Lazybones

Mark and I are in a constant battle over what's right versus what's fast. I am all for shortcuts, but I only want to do the job (whatever job) once.

Mark does not share this point of view. Instead, he will repeat a task 10 or 11 times, taking a shortcut each time. He spends twice as long to use his "shortcut" as it would to simply do the task right the first time.

A prime example of this is making his bed. Mark is a strong advocate of the simple yet effective "pull the comforter over the blankets" method. But it never occurs to him to first smooth out the sheets or blankets underneath, nor do the resulting unsightly lumps bother him. I told him to make the bed, he made the bed. Task complete. Until...

"What are all those lumps?" I asked him, pointing at the camel-like bed.

"What lumps?" he answered. He looked straight at the lumpy bed and said, "I don't see any lumps."

"Right here!" I said, removing the comforter and exposing the tangle of sheets.

"Huh," Mark said, genuinely surprised. "I don't know how those got there."

His next move was to come up with a new shortcut. My genius son realized the housekeepers make his bed to my very exacting standards, so he decided to just ride along on their coattails. He began sleeping on top of the covers every night.

Well, I nipped that idea in the bud quite quickly. But then he moved on to a more stealth solution:



That's right, he's sleeping under just the comforter. This way, the sheets and blankets don't get messed up, and with one fell swoop, his bed is easily made every morning.

I did notice this method might have a drawback, though.

"Aren't you cold at night?" I asked.

"A little," he admitted. "But it's worth it, not to make my bed."

"Yeah, but you spend 10 hours a night being cold, and two seconds a day making your bed," I pointed out. He shrugged and said it's still worth it.

I tried a different tact, the hygiene route. I knew this would be completely lost on a 10-year-old boy, but I had to try for my own sake.

"Sheets do, in fact, have a purpose," I told him. "They protect the blankets from smelly little boys like you."

But he remains unconvinced, and continues to crawl between the comforter and blanket layers each night, after I kiss him goodnight.

I know this will lead to nowhere good. I can't believe Mark hasn't thought of it yet, but I fear he will soon realize his best solution to not making the bed at all: a sleeping bag. It'll keep him warm and he won't have to deal with those pesky sheets.

And so I'm off to hide our sleeping bags, because it'll be easier to keep them out of his hands altogether than to take them away once he figures that out.

Cheers to the newlyweds!

This weekend my family had the pleasure of watching one of our own walk down the aisle.

This time, it was Brian, one of our "blond brothers." He and his brother Brad (aka Big Brad) grew up across the street from my family, and we kids spent every waking moment together, trying unsuccessfully to maim or kill one another. (Not on purpose; we were just a rowdy bunch, and it really is a miracle we all survived childhood intact.) I call them my blond brothers because the only way you could tell us all apart in the mob was by hair color. If you had brown hair, you were a Dinsdale; if you had blond, you were a Roppé.

There was a giddiness in the air before the ceremony. Brian looked so proud (and tall!) in his tuxedo. He was very excited, as was his family. We were all in a bit of disbelief; no one could believe this day had finally arrived. Brian's mom asked me no less than four times if I could believe this was actually happening; we'd all had our doubts about Brian ever getting married.

My family (minus Smed the groomsman) outside the chapel (yes, that's a full moon behind them)

But when the wedding started, all doubt was erased from our minds. Brian cried throughout most of the ceremony, while Colleen beamed at him with love and unabashed joy. When the chaplain asked if she took Brian to be her husband, she boomed confidently, "I DO!" The church erupted in laughter, then she looked at Brian and repeated, "I do." It was a wonderful moment.

Mr. and Mrs. Brian Roppé!

Then it was on to the reception. Our family was split between two tables, but my brother Scott quickly rearranged one into a kid's table. The second generation of Dinsdale and Roppé kids (another mob of brown and blonde kids!) took up the kid's table, and I smiled at the sight of them all.

The kids were in heaven. Upon arriving at the reception, they'd been plied with all sorts of toys--coloring books, colored pencils, puzzles, games (Note to all future brides and grooms--this was a genius idea!). But the big hit was the box of glow sticks. At one point, Mark was wearing a glowing rainbow of bracelets, and told me he was going back for more. I suggested he remove the bracelets he had on first, to improve his chances of getting more. Apparently it worked, because by the end of the night, the kids had all worked together to make a giant hula-hoop-sized ring of glowsticks.

The kids were thoroughly entertained. We adults were happy, too. The open bar and warm appetizers helped, and the company was good. We spent a lot of time just laughing, with and at each other.

We watched all of the wedding rituals--first dance, cutting of the cake. Brian and Colleen invited all the other married couples to the floor to dance, then kicked them off according to how many years they'd been wed. Slowly, a winning couple appeared.

Yahoo for my parents!

"Please congratulate Ralph and Virginia Dinsdale!" the man with the microphone announced. "They've been married for 48 years!"

"Yep, and 27 of them happily!" I joked to the people around me. We all clapped and cheered them on. It was awesome to see my parents on the dance floor having so much fun.

But my favorite part was the roast--err, best man's speech. Big Brad took his job very seriously, and with a straight face, congratulated Brian and Colleen. And then, with equal seriousness, he told the crowd that Brian was a stand-up guy, offering up as proof "the BB gun incident."

All he had to say was "BB gun" and our half of the room fell to the floor with laughter. Brad regaled us with the infamous story of how he and my brother Tim turned their little brothers into moving targets, pelting them with BBs. This story is a legend in our families, and we laughed uncotrollably at Big Brad's hilarious version of it.

And that moment reminded us we Dinsdales and Roppés have a very sick sense of humor. My sister-in-law Mary pointed to the other side of the room and whispered, "Look at them--they're HORRIFIED at this story!" It was true--the bride's side of the room sat in silence, mouths agape, gasping at the awful story. Meanwhile, our side of the room was in tears, also gasping, but only because they were laughing too hard.

It was living proof that you can dress us up and take us out, but eventually, we still revert back to those immature kids growing up together.

(For the record, the bride's side of the family also gave speeches. Her maid of honor and father toasted with wonderfully sweet, emotional words, which the other side of the room loved. It was very nice!)

