just really mean!"

And with that, the two boys ran off. They'd spent a sunny Saturday morning in class, and were ready to run and play. I herded them away from the parking lot (didn't want to practice any first aid lessons so quickly after class), then took them home, where they spent the next couple hours racing around the backyard and wrestling in the grass.

I'm glad that they actually did learn some life-saving skills. But watching them wrestle and chase each other like a couple wild banshees, I just hope I'm not the recipient of any of those new skills!

Controller of the universe

The other day, Mark and I were eating dinner. He dared me to not eat the last couple french fries, and since I wasn't feeling all that well, I just shrugged.

"No problem," I told him. "I'm not hungry, anyway."

Which is not what a competitive kid likes to hear. So he rephrased the challenge.

"I bet you can't resist those fries," he baited me. "If you eat them, then you are under my control! You have to do whatever I say!"

Which again, due to my lackluster health, proved no challenge.

But he talked himself into it. As we scooted out of the table, he reached down and ate the last few fries.

"A ha!" I half-yelled. "You lose. Guess I get to control you now."

This time, he shrugged. "You're the mom," he told me. "You already control me."

And then we both giggled. Because even though I like to think of myself as more of a guide, a lifetime of experiences that will help transition him into a caring, respectful adult, I realized that's not how he sees me (or my job) at all.

Instead, he sees me as his all-controlling, all-powerful try-to-ruin-his-fun-at-every-opportunity mom. I am the master of his destiny, the controller of all he does, says, and receives, whose main job in life is to ruin his.

And so I giggled. And didn't correct him. Because hey, at the end of the day, I'm okay with that job description. As I've learned from Supernanny, and from my own parents growing up, a little bit of fear never hurt anybody.

Lunch reservations

Mark was telling me a story about a fifth-grade girl at school. He said her name a couple times, but I finally had to admit I didn't know who he was talking about.

"The girl who just got diagnosed with diabetes," he said, exasperated with me.

"Sorry," I answered. "I didn't know her name."

"ANYWAY..." he started his story over again. It began with her smacking Mark in the head with her lunchbox, and him retaliating by taking her lunch.

Now, most moms would be upset by the smacking and stealing parts, but I'm the parent of a child with diabetes. I was more worried about the lunch part.

"You took her lunch?" I asked. "Did she already take her insulin?"

"Yes," he answered. "Besides, she took my lunch, too."

"Did you already get your insulin?" I asked. I was beginning to panic. Taking each other's lunches is a time-honored tradition on the playground, but for kids with diabetes -- who've already taken their insulin according to very specific lunch carb counts -- the results can be disastrous.

"She took your lunch --but you needed to eat!" I said.

"Don't worry," Mark chided. "She needed to eat her lunch, too. So we just gave them back."

And then I laughed. Partly from relief, and partly because it was funny in a sad kind of way. I could see them both stealing lunches and teasing each other, then suddenly realizing they had to stop playing around and eat. I was mad at Mark for stealing the girl's lunch, and proud of him for realizing it might be kind of dangerous to play around like that.

Sometimes diabetes complicates even the simplest interactions...

Cash crop

My smart-aleck son has a new response that he thinks is just hilarious. Whenever I ask him what he wants (to drink, eat, do, see, read, whatever), he answers exactly the same: “I want a thousand dollars.”

I don’t know why he arbitrarily picked this number; I’m not sure why he didn’t shoot higher (say, a million bucks) or more realistic (say, a dollar). But it’s his firm answer and it’s driving me crazy.

It’s even made its way into conversations that have nothing to do with money. When we recently started our garden, I asked him what kind of plants we should buy.

“A money tree!” he shouted, and I laughed out loud.

“Trust me,” I told him. “If I could, I would.”

But it got me to thinking, and that usually turns to practical jokes. I decided to have a little fun with him and his money-obsession.

While driving home, I admitted to Mark that I’d experimented with the garden.

“Remember you wanted a money tree?” I asked. “Well, it got me to thinking, I wonder what would happen if we did plant some money. So I planted a penny and a dime, just to see what would happen.”

“You did?” he said. “I don’t think they’ll grow.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“They’re not seeds!” he yelled.

“Fair enough,” I answered.

When we got home, I asked him to check on the garden, to see if it needed water. What he didn’t know was that I’d set him up -- I planted a little something in the soil:




As soon as he wandered out back, I followed quickly. I didn’t want to miss the look on his face when he saw the bills.

“Oh my gosh!” he screamed, and I hurried over. He was pointing at the bills. His eyes were huge and his mouth was wide open. “Are you serious? Is that real?”

“Hey!" I shouted. "My penny and my dime grew! And they grew into bills!”

Mark jumped around excitedly a couple minutes, then stopped short. “Did you do that?” he asked, and I feigned surprise.

