Lazy boy on a La-Z-Boy

OK, one last post on my lazy son. (But really, it's not my fault...he brings this on himself!)

Mark's latest obsession is with La-Z-Boy recliners. He thinks they are seriously the best invention in the world, and can't understand why I don't have one in our living room. (I don't understand why he thinks he'd ever get to sit in it if we only had ONE.) I haven't even told him about the fancy recliners, which come complete with refrigerated compartments to keep your drinks cold!

Mark he doesn't want just any old recliner, he wants a fancy one. Shanda, my brother's girlfriend, has one that gives neck and back massages. Any time we go to Shanda's, Mark darts directly to that chair, and stays there pretty much the whole time.

My aunt has one, too. You can inflate or deflate the seat and back to give you the perfect lumbar and neck support. It's bigger than Shanda's chair, and it also vibrates. Mark is equally happy in that chair--he even spent the night in it the other day.

"I'm serious, Mom," he told me Sunday, clicking the remote control for my aunt's chair. "I really really REALLY want one. I'm going to save my money and get one."

"Where would you put it?" I asked, curious.

"In my room," Mark answered, dreamily.

"No way," I said. "If you put that chair in your room, you'd never leave your room. I'd never see you again."

"You would, too," he said. "Because the TV's in the living room. Unless..."

I cut him off. "No TVs in your room," I said. Then I reminded him that his cat Frankie would scratch his chair up, or urinate on it (Frankie is one messed-up bad cat.)

"I'll put catnip all around it," Mark answered. "No, better! I'll glue scratching posts all around the bottom, so he can scratch it without ruining it. But I'll have to put it in the living room, then, so he has more room to scratch."

I was silent for a moment, envisioning my ecstatic, near-comatose son relaxing in his massaging recliner. His bad cat was beneath him, going to town on the scratching posts glued to Mark's recliner. It was quite an image.

"No," I said finally. "We actually have guests who visit, and there's no way I could ever explain that chair." I shook my head, trying to rid the image from it, but I couldn't. 

"It's my money," Mark reminded me. "I can buy what I want with it..." And he turned to stomp away, visions of La-Z-Boys filling his head.

Somewhere out there, a trailer park is missing its leader.

It's not JUST for hiking...

The other night, as I put Mark to bed, I noticed something unusual about the hiking pole he'd purchased last summer at the Grand Canyon. It was fully extended, presumably ready for immediate use by any 6' 5" hikers wandering our neighborhood.

I knew Mark hadn't been hiking recently, so I asked him why the pole was extended so far out.

"Oh," he answered vaguely from his bed. "I was using it."

"For what?" I pressed. It was too tall for him to walk with.

"I use it at night," he said. He could see the confused look on my face, so he sighed and asked me to hand the pole to him.

"I don't like to get out of bed," said the world's laziest boy, in the understatement of the decade. "So I just use the hiking pole at bedtime."

And with that, he demonstrated his skills--at being both inventive and...well, pretty darn lazy.

I swear, this kid...when he grows up, he'll either be the most successful inventor ever, or he'll be the laziest grown man still living at home. 

I *think* he's being helpful...

Mark noticed we were down to the last paper cup in the bathroom, and promptly filled the holder back up.

I'm still not sure if he was just being enthusiastic (we will never run out of cups AGAIN!), or if he was being lazy (I will never refill the cups AGAIN!). I suspect it's a little of both.

Either way, we now have a new art installation in the bathroom, affectionately dubbed "The Giant Tower of Paper Cups." However, it sways a bit whenever you take a cup, so I'll probably rename it "The Leaning Tower of Dixie."

And I will monitor Mark verrrrrry closely the next time he unloads the dishwasher. Because while this cup tower is kinda cute, I suspect it might be a bit more dangerous if he were to create a similar tower with our drinking glasses.

Beware of falling apples

You know that saying about how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree? Well, it's certainly true in my family.

Once, when I was in college, my parents sent me money (OK, yes, it was more than once, but humor me). My mom told my dad to send me a check, and apparently, she also told him to include a short note. Because when I opened the envelope, the letter accompanying the check said, "Your mom told me to write something when I sent this, so here it is. Love, Dad."

A man of few words, my pops.

Today, I received a check in the mail from my big brother. Tim thinks just like my dad, but obviously does not solicit advice from his wife, because here's the letter that came with my check:

I guess that other saying is correct--like father, like son.

I want it all, Mommy!

<--Huh, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there really IS a Passover Bunny! 

Somewhere, in a past life, Mark must have been a prince. Not a king, mind you, who ruled his people with wisdom and a strong but fair hand...no, just a prince, who lived in the lap of luxury and thrived, as servants brought him whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.

That's the only explanation I have for him. He's never happy with what he gets, be it candy, TV time, or video games, because he knows somewhere out there, some other kid still has more.

Take Easter, for example. We'll be on vacation this year, so I explained sadly that Mark won't get an Easter basket (I don't think he even believes in the bunny anymore, but he isn't going to turn away a basket full of candy!).

"But don't worry," I told him, playing up the good news. "Because you'll get more than enough chocolate--we'll be in Hershey, Pennsylvania, on Easter!"

Now, any normal kid would whoop and holler with joy at that sentence. Any kid other than Mark, that is.

"What!" he complained. "Rip off!"

"What do you mean, rip-off?" I said, indignantly. "You'll be in the town that chocolate BUILT! Even the street lights are Hershey Kisses!"

Mark was quiet for a moment. I thought he was contemplating this, but I was wrong. He was trying to work his way around it.

"I can just leave a basket here," he said. "The Easter Bunny can fill it up, and I can eat it when I get home."

"Your cats would eat it all," I answered.

"Yeah," he admitted. Then he lit up and said, "Oooooh, how about if I put my basket on the front porch?"

"Then ANTS will get it," I said. "And the candy will melt. Did you miss the part where I said you'll be in Chocolate Town that day??"

"We can bring the baskets with us," he said, hopefully.

"No, Kelley and Rob are Jewish," I said. "They don't have an EASTER Bunny! Plus, it's Passover, so the bunny couldn't bring the good stuff, anyway. It's not kosher."

And before he could ask, I assured him there was no Passover Bunny.

"What if--" he started, but I cut him off. I'd had enough.

"No," I said. "Whatever you are about to say--just, NO. You will be in Hershey, you will not bring a basket, you will eat chocolate, you will be happy about it. End of story." And then I stomped out of the room.

"Geez," I heard Mark mutter in the other room.

I could tell he was already re-writing the whole story in his head, assigning himself the leading role as the Poor Victim Child, and me the role of the Wicked Mother. Someday, I will listen to Mark whine about the year I deprived him an Easter basket, and what an incredibly mean mom I was. He's a good storyteller, and people will actually feel sorry for poor Mark when they hear it.

Until...I whip out a photo of 12-year-old Mark, face smeared with chocolate, standing in front of a sign that says "Welcome to Hershey, PA!" 

I may even have a second picture of Mark the day after, with a chocolate hangover, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, one hand over his upset belly, the other pushing away the huge chocolate bar I'm offering him.

I will say, "Take THAT, my poor, deprived son! THIS was the year with no Easter basket!"

And the Easter spirit will live on.

The return of St. Baldy

St. Patrick's Day means one thing in our household--a bald head! That's right, my dear, philanthropic young son shaved his head for the fourth time in support of kids with cancer (for more info, go to www.stbaldricks.org). I'm so proud of Mark!

This is a big deal because my kid LOVES his hair. He loves it even more since becoming a middle-schooler, which means he spends countless hours in the bathroom brushing his hair, and I spend an equal amount of time yelling at him to clean the hair out of the sink. 