It was on to dinner, dancing, and cake, and then suddenly, the lights came on. The party was over much too soon, for us anyway. We collected up the children and glowsticks, hugged the bride and groom one last time, and made our way home, still laughing.

Congrats, Brian and Colleen! Thank you for including us all in your celebration!

Celebrating National Diabetes Day

Sunday is National Diabetes Day, so in its honor, I am giving the spotlight to the disease that has transformed my life by way of the young, brave boy I proudly call my son.

Mark has taught me what it means to be strong and brave, what it means to live daily with a chronic disease when all you really wanna do is just be like everyone else. He has taught me what strength and bravery really are. He has taught me that life isn't fair, and while it's okay to whine about that occasionally, it's not really a place you want to spend a lot of time in. He has shown me that living with a chronic disease still means living, celebrating, rising above, even when diabetes tries to beat him down. He has taught me to be an advocate, to fight not only against diabetes, but for him, and for other kids who also live with this monster every day. And I'm glad, too, to take on that fight, because I know one day, when I'm tired of fighting it and think I can't go on, there will be a cure. That thought alone keeps up my strength, and my resilience.

Five years ago, I didn't know anything about diabetes. I was completely ignorant about it, and thought it was a disease you got from being unhealthy, or that old people got. I thought a diagnosis automatically meant losing a limb, because mention the word "diabetes" and everyone will share a story about their grandma/grandpa/great uncle/elderly neighbor getting their foot or leg or finger amputated.

I thought diabetes meant you got an occasional shot, some orange juice if you got shaky, and a lecture from your doctor for making yourself diabetic in the first place. I thought it was some weird disease that made you shake and eventually killed you just because you wanted one thing (a baby) more than anything else in life, even living. (Yes, Steel Magnolias was my favorite movie.)

I thought a lot of things. And I was wrong about most of them.

I learned that diabetes doesn't just affect your blood sugar, it also changes the way you see the world. It looks like an angry little kid who misses out on school parties because no one can give him a shot for that cookie. It looks like a pale, shaky little kid whose blood sugar is so low, you can barely think through the fear long enough to shove a juice box into him. It looks like a bad habit, falling asleep on the couch every night, instead of in my bed, so I wake up to test Mark's blood sugar.

Diabetes feels like a lot of things, too. It feels like fear, worry, anger (which is always really just a subset of fear), my heart breaking--why did it have to be my kid? Or ANY kid? Or anybody?

But those are the dark moments. I try to focus on the good things it feels like, such as gratitude, gratefulness, a lump in your throat you can't name when people bend over backwards to accommodate this goofy little kid on something as mundane as a field trip.

It feels like a giant hug from random people, strangers really, people you wouldn't ever have met except for this one crazy coincidence--they too, have a little kid with a chronic disease. They, too, have bad sleeping habits and worry incessantly over Halloween and Easter baskets. They, too, know how you feel.

It feels like pride, when that kid learns to poke his own finger, read his own numbers, count his own carbs, bolus his own insulin. It feels like an angry hive of bees buzzing around your head when he ignores all those steps, and it feels like all-consuming guilt when you realize he's just a little kid who shouldn't have to remember all that in the first place.

But mostly, on both my best and worst days, it feels like hope. Hope that my kid will learn to co-exist peacefully with his disease. Hope that maybe they really will find a cure in his lifetime--heck, they created continuous glucose monitors and insulin pumps in the last 20 years alone! Hope that this little kid brought to the rest of my family, who have been diagnosed with their own flavor of diabetes in the past few years. Hope that while diabetes may not be beaten, it also won't beat us down, either. Hope that because of this damned disease, I have learned a lot, so much, and that I can pass that knowledge to other parents, walk them through their own scary initial journeys into this dark tunnel. Hope that I can gift them, to say it really is just a tunnel, and that every tunnel has an end. And at the end of each tunnel is your kid, or your loved one, that one person you would slay dragons to keep safe.

So take that, diabetes. You may get your own day, but even that day celebrates hope. Hope that education, that a cure, that your disappearance, will prevail. It's not a day to celebrate your existence, but rather to celebrate our rallying against you.

A day I can't wait to embrace, when my son finally rips off his pump, tosses away his meter, and eats his fill of jelly beans because he wants to, not because he has to.

A day when I hear the last story of amputation someone tells in front of my kid...except for the amputation of you, diabetes, from our lives.

That one I can't wait to hear.

Cave man like dirt *grunt*

Apparently, a hurricane hit Mark's room the other night, because it was a pig sty. There were dirty clothes strewn all over the floor, along with his comforter, blankets, clean clothes, sweatshirts, baseball gear and his favorite books. I literally could not walk from the door to his bed without stepping on stuff.

"You need to clean this room!" I ordered, and Mark looked at me in disbelief.

"It's fine!" he insisted. He kicked a few things out of the way to clear a path to his bed. "See? Better already."

"No, it's not!" I told him. "It's disgusting! Pick it up!"

Then he opened his mouth and said, "But this is how men live."

I turned to look at him in horror. "Not all men live like this," I told him, but he didn't hear me. He was too busy scratching his bum.

I swear, you can't make this stuff up. I looked at my bum-scratching little cave man, who justified his dirty quarters as an homage to manhood, and I shook my head. I have no idea where he comes up with this stuff.

"And people wonder why I never got married," I said under my breath. "Honestly...I don't think I could live with a grown-up version of you messing up my house and saying, 'This is how men live.'"

I shook my head again and walked away. And said a silent prayer for my future daughter-in-law, if I ever have one. Because she will need all the help she can get to deal with this guy!

Huckleberry Mark

Mark called me from school on the day of the Halloween Carnival to ask if I'd put any money in his backpack.

I told him I had not, and he asked how he was supposed to partake in the festivities without any tickets.

"You're a creative boy," I told him. "You'll figure something out!"

And indeed he did. When I picked him up, he was clutching a 2-liter bottle of Diet Dr Pepper, a bag of goodies and he couldn't wait to tell me all about the giant slide he and Kyle rode down five times.

"You got all that without any tickets?" I asked.