“Do what?” I asked. “Why do you think I did that?”

“Because I know you!” he said. I answered I had nothing to do with it -- my planted coins had simply grown into dollar bills, thanks to sun and water.

That was a good enough answer for him. “I’m gonna plant a quarter!” he yelled, running into the house. I panicked a little at that, and explained it wouldn’t grow, because there’s no $250 bill.

“Start smaller, with a penny or a nickel,” I told him.

“Is there a 100-penny coin?” he asked.

I shook my head, but then he answered his own question. “Ooh, there is a one-dollar coin!” I could see him imagining a crisp new $100 bill pushing through the dirt. So I finally nipped it in the bud.

“I don’t think it will work,” I started, and he caught my drift.

“It was you!” he yelled. “I knew it!”

And I was glad that I finally owned up, because later, while we were laughing about it, Mark told me he was so excited, he was going to plant my debit card. (I give him credit for always thinking big!)

Lockdown

Yesterday was an exciting day for my various fa mily members, for various reasons.

For my brother Smed, it was exciting because he got to ch a se bank robbers and light trees on fire. I've heard about smoking out the bad guys before, but didn't know it literally happens. Either way, he couldn't wait to text me and tell me to look for him on the local news. (Which I did -- however, all the SWAT guys look the same in their combat gear.)

For Mark, who was on the other end of the drama, it was also exciting. His school went into lockdown for 35 minutes, while his Uncle Brad tried catching the escaped bank robbers. I thought it might've been scary, so I asked if he was nervous during the lockdown.

"No," he said, without hesitation.

"No?" I asked. "It wasn't scary?"

"It was fun," he answered immediately. "We got to eat lunch in the classroom!"

Turns out, he had no idea what was going down, or why they were in lockdown. And he was thrilled that the school nurse came to him to check his blood sugar, instead of trudging to her office like he usually does.

And for that, I am grateful to his school staff once again. They run a tight ship over there, they protect the kids and keep them safe without scaring them.

As for me, my reaction was a little different. I'm usually at work and would've missed the whole drama, except that I had an allergic reaction and had to leave early for a doctor's appointment. So I got trapped first on the freeway, and then on a side street. When I finally got home an hour later, I noticed a plethora of helicopters flying overhead, all of them quite close to my house. And instead of being nervous or scared, I simply sighed, and thought, "What did Smed get himself into today??"

Oh, well. Nothing like a little high drama to break up the monotony.

Mama said knock you out

Mark's Cub Scout den is in the home stretch for ear ning their Webelos badge. They had a couple more activities to review, and some oaths/mottoes/slogans to learn before the final pack meeting next week.

So during the last meeting, the den leader spent the time reviewing and explaining the Boy Scout oath. The boys repeated it line for line after him, and the leader stopped at each line to explain exactly what it meant.

My favorite line was when the Scouts promised to be "physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight."

They all knew immediately what physically strong meant. But "mentally awake," ironically, gave them more pause.

"What does that mean, mentally awake?" the leader asked again, and more than one boy scratched his head.

Suddenly, the leader's son, Jonah, raised his hand excitedly -- he'd figured it out.

"Oooh!" he said. "It means you can't be knocked out, like in a fight. You can't be unconscious."

Which became my new favorite definition of mentally awake!

They also had a little trouble with morally straight. They weren't quite sure what "morally" meant, although one boy very smartly pointed out that it came from the word "moral," which he reminded them comes at the end of a story. The leader patiently explained what it meant to act morally, and the boys responded with a knowing, "Oh, yeah!"

However, when they broke up into smaller groups to practice reciting the oath, they quickly confused the phrases, which became "morally awake." And I had to stifle another giggle, because when one boy asked me again what that meant, all I could think of was, "You only have to be good when you're awake -- all bets are off when you're asleep." But I made sure not to say that out loud!

I'm proud to say that all the boys learned the Boy Scout motto, oath, slogan, handshake, and even the Outdoor Code. In no time at all, they were back to playing their favorite Ninja game, and then racing outside for snack and a quick soccer game.

Mark really digs Cub Scouts, because he likes hanging out with his friends. But sometimes, after lessons like this, I think I enjoy it even more than he does!

Ode to Joy

Last night was the Spring Concert at Mark's sch ool. I was simultaneously excited and nervous about attending.

Excited because he actually told me about the concert this time. (Unbeknownst to me, he excused himself from the Winter Concert, telling the mu sic tea cher he had soccer practice.)

Nervous because...well, to be honest, because Mark has never practiced his cello at home. Not once. I am not proud of that -- it's just that I p a y for drum lessons, so all music time is spent pounding away on the drums. (He practices those every night.)

But Mark was excited to play his cello, which seems much smaller than it was at the beginning of last year, when we bought it. Either the cello is shrinking, or Mark has grown.

