My scary Mormon Hell dream

This weekend, I went to see the play "The Book of Mormon" with my friend Michelle and my mom. We laughed pretty much from the moment the lights went down until they went back on again two hours later. Some scenes were so funny, so wrong and inappropriate, I couldn't believe that a) I was actually laughing at them, b) my mom was laughing at them, and c) I was sitting next to my mom laughing at them. Other moments were so hilariously irreverent that even as we laughed, we half-expected to be struck down by a bolt of lightning momentarily (proof of our good Catholic upbringing).

One favorite scene was Elder Price's Scary Mormon Hell dream, wherein everything that scares him most in the world appears and haunts him in his sleep. This includes Hitler, Genghis Khan, Jeffrey Dahmer, Johnnie Cochran and giant coffee cups. It was an upbeat song-and-dance number that left us rolling in our seats.

We were still laughing the next day, when Mark complained about having to do his laundry. My mom looked at him, and uttered a phrase from the play, chiding him to "man up" and get it done.

"Really?" I asked, a bit incredulous. I'd expect Mark to quote Matt Parker/Trey Stone to her (maybe something from "South Park"), not the other way around.

"What?" she asked, innocently. Then she pointed at Mark who had indeed manned up, and was quickly loading the washer.

Our discussion was interrupted by the phone. It was an ADHD specialty institute I'd been trying to get Mark into for a couple months--they had a cancellation this afternoon and wondered if I'd like the appointment?

"Heck, yeah!" I yelled into the phone. The lady laughed at my enthusiasm and said she'd see me then.

I knew we'd have tons of paperwork to fill out, so we arrived a few minutes early. The waiting room was packed when we walked in. Parents were seated in the chairs, quietly reading or glancing down at their phones. The middle of the room was filled with boys, little boys, busy boys, all of them moving, all of them talking. They moved around each other fluidly, playing with the trashcan, bothering the receptionist, pounding on the table, yelling at the TV. Whatever movie had been playing on the TV was finished, causing great concern among the boys.

"It's done!" one boy yelled over his shoulder, to the receptionist.

"Somebody change it!" another boy yelled.

"I already told her," a third boy chimed in.

"Then why isn't it working?" a different boy demanded. 

The littlest boy walked in front of the TV, and all the bigger boys shooed him away. So he walked to the door and opened it, heading back to the doctor's office, until his dad quickly retrieved him.

There were a million ADHD boys in the tiny little waiting room, doing a million different things, a million different ways, all at a frenetic, breakneck speed.

Oh my God, I suddenly realized, panicking. This is my very own scary Mormon Hell dream!

And then, just like Elder Price, I clicked it off before it all became too overwhelming. I settled down into my paperwork, and turned the busy little boys and their pandemonium off. 

I wasn't the only one. All the other parents were similarly engaged, similarly ignoring their boys. It was chaos all around the room, but these parents were used to it; they were pros. They were in their safe place, somewhere the boys' rambunctious behavior was not only tolerated, but completely understood, and they simply enjoyed a moment's peace, without judgment. Nobody corrected their children's behavior or gave them unsolicited parenting advice in condescending tones. The only parents this scene would have truly bothered were parents used to quiet, well-behaved kids, or maybe polite little girls.

There was only nervous dad, and I realized he must be new to all this. His son paced the room, talking to the kids without waiting for answers, and Dad tracked him nervously, waiting to intervene. At one point, Dad took the kid outside, but it didn't help--the kid returned just as anxious and talkative.

"I have a thought," he said to the boy sitting next to him. The boy looked on, expectantly.

"What if I were in a glass elevator, and Tinkerbell was there, and we were flying around and--" The boy went on for a good two minutes, until the second boy interrupted him angrily.

"That could never happen!" he yelled. "That's not real!"

"I didn't say it was real," the first boy corrected him. "I just said I have a thought."

I couldn't help myself. I looked at the mom next to me, who'd also heard the conversation, and we both smiled at each other, stifling laughter. I can't wait to use that line in real life..."I have a thought..."

Slowly, the waiting room emptied out. Boys went in to see the doctor, or went home, and soon, we were the only ones left. I realized Mark hadn't uttered a word the whole time.

"I'm the calmest one here!" he whispered to me, loudly. I just nodded--that never happens, especially on a day like today, when he hadn't taken his meds. Clearly, Mark had met his ADHD match, and he was in awe.

Finally, it was our turn to see the doctor. Mark had a good visit, my mom and I got a lot of great information, and we all left very happy, with instructions to stay the course we were on.

I was enormously relieved and reassured by the whole visit. And though I am thankful that Mark is thriving now, I was most happy that we didn't have to come back. I'd spent already enough time in my scary Mormon dream, thank you very much. 

An apple a day...

Growing up in San Diego, my favorite annual trip was always up to Julian to pick apples. But I live a few hours from Julian now, and haven't been in a while.