He brushed me off. "Yeah, and the third time we went down the slide, we--"

"How'd you get the tickets?" I interrupted.

"From Kyle," he answered. "Kyle had $20 and all he wanted to do was buy soda with it. I talked him into going down the slide instead."

"Very helpful of you," I noted.

"I know," Mark said. "And I got this soda because I'm really good at huckling."

"At what?" I asked. I wasn't sure I'd heard him right, but he repeated, "Huckling--I'm a really good huckler."

I thought maybe he meant hustling, because honestly, that boy can sweet talk candy from a baby--if you have something he wants, give him five minutes, and he'll convince you to hand it over.

But he meant something else. "You know," he said, "I'm good at getting the price down. This soda was supposed to be two tickets, but I got it for one!"

"Oh, you mean haggling," I said.

"Yes, heckling," he replied. "I'm good at heckling people."

"Not heckling, haggling. Heckling is making fun of people."

"Whatever," he said. He was tired of my semantics, and wanted me to be impressed with his prowess at riding the slide and getting free junk food.

And so I was. I listened to his tales from the Halloween Carnival and laughed. Because truth be told, he is a very talented huckler, and you just don't come across that every day.

Bling

My kid loves the bling. That's what he calls the decorative bands he wears around his wrist.

I say "decorative" because technically, only some of the bands are true bracelets. Some are special Halloween Silly Bandz, one is a strand of glowsticks he got on Halloween, and one, to my dismay, is something he should not be wearing at all.

"What is that?" I asked, pointing at the gray band he wore.

Mark immediately reversed the band so I couldn't read it. "It keeps flipping over," he said.

"That's not what I asked," I said. "I asked what is it? Where did you get it?"

It wasn't the look of the band that alarmed me. It was the saying on it: "Desperate."

He smiled, trying to charm his way out of it (it works on everybody else in the world except me). "Ummmmm..."

And then it hit me. I knew exactly where he'd gotten it, and exactly what it was.

"Is that one of my beer bottle labels?" I asked, referring to a gift my friend Vic had given me. They were playful rubbery bands with silly sayings on them, like "Egomaniac" or "Snob." You slip them around your beer bottle, to keep track of which bottle's yours--kinda like those cutesy wine glass markers.

Mark smiled sheepishly at me, and ran a protective hand across his bracelet. He was going to fight to keep it. "Fine," I said. "You can keep it, since you don't mind people knowing you're desperate. But don't take any of the other ones!"

He smiled triumphantly. And I wiped the sweat from my brow, grateful he hadn't chosen any of the racier bracelets, like this one:



Because I really don't need a call from the school asking me to explain why my 10-year-old son's wearing that one.

Sock it to me

At my house, fashion is strictly observed by only the male family members. It's a varied and complicated thing, and the only rule of thumb seems to be that more is more.

For example, take socks. A seemingly simple article of clothing, especially when it comes to boys. My nephews don whatever socks they can find; the socks don't have to be clean or matching, they just have to be readily available. They are a necessary evil.

Not so with Mark. He's got a whole rule-book on what kind of socks to wear and when to wear them.

I bought him a couple 10-packs of your average boy's socks, and he rebelled. He didn't want socks that went above his ankle. So I bought him ankle socks. He liked them so much, he stole all of mine to increase his collection.

The ankle socks are great because they go with everything Mark wears: high-top sneakers, dress shoes, pants, suits, or pajamas. There's nothing better than a flash of pale white ankle to break up the monotony of navy pants and black shoes.

When he runs out of ankle socks, he simply takes the awful calf-high socks and folds them halfway across his foot so you can't see them. Apparently, he's trying to single-handedly resurrect the sock-free Miami Vice look. (I'll draw the line at five o'clock shadow!)

However, when he wears shorts, the exact opposite rule goes into effect. With shorts, Mark doesn't hide his socks; just the opposite. He regularly leaves the house like this, reminding me of an old-school newsboy in short pants and knee-high socks:



He loves to wear his soccer socks with shorts, yanking and tugging at them until they go over his knees. The brighter, the better, and he doesn't limit himself to only matching colors. I find it ironic that the boy who could never once find his soccer socks during the soccer season can now pull a matching pair out of the dresser on command.

My friend Edra described it best when she said, "Man, there's no middle ground with that guy. It's either all or nothing, knee-highs or no socks at all..."

She's right.

The Book Report (from hell)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I looked over the two Garfield books.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think we both learned our lessons.

He doesn't mints words

Mark and I were playing catch outside yesterday, when he brought up the subject of allowance. He informed me that he'd played his drums all week, and finished his day's homework, and that I owed him $3.

"OK," I answered. "But let's try something new--let's put your allowance in a jar in the kitchen, so you can actually see how much money you have."

He frowned at me, so I went on.

"When you keep it in your wallet, you never have any money," I said. "What do you spend it on?"

"I buy mints," he said, with a shrug.

"Ooh," I said. Then, mimicking an adult Mark, I said, "I wanted to buy a house, but I bought mints instead."

He giggled, so I went on.

"I wanted to go to college, but I bought mints."

He laughed out loud.

"I wanted to travel the world, but I bought mints." Then I frowned, and in super stern voice said, "I wanted to buy my mom a Christmas present--"

"--so I bought her mints!" Mark yelled, and fell into a fit of laughter. I couldn't help it, I laughed along with him.

So, if your birthday is coming up, or you exchange Christmas presents with Mark, don't be surprised if this year...you get mints.

Halloween 2010

Another Halloween has passed us by, and in its wake, it left behind a tired, oversugared 10-year-old.

Mark earned the fatigue honestly--he had a super busy weekend.

We started with a photo shoot at the local pumpkin patch. Pa's Pumpkin Patch, where a gritchy old Pa waving a light saber yelled at us as soon as we pulled into the lot.

We still managed to have fun, anyway.



Mark found a little pumpkin stem, and an empty space in a row of pumpkins. He quickly filled it by pretending to be a giant pumpkin.



We spent most of Saturday night carving pumpkins in a panic. I panicked that Mark would slice his hand off, and he panicked he would never cut through the top of his pumpkin. I'm happy to report that my panic, while justified, went unrealized, and that Mark did, indeed, finally open up that gourd. Which made him really happy for five minutes--until he tired of scooping out pumpkin guts and whined about that instead.