I've been to the symphony a few times before. I know the musicians usually spend the pre-show time warming up and tuning their instruments. Unless, of course, they are third- to fifth-graders. Then they spend their warm up time giggling, slapping hands, and just generally trying to forget they are dressed up in uncomfortable clothes.

But once the concert started, it was down to business. Here is Mark the master cellist at work.




It was hilarious to watch him. He played the exact opposite of the two girls on either side of them. Each time their bows went left, Mark's went right. When his bow went left, theirs went right. Instead of a single, fluid movement of bows, it looked more like a cog, all parts spinning in different directions.

But he sounded great! He was mostly well behaved, although once he spied me in the audience, he made silly faces and rubbed his eyes because he knows that drives me crazy. (He was center-stage, too, which made it worse. I gave him the ol' fingers-to-eyes-to-pointing-at-him "I'm watching you" gesture, and he stopped.) He also stopped once mid-song to remove the giant plastic blue pinky ring he was wearing. I'm guessing not a lot of professional cellists sport giant pinky rings during their performances.

After the fourth- and fifth-graders finished, it was time for the third-graders to strut their stuff. The little kid in front of me had his shirt buttoned up all wrong, and kept tugging at it. And the kid next to him was very serious about playing his violin. Except that he forgot to give himself enough space, and spent most of the time smacking the mis-aligned button boy in the head with his violin bow. I finally had to look away to keep from giggling.

I've gotta give props to their music teacher. She is amazing! There must've been 50 kids on the stage and steps, and they listened to her every word. They went from giggly, silly kids goofing around before to perfect musicians, serious and well-practiced, as soon as as she raised her arms. They watched her intently, most faces studied and familiar with the music, some contorted with confusion or perhaps intense concentration, as they followed her arm movements. But they all played the music in sync, on key, perfectly. It was quite impressive.

Almost as impressive was Mark trying to show off his violin skills. No, he does not have a violin. Instead, he picked up his cello and put it up to his shoulder.

"Look, Mom!" he yelled. "I told you I was the strongest kid in the orchestra! And I have the biggest violin!"

And I just smiled. Because I can dress him up, and put him in the orchestra, but he's still the same ol' crazy Mark.

Something else I'm not good at

It's no secret that I am craft-impaired. I'm not a MacGyver type who can take a glue gun, pipe cleaner, cotton ball, and construction paper and fashion them into a homemade...anything.

I also know I'm out of my league when it comes to Pinewood Derby cars. But this past week, I thought I finally had a chance at the Cub Scouts Cake Bake and Movie night. Because unlike Derby cars, I've actually made cakes before, and some of them even turned out okay.

Of course, this wasn't really my cake to make. It was Mark's. So I put my control issues to the side and let him bake and decorate it himself. He wanted a happy face on his cake. He picked out three types of icing and a bottle of sprinkly stars for the hair. By the time we left, our cake cost $10, $4 more than the pre-made decorated Mother's Day cakes Mark was drooling over.

Mark wanted to bake one layer square and one round, so I bit my tongue and agreed. We placed the round layer on top, and I handed over the frosting knife which happened to "accidentally" spill at least four times. Mark was kind enough to dispose of the dropped frosting each time.

I thought his cake came out super cute. We plated it, wrote his name on it, and Mark named his entry "Mr. Happy."



However, upon arriving at the cake bake, I realized we were competing against professional bakers. How else to explain these cakes, which were supposedly made by even younger Scouts, with their dads? (Seriously, these dads are starting to make me look bad!)











I am seriously regretting my first impulse, which was to make the infamous kitty litter cake. I may sneak one in next year, even though Mark will have moved on to Boy Scouts by then.

It would totally be worth it!!

From both of us

Yesterday, I celebrated my fifth Mother's Day. I'd planned to sleep in and eventually wake to the gentle sounds of breakfast cook ing. Or to my son smiling, bidding me happy mother's day, and smothering me in kisses. Or to rainbows and unicorns prancing by (hey, that was as realistic a wish as the first two!).

Instead, what I got was my brother, who kicked Mark awake, grunted, "Get your shoes on," and left.

They returned bearing my mother's special request breakfast -- donuts and menudo. I was feeling a little woozy from my friend Nicky's 40th birthday party the night before, and could've used some menudo myself, except that...well, it's gross.

After breakfast, all the m o ms opened our cards and gifts. My mother proclaimed herself the "root" mother, and reminded us that if it wasn't for her, none of us would be there. Really, she could've just said. "I want to go first."

She opened the first card, from my brother Scott, and I burst out laughing. I'd picked out the exact same card! (I told you my family all has the same sense of humor!)

My sis-in-law Mary went next. She read a beautiful card my niece Nathalie made. Then she read the card from my nephew Grant, who's in kindergarten. He proclaimed that his wonderful mom had brown hair (sometimes), was 14 inches tall and weighed 40 pounds.