Last year, I road tripped out to a new apple-pickin' spot called Oak Glen. It was a fun day, made even better by snow falling on us the whole time.

I was excited to return this year, as was Mark, until I told him we had to leave at 7:30 a.m. (Saturday is my sleep-in day, and consequently, his video game marathon morning.) He grudgingly got up, took his time getting ready, then refused to sleep one wink in the car. It was gonna be a looooooooong ride...

As we navigated the windy road up the mountain, I marveled at the gorgeous trees, covered in purple, yellow and red leaves. We've had an extended summer down by the beach--it was 90 degrees the day before!--and I'd forgotten it was actually autumn everywhere else. It was nice to see where fall had been hiding out from us.

Our destination was Willowbrook Farm. I'd signed up for a tour knowing full well there was only about a 50% chance Mark would enjoy it (which also meant a 50% chance he was gonna whine and drive me crazy). Luckily, Mark picked the Enjoy option.

Farmer Sheryl (yes, that's how she introduced herself) split us into small groups and sent us off to different parts of the farm. First stop for our little group was the tractor ride. We didn't actually ride ON the tractor, but behind it, in a bumpy, hay-filled little wooden trailer. It was hilarious! We climbed in, held on, and laughed as we took a big circular ride around the little tiny farm (one lap around the entire farm took about three minutes).

After the ride, we sampled apple and pumpkin butter (yum!), then blackberry and chokecherry preserves (eh). The kids liked that, but they liked the next part even better--pressing fresh apple cider!

There were two presses, and the kids took them over. They were so excited to drop apples in, turn the crank, and watch the pulverized mash squeeze out cider. Mark jumped right in there with the little kids.

"We've gotta do this at home!" he called out to me. I just smiled and gave him a thumbs up. I watched the guy take a bucket of 30-40 apples and grind them into a gallon of cider, and I realized the novelty would wear off pretty quickly for my lazy little Mark. 

Animals were another highlight for the kids. We learned all about bees and making honey, which was really interesting. The kids pet a miniature horse and fed chickens, which I knew all about, thanks to my friend Kelley. (When Farmer Sheryl asked how many eggs a chicken lays a day, I immediately thought, "One every 25 hours.")
 
The kids chased around the most gigantic bunny I've ever seen. He wasn't even a full-grown bunny, either--he was only five months old! (That's one big baby.)

But of course, these were city kids, and their favorite animal was a stray cat wandering around the farm looking for food. (Or chickens. Little stinker tried to sneak into the coop!)

A wild Fernando cat!

After a good hand-washing, we sampled more food--this time, caramel apples. I thought Mark would looooooove these, but he wasn't impressed. He liked the cider better--of course he did, it was $14 a gallon! Kid's got fillet Mignon taste on my ground hamburger budget.

Mark liked the animals, but what he really wanted to do was pick apples. The apples were low enough to pick directly from the tree by hand, but what fun is that? Mark wanted to go higher. He grabbed an apple picker and set about searching for the highest apples he could reach.

It took us about 40 minutes to pick a dozen apples--Mark suddenly turned into an apple connoisseur. He picked each apple with the utmost care, twisting it gently as though it were made of glass. He then inspected the fruit carefully--any with bruises or worm holes were unceremoniously tossed into the reject basket. Our rejects slowed considerably once I pointed out the "worm holes" were really caused by the prongs on the apple picker.

By the time we filled a five pound bag of apples, the tour was over. We drove up the road a bit, stopping at a favorite orchard from last year. It's famous for little donuts  served piping hot, which you can watch them make. We split a bag, then did a cider tasting. Mark informed me he was absolutely not hungry for lunch after all that. I wasn't hungry either; after the caramel apple, cider, and donuts, I actually felt a little sick. I had that gnarly after-the-fair feeling, after you've eaten too much junk food. I vowed to eat salad for dinner.

And so, our car loaded with apples and cider, we headed home.

"We've gotta do that again next year," Mark said, as we wound our way down the mountain. 

I wholeheartedly agreed.

Election Day

I've been schooling Mark in political science since day one. The TV and print media serve as our class textbooks, but we've gone on some pretty awesome field trips, too (like to Barack Obama's first inauguration).

I'm not trying to indoctrinate him or anything; I'm just fascinated by politics, so I spend a lot of time watching and reading about them. I never figured he'd be interested enough to stick around and listen.

But poor Mark's been forced to watch a whole lotta presidential election coverage over the past few months. OK, maybe forced is not the right word--encouraged, maybe? Or just plain ol' allowed, perhaps, because honestly, he was only watching because the TV was on. (Kid can't pass by a TV without sitting down to watch. Doesn't even matter what's on, he'll watch it. It's like he's hypnotized...)

I always take him with me to vote, including to this year's primary elections.

"Are you gonna vote for Romney or Obama?" he asked, in a not-so-hushed voice.

I explained that I could only vote for the candidates in my party. Mark was stymied, then angry, and yelled, "Rip off!"

"So you can't vote for anybody else?" he asked. "What if the Republican guy is better?"