I carved a cyclops pumpkin sticking its tongue out, and Mark added lots of decorative colored toothpicks to his. I was pretty happy with the results.




On Sunday, we visited a local rancho, which was hosting a Halloween extravaganza. Mark and his friend Sean ran from game to game, while Sean's mom, Liz, and I trailed behind them. They played sports from all around the world, and both boys turned out to be expert bocce ball players. They also engaged in a knock-down, drag out tetherball game. They used a racket to smack tennis balls that a super nice volunteer tossed at them. I warned Mark not to hit it over the fence when it was his turn, and Liz laughed at me. Then I stood by and gave him the stink eye, and he still knocked it over the volunteer's head, but not as far as he wanted too. I guess that counts as a small success, huh?

After a quick dinner, it was showtime! Mark and Sean couldn't wait to get out in the neighborhood, so they suited up and grabbed their bags. Sean was Elmo, and looked hilarious. It was even more hilarious when he told us the biggest size Elmo costume they had was a 4T, and he fit in it!



Mark was, of course, a Dodger player. My nephew Johnny was mad at me because I didn't buy Mark a costume--he couldn't believe I made Mark wear "old" baseball clothes. I explained that's what Mark wanted to wear, but Johnny still frowned. Apparently, costumes only count if they come in a box from the store.

I should've known better than to put Mark in white baseball pants. He did his best to make his uniform look authentic by sliding across the front lawn, which Sean strongly encouraged. When Mark got enough grass stains on his pants to look like a pro player, the boys high-fived and took off.

We met up with some of Mark's friends from school and their older brothers. They all looked great!



We've always gone trick or treating with Mark's cousins (with my brother pulling a wagon full of margaritas), so it was fun to actually go with Mark's friends instead. I really like all the parents (who are also Cub Scout parents), so we laughed a lot and had a good time.

The kids darted through the dark neighborhoods, zigzagging across the streets rather than utilizing the more traditional up one side/down one side of the street method.

An hour into it, the kids' bags were already full, and they were tiring out. We ended after 90 minutes, and the kids immediately tore into their bags and started trading fast and furiously. They were protective of their stashes, and one mom told me she knew a kid who inventoried all his candy using an Excel spreadsheet. Now that's an organized kid!

Liz and I collected our tired boys and lead them back home. The boys were simultaneously exhausted and jacked-up on sugar, and I thought the sugar buzz might keep Mark awake for a while. But the minute he laid down on his bed, he passed out.

He was tired, full of candy and happy--the way every kid should be at the end of Halloween.

I hate those, too

The other day, completely out of the blue, Mark told me there are five things he really hates. I was interested and a bit surprised to hear what took the top spots.

It's not exactly the list I imagined (I figured veggies or homework would figure prominently). But he spouted them off so quickly I knew he'd been thinking about them for a while.

Here's what Mark hates--so don't bring these things to my house unless you want to see Mark freak out. And if you do that, please make sure I'm home to witness it. ;-)

My Top 5 Most Hated Things
by Mark (comments in paranthesis by Heather)

1. That high-pitched scream a baby makes. (Ironic because he has no baby siblings--but I agree with him on this.)

2. Drying off with a damp towel. (Ditto. Though it wouldn't necessarily make my top 5...)

3. Seeing worms "worm" around. (Flopping around--he said they look like "a skinny finger with no knuckle." And I'll never look at worms the same again.)

4. The smell of a dirty diaper. (This one DOES make my Top 5, too. I'm beginning to believe my son is ageist, or has something against babies.)

5. The ripping of duct tape from your hair. (I don't even know where this one came from, but now I'm alarmed.)

There you go...not quite sure what to do with the list, other than hold it as evidence on why babies can't come over for visits.

Inspiration

I've been battling an independent, sassy 10-year-old lately, and it has, quite frankly, worn me down. If we kept score based on the number of arguments initiated, times I repeatedly ask him to complete mundane tasks, times he ignores my directions, and overall mouthiness, he'd definitely be winning.

I needed something to help replenish my strength. It was time to call in the big guns.

And there is no bigger gun than my mom. Usually, in these situations, she comes up to deliver a can of whoop-ass. Mark is smart enough to react appropriately to her--with a healthy dose of fear and respectful "Yes, ma'ams." She's a force to be reckoned with--she suggested on arrival that I get a Skype account so she can yell at Mark online from San Diego, and he can see her mad face.

But my mom didn't come solely to discipline Mark. Instead, she came up to attend the Women's Conference with me. We didn't get tickets to the main event, but we got them for a couple other events, and it turned out to be great fun.

The conference was so cool! I knew it was gonna be awesome when we walked into the convention hall, welcomed on either side by female African dancers and drummers. Then we stepped off the escalator, greeted by cute men in tuxedos.

I was excited to attend a grown-up event, and glad I didn't have to keep track of my child among the throngs of people mobbing the floor. That feeling faded immediately, as my mother whispered, "Ooooh, shiny!" and disappeared into the crowd in search of a metallic silver tote bag.

I caught up with her, but when I turned around, she was gone again. I found her at a booth selling glasses, where she told me I was in charge of her, and not the other way around. She ordered me not to lose her, a seemingly impossible feat given her crow-like fascination with shiny objects.

At one point, I pointed and said, "I'm going to that booth." She said absently, "OK," then turned to ask me, "Which booth?"

"Eye contact," I told her, just like I tell Mark every day. She looked at me and I pointed to the booth.

"THAT booth," I said. "If you get lost again, you're walking home!"

She giggled, and agreed to pay attention a little more closely.

I spent the rest of the evening watching her race off to whichever booth had free food or eye-catching objects. It was hilarious. She was so excited at each booth--she whooped loudly with each freebie, as though people were handing her the key to happiness, and not just brownie samples (although those brownies were good--and maybe, in truth, they were giving her the key to happiness, because she really was happy!). I watched my mom cut through lines, sneak in the back entrance to booths, and then melt away again into the huge crowd. I got a glimpse of what my friends put up with when it comes to me and my ADD, and it wasn't pretty. I silently vowed to apologize to them all.