He's tried a few new hairstyles, but his two favorite are what I'll call the Justin Bieber (carefully flipped to one side ad nauseum) or the Dumb and Dumber (all hair brushed forward a la Jim Carrey). He rotates evenly between the two.

So to sacrifice his thick, luscious locks is a big deal. I worried he would bow out at the last moment, but once again, he did not. He came home sporting an almost glowing white head. Everyone who sees him involuntarily runs their hands across his stubbly head--you just can't help it. He looks like a little Army recruit, except way cuter and sweeter.

Besides raising money for cancer research, Mark gets a reward he loves almost as much as his hair: To prevent sunburns, the school lets all the bald kids wear hats to school. This is a dream come true for Mark. He love love loves his baseball hats, so wearing one to school is heaven for him.

The only problem is, he buys the hats when he has hair, and they fit fine. However, they are way too big without hair.

Luckily for Mark, he washed and dried his favorite Dodgers hat earlier this year (he didn't feel lucky at the time). It shrunk in the drier, and he was crushed. 

But now, it's just a tad bit too big on his bald head--I thought it looked fine, but what do I know? I'm just a dumb, fashioned-challenged mom, and I have no idea what is sick anymore (hey, come on, give it up for my correct use of "sick." Although I probably lose cred for having to point out that I'm up--or is it down?--with the current slang terms.)

Mark decided to forgo ALL baseball hats, opting instead for his second favorite hat: a beanie. He's quite proud of this one:

I have to hand it to him, the kid knows how to make a statement. He wore the hat all day yesterday, and everyone who saw him laughed and complimented him on his fancy green Kermit the Frog hat.

That's right, cuz it's sick.

This is why some mothers eat their young

In the last few weeks, I've found my tweezers in increasingly strange places around the house. These places include, but are not limited to, Mark's bookcase, Mark's bed, the dining room, the living room, and littered about the bathroom. I don't remove tweezers from the bathroom, so I knew the culprit leaving them out.

But Mark seemed genuinely surprised when I asked about the tweezers.

"I'm not using them," he immediately replied.

"Of course you are," I said. "I'm not taking them out, so that just leaves you."

"I haven't used them," he repeated, and my mom radar cranked a bit higher. Something not right, it said. I stared at him intensely, which made him nervous, and prompted another denial.

"Why would I use them?" he asked nervously, refusing to make eye contact.

"I don't know," I said, growing increasingly more suspicious. "That's what I'm trying to find out."

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence. I finally broke it by reminding Mark that I knew he was using the tweezers, and the longer he lied about it, the madder I would get.

"I'm not mad that you used them," I said. "But I'm getting super mad that you're lying straight to my face."

He finally looked at me, and realized all hell was about to break loose. He sighed and looked like he was about to cry, which worried me more than a little.

"What the hell are you using my tweezers for?" I asked.

He sniffled, and finally admitted it. "Toe jam," he said glumly, and I involuntarily gagged.

"TOE JAM?!?" I exploded. "You used my tweezers for your TOE JAM!" My eyes started watering, and the gagging increased (I have a sensitive stomach, and imagining toe jam on my tweezers was not helping).

"I didn't know how else to get rid of it!" he explained, as I raced past him toward the bathroom.

"You know what gets rid of toe jam?" I thundered. "Soap, water and a washcloth! Geez...I put those things near my FACE." And the gagging resumed...

My sister-in-law Mary was hysterical when I told her the story. "Ewwww! You'll have to sanitize them!" she said, but I just shook my head.

"I already threw them all out, " I said. "There's not enough sanitizer in the world to ever make me use those again."

"Well, at least it's your own kid," she said. "It's easier to take when it's your own kid."

I shook my head again. "No, not easier," I told her. "I don't care if it is my own kid...he's a gross, grubby kid using my tweezers to clean his toe jam! It doesn't make it any less disgusting!"

She laughed. And, eventually, so did I (though I still gag a little recalling it now).

It's a reminder on just how specific you have to be with kids, and how you pretty much have to lock up anything you don't EVER want them to touch (that list is growing). I tried to think of a rule to institute so this would never happen again, but I was at a loss. I could say don't ever use my tweezers ever again, but that's not specific enough for Mark--he would certainly justify using something else--my comb? my toothbrush?--under the defense that I did not specifically say he couldn't touch those.

So when I calmed down enough to be semi-rational, I simply said, "You are not to touch anything that ever touches my body. I am not going to name all those things, but you are to think hard about it from now on. If there's even the most remote chance it may touch my body--ever!--you are not to touch it, or clean yourself or anything else with it. You are not to even look at it. Are. We. Clear?"

He nodded his sad little head, then plopped himself dramatically into bed. He rolled over toward the wall, snuffled, and pulled the covers over his head.

"You are not the victim here!" I shouted, turning off his bedroom light, and stomping out of his room.

Sigh...I'm not sure I, or my grooming tools (or even my son, for that matter!) will survive my grubby's son's childhood.

It's a...book!

I'm all for education, and the basic R's--readin', ritin' and 'rithmetic. But only for other kids...or, maybe for my kid, but only as long as he doesn't bring that stuff home to the house!

I know these subjects will eventually help Mark somewhere down the line, but in the short-term, they're killing me.

He just finished a six-week "literacy project," which is a fancy term for a big ol' book report.

We started off a bit rough, when I asked Mark which book he was going to read.

"I wonder if I can do my report on this," he said hopefully, holding up The Big Book of Why.

"No," I answered. "It has to be a chapter book. You know, a story with a beginning, middle and end."

He frowned for a moment, then brightened up. "I'll read Scat!" he exclaimed.

"Didn't you read that in class last year?" I asked.

"Yeah!" he said. "That'll save a lot of time--I won't have to read it again."

"You're missing the whole point of this, aren't you?" I said. I patiently explained that he had to read a new book for each report. That news did not go over well.

Amidst great protest, Mark finally settled on The Skull of Truth by Bruce Coville. He was not happy about it, but all the copies of Scat were checked out of the library, so he had no choice.

We were also at odds about the rest of the process. We read the first five chapters together, but then Mark wanted to read (pretend to read) on his own. Three weeks into the project, I asked how much he'd read. He answered none. He also forgot what happened in the first five chapters.

"Get in your room and start over!" I yelled. "You have to read one chapter--I'm going to quiz you in half an hour."

Thirty minutes later, he sidled into the room and tossed the book to me. I started grilling him on who the main character was, what happened in Chapter 1, etc.

"I don't know," he said sullenly. "I didn't read that chapter."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "I told you to read Chapter 1!"

"No," he corrected. "You said to read a chapter--so I read Chapter 2."

Why be linear, when you can jump all over a book? Plot and order are overrated, anyway. I just sighed. This was going to be a looooooong project.

Mark finally finished the book in the fifth week. I'd made him write a summary of each chapter as he went along, hoping that would speed his memory and writing time when it came to the actual report. He did a great job. He also created a map of the universal theme, and connected idea bubbles to it with at least seven different ideas.

Under my careful observation, he researched the author.

"No Wikipedia, right?" I said. I reminded him it's unreliable because anybody (including 11-year-old boys named Mark) could change the information. (I once asked his cousin where Mark was, and she answered, "He's changing facts on Wikipedia.")

By Friday, we had the bones to the entire report. All Mark had to do was write the final draft. It was a struggle to get there, with Mark fighting me every bit of the way. To get this project complete, I needed to bring in the big guns.

"Grandma's gonna help you write this up," I said. He looked terrified and pleased all at the same time (a totally appropriate response).

With her help, he wrote the book report and most of the biography. It took them most of the day.