"It's only during the primaries," I assured him. "During the election, you can vote for whoever you want. But right now, we're voting for a presidential candidate--who I want my party to run."

Mark still didn't like it one bit--he doesn't like anyone limiting his choices, even for president. I'm not surprised--this is a kid who immediately touches freshly-painted walls to see if the "Wet paint" sign is lying.

He grumbled a bit when I watched the national news during the following months, but mostly because I always started arguing with the TV, which meant he couldn't hear the program. But he was genuinely interested in watching the Republican convention, so I did my best to shut up. (I did not succeed. Oh, and disclaimer, in case it matters--I'm not a Republican. I just like to stay informed, and hear both sides of the debate. Oh, and disclaimer two--if Mark does grow up to be a Democrat, he'll be the first Dinsdale man to do so.)

Mark watched the Democratic National Convention, all three days of it, for as long as he could stand. ("Too much talking," he said. "Not enough action.") I agreed, although I found the talking inspirational.

He watched the highlights of the debates. He was flabbergasted by the threats to Big Bird, and confused about the binders full of women. But mostly he wanted to know why the candidates were yelling so much, and why no one ever really listened to each other.

"They ask a question," he observed, "but no one listens to the answers."

He listened to it all, for as long as he could, which was longer than I'd expect for a 12-year-old. He didn't seem terribly interested (not like he is with the Dodgers!), but he listened.

And then, finally, it all came down to Tuesday, to the Big Day. I walked into the house, and he immediately turned off the TV, guilt all over his face.

"I was watching the news," he admitted. I just smiled.

I brought him with me to vote again. He didn't want to mark the ballot, he just wanted the sticker.

But as soon as we got home, he asked, "Can we the election results? Pleeeeaaaase???" I smiled again and nodded.

I knew he'd taken it all in during the past few months, but boy, it was like Super Bowl Sunday at our house--Mark was into it! At one point, I went into the kitchen, and he was calling out the states and electoral college votes to me.

"Romney won Indiana and Kentucky!" he called out nervously. "They're red!"

Or, "Fifty-three percent counted in Florida--it's 48% to 49%!" he yelled. He was cracking me up.

Mark also brought up the primaries, and why he couldn't vote for who he wanted. I patiently explained again, but he didn't want an explanation, he wanted change.

"Well, if it bothers you that much, register as an independent," I told him. "Then you can pick whoever you want."

That perked him up. He liked having a choice again.

"I just want to vote for the best candidate," he explained. "What if I vote for a Republican? Will you be mad?"

"Not at all," I told him (even though, truthfully, it would break my heart!). "You're entitled to your opinion, and to believe in whatever you want to. The only thing that would make me mad is if you didn't vote at all." 

For a couple hours there, it was too close to call, as the candidates passed the lead back and forth. Mark sat in front of the TV with my laptop, calling out the headlines.

When it got to be too much, we took a short break and watched a different show. We went back to the news, not really expecting much, but the minute we turned it back, the news anchors were chattering excitedly. Suddenly, they projected Obama the winner. It happened so quickly, I didn't quite understand at first. I changed the channel, then glanced at Facebook, and sure enough, we had a new/old president.

The neighbors started cheering, and we joined in. I jumped up to do a happy dance, but Mark just stared at me funny, like he's never seen me silly happy before. (He has. A lot.) It was a fun, joyous moment.

"Can I stay up to watch the President speak?" Mark begged. It was already past his bedtime, but it was a special occasion, so I nodded.

"But he won't speak until after Romney," I explained. "Romney's got to concede first, then the President will speak."

I said that not knowing it would take Romney another hour and a half to get out there. Mark was so tired he could barely keep his head up. I told him to go to bed and I'd tape it, but he wanted to watch live. He stayed up long enough to watch Mitt Romney concede, and then watch the President take the stage. But five minutes into his speech, Mark also conceded and said, "I'm too tired--I'm going to bed."

Moments later, he was asleep. But happy.

I could relate--I was also sleepy, and very happy. About the election results, sure, but even more than that, I was happy at this sweet, concerned little citizen, and how excited he really was for the election. It was awesome to watch.

And it will be awesome to watch going forward. Because in the end, I really don't care how he votes, or if his views really do differ from mine. I just want him to be passionate, concerned, and to care for the greater good of the nation. I want him to use his voice, and to be respectful of all the other voices, too.

I want him to embrace democracy, and to realize how lucky we are to have it. After Tuesday, I can see that he does. He understands; he gets it.

And of course, being Mark, he's already looking forward to changing it...starting with the primaries.

Halloweeeeeeen

Ah, Halloween. I love seeing all the tiny kids in their adorable costumes. Mark's well past that stage, and now into costumes that are either funny or gory/scary.

Luckily, he fell into the former category this year. I'm not sure how to describe his costume, other than to say he was an...ostrich jockey?  

Whatever, it was hilarious.