We were having so much fun that one woman encouraged us to take a photo at her booth. We did, and were so giggly, she couldn't help smiling at us. We aimed the camera wrong, and caught her in our picture. The guy running the photo machine wanted to crop her out, but I thought she and her smile added to the moment, so we kept her in.




We found seats for the speakers, which included the fabulous Paula Deen and Buddy, the Cake Boss. They spoke eloquently, and I was inspired. (Then Buddy rolled out a 600-pound California cake, and I was hungry.) They made us laugh, and think, and smile, and those feelings, combined with my free brownie samples, made for a pretty happy evening.

I'd taken the next day off, and even though we couldn't get tickets, we watched the main event on my laptop all day long. We lounged on the couch, laughing and snacking, until it was time to return to the convention center. We had tickets to the Minerva Awards, and my mom wanted more brownies...

We found another silly-photo booth, and we took a picture of us in a stagecoach. (We never pass up funny photo opportunities!) We loaded up on more freebies, visited the booths we missed the day before, and finally, made our way to the arena for the awards show.

And there it was at last, tucked away in a vinyl seat half a football length away. The inspiration I needed, the hand that lifted me out of the funk my misbehaving son sent me into. I listened as Maria Shriver described the evening's recipients, and I couldn't help being moved--a woman who gave out college scholarships to underprivileged kids, another who sent 600,000 goodie boxes to the troops. Another woman who helped integrate women newly-released from prison back into society.

We listened to Sandra Day O'Connor recall her difficulties breaking into law. She, the first woman Supreme Court Justice, started her law career as a typist because, as the law firm told her, "We don't hire women lawyers." (Oh my, how far we've come! And how grateful I am that little girls, like my nieces, have a whole world open to them now that women 60 years ago did not!)

And of course, my favorite winner of all, the wonderful Ms. Oprah Winfrey, who I happen to think is just amazing, even if my friend Kelley does mock me for thinking we're friends. (For the record, I consider Oprah more of a like-minded spirit than an actual, physical real friend.)

I listened to these phenomenal women speak, and I was inspired. Inspired to do good--no, to do better. I was teary at their stories, and joyful at their triumphs. I was amazed at how much they'd done with so little, and I realized maybe I couldn't solve all the world's problems, but I could start a little smaller. I could start with a challenging little 10-year-old boy at home, and I could make a difference there.

And so we went home, full to the brim with inspiration and a sense of community. My mom and I vowed to do better in our worlds, and I vowed to set a shining example of service for my son. My mom came up with a brilliant idea of taking him to work in an animal shelter, but she lost a little credibility when she got home and chided me for feeding the stray cat we've unofficially adopted.

"What do you want me to do instead, Mom?" I asked, pointing toward the meowing cat. "Take him to the no-kill shelter where we're gonna volunteer?"

Which brought on another fit of laughter between us.

But in all honesty, it was a fantastic couple days, exactly what I needed. It reminded me to look beyond myself, that's there's a whole world out there, and I'm part of it. Spending those days with my mom reminded me just how lucky I am, that I was raised with love and support, and that it's time for me to pay that forward.

And I'm going to take on that challenge...

Baseball and other mishaps

Each season, I let Mark choose the sport he wants to play. I willingly agree to spend at least one evening a week in an uncomfortable chair or cold car, trying to read a book using the map light, and watching my son run somewhere nearby the chosen-sport ball.

This season, Mark chose baseball (also known as fall ball). I was a little worried, since he's never played an organized game of baseball, and because he's not really the most focused child. I'd avoided baseball for the past five years, because I worried Mark would get smacked in the head by a pop-fly while conversing with the other outfielders about Silly Bandz, Tech-Decks, or video games.

But he persisted, so this year, I signed him up for fall ball.

I was glad to see he wasn't the worst on the team, but he was nowhere near a natural athlete who effortlessly picked up the game, either. He could smack talk with the best of them, but he didn't necessarily have the goods to back it up.

I took him to the batting cages and tried to coach him on how to hit the ball. He blatantly ignored me (I'm a mom, what do I know about baseball?) until I took the bat away and smacked five good hits into the wall.

"I'm telling you what to do because I can knock the stuffing out of the ball," I told him. "Will you listen to me now?"

He nodded. My display had both impressed and startled him.

But as soon as his games started, he forgot my advice. He gripped the bat high above his head, at least a good foot above his helmet. It took all my restraint not to yell at him from the bleachers.

"Stop holding your bat so high!" I told him after the game.

"That's how the pros hold it," he retorted.

"You're not a pro!" I said. "When you start hitting the ball, you can hold the bat wherever you want." He didn't like that.

Then he discovered the joys of being walked. He realized he could get on base with very little effort and none of the humiliation of striking out. I realized, sadly, he would never swing his bat again.

Yesterday, he got walked a couple times. The first time up, he lolloped slowly to second base, and we cheered him on. The second time, he (slowly) stole second again, and again, we cheered. Right up till the next kid at bat walked. Which Mark took to mean he should walk, too. So he casually jogged over to third base, where he met up with another teammate, who was already on third base, and a little surprised to see Mark. The kid didn't know whether to run for home or chase Mark back.

"Go back, Mark!" my mom and I yelled from the stands. "Go back to second base!!"

Which alerted the catcher, who had the ball. He noticed the confusion at third base, and threw the ball to the second baseman, who met Mark walking back to second base. And...tagged him out.

But my favorite play of the day was the one Mark didn't make. Instead, he guided it.

Mark was playing second base, which meant he stood between first and second, to back up the shortstop, who made all plays at second base. Sure enough, a guy on first stole second, running headfirst toward the base. Mark jumped out of his way, and then, as the catcher scanned the field to see where to throw the ball, Mark helped him out. He pointed repeatedly toward second base.

"Did he just show the runner where the base is?" I asked, mouth agape.

"No," my mom answered. "He was telling the catcher where to throw the ball--to the other guy!" She mimed his pointing, and joked, "Don't throw it to me, throw it to THAT guy!"