Last came a card from Gabi, in third grade. Her card read, "Thank you for t e a ching me to eat h e a l t h y, even though I don't," and said she admired her mom's ability to always know what Gabi was thinking about. ("Root beer!" Nathalie shouted.) It was signed, "From your favorite child." I couldn't stop laughing.

Next was my turn. I opened Mark's card, which showed two little bears complimenting their mom. It devolved into them fighting, but here's what it said inside:

"Both of us?" I asked my only child. "You mean Good Mark and Bad Mark?"

Apparently, Mark needs to read the cards he picks a little more closely! (He picked out a gra duation card for his friend's birthday last week.) Mark's gift was a little ring holder he made in class -- I loved it!

He also gave me this homemade card:

"Now it's time to relax," I said, as the kids cleared the table.

"Nope, we have to make lunch," my mom replied. She explained that we were having homemade mushroom ravioli for lunch, and Mary and I were in charge.

"I have to COOK?" I asked. I don't like to cook on normal days -- I sure didn't want to cook on my special day!

"Yep," Mom answered. "Because you're the newbie mom." I did the math, and she was right. Dang it!

So cook we did. All three of us m o ms, all morning, while the kids played outside and my dad and brother watched the war channel on T.V.

"This Mother's Day is a rip-off!" I yelled at them. "You guys are coo king for me on Father's Day!"

My mom added insult to injury, forcing me to make the salad, too, and even set the table. I told her I wasn't coming home for my birthday, since she'll probably make me scrub the floors or clean the pool.

When lunch was finally ready, we popped open my mom's favorite champagne. She clinked my glass to hers, and smiled.

"Happy Mother's Day," she toasted, then added, "Newbie!"

Lunch turned out fantastic, and my mom was hugely entertaining throughout the meal. She downed her champers, and regaled us with stories of her bad Mother's Day. She told of her first Mother's Day, when she was pregnant with Scott. My dad took her to dinner, but forgot to make reservations. Every restaurant in town was booked, so they ended up eating in the coffee shop at a bowling alley. She also told us of the time my dad gave her the credit card and told her to buy herself something nice. Little did he know those four simple words would haunt him the rest of his marriage!

So yes, I woke up early, and yes, I cooked all day. But I laughed the whole day, and it turned out to be a pretty god Mother's Day after all.

Even for a newbie like me.

Catch this

Mark has a new favorite past-time: playing catch in the backyard. He loves it so much he hurries through whatever chores he has without complaint just to squeeze in some time tossing the football. (He loves the actual football, too, a speedy little Nerf number that whistles as it flies through the air.)

I love it because, well, he hurries through his chores without complaint. I also love it because it provides us time to goof around, be silly,and just talk about our day.

Although talking about our day has its own landmines. That's when I discover whether my parenting skills are actually working, floundering, or falling on deaf ears. It's also when I learn I should set a better example.

Last night I asked Mark about his friend, Kevin, and how he's doing.

"Good," Mark replied, tossing the ball. Standard boy answer, short and sweet.

Shrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeee! The ball whistled into my hands, and landed with a thump.

"Yeah?" I answered. I tossed it back to him. Shreeee!

"Yup," Mark said. "Every day, I say to him, [affecting a high-pitched, obnoxious voice] 'Hiiiiiiiiiii, Kevin!' and he just says back, [in a normal voice] 'Hi Mark.'"

Shreeeeee, thump.

"Why do you have to be so annoying?" I asked, after a moment.

"Because it's FUN!" he shouted back. "You should try it!"

"I have," I answered. "I annoy my friends all the time."

"Isn't it fun?" he asked, grinning widely.

"It is," I admitted. "A lot."

Making me realize that if you want to do a little introspection or a self-character analysis, you don't need a mirror. You just need a little kid and a Nerf football.

Shreeeeeeeee, thump.

Packing list

Mark and I have completely different priorities when it comes to packing for a trip. For example, my priorities include clean clothes, shoes, toiletries, and all my electronic gear.

His list is far simpler. It includes the following items, which I found in his suitcase:



I shouldn't be surprised. I remind him every day about the importance of clean socks, so I'm not surprised clothes don't top his list, or even achieve status numbers 2 or 3.

A yo-yo I can understand. Mark loves his yo-yo. But a pencil sharpener?? (And a full one, at that.) A roll of duct tape? What messed-up location did he think we were heading to that he'd need a pencil sharpener and duct tape?

In actuality, we were heading to my parents' home, which is fully stocked, even with random items like pencil sharpeners and duct tape. Luckily, they also have pencils, which Mark forgot to pack, and couldn't understand why I found that so hilarious.

Guess he's not quite ready to take over his packing responsibilities yet.

Put a ring on it

Sometimes my son's logic and reasoning skills surprise even me.