He tried it on for a party on Saturday, only to find the battery pack for the fan that inflates it had a tiny screw in it, and I did not have a screw driver to open it. (I did my best to strip the screw with my house key, though--almost succeeded, which would've ruined the whole thing.)

Luckily, we got that whole debacle out of the way, so last night we were super prepared. Mark climbed into the ostrich, and tightened it up around his waist. He turned on the fan and immediately complained it wasn't working.

"Give it a minute," I said. And sure enough, his pants started filling up with air, and the ostrich came to life. Mark literally became an inflatable ostrich, and I couldn't stop laughing about it.

I always get lots of questions about Mark trick or treating at Halloween. People mean well, but they worry about a little diabetic kid eating tons of candy. The ironic thing is, all the running around usually makes Mark go low, and he eats the candy because he NEEDS to, not just because he wants to.

This year, Mark set a new record--he STARTED out low. His blood sugar was down to 48--talk about a Halloween scare! (It should be between 70-120.) So he started his sugar intake before he even went trick or treating! (He was trick-or-treating a low. ;-)

We headed over to his friend Jonah's house, but Mark had to deflate himself for the car ride over. I was still giggling.

Jonah's house looked AWESOME--his dad Greg had decorated it like a graveyard, with screeching monsters and flying ghosts. There were random body parts littering the lawn, strobe lights illuminating the whole scene, and occasionally, a fog machine hiding it. It was spooky and exactly what Halloween should be.

My friend Karen was sitting in the front yard, passing out candy. She was dressed as a witch, but a happy one, and she was greeted us cheerfully, in total contrast to the spooky yard.

Jonah was all decked out in a Jason costume, complete with a blood-spattered chainsaw he revved up as soon as he saw us. He kept disappearing into the shadows, alternately trying to scare people and to reload his candy bag.

The boys were itching to get out and get sugar, but I made Mark re-test first. His blood sugar had come up, but only to 96, which wasn't great, considering all the running he was about to do, and the fact that he'd eaten a whole dinner (including soda to bring him up) without giving himself any insulin. I knew I was risking a re-bound high, but I insisted he down a couple Pixie sticks before he left, and for once, he was happy to comply.

Our friend Liz showed up. Sean had gone to another friend's house, but Liz came to hang out with us, and we decided this should be a yearly event, even after the kids grew up. Who says trick or treating is just for kids?

Mark and Jonah returned a few times, almost as if they were unsure what to do with the independence they so badly craved. We kept sending them back out until the third time, when Mark insisted he couldn't run in his big old air-bag ostrich outfit. He borrowed a black cape from Jonah, then started crawling around the dark lawn, freaking me out. They left, and returned a bit later, when Mark borrowed another costume from Jonah:

He sat dead still in a chair, and looked like a decoration. Until someone reached out to touch him, and he scared the bejesus outta them!

Jonah was really into scaring people. He did a great job, carefully picking his victims. He sat dead still in a chair, until a few middle-schoolers asked if he was real. We said no, so they bravely inched closer and closer to him...

...Until he jumped out, chain saw roaring, and sent them screaming. One kid literally jumped a foot in the air, and we all burst into laughter. Well-played, Jonah, well-played!

Some other friends came by, and the boys ran off into the neighborhood again. It was fun and sad to see them go off into the night on their own. My little boy suddenly seemed like such a big boy, and I wasn't quite ready for that yet, but hey, nobody ever asks me.

Greg, Liz, Karen and I sat out front until the trick or treaters stopped coming. Mark and Jonah ran inside to sort and trade their candy, but that ended when Mark just donated all his to Jonah. (A consequence of the Great Marshmallow Creme Fiasco the day before.) I was expecting a lot more resistance from Mark, but was proud to see him accept his punishment like a man.

And so ended another great Halloween. I'm guessing we only have one good one left before Mark decides to hang with his friends instead of his mom (even if it was only in brief spurts). So I relished this year...and I still can't stop laughing about that ridiculous ostrich!

Sweet tooth

Halloween scares the crap outta me, and not in an "Ooooh, ghosts and goblins" kinda way. No, living through Halloween with a diabetic child is like living next to a dynamite factory with a pyromaniac child. Each year, I literally wait for the house to explode.

Halloween is like a bad after school special that re-runs each October. It's the episode entitled, "Sugar--it will KILL YOU." And it stars a very cute little brown-haired boy, cackling, scoffing, and swallowing copious amounts of sugar all at the same time.

Our annual Halloween Disaster came early this year. Usually, Mark's blood sugar-raising adventures wait until after Halloween, but this time, he was ahead of schedule.

I stumbled across Mark's latest folly while putting away a bag of cat food. I knocked over a jar of marshmallow creme in the pantry, and it rolled kinda funny. Something about it just hit me weird.

Sure enough, when I opened it, half the jar was gone.

I know I didn't eat half a jar of marshmallow creme, and the cats don't have opposable thumbs or they would clearly be guilty. (They are seriously naughty cats.) So that just left one other critter in the house...