Sure enough, the catcher threw the ball to the shortstop at second, who caught the ball and tagged the runner out. Mark rejoiced and danced around, proud of his contribution. My mom, Edra and I couldn't stop laughing.

So I guess all is not lost...Mark may not be the most gifted baseball player around, but he's certainly one of the most entertaining.

Jimmy Buffett tried to kill me (again)

I love a good weekend, and the only thing better than a good weekend is a good, long weekend. A good, long weekend filled with friends.

My long weekend kicked off a bit early--last Thursday night, to be exact. I had out-of-town visitors (my friend Amber and her friend Donna), who came to see another out-of-towner (Jimmy Buffett).

I love the portable parking lot party at a Buffett concert. The Parrot Heads are so fun--they bring their own games.



They also bring their own treats, cleverly decorated according to Jimmy's songs. Love the cheeseburger in paradise cupcake!



The concert was pretty awesome, too. We made friends with the guys in front of us, who apologized on arrival because they weren't going to sit down for any of the concert. Which was fine by us, because we weren't gonna sit, either. But there is something endearing about a grown man in a grass skirt, coconut bra, Hawaiian shirt and floppy hat apologizing because he was going to dance badly for the next two hours.

The concert was excellent. Jimmy was in fine form, although this was what my world looked like by the end of the concert:



I took the next day off to hang out with my friends. Donna wanted a nice picture of the town, so we took her right to our most iconic landmark.



We did a little window shopping, too. Amber did some actual shopping, buying this cute hat.



We thought it was funny that she had to come all the way to California to buy winter gear for Maine, but it was too cute to pass up.

Also very cute were these decorative peppers, grown to look like fall gourds at a little newspaper stand.



Our heads were still pounding from the night before, when Jimmy Buffett tried to kill me (as he does every year). OK, maybe my head was pounding the most, but when we neared another local landmark, the other girls were game to taste a local specialty--the infamous Shoot-the-Root (a root beer vodka shot dropped into a beer).



As Vicki rightfully observed, "There's nothing better than having a cocktail in the middle of the day!" We cheered our drinks and agreed.

We met up again on Saturday for a wonderful Italian dinner. We passed this big old house, which Amber pretended was hers. Mark pretended not to care--he was too cool for pictures, although he non-chalantly sauntered into the frame.




Mark was thrilled to spend a little time with Amber and his aunties, although he hid it well the first hour. But after a little come-to-Jesus discussion outside the restaurant, he perked up and had a good time. (Sometimes you just need the proper motivation...i.e., an angry mom telling you to eat your dinner and be social OR ELSE).

It was a very fun, but way too brief weekend. I enjoyed every minute of it, even to the very end, as Amber, Donna, Mark and I sang along to 80s songs on the way to the airport. And even as we channeled Amber and Donna on the way home, in the form of a car bearing a Maine license plate in front of us on the freeway. It was a nice way to end the weekend.

Fair enough

Yesterday, my wonderful sister-in-law took my son to a parish fair with all of her kids. (My niece Nathalie told me she didn't want to go somewhere that meant you could die--"perish"!)

I was grateful to have a couple hours to myself, and Mark was thrilled to get some time with his cousins. Mary said she'd pick Mark up, so he rushed to get ready. I gave him $20 for the fair, and he promised to bring back $5.

And then he waited for his aunt to arrive. And waited a little more. I was about to call Mary and ask if I should deliver Mark, when we heard a knock at the door. It was Nathalie, who informed us there'd been a slight mishap.

"We were on the freeway, and my mom screamed, 'I forgot to pick up Mark!'" Nathalie laughed. "So we had to come back for him."

I usually wouldn't send my son off with a babysitter who forgets him, but hey, this was family, which meant the babysitting was free. Sometimes you get what you pay for!

When I arrived home, the first thing my brother Scott said was, "I hope you like fish."

I thought he was referring to dinner, so I said fish is fine by me.

"No, I hope you like fish," he repeated. "Go check the cooler in the kitchen."

I did, and realized we weren't talking dinner menus. The cooler was filled with this:



"Did they win all these fish?" I asked, incredulous. "There must be a dozen in there!"

"Eleven," Mary corrected. "That's what happens when you're at the fair at closing time. The kids heard someone yelling 'Free fish!' and rushed to get them."

My niece Gabi couldn't wait to point out her fish, which she named Fat Albert. Mark pointed out his three, which he couldn't wait to take home.

"Um, you remember we have two cats, right?" I asked. "Two very focused killer cats, who would love eating fresh fish?"

Mark realized that fish and cats don't make the best roommates, and offered to donate them to my nephew's pre-school. "Goodbye, Joe Bubba Junior," he said.

"Which one is that?" I asked, peering into the cooler.

"All of them," he answered. "One's Joe, one's Bubba, one's Junior."

We ate dinner, and then Mary presented dessert, which Mark had purchased for the family--$8 worth of pastries.

"They're home-made!" he told me, as if he'd never heard of such a thing. (I really must cook more.)

Mary told me how he and Grant ran off to the dessert booth. Mary realized maybe that wasn't such a good idea, so she rushed over and asked the woman working there if she'd just seen a little boy run by.

"I've seen a lot of boys run by," the cashier told Mary.

"This was a diabetic little boy!" Mary clarified. "In the dessert booth!"

"Oooh, that's not good," the cashier agreed.

But it all worked out. Mark was feeling generous with my money, and spent it all on dessert for the family instead of himself. (He actually spent every last penny I gave him--including the $5 he promised to bring back.) Which worked out well, except when Mark took one bite of his pastry and proclaimed he didn't like it. Goodbye, $8 in pastries...

But in the end, it was fine. The kids had a blast, I got some time off, and my sis-in-law got some good laughs. And nobody "perished"...or so I thought.

"I named mine Broc, Shoe and Ninja Fishy!" Nathalie texted me this morning, updating me on the fish status. Followed immediately by a second message that read, "Shoe's dead, though."

Here's hoping the 10 other Shoes don't drop...

The Community

I spent last weekend at my aunt's house, celebrating my cousin Kathleen's birthday. In addition to visiting my family, I got a glimpse of my future, and it kind of scared me.