"He's almost done!" my mom said. "He just has to re-write it in his best writing."

"I want to type it up!" Mark said.

"NOW you're an overachiever?" I asked. "Now you want to put in extra effort?"

We hit another obstacle when Mark got sick Saturday. He was still home sick on Monday, but he spent the entire day working on the report.

"Good thing I stayed home today," he said. "Now I can get this report done!"

I reminded him he was home because he was sick, not to meet his deadline.

The only big glitch was when I realized Mark had left out the info about the book's universal theme. We'd worked on that for two hours the previous week. I asked if he remembered what the theme was.

"Relationships," he answered.

"No!" I said. "It's TRUTH! Remember the bubble map we worked on for two hours?"

"Grandma said it's relationships," he muttered, and I snapped.

"Then go call Grandma and write that up!" I yelled. That convinced him--he mumbled, "Fine, it's truth."

When he'd typed that up, I asked what lesson he'd learned from the book.

"That telling the truth gets you in trouble," he said. "So don't tell the truth." 

I sighed again, and tried my best not to cry.

"No, it's about how lying hurts people, but also how you have to be careful with the truth," I reminded him. Then I just waved the white flag in the air, and told him to type something--anything--up.

I didn't think it would happen, but by 10 p.m. Monday night, he finished. The report looked great.

Mark admired his poster board with the report, biography, word search, and illustrated character analysis. He saw a book report--I saw six weeks of blood, sweat and tears, and a slew of new gray hairs on my head.

"That was easy," he said.

I just looked at him--easy was not the word I'd have chosen. But I took a deep breath and realized it didn't really matter--the report was done, which was the important thing.
People don't judge victories by the hard-fought battles, they judge it by who won the overall war.

And today, Mark won the war on literacy. Barely, but he did.

Whatever. I'm good with that.

The (No) Slumber Party

Mark decided to have a low-key birthday party this year. Instead of a big blow-out, he opted for his first slumber party. (And for the record, the words "sleep" and "slumber" should never preface "party" when referring to pre-teens. Because honestly, the last thing on their minds was sleeping!)

Mark was excited about having his friends for a sleep-over, and I was excited for him. I have a lot of great slumber party memories from my childhood, and am glad he'll have some now, too (even though there won't be any bras to freeze when the first kid falls asleep).

Because Mark's friends are super busy, we had a staggered arrival. Jonah arrived first. He and Mark played in the backyard until Sean arrived, then they jumped out and scared Sean half to death. The three of them played until dinner arrived, when I realized I was a little optimistic in my pizza order. (Apparently, I'd invited the only three growing boys in America who do not eat like they're starving).

Next up was the birthday cake. Mark opted for his very favorite, German chocolate, from his favorite bakery. Bad host that he is, he was thrilled to learn Sean and Jonah don't like German chocolate, and that he'd get the entire cake to himself. (And I thought I was an optimist...) Sean and Jonah made do with ice cream and Thin Mints, and soon enough, they were all sufficiently hopped up on the sugar of their choice.

And with that much energy, there was only one thing to attack...the video games! Mark has a Wii, which I bought so he could be active while playing games, and so I could feel less guilty about using a video game console as an electronic babysitter. Well, Mark foiled that plan by picking out the least-active games, like skateboarding and Sonic the Hedgehog, who does all the running for Mark. Within minutes, the boys were jumping around the room like maniacs, and I escaped to the other end of the house.

Sean went off to a jazz concert with his dad, and was replaced by Tristan, who was in a play earlier that evening. (Snow White--Tristin played the Huntsman, the "manliest character in the play!" he proudly told me.) Sean returned, then Jonah left. It was like a carousel of rotating kids. The cast of players kept changing, but the noise level in the room never did.

I started the bedtime ritual around 11 p.m., which pretty much meant nothing. There were three boys left, and it was kind of like being in a room with velociraptors. I'd tell them to go to bed, and then one would slink off to the side. Then I'd turn to face him, and the other two boys divided and moved around the room. They'd just silently plop onto the nearest couch, never looking up; no eye contact, just staring down at their iTouches. I turned around the place, constantly telling one boy or another to go to bed, and all the while, Sonic laughed at my futile attempts and kept pounding innocent little creatures onscreen. I finally pulled the plug, literally, until the Wii went dead, and the boys could no longer ignore me.

They hit Mark's room around 11:30. And then, it was like the last scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, when Indiana Jones tells everyone not to open their eyes, not to look at what was going on NO MATTER WHAT. I heard crazy, savage noises from Mark's room. I flinched a lot, but forced myself to stay put. Some noises I recognized (sports trophies falling), some were indistinct crashes immediately followed by giggling.

"Stay out," I told myself, and then repeated it. They were in Mark's domain now; if he didn't mind them trashing his room, I didn't mind. It took all my restraint NOT to go in there and tell them to settle down. But hey, it was Mark's party, and I wasn't about to ruin it, unless they really were in imminent danger (which I minimized by hiding all the matches, lighters and anything flammable).

They were still going strong at 12:30, then 12:45. I fell asleep on the couch in the living room (still heard crashing in the room), but when I awoke at 1:30, it was finally quiet. Eerily quiet. I tiptoed down the hallway, and frowned--why was the light in my room on?

And then I saw him--the birthday boy, in his sleeping bag. He'd given up on getting any shut-eye in his room, and had moved to my room instead. He was fast asleep on my floor, and looked so sweet and innocent, angelic almost--nothing like the crazed madman jumping on the couch three hours earlier. I couldn't help kissing his forehead, and whispering "Goodnight."

Mark was up before 7, but I warned him not to wake the other boys yet. I knew it was only a matter of time before my sleep-deprived child melted down, and I hoped to keep the meltdown number to just one boy, if I could.

Mark hesitated, then realized the longer they slept, the more time he got to play the Wii alone. He let them sleep.

But tween boys have incredibly sensitive hearing. They may not be able to hear you the 50 times you ask them to make their beds or brush their teeth, but they can distinguish the faint bing! of a video game from miles away. There was a slight rustling in the other room, and then two sleepy boys emerged, wiggling their thumbs in a pre-game warm-up.

So the second round of the video game marathon ensued. The boys paused briefly to go for donuts, then returned to battling Mario Brothers until their parents came to pick them up. I enjoyed coffee and the Sunday paper in the other room, and realized there really is no better sound in the whole world than kids laughing.

Mark was sad when the boys finally left, but he sighed deeply, and said happily, "That was fun." He had a slew of new gift cards, the Wii, and an entire German chocolate cake (minus the piece he ate the night before) all to himself. 

It was a good day, indeed. And an even better birthday!

I kneed some sympathy

Against every fiber of my being, I've been exercising. Nothing as major as going to the gym, mind you, which requires not only willpower, but also a babysitter; for those of you without kids, babysitters are expensive (but totally worth it. Especially if one of my babysitters is reading this right now.).

Instead, I've been exercising at home, doing all that I can for a tired, single mom who is NOT a morning person (and as such, is completely unmotivated to do anything immediately upon waking--including waking up.)

But motivation is not my only foe. Also working against me is my kid, who a) refuses to go to bed early enough (i.e., before 9:30 p.m.) for me to walk on my treadmill in the garage, and b) is terrified of being alone in the house, even though I have patiently explained 5,893 times that I am just in the garage, a mere 10 feet away from him. (Strangely, this fear is not reciprocal--he has no problem practicing his drums in the garage while I am in the house.)

He remains unconvinced, however, which means I have to get off the treadmill at least 5 times to explain there are no monsters under his bed, or ghosts in the house. The whole thing is just completely...counterproductive.