Maybe it wasn't Mark, I thought naively, totally disregarding the pattern of inexplicable high blood sugars he'd been having over the last week. I thought that for all of ten seconds, until I checked his room and stepped on this:

It was shoved halfway under the bed, directly under his shoe rack. Which made me think, "Ewwwww!" for a whole lotta reasons.

My first instinct was to immediately wake Mark up and start yelling at him. But what fun is it to fight with someone half-asleep and clearly not on top of their game? Mark's a sneaky guy; I had to respond in a similar fashion. This was going to be a long, painful lesson.

I emptied the jar, and scrubbed it clean. Then, I grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a quick note to my darling son:

I folded the note and dropped it back in to the jar. 

I returned the jar to the pantry. I also did a quick scan for a giant jar of marshmallow fluff my friend Amber had sent us but couldn't find it. I wondered how Mark was still alive, and not passed out in some diabetic coma.

But I wasn't done. I had to set the stage, make Mark sweat a little. So the next morning, I gleefully announced that we were going to make whoopie pies! I dropped the whoopie pie recipe book into his lap and told him to pick out a recipe.

Mark, bless his clueless little heart, was thrilled. He was so excited I realized he must not have eaten the marshmallow fluff--even he couldn't pull off an act that well.

Mark couldn't decide whether to make lots of little whoopie pies, or one giant one. I saw my opening, and I took it.

"Let's make one huge pie!" I said. Then I paused for a moment, and said, "But I don't think we'll have enough marshmallow fluff for the filling. Maybe we can combine the fluff and the marshmallow creme together."

"No, I don't wanna do that," Mark answered, quickly. "Let's just make the little pies instead."

"What?" I asked, innocently. "Why? I think one big one would be cool! We could take funny pictures of it."

"I don't know why, I just don't want to make a big one," Mark answered. "I just want one little pie to take to school."

"It's a good thing Amber sent us that jar of fluff," I said. "You can't even buy that stuff out here. They only sell it back East."

"I wonder why?" Mark asked. He was starting to sweat a little.

I let it drop. I got the info I was looking for. After I quick search back home, I also found the jar of marshmallow fluff.

That afternoon, Mark got home about 20 minutes before I did. I knew he'd be drawn to that jar like a moth to a flame.

I reminded him he had drum lessons, and to eat a snack beforehand.

He opened the pantry to get one. Just as I peeked over the cabinet door, he very casually kicked something to the back. That little kick told me he'd found and read my note.

"Why is your foot resting on the pantry?" I asked.

Once again, he feigned ignorance.

"What?" he said. "Oh, I didn't even notice."

I could tell right away he'd gone for the good stuff again, but found my note instead. He was really sweating it now, so I let it go.

But this morning, he was in quite a mood. He ignored everything I said or asked him to do, explaining, "I can't, I'm playing with my kitten." I waited until he had his backpack on and was ready to walk out the door, and then I called him into the kitchen.

"Can you hand me that marshmallow creme?" I asked. He knew the gig was up.

He sighed. He held the jar out toward me, rolling his eyes the whole time.

"Open it," I said. He did, refusing to look into it.

"Is that a note in there?" I asked. "Read it."

He did, pretending like it was all new to him. Then, silently, he twisted the lid back on and tossed the jar into the recycling bin.

"You want to talk about this now?" I asked.

"No," he said, flatly.

"We can talk about it now, and you can come up with the consequence," I said. "Or we can talk about it later, and I'll come up with the consequence. You know which one will be worse."

He simply turned and walked out the front door.

So the bad news is, we didn't resolve it this morning. The good news is, he's at school, sweating it out one more day, and worried abut the nice, long talk we're gonna have tonight. Unfortunately for Mark, he has rotten timing, and a punishment the day before Halloween will absolutely be reflected in his candy intake tomorrow. 

Looks like the dynamite factory exploded a little early this year...

The (Not-So-)Great Pumpkin

Alternate title: Sometimes I'm not even sure why I bother...

Yesterday was our annual trip to the pumpkin patch, and Mark could barely contain his enthusiasm.

"You ready to go get pumpkins?" I asked.

"Nah," he sighed. "I don't want one this year."

"You...what?" I gasped. "How could you not want a pumpkin?"

"I just want to hang out at home," he said. I must note that the activity I was interrupting was...nothing. No video games or TV shows, he was just too lazy to leave the house for a pumpkin.

But I wasn't having it. I strongly encouraged him to get his shoes on and get in the car, and he was smart enough to do so.

I planned our trip around 5:30, because I figured the light is best for photos then, and all the families would be eating dinner. Boy, was I wrong...the pumpkin patch was mobbed, with more people than I've ever seen there, and the sun was already setting behind the buildings. Strikes 1 and 2.

I thought Mark would be interested once we got there, but he really wasn't. He refused to sit on the big pumpkins, or to sit with any other pumpkins in the field. He demanded we buy a huge pumpkin immediately so we could leave, but I reminded him he doesn't get a pumpkin until I get a nice photo. He just groaned.