"Hey Mom, check this out!" he called to me, holding up a brown acrylic ring he'd won at a friend's birthday party.

"That's cool," I told him. "Lemme see it."

He started to place it in my hand, then immediately pulled it back.

"Be careful," he warned. "It got stuck on my finger twice." And with that, he popped it on to show me -- getting his finger stuck a third time.

I couldn't help giggling.

"Really?" I asked.

"Dang it," he cursed, tugging and twisting. "I...can't...believe...it... won't... come... off...AGAIN!" And with a huff and a puff, he pulled the ring off.

I put out my palm. "Hand it over," I said, "before you break a knuckle."

He just smiled and agreed. And went to put some ice on his finger.

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack

Friday was a huge milestone for Mark -- not only did he get to see the Dodgers play, he finally got to see them play at Dodger Stadium. And it was UCLA night, Mark's favorite school. Dodgers and UCLA all in one evening -- Mark was thrilled.

This was a big deal for him, so I left work a little early. I figured with Friday night traffic, driving through downtown Los Angeles, I'd need lots of drive time. Turns out, I allotted too much time -- traffic was almost non-existent!

We were among the first 20 c a r s to arrive at the stadium -- the p a r k i n g lot gates weren't even open yet! After a short wait, they opened, and we had our choice of spots. We found a similar scenario at the stadium -- the gates weren't open there, either.

But soon enough, they opened, and Mark received his spiffy new Dodgers hat, in UCLA colors.

Mark was starving, so our first stop was the concession stand, where I purchased two Dodger dogs, a bag of chips, a bottle of water and a beer for $30. Mark thought that was a bargain, but then again, he's 10, and has no concept of money and its worth, unless of course it's his money.

We found our seats, which was pretty easy, because -- you guessed it -- the stadium was empty.

But we were not deterred. We watched the Pirates batting practice, took photos, watched the ground crew ready the field. We watched various people enter and exit the field, including one super tall guy. I told Mark he must be a basketball player, because he made everyone standing next to him look as small as a child. (Turns out it was Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, a UCLA alum, there to throw out the first pitch.)

Mark dug the game for all of one inning. That was the time the Dibbs man came down our aisle selling little chocolate-covered ice cream nuggets. Mark couldn't focus on anything but that guy. He begged and pleaded until I bought him a pack.

He was munching away, and told me how he was sure he'd be a really good pro baseball player.

"Wouldn't I, Mom?" he asked. "Wouldn't I be a good Dodger?"

"You would," I agreed. "Right up until the Dibbs guy walked by and distracted you." We agreed that he could keep his hyperfocus if the players hit boxes of Dibbs instead of baseballs.

Mark lost his focus (on the game, anyway) again after the second inning. That's when he started swirling his water around in the bottle and screaming, "Twister!" I had to remind him some people actually came for the game, not an imaginary weather report.

He focused a bit for the third inning, but as it closed, he wondered when he was gonna get his second dessert (I ate half of his -- damn those Dibbs! They are addictive.) I reminded him that I was an Angels fan, and if the game was boring him, I was happy to leave. So he pulled out his camera and spent the next two innings snapping pictures and taking videos. He took a picture of the Dodger he was most excited to see -- Manny Ramirez. Who didn't play at all. Apparently, $50 million is not enough to get him out onto the field.

By the fifth inning, we decided to roam a bit. Mark decided he wanted Cracker Jacks, so we bought a bag. I realized halfway into the bag it was a bad choice. The sugar hit Mark immediately and he squirmed uncontrollably in his seat for the next two innings.

By the seventh inning, we were done (we'd been there four hours by then!). We stayed long enough to sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Mark root, root, rooted for the Dodgers, and I tried to out-shout him by rooting for the Angels. We cracked ourselves up.

The parking lot was noticeably more full than when we arrived, and we couldn't find our car. Our landmark ("remember that we parked behind the scoreboard") proved too vague, so we rambled a bit until we found it.

I hadn't even hit the freeway before Mark fell asleep. Maybe it was the sugar crash, or the walking, or perhaps just all the excitement from our big day. Either way, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, a new UCLA Dodgers hat on his head, and sticky, caramel-coated fingers. He was one happy boy.

Family resemblance

Mark's in fourth grade, which means his class spends a lot of time learning about California history. The fourth and fifth grades are even taking a trip to Sacramento to learn all about our capital.

Mark was disappointed that he's not going (it's $450 for one day!). He was also a little bitter when he found out a classmate is going for free simply because her last name is Sutter, and she's a great-great-granddaughter of John Sutter, founder of Sutter's Mill. He wanted a famous relative of his own.

"Well, you have a semi-famous uncle," I told him.

"I do?" He was intrigued.