Anyway...I did finally find a solution--a small pedaling machine that simulates a stationary bike. I can use it indoors and it doesn't take up all the space in my living room. As an added bonus, I can use it while watching TV, and then hide it behind my couch. Folks, we had a winner!

So that's what I've been doing, riding my little fake bike every night, and feeling pretty good about myself. What did not feel good, and in fact, was feeling worse with alarming regularity, was my knee.

And being the hardcore workout nut that I am now, I did what any other athlete in training would do--I ignored the pain. I actually told myself, "No pain, no gain," and then I distracted myself by watching a TV show about hand-fishing for catfish.

Well, my knee didn't like that. It gradually got worse until last week, I couldn't even walk on it. I ditched the tough-guy attitude and purchased a pair of crutches. So much for silently sucking it up.

I thought the crutches might at least garner a little sympathy for my busted knee, but no go. Mark immediately swiped them, and whipped around the house, showing me how much better he was at using crotches. (Not a typo. That's middle school humor at its finest.) The only thing more depressing than having to use crotches--err, crutches--is not being able to because your son is outside hitting tennis balls with them. Or sideswiping you with them in the hallway after yelling, "LOOK OUT!"

Well, maybe the doctor would be sympathetic. Or...maybe not.

He rotated my knee like an old-fashioned radio dial for exactly two seconds before informing me I have runner's knee.

"Except..." he said, giving me a once-over, and realizing I wasn't exactly the runner type. "Well, we won't call it runner's knee in your case."

And that's the first time someone has literally added insult to my injury.

I finally found some sympathy in my boss. He immediately ordered me to stay home a couple days to rest. However, he also asked me numerous carefully-worded questions, and threw in just enough knee-injury lingo to worry me. But the doctor explained it was just a bum kneecap that refused to stay in place, and not an impending arthroscopic knee surgery. (That proclamation was not as re-assuring as I'd hoped--instead, it makes me gag a little bit whenever I walk now, imagining my knee cap floating out of place.)  

And after two long weekends at home, being completely still (something I am not good at), I am tired of it all. I'm ready to climb the walls, if only my knee would let me.  

"This stinks," I lamented to my boss. "You try to get healthy, and instead, you get injured. What's the point of working out if it has the opposite effect?"

"I know," he said. "When you really think about it, nobody ever hurts themselves just sitting on the couch just watching TV."

And sadly, those are the words that rang truest to me. Because, honestly, before I started riding my little bike, all I did was sit on my couch, watching TV. Then I got motivated, got injured, and where did I end up? Yup, back on the couch, watching TV. Except now, I have a busted knee.

Maybe motivation isn't my biggest problem after all. Maybe logic is.

12

A dozen years ago, a brown-haired little baby made his entrance into the world. The doctors probably thought it was a healthy sign that he started crying right away, but I'm telling you now it had nothing to do with health or his new womb-less environment. Oh no, that baby was complaining that his onesie was too baggy ("I want skinny jeans! Waaaah!"), and that he was wearing the same little socks as every other baby in the hospital nursery. Because you know, even at only a few minutes old, all brand-new Mark wanted was some flashy new kicks on his tiny little just-born toes.

Yes, it's true, my little man turned 12 on Friday. He's one year closer to being a teenager, which puts the fear of God in me, and one year closer to being a genuine, certified grown man, which scares me even more. But I'm trying not to focus on all that; instead, I'm clinging to the last few moments of him as my little boy.

On Friday, Mark jumped out of bed early, happily, but not because of my cheerful birthday wishes. He was dressed two minutes later, eager to claim his annual birthday donut breakfast.

This year he wasn't satisfied with just a donut or two; he convinced me to buy enough to feed his entire fourth-period math class.

"Thirty-six kids," he told me. "Plus Mr. Estrada. He looooves donuts."

And that's how my diabetic child ended up at school with two giant pink boxes full of donuts, while I drove off envisioning every worst-case high blood sugar scenario. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, I hyperventilated. I was determined to let Mark celebrate his birthday with junk food just like any other non-diabetic kid, but try as I might, I couldn't fully do it. He called me throughout the day, and each time, I ever-so-casually suggested he test his blood sugar and correct any highs.

Dinner was a little easier in that the kid was craving protein. By easier, I mean on his blood sugar, not my wallet. I've lucked out the past few years, because little kid Mark always insisted on gross but cheap food for his birthday dinner. (Six-year-old Mark chose KFC, and my entire loving family filled a KFC and pretended to really enjoy it for Mark's sake. Four years later, Mark tried to blame the whole fiasco on me, to which I replied, "No. Just...no. Not one single person who was at that meal choose it willingly. That was pure love right there--for you, not for fried chicken!")

So this year, my mom convinced big-kid Mark to aim a little higher, gastronomically speaking. He took up her challenge--he choose filet mignon. Which cost a lot more than last year's Taco Bell feast, but I didn't mind. I was just glad to have a dinner that wasn't accompanied by tiny plastic condiment packages.

Dessert was even better than dinner. Mark picked this restaurant for the sugary delights. We'd been there for my mom's birthday, and he couldn't wait to return for the fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (It also had marshmallow fluff in it.)

Because we couldn't decide on either the cookie monster or the fried PB&J, we got both. And because there were six of us, and some people who didn't want to share, we actually got TWO of each. I'm pretty sure Mark wasn't the only one with high blood sugars after these babies were served!

Mark left the restaurant full and happy. I left the restaurant trailing behind him, wondering when he'd gotten so tall, and how the heck the last six years have passed so quickly. Seems like just yesterday he was flying around in a Superman costume, batting down the pinata with all his little friends. Now some of those friends tower above me, and Mark's not all that far behind them.

Happy birthday, my 12-year-old son. I can't wait to celebrate many dozens more with you...

The saddest game in the world

Mark and his friends have a new game they're obsessed with. It's called Quest, and it's a game about life. The object is to roll a pair of dice, and keep moving up in the world, keep bettering your station. Everybody starts out at the same level, as a hobo with $5 and a twig, and hopefully rolls their way up to multi-bazillionaire. But the game isn't just about money, it's ultimately about power--and that power usually results in destroying the entire world.

After a quick argument about which college degree was higher (associate vs. bachelor's), the boys jumped into a lightning-speed round. They rolled the dice, quickly progressing through high school and on to college. Mark kept rolling low numbers, and the others yelled out sympathetically with him.

"Ooooh!" Josh said. "Well, you're going to college, but you don't get a scholarship."

"Dang it!" Mark said.

Dan rolled next, and also got a low number.

"You get a job at McDonald's," Josh declared, bumming Dan out.

"I want a better job!" Dan exclaimed. "I want a better salary!"

"You can't," Sean told him. "This economy sucks. Nobody gets a raise."

Then Sean rolled, and his number gave him medical issues.

"You have high cholesterol!" Mark yelled, a bit too gleefully. "SUPER high cholesterol! You're gonna stroke out!"

This was beginning to sound more like real-life than an imaginary game...it was starting to bum me out.

Josh was up next, and he rolled a high number. He cheered loudly, while everyone else groaned. "Yeah!" Josh yelled. "I work in technology--I'm gonna be RICH!"

He laughed at the other boys, who punched him and reminded him that technology actually has a lot of layoffs.

"No way," Josh told them. "I work at a good company. Technology is cool--I'm gonna use it to make your heart explode!" (An empty threat, I realized, since Mark's high cholesterol would probably do the same thing much faster and cheaper than Josh's high-falutin technology.)

I wanted to laugh, but it was seriously the saddest, most depressing game ever. It didn't even sound like a game, it just sounded like real life.