He darted toward the giant pumpkins, trying to pick up the biggest one. I saw $50 of pumpkin dropping to the ground in my head, and hissed at him to put the damn thing down.

He did, but only because it was too heavy to lift for long. He tried lifting every other giant pumpkin nearby, and finally settled on an already-broken pumpkin.

"I want this one," he demanded. (He was in quite a mood!)

But Mark's not the first (or last) strong-willed, stubborn Dinsdale.

"Let's go," I answered. "I'm not leaving until I get a nice picture." 

I finally did get a decent picture, though:

After all the demands for a large pumpkin, here's the bad boy he settled on:

"Really?" I asked him, flabbergasted. "THAT'S the pumpkin you want to carve?"

"Yup!" he answered. "Let's go."

He paid for his baby pumpkin. It was $1.20, the cheapest it ever cost me to get out of there. But Mark was furious when the lady stamped a "paid" stamp on it--he immediately wiped it off.

"You have to show them the stamp when you leave," I reminded him. "How will they know you paid for it?"

"I paid!" he snorted. "No one's gonna check."

And they didn't.

My obnoxious young son had done everything he could to ruin our trip to the pumpkin patch. He was making me grouchy, and I thought it best to leave before I lost my temper in front of the approximately one million people surrounding me.

But just as we left, a guy in front of us hoisted a giant pumpkin onto his shoulder. It looked heavy, but he never slowed down. I looked at Mark and his tiny little pumpkin, and at the guy in front with his giant pumpkin. The contrast was hilarious.

Turns out, not even Mark's bad attitude can trump a funny picture.

I mustache you a favor...

During a recent San Diego visit, I decided to mess with my nieces and nephew while Mark was outside unloading the car.

"Hey, guys, come here!" I whispered, motioning for them to come over. They reluctantly left the T.V.

"Yeah?" they asked, all at once.

"Um..." I paused, awkwardly. "So...you know how when you get older, your body changes?"

They all looked at me, horrified. The last thing they wanted to talk about was changing bodies!

Undaunted, I charged on.

"Well, Mark's getting a little...hairier," I said. "He's growing a little mustache, and he's really self-conscious about it."

They all exhaled with relief. In the realm of body changes, mustaches were safe to discuss.

"We won't tease him," Nathalie assured me.

"Gross!" Gabi shrieked.

"Mark has a MUSTACHE???" Grant gasped.

I put my fingers to my lips. "Shhhh," I told them. "Don't say anything or you'll embarrass him! Don't make him cry!"

They all agreed. A moment later, Mark slammed the car door outside, and the kids darted back into the living room.

Mark entered the house, and the kids very politely got up to say hello. They were so sweet, trying their very hardest to be nonchalant and polite, and not hurt poor, sensitive Mark's feelings.

But when they saw Mark, they totally disregarded everything I'd just said and laughed right in his face.

"What?" Mark asked, twirling the ends of the disgusting candy mustache he'd worn the whole drive down. "Do you like my mustache?"

The kids just laughed again, smacked me on the arm, and yelled, "You're so stupid!"

And all I could do was laugh with them.

My cat rocks (and skateboards!)

Our little Fernando is growing up very quickly. He's quadrupled in size since we got him, and his eyes have changed from blue to green. He's just as curious as the day we got him, but as he grows into a teenager, he's become super nosy and much, much naughtier.

And like most teenagers, he can't resist a skateboard. Mark set his out momentarily the other day, and Fernando immediately jumped aboard.

But Fernando didn't just want to sit there. He wanted that danged skateboard to roll!

 

Alas, he wasn't strong or heavy enough to get it going. I am, however, worried that day will soon come, and I will resort to dodging our little striped hell(cat) on wheels in the hallway. And I just know he won't be wearing a helmet.

Sigh...

The haunting begins...

I spent the past weekend in a ghost town, with a bunch of creepy ghouls skulking about. Oh yeah, the Boy Scouts were there, too.

It was the annual Boy Scout camping trip in Calico. Calico's an old desert mining town that's been transformed into a touristy ghost town. Usually, "ghost town" refers to the fact the mines were abandoned long ago, but during the two weekends before Halloween, it becomes a more literal description--it's a real ghost town, filled with monsters and other scary things!

We got to town late Friday night. We had a few glitches--due to traffic, it took us four hours to get there (instead of two). Once there, we began setting up Martha's tent in the dark, only to realize she didn't have any tent poles. Luckily, I also had a tent, so I just offered to share. And then, approximately five minutes after handing Mark a walkie talkie in case of late-night low blood sugars (he was in a different camp), I lost my walkie talkie. I was super bummed, because it turns out they don't work so well as singular devices. But the worst part was explaining to Mark that I'd lost it (usually, he's the one who loses everything). His initial reaction of concern was quickly replaced by a smirk (and relief) he wasn't the loser.