My aunt lives in a senior citizen community. The residents have all the free time in the world, and spend it golfing, drinking wine, hanging out with their friends, and gossiping about the other residents. It reminded me of a college dorm for old people.

I learned a lot about senior citizens. For one, they are avid rule-followers. They live for rules, and for enforcing them. When we went the pool so Mark could swim, the community president stopped to check the visitor log; he wanted to make sure we'd signed in properly. (Mark was the only person using the pool.)

"He shouldn't even be president," my aunt's friend, Jean, sneered. "His name isn't even on the title for his trailer. He's from Canada." She didn't exactly come out and say he was an illegal immigrant, but I could tell she was thinking it. (My aunt told me later Jean's just mad she can't attend the community meetings because her name's not on her trailer title, either.)

My aunt brought along a bottle of wine, and plastic cups to drink it from. "They don't like glass around the pool," she said. Just to be safe, we sat a good 40 feet away from the pool. But another resident stopped by anyway, pointed at the bottle, and scolded us.

"No glass by the pool!" he said, shaking his finger at us. Then he told us to have a good day and walked off.

"His wife made him say that!" Jean spat out. "Look at her inside, waiting for him!" The wife waved through the door.

Another resident and his wife came to swim in the pool. The man struck up a conversation with Mark, and Jean watched him like a hawk.

"He's not a pedophile," she told me, and I was about to laugh until I saw she was serious.

"Are there a lot of pedophiles around here?" I asked nervously.

"Some," Jean answered.

"Jean knows where they all live," my aunt said. "She looks them all up on the Megan's Law website."

Jean nodded at the guy. "He's new here," she said. "I've gotta do a little more research on him."

After swimming, we headed to the next event--happy hour at the local steakhouse. Jean further entertained us by telling us about a would-be suitor. She told us how she could've gotten together with him.

"If I'd wanted to," she said. "If I remembered what to do."

"Go for it!" I told her, but she shook her head.

"Nah, that ship has sailed," she answered. "He's moved on to Vivian." Just like college!

After drinks came dinner. My aunt paced nervously as we waited for her friend Wanda to show up. "Wanda can't see well at night," she explained, and then went outside to move her car so Wanda could park in the driveway.

Wanda recounted the memorial service she'd attended that day. She was upset that only seven residents had attended the service, but almost 100 of them attended the lunch. Jean told her, "None of those people drive anymore." They don't go anywhere unless you can get to it by golf cart.

Kathleen and I laughed about it all later. "You know this is us in 20 years," I told her. "You and me, in a trailer, with Mark visiting." The only glitch would be my golfing, my aunt said.

"Heather talks too much," she told Jean, and I agreed with that point, but not the next one. "And she hits the ball too many times."

"I'm not a quitter!" I protested. "I follow through until it goes in the hole."

"Fourteen times is too many swings for one hole," my aunt reminded me. Boy, she'll never let me forget that round!

My aunt also said we didn't have to wait 20 years to move into the community. "You can move in at 55," she told us.

"Forty-six if you're a caregiver," Jean corrected. "And caregivers get paid really well!" So we revised our plan and decided Kathleen would move in with my aunt next year, get free room and board, and a good salary.

My aunt was not exactly on board with that plan.

"I'm not gonna pay her!" she exclaimed.

"Well, then your care won't be as good," I reasoned. "And remember, she cooks. That's worth something."

By the time we washed the dishes and the guests had left, it was late--by senior standards, anyway.

"It's 8:30!" my aunt exclaimed. Kathleen's boyfriend headed off to bed, and Kathleen joined him soon after. I stayed up, listening to the 1960 class reunion raging at the steakhouse down the street. The music ended promptly at 10 p.m., and I was asleep by 10:15--earliest I've been to bed in years.

I joked about it, but actually, it isn't a bad life. I can't wait to stop working and just hang out with my friends. There are downsides--as Jean pointed out, the resident turnover rate is pretty high, but hey, the new blood keeps the community young.

I'll have to get a dog and a golf cart to walk him with, and I'll have to learn to shut up if I want to play golf. But the good news is, based on Jean and the other residents, I won't have to hold my tongue anywhere else or keep my opinions to myself.

Because as they showed me, the upside to being older is that everyone is entitled to my opinion, at all times. So at least I've got that going for me...

Happy Adoption Day!

This weekend, Mark and I hit another anniversary--Adoption Day, our third year as a legal family. He moved in five years ago, and by the time the judge banged her gavel and made the declaration, it was a mere formality. We'd already been family for two years, and it seemed kind of silly to put it in writing, as though legal papers were the only proof of our bond. And yet, it moved me more than I possibly could have imagined, because it made Mark mine, and me his. It gave me rights I'd been denied for two years, which biological parents take for granted--the right to change his doctors or school, to go on vacation without notifying anyone, to raise him without social workers approving my every action.

I started my journey to parenthood a long time ago--14 years ago, to be exact. I attended an adoption information meeting with the county, learned I had to take 10 weekly classes and then I could have a kid after that. I didn't know it could happen that quickly, so I freaked out, and changed my mind. I wasn't as ready to be a parent as I thought.

I spent the next seven years traveling the world, growing up, establishing a stable career, and buying a house. I got a bunch of plants and a couple cats, and kept them all alive, which I took to be a good sign. I suffered the loss of my grandma, and decided I didn't want to wait another minute--I wanted to be a mom, and I wanted my child to know my parents. I wanted my parents to see me as a parent, to know that all the hard work they put into me had paid off. And I knew I was gonna need help from them, because I've learned that being a parent is a continual work-in-progress.

So I enrolled in another adoption program. This time I didn't run away, although I did breathe a huge sigh of relief when they said the classes were monthly, not weekly. But then I spent the next 10 months fretting I couldn't handle all the special needs my kid would inevitably have, and my mom spent those 10 months telling me to suck it up. (In the nicest, most supportive possible way, of course.)

It wasn't a quick process--I tell people my pregnancy lasted two years. I poured out everything to random county social workers--my beliefs, my finances, my morals, my heart. I was subjected to fingerprinting and background checks--and so were my friends and family! I filled out endless paperwork, detailing every last bit of my life and personal choices. (And then I learned they keep those papers on file at the county office for 99 years--yikes!)