But thankfully, before it all got too depressing, the boys switched it up a bit. They started hooting and goading each other. With his next roll, Sean took first place. He clearly had no use for a bad economy or high cholesterol--he was thinking much bigger.

"I'm on Mars," he proclaimed. "I'm sending the moon crashing into Earth to kill you all."

The other boys protested.

"But you'll die then, too," Dan reasoned.

"No I won't, because I'm on Mars," Sean reminded him. "But you're all dead! I win! YEAH!!" He jumped up, cheering victoriously.

And as crazy as that was, I cheered, too. Because really, who wants to die from something as mundane as a stroke, when you can go out in a blaze of colliding planets and moons? It may be far-fetched, but the real-life scenarios were so real, it was depressing. Like the boys, I preferred the quick (if violent) collision instead of my heart just exploding from high cholesterol or technology.

Because they have the right idea...why simply stroke out, if you can go big, and take the whole universe with you?

But panicking is my forté

Somethin' Shiny isn't just the name of this blog--it's a way of life for me. Case in point...

I recently had an optometry appointment. While in the restroom, I noticed something hilarious--a giant pair of glasses. The little angel on my shoulder gently told me not to touch, but the little devil on my other shoulder poked me with a pitchfork and screamed, "PHOTO OP!"

You can clearly see who won.

While I was giggling and taking pics, someone knocked on the door. My smile immediately disappeared, and I realized I must've been in there for awhile if people were knocking.

I ripped off the glasses and placed them precariously back in their giant case. Then I grabbed the bathroom door handle and pushed down on it.

Which immediately sent me into a panic, because...nothing happened. Well, I mean, something happened--the handle jiggled, but didn't open. I'd locked myself in the bathroom!

"OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod," I muttered furiously. "You're such an idiot!!" I could just picture my mom standing beside the little angel on my shoulder. They were both shaking their heads like, "We told you NOT to mess around in here!"

Maybe I was just freaking out. "Don't panic," I whispered to myself. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and tried the handle again, slowly.

Still locked.

I could hear someone on the other side of the door, but couldn't make out the words. Maybe they were talking to someone else outside the bathroom.

They weren't. There was a gentle knock, as I tried once again, as quietly as I could, to free myself.

I heard the muffled voice say something else. Suddenly, I heard a click! and the door cautiously swung open. There was the equally embarrassed optometrist, key in hand, apologizing profusely. Apparently, the door has issues, because she showed me a little trick, popping the handle up and then jiggling it just so to unlock it.

Whatever. I silently cursed the big, shiny glasses on the storage cabinet, and my own ADD, which couldn't resist such a silly prop. And then I turned to the optometrist, nodding, and said, "Ooooh!" like I'd been messing with the handle for a long time, and not really playing with the silly giant glasses.

Whatever. All I know is next time I have an optometry appointment, I'm going to the bathroom before I get to my appointment.

And I'll only wear my own glasses...
           

Um, yeah, you missed the whole point

I was watching House Hunters the other night, which featured a single mom and her young son.

The son reminded me a lot of Mark. Like Mark, he was about 12 years old, with shaggy hair and glasses. He was opinionated, and not afraid to comment on each house; again, that reminded me of Mark.

But the similarities ended there. This kid was a tad smarmy--he had a huge vocabulary, and a healthy sense of entitlement. He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted in a house, but he certainly knew what he didn't want. One bedroom had an en suite bathroom, which Mark would kill for, but the kid deemed the sink too small. The kid was mad there was only one sink ("My current bathroom has a double sink!") but the real deal-breaker was the vanity, which only had cabinets.

"No drawers!" the kid screamed, literally tugging at his hair. "How will I live without drawers? I NEED DRAWERS!!"

("Are you kidding me?" Mark asked when I told him that. He just gasped when I shook my head no.)

"The kid was so obnoxious," I told Mark. "He acted like an adult. But he was glad to see a basketball hoop in a neighboring yard, because, as he said, 'That means people my age live there.'"

Mark just stared at me.

"He didn't say KIDS--he said 'people my age'!" I explained.

Mark just shook his head. "What a weirdo," he said.

I nodded.

"But then the mom started talking, and I could see where the kid got it from," I said. Mark looked at me questioningly.

"She was just as annoying!" I said.

He simply raised his eyebrows, then raised his hands out, and said, "Well, that's to be expected."

Now I was puzzled.

"What does that mean?" I asked--then it hit me. "Wait, it means you're not surprised? Because moms are SUPPOSED to be annoying?"

"Well..." he said, confirming my hunch.

"Moms aren't annoying!" I yelled. He just raised his eyebrows again.

"Not all moms are," I grumbled. "And if they are, it's because their kids drive them to it."

Mark just shrugged; he remained unconvinced.

And maybe I take back that comment about Mark not being smarmy...

Academic pride

Six years ago, while walking little kindergartner Mark to school, we passed a car adorned with blue stickers. "My child was student of the month" read one; "My child made the honor roll" read another. I pointed at the stickers and told Mark, "I want those."

At the time, he smiled and nodded, eager to please, but unaware of what those stickers meant. He promptly ran off to cause mayhem, apparently, because I never did get either sticker. (To be fair, I realize now I set Mark up to fail with the student of the month sticker; he's a great kid. He's also a class clown, and I've found from experience that's not who the teachers ever choose.)

I eventually gave up hope on the honor roll sticker, too, and instead focused my energy on nagging Mark into the best grades he could get. This year, Mark buckled down, and did his part. And so, last week, when I opened his report card, I almost fainted. He got four As, two Bs, and a C. It was his best report card EVER!

I did the happy dance right then and there, and repeated it when Mark came home. I kissed him a million times and told him how proud I was. I'm pretty sure he was going to say "Thanks, Mom, I owe it all to you," (just kidding) but he got distracted and instead added up how much money I owe him instead. (Yes, I bribed him with cold, hard cash. Yes, it's wrong. Kinda. No, wait, it's completely not wrong, because it totally worked. So to all you naysayers and parenting experts, I will quote Mark, and tell you, "IN YOUR FACE!" OK, wait, no, that's immature. I take it back. Sorry.)

I didn't think I could be any happier with Mr. Mark, until we were driving in the car this weekend.

"Oh yeah," Mark said out of nowhere. "I made the honor roll."

I almost crashed the car. "You WHAT???" I screamed. "And you're just now telling me?"

He pointed to the car in front of us, bearing one of the famous stickers. "That car just reminded me of it," he said.

And so, the happy dance went in to overdrive. Mark, an HONOR STUDENT! Me, mother of an honor student. Unbelievable!

Mark also received an invitation to a luncheon. I glanced at it, then asked why the school was having a rock n roll lunch.

"No, it's for HONOR roll," Mark corrected. "Not rock n roll!"

To be honest, I find it more believable he'd be invited to a rock n roll lunch. But hey, honor roll's pretty spiffy, too.

The only downside is that I realized I'm not putting nearly enough money into Mark's college fund. I've always insisted he's going to college, and that it's a non-negotiable. But today, with all this honor roll business, it looks like it really might happen. And I'm gonna have to pay for it!

But I don't mind, it'll be the best money I ever spent. And heck, now that he really is going to college, I have a new goal for Mark--hello, scholarship!

Super powers

Mark and his friends were quizzing each other on which super power they'd choose if they could have just one.

Mark's answer was immediate. "Invisibility!" he shouted.

But Sean quickly shot him down. "No, you can't do anything with invisibility," he said. "You're just...invisible."

Josh answered next, saying he wanted intangibility. I stared at him just as blankly as the kids did, until he explained, "I want to be intangible and just float through things." He moved his hand like an ocean wave cutting through the air. (And I realized this room of 11-years-olds is smarter than I am!)