"Sure," I said. "The guy who discovered the Loch Ness Monster was named Tim Dinsdale, just like your Uncle Tim." I left off the part that Nessie is a myth, an urban legend -- what fun is it to have an uncle who's also a liar?

Mark wasn't much impressed. He sat back in his seat for a few minutes, then shared a tidbit from his previous life.

"Well, someone in my other family was famous," he offered. "Did you know I'm related to Manny Ramirez?"

He's a die-hard Dodger fan, so I wasn't surprised he'd picked Manny.

"Oh, you are?" I asked, knowing full well he wasn't. "How's he related?"

"He's my uncle," Mark said. I could see him in the rear view mirror, smiling and proud of himself.

I let him think about it a few minutes, then asked carefully, "Um...you know he's African-American, right?"

Mark nodded. A different skin color wasn't gonna ruin his story.

"There are African-American people in your family?" I asked my little white son.

"One," he answered, and then he cracked. He realized he was caught, and started laughing.

But you've gotta give the kid points for trying!

Sick(bed) sense of humor

My dad's surgery last week provided a few unexpected days of family time. I'd rather celebrate family time in the more traditional manner -- holidays and family celebrations -- but it was comforting to have the family around. In between worrying and nervously biting our nails, it also provided a few light-hearted funny moments, as we tried to distract ourselves.

Such as in the ICU waiting room. My aunt's cell phone had a terrible '80s synthesizer ring, and my uncle implored my cousin Kathleen to change it while my aunt was out of the room. Kathleen was happy to assign a ring tone, but knew her mom would rally against the $2 charge. My uncle said he'd pay for it -- by check.

So Kathleen started messing with the phone, until my aunt re-appeared and asked what she was doing.

"Giving you a new ring tone," Kathleen answered.

"Does that cost money?" my aunt immediately asked. "I don't want to pay for it!"

On cue, the whole family burst into laughter, and my uncle said, "Where's my checkbook? Evelyn, it's on me."

I also found a stack of blue surgical masks in the ICU waiting room, and put those to good use. First, I put one on and amused my family by breathing heavy so it fogged up my glasses. Then I wore it on my head like a kippah, and clasped my hands together in prayer. We sent that photo to my friend Kelley, who's a rabbi, with the message, "Shalom from the waiting room!"

Even Mark brought his A game. My aunt passed around a bag of cookies, and gave me some to offer Mark.

"You want a cookie?" I asked him, and he answered "Yes!" before I finished the sentence.

"Just so you know, you never have to ask me that," he said, assuring me the answer would always be yes.

Even our first visit in the ICU post-op was a tad inappropriate. My dad was still sleeping, hooked up to IVs and all sorts of tubes and wires. My mom, brother Tim and I all stood around his bed, watching him sleep, relieved that the surgery had gone well, but a little anxious he wasn't awake yet. All around us, machines were beeping, and tubes were draining, and it was hard to know where to look.

Tim spied a large glass bottle, hanging upside down. He silently pointed to it, and I read the label. Nitroglycerin. He raised his hands, miming an explosion, and whispered, "Boom!" I about lost it.

"It was like Bugs Bunny," he said later, in the hallway. "Like how Yosemite Sam was always blowing up stuff with dynamite and nitroglycerin."

"Yeah, but he always pushed down on it," I said. "So you should do this instead..." And I mimed pressing down on box that triggered the dynamite fuse. Tim repeated, "Boom!" and we burst into giggles again. I thought my mom might smack us, but she giggled instead.

Or when the respiration technician came in to give my dad his breathing treatment a couple days later. He hooked up a mask onto my dad's face, and I watched as steam poured out the sides. My dad's breathing grew heavy, loud, and it reminded me of a certain famous villain.

"Come on, dad, say it!" I encouraged, and he responded as I knew he would.

"Luke, I am your faaaather," he breathed loudly, sending us all --including the respiration tech -- into a fit of laughter.

The kids -- mine and my nieces and nephew -- also lightened things up for us. My son insists on riding in the mini-van with his cousins whenever we go somewhere, so my niece Nathalie escaped into my car. We spent most of the week giggling and being silly together. We even transported my Mom after dinner one night, when she'd had a glass of wine. She was telling us all about a nearby school she'd worked at, named after Marie Curie.

"They named it after a chicken sauce?" Nathalie asked excitedly, but my mom didn't quite get it.

"What chicken sauce?" she asked.

"Curry!" Nat and I answered simultaneously.

"No, they named it after..." she started, but it was too late. Nat and I were gone, laughing our heads off.

And of course, my other niece Gabi cracked me up, when recalling a story about how she drank three bottles of root beer at a party, and spun outta control from it.

"One time, when I was root beer-drunk -- " she started. I was laughing so hard at that simple description that I never did hear the rest of the story.