The good news is, we got all the bad news out of the way that first night. Once the sun came up, we started a whole new day, and everything turned out much better.
The boys were chattering excitedly about a visitor. Apparently, somebody left a loaf of bread out, and a fox ate it. The story quickly changed as it passed through the group, from "There was a fox" to "I saw the fox!" It was alternately described as small and reddish, about the size of a dog, and big and brown, like a wolf.

I noticed in the daylight that the rock structure behind us resembled the top half of a skull. It was soooooo cool!

I met up with my friends Karen and Greg, who'd arrived while we were sleeping. They made a fantastic French toast breakfast, and I marveled at how much better food always tastes when you're camping. They joined the Scouts after breakfast for a hike in the hills, and I returned to my camp to enjoy the momentary peace and quiet.

Calico's in the high desert, so I'd mentally prepared myself to sweat in the projected 90 degree weather. But a nice little breeze rolled through the campground, and kept everything cool. While the Scouts were gone, I crept into the leaders' camp to sit under their tree and read in the shade. It was quiet, breezy, and I was completely happy.

As I was reading, a group of Scout parents passed by.

"Come on, Heather, we're going to town!" they shouted. How could I resist?

It's a short hike to town, maybe half a mile. It's easy during the day, but there's one section that's pitch black and pretty scary at night. I was glad it was daytime.

We passed through the campground, admiring all the sites decorated with Halloween gear. There were graveyards, cauldrons, inflatable pumpkins and all sorts of spooky stuff. Later on, at dusk, costumed trick or treaters ran wildly through the camp.

The town was already filled with scary people--we followed this group in.  

But the decorations weren't just limited to people. The buildings were decked out, too, all along main Street. This one even had a giant spider on it, who was about to eat an orange stuffed cat. The whole scene freaked me out, as the cat bore a striking resemblance to our beloved little kitten Fernando.

We wandered through town, drinking sarsaparillas and inching our way through the mystery house. The house, built at all different angles, severely messes with your head and your balance. At one point, I gripped a handrail tightly, convinced that gravity had failed me, and that I was about to fall down.

By the time we got back to camp that afternoon, the gentle breeze had grown into full-force hurricane winds. We rescued our neighbor's tent, which flew in to the mountain side, and then reinforced our own tent with as many big rocks as we could find. Our tent didn't blow away, but I spent the rest of the night tripping over rocks.

The Scouts went up to town, returning in a steady trickle over the next couple hours. They all returned carrying the same two things: brown sarsaparilla bottles (which looked like real beer bottles) and toy guns. Hey, what do you expect, it is the Wild West, after all! (Mark came back with candy cigarettes. Apparently, his vice is smoking, not drinking and shooting.)

After a nice dinner, we all walked back to town for the evening haunting and a comedy hypnosis show. (I'm not sure what hypnosis has to do with Halloween, I just went with it, but the boys loved it.)

I thought our boys went home after the show, but somehow, we beat them back. At one point, Martha and I went looking for them, but we stopped when we got to the super dark valley. I had a wimpy little lantern that did not shine light anywhere past three inches of my face, and Martha held only a wimpy little glow stick. We stood in the dark, contemplating our next move. All I could think about was last year, and how a coyote had walked this trail just moments before we did.

"Maybe I'll just pick up a rock," Martha said casually. Then she bent down and picked up another, and I couldn't blame her.

In what may not have been my proudest maternal moment, we decided not to go any further. We reasoned the boys would be much safer traveling through the darkness because A) they are loud, and would surely scare away any predators, B) they had much brighter flashlights than we did, and C) they were not scaredy cats like us. A and B turned out to be true, and C probably did, too, though no boy would admit to it.

When we woke up Sunday morning, the wind was in full force. It was whipping everything around, including us. We tried packing up the tent and tarp, but the winds were blowing them around so hard we just couldn't. I crammed them into my duffel bag to repack at home.

Martha and I broke down our camp fairly quickly, then wandered over to the Scout camp to see how they were faring.

Their tents were much bigger than ours, but the boys were much smaller. The wind was tossing them all around pretty good. I watched some older Scouts wrestle their tents. Then I turned to see how our boys were doing. Mark and his friend Sean were gripping the ends of the tent's rain cover. But instead of packing it away, they were running. The wind was blowing straight into the rain cover, puffing it up like a parachute, and the boys were cracking up.

Eventually, the Scout leaders gave up on the slacker boys and the gusty winds. They ordered the boys to do as we did, cramming the tents into the cars, to repack when we got home.

The trip always ends at a dry lake bed, shooting off rockets. Because of the weather, the troop decided to shoot off just a few token rockets, most of which broke or were carried off by the wind. We drove by the swirling dust storm over the lake bed, and decided to keep on driving--our teeth and skin were already gritty with sand, and we just wanted to go home to a hot shower.