I needed three personal references, who wrote letters vouching for me. I made emergency plans, packed earthquake kits, and baby-proofed my house to strict guidelines the county provided.

It was exhausting, all of it. And all the while, I stressed about whether I was doing the right thing. Was I going to be good enough, strong enough, tough enough? Was it right to bring a kid into a single-parent home--would I be denying them the chance at a two-parent family? Would I even like the kid? Most moms feel their kids growing inside them--they love them simply because those babies are, in the most literal sense, a part of them. They love them the minute they are born, because those babies grew from them. I worried how long it would take me to love a child I'd never met.

And then finally, finally! After two long years, I finished. Finished the paperwork, finished the classes, got my stamp of approval. And learned about a five-year-old kid who needed a home. He was in kindergarten, liked video games, and was afraid of spiders.

I don't know why that endeared him to me, but it did. It made me cry, with all the relief and joy I could muster. This...this was why I had worked so hard. Because there was a little kindergartner out there who needed a mom to protect him from spiders...and I'd been selected for the job. I immediately stopped worrying about whether I could love a kid I didn't know. I loved him from that moment.

It wasn't easy, God knows. It still isn't. And though technically I am a single parent, I'm not raising Mark alone. My village has always been there, encouraging and supporting me, gently prodding me along. All my family and friends who held me up during my two-year-pregnancy and told me--endlessly, patiently--I could do this; they are there still, and now they're holding Mark up, too. Mark thought he was getting a new mom--instead, he got a whole new universe, a huge tribe to love him and show him the way. I am grateful to them all every day.

And so, when I awoke on Sunday morning, I smiled. I rejoiced with my cousin and aunt, who presented us with a gift card to buy our annual Adoption Day ice cream sundaes. I hugged my son, who growled and rolled over, because he wasn't ready to get up yet. And I thought of that day, three years ago, that I spent surrounded by family and friends, laughing, smiling, crying. I think of the boisterous cheer they let out when the judge proclaimed us adopted, and how they startled everyone in the courtroom with their loud, happy voices.

I think of how lucky I was that day, and how lucky I continue to be. I remind myself to be grateful, not only for my son, but for the opportunity I got, to see how much my friends and family really love and support me, and how they've passed that love and support on to my son as well.

And I know that although, on the surface, Adoption Day is about Mark and I, it's also so much more. It's a celebration for us all.

The writer's son

The old saying goes that the preacher's child is always the wildest of the bunch. Well, I'm no preacher, but I do make my living stringing together words. I ensure they work well with one another, flow nicely, are used in context, and above all, are spelled correctly. All skills which are, quite sadly, absent in my son.

I've always been fascinated by words, and though I struggled mightily with math, I never had a problem with spelling. Spelling came as naturally to me as breathing.

Which is why my son is going to drive me to an early grave. I don't have obnoxiously high standards for the kid, and I don't expect him to master every subject in school. But spelling is his worst subject, BY FAR, and it tears my heart to shreds each time I watch him take pencil to paper and massacre those wonderful words.

If you think I'm kidding, or prone to hyperbole (as we writers often are), here's my proof: this week's pre-spelling test.



That's right, he missed 18 out of 22 words. EIGHTEEN!

Well, technically, not all of the 18 words were spelled incorrectly. He spelled "blister" right--except it was supposed to be "blizzard." He also spelled "Beth" correctly, although his teacher was expecting "breadth." My favorite may be the word he just made up--"swisted." Although now that I'm writing these out, I'm starting to worry less about his spelling ability, and more about his hearing...

Some of the words he's never encountered in real life, so how could I expect him to spell them right? He wouldn't know thrift if it smacked him upside the head with a coupon, and the closest he's gotten to a catastrophe was losing his Nintendo DS for the past couple weeks (I'd misplaced it, but recently found it--cotastfry averted!). I'll give him some credit though--whoever corrected his paper also spelled it wrong.

I guess I should be more positive. He did spell mistake and giggle right, but he's done both of those a lot. He got simple right--it was simple enough to spell. And he got igloo right, which surprised me--who knew they even discussed igloos in school anymore?

Maybe I am expecting too much. Or maybe it's just that as a writer, it's hard to see him butcher my beloved English language. I certainly don't get upset when he does less than perfect in math--but then again, I always hated math.

Sigh. Maybe I'll start burying books underneath his pillow at night--or his list of spelling words. Maybe he can absorb them by osmosis, in his sleep. And then we'd really find the Beth of his knowledge!

Well, almost everyone knows...

My little man fancies himself quite a chef, especially now that he's learned to grill cheese sandwiches all by himself. This has also doubled his recipe collection; previously, his stable contained exactly one good recipe for butternut squash, which he pilfered from my friend Kelley and now takes sole credit for creating.

But he's also got a healthy self-confidence, which I love. It's hilarious to listen to him take credit for amazing skills he's never quite had the opportunity to prove. Come to think of it, he's never disproved them either, so who knows, maybe he is as wonderful a football player, chef, and artist in real life as he is in his head.

Last night we were watching Hell's Kitchen, which is kind of a dumbed-down Top Chef. The cooks are just that--cooks, not chefs--and while they do have a famous chef judging them, he spends more time yelling at them than actually encouraging or praising them. Mark and I like to hear him scream "Donkey!" at everyone in his angry English accent.

Anyway, they were serving up breakfast to paramedics. The meal consisted of scrambled eggs, French toast, bacon, sausage and fruit. When a cook messed up the eggs, Mark shook his head and sighed.

"Come on!" he yelled at the T.V. He held his hands in the air and snorted, "Everyone knows how to make eggs and French toast!"

This was news to me.

"Do you know how to scramble eggs?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Can you make French toast?" I asked.

He admitted that no, he could not do that either. I proposed that perhaps we should not judge the TV cooks so harshly, then. He smiled and nodded.

"Do you want me to teach you how to cook eggs?" I inquired, but for the third time, he shook his head no.

"I don't like eggs," he answered. "Or French toast."

Which was fine by me. Because I was in no position to judge those cooks either, unless they jacked up my famous breakfast speciality--peanut butter toast.