So our week was long, and left us emotionally spent at the end of each day. I felt guilty about laughing and joking while my dad was laid up in bed, but honestly, I think the laughter is what kept us all sane, and from going over the edge with worry. I was (and am) grateful that I'm not the only one in the family who reverts to laughter and inappropriate jokes when I'm scared or nervous.

And I am grateful that I was born into a family with a sense of humor that is as immature as my own, which shows up at maybe not the most appropriate of times.

But as my dad proved during his Darth Vader impression, this apple certainly didn't fall far from the tree. :-)

Have a heart

Last week was one of the most nerve-wracking weeks I've ever had, and truth be told, I'm really glad it's over.

My dad went in for bypass surgery (or open-heart surgery, as the doctors called it. Which freaked my Mom and I out, so we opted for the more vague but less-scary-sounding "bypass"). Initially, the doctors told him they'd be bypassing three arteries (triple bypass!!), but they actually ended up bypassing five.

He's fine now. A little loopy from the pain meds and bored by the hospital routine, but other than that, he's on the mend. He's no longer hooked up to the oxygen canister or sporting the plastic-mustache tube that delivered the oxygen. He doesn't have all the IVs and other liquid-filled bags hooked into him. (At one point, I counted 14 bags simultaneously dripping stuff into him.) As I write this, he's still in the hospital, but may go home today or tomorrow.

I'd like to say that in his hour of need, my family responded in the most graceful, mature manner possible. Of course, anyone who's met my family knows that is a lie. Instead, we handled it in the typical Dinsdale fashion: with nervous laughter, inappropriate jokes, and the constant threat of being tossed out of my dad's room for being too loud, or having too many family members crammed into his tiny room. (We patently ignored the "two visitors at a time" rule the entire time.)

But at least we all responded together. Between my immediate family, aunt, uncle, and cousins, we filled up half the ICU waiting room. There were 10 of us nervously pacing, trying to distract ourselves with smartphones, email, magazines, the giant TV, or by diving into any one of the seven containers of cookies. (Apparently, in my family, cookies are love, because everybody brought a batch.) We tried to distract my mom, who held up very well until the last hour.

And as scary as it all was (and still is), at least we went through it all together. It's so cliche to say at least we were all together, but it's the truth. I was relieved that my oldest brother was paying attention (and understanding) all the info the doctors gave us. I was grateful that my mom's siblings were there to hug her, and be her rock, as they've done their whole lives. I was blessed that my sister-in-law took over the home front, cooking while we waited in the ICU, and watching the kids so that we could focus on my dad. And I was glad to be surrounded by my own siblings (and cousin), just as my mom was, and receiving their brand of comforting, which involved a lot of playful punching and insults (that's how they show their love--why say the words "I love you, sis" when a jab to the kidneys will do?).

Like I said, my dad's made a lot of progress, and he's one tough dude -- he even has an awesome new scar to prove it. (I told him chicks dig scars.) My mom's hanging in there -- she's pretty tough herself.

So now we just wait a little longer. A little longer, and he'll come home. A little longer, and he'll be feeling better. A little longer, and he'll be up and walking around, joking like he usually does, and acting silly with the grandkids.

And I'll be grateful for it all.

Vroom vroom!

Went to the Grand Prix this weekend with my f am ily, and had a blast. As I told my sis-in-law Mary, "I'm not much of a sports fan, but I love an event!" And there was certainly no bigger event in town this weekend.

We went Saturday. I told the k i ds it was because it would be less crowded, but really, it's because that's when they hold the celebrity race. (I'm more into People magazine than NASCAR.) This year's hotties -- I mean celebrity drivers -- included Keanu Reeves, Adrian Brody and Tony Hawk. The women in our group all cheered on Keanu, and the kids all cheered on Tony Hawk. My brother played no favorites -- he drank a beer and cheered for all the cars, so everyone was happy.

Well, almost everyone. A certain young man who's name rhymes with "shark" was a bit grumpy.

But he cheered up later when we came across this sight -- apparently, the guy on the right imbibed a little too liberally from the giant beer can and needed a siesta.

After lunch and watching the race cars run a few more laps, we headed for the convention center. It was filled with booths and vendors handing out f r e e s a m p l e s of all sorts of crazy stuff -- the kids were in heaven, as they love nothing more than a freebie.

Mark found this car to sit in. Coolest Hot Wheels he ever played with!

The kids were also excited to wrestle around pricey cars and make us nervous.

"Be careful!" I cried out, when they were messing with a $150,000 car. "You can't even afford to replace the side mirror on that car!"

We finally lured them away by pointing out the free soda sample booth. As we walked away, I almost gained a new kid, when I accidentally guided a little boy to the right, toward the rest of our group.

"That's not one of ours!" my brother Scott called out to me, and when I looked down, I saw he was right.

"I'm so sorry!" I apologized to his laughing mother. "I thought he was my nephew!" She laughed again, and joked that I could keep him, but I assured her we already had our hands full.