I recognized Sean's answer, though, because I'd been helping Mark study for his science test. Sean had studied, too, because he said, "I want the power of conduction, because then I'd be PURE HEAT!"

Dan couldn't decide whether he wanted to fly or run in super speed, but finally settled on flying. This brought on another furious debate of whether flying was really a super power or not. Half the group argued it was, while the other half insisted that the super power was really transportation as a whole, and not just one mode of it.

"Flying isn't a super power," Sean said. "You just need a cape to fly."

"Super speed is way better," Josh reasoned, "because you can get anywhere you want immediately."

"No way," Mark argued. "Flying is better, because you can't run over the oceans."

"Yeah, but you could if you were super fast," Sean said. His comment was then refuted by the observation that only Jesus could walk on water, and he didn't need super speed to do it.

I was fascinated by it all. I loved the reasoning behind all their comments, and I loved watching the wheels turn as they thought about their rebuttals, and formed their opinions. I realized that maybe Mark wasn't the only kid in the room destined to become a lawyer. Better yet, I finally saw that all his back talk and argumentative nature might actually serve him well someday--maybe he'll work for a prestigious think tank, or be a professor at some elite college. Heck, maybe he'll even use that big brain to find the cure to diabetes.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Because these kids are big thinkers, so I will be, too. I'm hoping that when they grow up, they'll use their (super) powers for good.

I'm not ready for this yet

Mark has always been quite the charmer, especially if there's something he wants. He can turn on the charm and work a room like nobody's business.

He was so dang cute when he was little, with mile-long eyelashes and chubby cheeks you couldn't help pinching. People would fight to hand him cookies, candy, stickers, you name it. It was hilarious to watch.

Well, Mark's older now. His face has leaned out, but he still has those killer lashes. He wears glasses now, which make him look more serious, more mature, but when he smiles, you can still see the sweet little boy inside. I think he's still adorable (even with his hacked up hair), but hey, I'm biased.

I'm not surprised he can still turn on the charm--what I'm surprised about is who he's turning it on for. His target audience has changed, and is now skewing toward a much younger crowd.

That's right, I'm talking about girls. The same girls he ignore until last month. And while I know, intellectually, this is all age-appropriate, emotionally, I'm freaking out a bit.

Case in point: I recently sent Mark to diabetes camp. When he returned home, Mark dumped out his bag. His name tag fell out, too, and I noticed it had been altered a bit.

Some girl's phone number! I remembered a girl hugging Mark goodbye when we left, and asked if it was her number.

"Nope," Mark simply said, and left it at that.

And now, his cell phone has been buzzing off the hook with text messages. Ninety percent of the messages are from the same three classmates--all girls.

"You've been getting a lot of text messages lately," I observed, and he just shrugged.

"Mostly from girls, huh?" I prodded. Another shrug; then, nothing.

The ironic thing is, Mark's super nosy and jealous whenever I mention guys, even if I'm just talking about my boyfriend George Clooney, or my husband Harry Connick Jr. He gets all mad, wrinkling up his nose and growling--yes, growling--when I even say their names.

I've been waiting years to get back at him. I tease that when he gets his first girlfriend, I'm going to growl at her and give her the stink eye, just like Mark always does. But now that the girls are actually REAL, and texting, it's not quite as funny. Now I just want to growl in general, not at Mark or the girls, but at life, and how quickly my little guy is growing up.

Sigh...I knew this day would come, and I'm glad he's being a little gentleman about it. But seriously...I. AM. NOT. READY. FOR. THIS. 

 

(Mom-induced) Bad hair day

Mark's school hosts a benefit each year to help St. Baldrick's cure childhood cancer. Students raise money and shave their heads in unity with kids who lose their hair from chemotherapy.

We have a standing agreement: If Mark participates, he skips all haircuts between January and St. Baldrick's in March. He hates haircuts, so this is a big incentive for him. I hate that he looks like a floppy-haired Beatle for three months, especially in his birthday pictures, but I want him to participate, so I suck it up. However, it does kill me inside a little bit each time he flips his increasingly thick mop-top to the side, a la Justin Bieber.

Well, this year presented a new challenge. Mark's also participating in a fashion show, to raise money for diabetes research. He needed head shots which go in the program, and are displayed on a giant screen during the event dinner. I found myself in a parenting dilemma--how to keep my anti-haircut pledge to Mark and still make my shaggy-headed boy presentable for the fashion show photos? I worked through a thousand scenarios in my head, but none ended in a good compromise.

I finally lost it the day before the photo shoot. Mark had developed a blinking tic, due to his hair continuously falling into his eyes, and it triggered me. I took a deep breath, grabbed a pair of scissors, and ordered Mark into the kitchen.

He screamed when he saw the scissors.

"I'm not gonna stab you!" I said, but he burst into tears anyway.

"Don't cut my hair!" he screamed. I realized he'd actually prefer me stabbing him.

"I'm just trimming your bangs," I said, gruffly. "So I can see your eyes in the photos."

Mark hung his head, and let the tears flow freely. He refused to lift up his head so I could cut in a straight line. I cut as fast as I could, to quickly end our misery.

"There," I said, smoothing his hair. "Looks good. Still long, but out of your eyes."

Mark snorted, then ran off to the bathroom. He slammed the door, and stayed there for half an hour.

He was still pouting when we arrived at the photo shoot the next night. As Mark ran off, I silently congratulated myself on my restraint, and on not hacking Mark's hair to pieces.

Until...Mark ran his hand through his hair.

I watched in horror as he pushed his mop-top to the side, revealing a huuuuge gap in his hairline. He went from having a floppy bowl cut to looking like someone carved out a half-rectangle in his hair. It was beyond bad--it was horrific.

The photographer saw it at the exact same moment I did. Before I could yell a slow-motion "Stop!" at Mark, she turned to me, confused. I saw a micro-expression of fear flash across her face. It was like she saw a werewolf coming straight for her.

She turned back to Mark, struggling for words. She finally settled on, "Oooh, um...why don't you go fix your hair in the mirror, Mark?"

"It's fine," Mark assured her. He smiled, completely unaware, ready for the next shot.

The photographer looked at me again, and I turned five shades of red. I motioned wildly at Mark to come over.

"It's FINE, Mom!" he hissed, holding his ground. I grabbed him and propped him in front of the mirror, where he immediately realized how not fine it really was.

He also turned bright red. I thought he might cry, but he pulled himself together quickly. "You ruined my hair!" he cried, but I was already smoothing it down and assuring him it was okay. He was not convinced.

Somehow, we made it work. (I say that without having seen a single shot yet.) Even through his seething anger, Mark put on a good face, and the photographer seemed happy. Mark, however, was not.

And now, a week later, Mark's hair looks just fine. Well, fine enough, I guess, as long as he doesn't push it off to the side. He still hasn't forgiven me, not even when I offered to take him in to the barber to fix it.

I'm actually grateful he refused the barber...because now I don't have to lie and say Mark gave himself that bad haircut. Instead, I just have to bide my time until I hear the St. Baldrick's hair clippers fire up, and remove the last shred of evidence.

Only then will I (and Mark) breathe easy...

I can('t) hear you

My son Mark rarely listens to anything I say. I know this because I often find myself in auto mode, repeating things like "Please pick up your floor" 50 times in a row. I swear, some mornings I actually wake up mumbling, "Turn off your alarm" or "What was your number?"  before I've even opened my eyes.

Mark insists this is patently incorrect, and that he does, in fact, not only hear me, but that also he responds with lightning fast speed.