Then it was on to the National Guard booth with an inflatable basketball pop-a-shot game, where the kids fought over who would shoot first. First, my nieces lost the ball between the inflatable and the booth next door, and then they managed to deflate the whole thing.

"Walk away," I hissed at them, as the basketball court quickly fell to the floor. "Don't make eye contact, just walk away!"

Luckily, they complied, and we all walked by the oblivious National Guard guy with eyes averted.

The last activity was the best -- the kids tossed tortillas at a frying pan, trying to win bottles of hot sauce. Mark even won a free t-shirt.

By that time, we'd had enough. Enough loud cars, enough herding chil dren away from potentially dangerous/expensive booths, and enough beer to feel a happy buzz. (Being a lightweight drinker definitely has its benefits when it comes to $10 beers!) We took our free bottles of hot sauce, and headed back for the Metro home.

Until next year...

I'm gonna go(-gurt) crazy!

Mark and I both have new addictions, and they are (literally) feeding off one another. His voracious appetite spurred me to purchase a membership to a certain warehouse-style store filled with 60-count boxes of granola bars (among other things).

It was bad enough that I bought the membership in the first place (I've gone about once a week in the last month), but it was worse when I took Mark with me. He smiled widely, and then his eyes glazed over at the giant boxes of...everything. He begged me to buy him a box containing 60 snack-size cookie packs, and when I asked who on Earth could eat that many cookies, he exclaimed, "Me!" I assured him that was not healthy or realistic, and moved on.

But when he saw a box of Go-Gurts, he turned on the charm. I finally relented just to make him back off, which is how I ended up at home with a box of 32 yogurt-filled tubes.

"Can I have a Go-Gurt?" has become his new mantra, and he is not shy about using it.

"How was school today?" I ask him, and he responds, "Fine, can I have a Go-Gurt?"

"Did you finish your homework?" I ask, only to hear, "Yes, can I have a Go-Gurt?"

"Time for bed," I tell him nightly, to which he replies (say it with me!), "Can I have a Go-Gurt?"

I hear the same request before every meal, except breakfast, when he's not fully awake until after he eats. Then, when he does wake up, he pounds on the bathroom door while I'm showering. Although all I hear is muffled shouting, I'm pretty sure of what he's asking.

Then he went to camp, where he learned to enjoy a new delicacy -- frozen Go-Gurt. Now Mark tosses them in the freezer and plucks them out, telling me they taste like ice cream.

"Or like Golden Spoon," he said. "They taste just like frozen yogurt." He failed to see the irony in that comment!

The truth is, I don't mind if he has a Go-Gurt. He hates milk, so I figure at least he's getting some calcium from the yogurt, and I don't have to fight him to eat it. But like an addict, he can't just stop at one.

This became abundantly clear when I noticed the dwindling supply.

"There are only 11 tubes left," I noted.

"Ooooh, can I have a --" he started, but I cut him short with "Eleven!"

"So?" he said.

"So, it's only been six days since we bought that box!" I exclaimed. "You've eaten 21 Go-Gurts in six days!"

"I told you I ate a bunch on Saturday," he said, silently counting his fingers. His eyebrows shot up, and he gasped, "Whoa! A lot."

"How many is 'a lot'?" I asked.

"Ten!" he answered. We were both shocked.

"Slow down!" I told him. "There's not a Go-Gurt shortage. I'll buy you more!"

He took my advice to heart. Yesterday, he only ate three tubes. At one point, he actually squealed with delight while eating one.

I thought he was just really enjoying the yogurt. But when he came into the kitchen, he was clutching a brochure.

"Look, Mom!" he said, excitedly. He held up a coupon from the warehouse store. It was good for $2 off another box of yogurt tubes.

Mark ripped it out and danced around.

I just sighed, and wondered if there's a 12 step program to wean him off the berry-flavored fro-yo.

Lost in translation

These are the types of arguments we have in my house...

Mark was listening to "I Gotta Feeling," by his favorite singers, the Black Eyed Peas. I wasn't paying much attention until he sang this line:

"Fill up my car, mazel tov!"

"It's not 'car,'" I corrected. "It's 'Fill up my cup.'"

"No, it's car," he retorted.

"Listen to the next line," I said. "'Fill up my cup, drink!'"

But he was not to be dissuaded.

"No, they said 'drain,'" he told me.

"Fill up my car, drain?" I asked.

He nodded.

"But that doesn't even make sense," I answered.

He shrugged. "That's what they say," he told me, then ran off, singing very loudly, "Fill up my car, DRAIN!"

Sometimes it's just easier to go with it than to keep arguing against a hard-headed little kid. So when he re-appeared and sang it again, I simply smiled and answered, "Mazel tov!"

Hey, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.