"What!" I exclaimed when he refuted my claims yet again. "You sooooo do NOT listen to me!"

"I do, too," he huffed, and walked away in protest. His indignation was not only misplaced, but hilarious.

And now, after a recent breakfast, I have proof Mark does not listen.

He'd put a bagel in the toaster for breakfast, and was dancing around and singing while he waited for it to cook.

"There's cream cheese in the fridge," I called out to him, helpfully.

"OK," he answered, but he kept on singing.

I heard the toaster pop, and then Mark rooting around in the fridge.

I heard the knife scraping on his bagel, and from the living room, I watched Mark bite into his breakfast.

Which was then immediately followed by Mark spitting out his bagel, and wiping furiously at his tongue. I had no idea what was going on.

"Um..." Mark said, hesitantly. "Do...um, do a lot of people put sour cream on their bagels?"

I had an immediate reaction of my own--I burst into laughter.

"No," I replied. "Most of them put cream cheese on their bagels!"

Mark frowned. "Then why did you tell me--"

I pointed my finger at him and shushed him, Dog Whisperer style. "Shhh!" I hissed. "I said cream cheese, not sour cream. You. Were. Not. Listening."

And then I walked away. Because sometimes, with evidence that strong, you don't have to beat a point into the ground. Sometimes stubborn boys just have to learn their lessons the hard way...with their other senses.

Memo from the Office of the Woefully Underappreciated

Last night at dinner, I was so tired I literally could have laid my head on the table and fallen asleep. All that prevented me were the good manners my mom pounded into my head growing up.

My own son, however, has yet to learn those manners. He just looked at me curiously and asked why I was so sleepy.

"Long day at work," I answered.

He nodded. Then, in a voice dripping in sarcasm, he said, "Typing makes you tired, huh?"

And THAT woke me up. My lovely young son reduces my entire daily life down to...typing.

"Typing, huh?" I replied.

Suddenly, I felt like I was in a movie, and the past 10 hours whizzed by in a series of flashbacks. I saw myself rousing an unwilling child from bed; feeding that kid; nagging him to get ready for school; asking repeatedly if he had his drumsticks/homework/phone/meter/lunch; ensuring he and his three friends left for school on time; doing laundry; running the dishwasher; making his endocrinology appointment; fighting with the pharmacy about his insulin; talking to the school nurse; reserving a hotel room for his fashion show; driving to work; going to three meetings; completing all of my work; stopping for gas; fighting rush hour home; checking in on my mom and a friend by phone; making dinner; washing the dishes; giving an impromptu lesson on the importance of being honest and honorable; and getting ready to drive Mark to his drum lesson. And those are just the things I remember doing.

"My job is a lot more than just typing," I told him. "I spent my day managing my work life, my personal life and YOUR personal life, which, it turns out, is a lot of work. And that is why I'm tired, not because of typing."

Maybe it was the angry, crazed look in my eyes, or the defensive tone of my voice. Maybe he realized how condescending he had sounded. For a moment, Mark's sense of self-preservation kicked in, and I thought he might actually live to see his next birthday.

Until he opened his mouth again and said, "You don't have to manage my life. I can do it all myself."

And, scratch the self-preservation.

His comment triggered another flashback. It was me, two days ago, arriving after school to pick Mark up--except he was nowhere around. I asked his friend Sean where Mark was, and Sean waved vaguely at the school playground.

"Mark's out there somewhere, looking for his P.E. clothes," he said. "He lost them again."

Obviously, Mark was right. He most certainly can manage his own life. Maybe not successfully, but he does manage.

I simply stood up from the table, and cleared my dishes, because it would be harder to choke Mark out if my hands were full and I was in another room.

"I love you," I called back to him. "And when you grow up, I hope you have six children just as wonderful as you are."

I could feel him staring in my direction, confused, sure that was an insult but unsure exactly how.

I know that feeling well. It's how I felt when my own mom wished the same thing on me as a child.

And now, all these years later, I finally know what she meant by it!

Why 11-year-olds shouldn't have phones

Mark's friends were at the house the other day. As they were leaving for school, Josh's cell phone rang.

"Oooooh, it's from Washington!" Josh said, excitedly. His brother Dan asked, "Why is Washington calling you?"

Josh just answered his phone. He listened to the caller quietly for a moment before speaking. 

"I'm only 11 years old," he said. "I don't think I'm eligible."

But apparently his age did not dissuade the caller. "I probably would," Josh said into the phone, "if I had any money. But I don't. I'm a kid!"

The other boys were listening intently to the conversation. Just as Josh opened his mouth to say something else, Sean screamed at the phone.

"Put your pants back on!" Sean shouted, and the room full of boys erupted into giggles.

It did the trick. The caller quickly hung up on a still-giggling Josh.

"Who was it?" Dan asked.

"I don't know," Josh answered. "He wanted me to give money to the homeless. I told him I probably would, but I'm just a kid. I don't have any money!" 

"Then what did he say?" Dan pressed.

"Nothing," Josh answered, snickering. "Sean scared him!"

I just smiled. I always ignore the phone when I see a toll-free number on the caller ID, but now I realize I've got a better option. From now on, I'm letting Mark answer all the robocalls.

It might not amuse the telemarketers, but it'll sure crack me up.

Beer snob

While watching my 5-year-old nephew Johnny last night, I remembered I had to send off a quick email. Johnny stood beside me and watched me type.

He instantly recognized a word he saw onscreen.

"No," he said, then spelled it out. "N. O. No."

I smiled at him. "Good job, Johnny! Do you know any other words?"

He just shrugged. I pointed to another word and asked if he could read it.

He couldn't, but he spelled out each letter: "H. E. A. T. H. E. R."

"That's right!" I told him. "Do you know what that spells?"

He looked at me expectantly, so I sounded out the first syllable to prod him.

"Heaaaa..." I said.

"...feweisen," he finished. I burst into laughter.

"Did you just say 'hefeweisen'?" I asked.

"No, I said hef-eh-VI-sen," he corrected, using the German pronunciation. Not only does this kid know his beer, he knows the proper way to say it. I laughed out loud again.

"Your dad is going to be so proud of you," I said, and of course, I was right, Smed WAS proud. 

And I was very amused.

There's a reason God made him cute

My boss Charlie and I were talking about extrasensory perception (ESP) yesterday, and he got very excited about it.

"I have really good ESP," Charlie said. And he set about to prove it.

He wrote a word on a post-it note, then folded the note up so I couldn't see it. He told me to be open to receive it mentally, then scrunched up his face and thought about the word really hard.

And though I really really really wanted to get the word, I didn't. So when Charlie opened his eyes and asked, "Do you know the word?" I just shook my head.

"No," I told him, a little bit sadly. Inexplicably, he smiled, and opened the note to reveal his word:

We both cracked up over it. I couldn't wait to go home and show Mark.

Mark's reaction was similar to mine--he burst into a huge grin, and laughed.

"How did Charlie DO that?" he asked.

"He's magic," I answered.

Mark wanted a shot at it, too. I gave him the post-it notes and looked away while he wrote down the word. I thought we were replaying Charlie's trick, so when he told me he was thinking the word, I was ready.

"Do you know the word?" Mark asked, and I shook my head again.

"No," I said, and waited for him to smile. Instead, he frowned.

"Uh uh," he told me. "Guess again." He closed his eyes tightly and mentally re-sent me the word.

"Um..." I stalled. I thought of his favorite words. "Cheese?"

"No," he answered.

"Fail?"

"No." Little man was getting mad. "Think HARDER!"

"OK, OK," I growled. "Um...epic fail?"

He opened his eyes and rolled them at me.

"I give up," I said. "What's the word?"

He unfolded his post-it note. And there, clear as day, was the word "Pie."

"You don't get this joke, do you?" I asked.

"Yes, I do!" he answered. "I just really like pie."

I suddenly realized our ESP might never work because, in fact, we are on completely different wavelengths.

But Mark didn't care. He'd already slipped into a dreamy state where he was imagining endless plates of pie.

I always thought he was a nut--turns out, he's actually a squirrel

Alternate title of this post: Perhaps it's time to buy Mark a nightstand.

Mark's room exploded over the Christmas holidays, what with all his new toys and us being gone so much. Mark came home, tossed all his presents, dirty clothes, and other assorted junk on the floor, leaving a mess that was nearly impossible to wade through.

I finally had it, and made him clean that disaster area up. He did a great job, and I was thrilled to see his bed back in order.

However, what I didn't know was that lurking just beneath that orderly, tidy bed were the first signs that my son has a problem. (I've seen enough episodes of Hoarders--I know how this all starts!) Or maybe I'm just working myself up over nothing--maybe he's really just taken the Boy Scout motto to heart and is actually...you know...being prepared.

Because here's what I found when I pulled the covers back to tuck my sweet boy in that night:

That's right, all the supplies you'd need in case of an emergency--or if you were stalling bedtime. Water, snacks, a nightlight, a book to read, a pen, and weights. A little more digging revealed his glasses, his iTouch, and a pair of tweezers for God knows what.

Mark was right behind me during the big reveal. I turned to look at him, and he just shrugged and said, "What?!?" in a really squeaky voice. "I use all that stuff!"

I didn't have a comeback to that, so I just sighed and motioned for Mark to join his supplies in bed. 

"I love you," I said, kissing him goodnight. "I don't know why you need all that stuff, but please don't hurt yourself lifting weights in bed."

He scoffed at me, as though that was the dumbest idea he'd ever heard (it was certainly the dumbest thing I'd uttered that day). "I won't," he said, and set about rearranging the supplies.

I left the room, and thought to myself it could be much worse. After all, he'd just cleared a path across the floor--half an hour earlier, and I could've stepped on any or all of those possessions.

And hey, in case of an earthquake or other disaster, at least I know where to get food, water, lights and weights. What else could I possibly need?

Beach House on the Moon

Returning from Florida would've been downright depressing if all I had to look forward to was work. Fortunately, my gaggle of girls knows the only cure for the post-vacation blues is another vacation, so we jumped right into the next one.

Our destination, Crystal Cove, was only 40 minutes from home, but it felt like we were far, far away, both in time and physical location. We stayed in the cove's little cottages, built right on the beach. (Our cottage was actually 30 steps away from stairs to sand, but really, who's counting?? OK, yes, I counted.)

We stayed in the Painter's Cottage, named, apparently, for this one random accessory nailed to the wall:

The ugly palette provided us with many giggles and a few snickers throughout the weekend.

The cottage was big enough to house the whole lot of us--me, Edra, Kathleen, Monica, Vic and our lone boy, Mark. Mark stayed with us Friday night, but then went off to diabetes camp. I knew he was looking forward to the beach, so I felt bad for him at first, until I remembered he was also going off somewhere fun, and I now had a whole child-free weekend with the girls. That, my friends, is what we call a win-win situation. :-)

I wasn't surprised that we brought enough food to feed the whole village, but I was surprised at how much of that food was chocolate. Vic brought the biggest candy bar I've even seen. It was so thick we couldn't even break it apart, and the only kitchen utensils we had were plastic cutlery. But my ever-resourceful son grabbed up a corkscrew and went to work chopping up that chocolate.

Saturday morning broke bright and sunny and we could hear the beach calling out to us. We packed our chairs, wine and gossip magazines, and heeded that call. But as soon as I hit the sand, I saw a familiar-looking building. My eyes immediately welled up, and I screamed, "It's the 'Beaches' house!" (Can't help it, and won't apologize--"Beaches" is one of my, and every other girl's, all-time favorite movies. Don't try to understand it, men, just chalk it up to one of the things you will never ever understand about us.)

It was, in fact, the very house where the pivotal last scenes were filmed in. I realized my very own idol, the Divine Miss M, and I stood in this very same spot. I didn't think the weekend could get any better, but it just had.

Of course, this called for a couple of Kodak moments. Here's the first, with me in front of the house, and the wind beneath my wings.

And here's the second, when I screamed at Vicki to look pale and sickly, so she could re-create a dying Barbara Hershey spending her last few precious moments on the beach. (Yes, my friends are very good to me, and they humor me quite a bit.)

We spent much of the day on the beach, with wine and girl talk. We hadn't seen each other since the holidays, so it was great fun to be all together and laughing again. We spent most of the day like this:

I felt so lucky to be in such a beautiful place with my very favorite people. If there really is a heaven, I imagine it will look like this.

Edra, Kathleen and I walked down to the tide pools to look for sea creatures. The only thing better would be if our resident marine biologist went with us, but apparently, she chose wine and the beach over educating her friends. No matter, we met a super nice man who not only pointed out the sea stars, but also gripped our hands and kept us from falling as we shimmied across the slippery rocks. It was nice to see chivalry is not dead.

After an impromptu supermodel photo shoot on the rocks, we headed back to the cottage. The sun was setting soon, and we didn't want to miss it, especially since we had prime seats.

The sunset was even more amazing than we could have hoped for. The visibility was great all day, and we could see Catalina silhouetted in the water. We also saw some harbor seals and a couple dolphins, but none of that compared with the show Mother Nature gave us.

The sunset was so gorgeous, we all cheered.

I was glad we'd had the sun and Catalina, because they both disappeared on Sunday. It rained a little bit, but not enough to dampen our spirits. We still staked out a place on the beach to read, and then eventually retreated to the cottage for lunch and a rousing game of Yahtzee, in which Monica scored an unbelievable FOUR Yahtzees. I jokingly ripped up my scorecard in protest, and was thankful Mark wasn't around to see my bad sportsmanship.

The rain cleared up, so we decided to walk. We started on the hiking trail, and ended up a couple miles later on the beach, where we discovered a little cave, and crawled into it. Our marine biologist was more helpful this time around, pointing out all the different sea birds, and the little things they ate in a beached bed of kelp.

As we walked along the beach, we spotted a pod of dolphins frolicking nearby, super close to the shore. There must've been five or six of them, and they were just awesome to see.

There was another tide pool along the way, but it didn't have nearly as much cool stuff as the one by our cottage. A huge flock of birds on the beach eyed us nervously, so we chased them, setting off an explosion of wings over the sea. We marveled at all the dilapidated cottages set precariously on the cliffs, slated for refurbishment, and wondered how they were still standing.

By the time we returned a couple hours later, it was time for a quick dinner, then it was off to the one bar/restaurant in town. We planned to drink and hang out with the other guests, but apparently, nobody got the message. Everyone else had checked out, or didn't feel like braving the bar in the rain. It seemed silly to keep buying $10 drinks in the cold when we had our own stash back home, so we settled our bill and returned to our warm, dry cottage, ending the weekend on a high note.

The whole weekend was perfect, especially after all the holiday craziness. It was so awesome to hang out with the girls, to just laugh and be silly. It was fun to sit around playing games, and gossip, to fall asleep listening to the crashing waves, and to sleep in late. I certainly love my big, long, exotic vacations, but truth be told, it's weekends like this that really keep me going. I can't think of a better way to spend them, or a better group of people to spend them with. And if the rest of my year is even partially this good, then 2012 is gonna be AMAZING!