The trip ended as it always does, with the exhausted Scouts unloading the trucks back at the church, and the parents yelling at them to hurry up. I'm glad we showed up, because it turns out one of the leaders found my walkie talkie and returned it. 

It was the perfect way to end the trip--definitely on a high note.

Autumn in California

I have the most amazing family in the world, and if you don't believe me, just ask them. Reason #5623 why I love them: Child-free weekends.

This spring, after I suffered a nasty bout of depression, my mom declared I needed one  child-free weekend every month. She offered to look after Mark so I could look after myself, and I gratefully agreed.

This month's adventure was originally a trip to the Big Bear Oktoberfest, but slowly evolved into a trip to San Diego instead.

Though the calendar says fall, the weather screams back "SUMMER!" Seriously. It was a nice, crisp autumn day when we arrived in San Diego:

There was a chill in the air, as the offshore breeze cooled us down to about 80 degrees. Brrrr....

I spent the weekend with my friends Michelle and Nicky. Nicky was a wonderful hostess, plying us with food, drinks, and allowing us to sleep in late. As frazzled mothers, Michelle and I appreciated this a lot.

We didn't really have any big plans other than to just catch up, which we did over the most fantastic lunch. 

Nicky took us to an amazing resturant inside a trendy Pacific Beach hotel. We sat outside, basking in the sunshine, and staring at all the shirtless, buff men walking by on the beach path. (Seriously, San Diego, what do you put in the water? Protein powder??)

Our lunch was slightly marred toward the end, when a fly dive bombed Michelle's champagne cocktail. I immediately covered my drink, and endured a good 10 minutes of heckling from Nicky and Michelle over it.

"It's not gonna happen again," Nicky chastised me. "It was one fly, and now we got that out of the way. What are the chances another fly is gonna land in your drink?"

Apparently, the chances were slim to none. But exactly one minute after Michelle received a replacement drink, a kamikaze fly splashed into it. This time, I was the one snickering.

We lingered over lunch a long time. When we finally left, we strolled down the  boardwalk, enjoying the sun. We stopped to look at the cute little cottages on the pier, and at all the people sunning themselves on the beach. We watched people roll by us on skates, skate boards and bikes. We even watched a crazy dude teaching tourists to hula hoop. 

It was wonderful. We had nowhere to be, and nothing to do, and we loved every minute of it.

Eventually, loud, thumping music and laughter lured us into a nearby restaurant. It was filled with twenty-somethings drinking energy drink and vodka slushees, and watching college football. This was my crowd--like, twenty years ago. I couldn't hear a thing the girls were saying over the music, but it didn't matter. I had a front row view of the beach and the boardwalk, and I quietly took it all in.

We walked back to the car, but got distracted once more along the way. We ambled in to another beachfront bar, where the bouncer carded me (bless his little heart!) He stared at my ID a little too long, until I finally told him, "Come on, I'm 43. Do you really think I'd lie about that on my ID?" He laughed and agreed if I was gonna to fake an ID, I'd probably shoot for a lower age.

This place was hilarious--more twenty-somethings, apparently all on a pub crawl. They also had funny cardboard cut-outs, which we just had to take our pictures with.

Nicky opted for a photo op with the President. But lest anyone be offended, there was also a cut-out of Mitt Romney...and Fabio. 

Huh, I didn't even know Fabio was running for office. (Sorry for the blurry photo--as Fabio might say, "I can't believe it's not better." ;-)

We stopped by one more bar on the way out, to say hi to some of Nic's friends. But Michelle and I were definitely done, so after a brief stay, we cabbed it back to Nicky's, ordered pizza and called it a night.

And the next morning, when I picked up my boy, I was completely relaxed and happy to see him. Ah, these weekends are just what the doctor ordered. (Dr. Mom, that is.)

Reading is Fun(damental)

My one great pleasure as a child was escaping my brothers, finding a quiet, peaceful place, and curling up with a good book. My mom and I would spend hours in the living room, she on one couch, me on another, silent, absorbed in our own books, happy as clams. Although I no longer avoid my brothers, reading is still one of my great joys.

I always hoped my child would share my love of the written word. Well, the universe has a funny way of smacking you down and keeping you humble; instead, I got a child who could not spell and hated to read. (Ack!)

Mark liked books well enough, as long as I read them. I didn't mind; my favorite time of every day was bedtime, when Mark and I crawled into bed and read together. The books started out small with a short sentence or two on each page, and I read them quickly, so he didn't lose interest. As he grew, so did the books, getting a bit bigger each month, and I slowed my pace, savoring the words.

When Mark learned to read, I encouraged him, making him read the last word of each sentence, and then, gradually, read full sentences. He hated this; he simply wanted to listen to the story, not be an active participant.

"I read all day at school," he'd complain, breaking my heart. And so I continued to read to him.

Even as he got older, he refused to read books. He'd read magazines, manuals with one-page ideas on training cats or making paper planes, comics, anything with words but not a linear story. He loved Calvin and Hobbes, because he could pick it up, read a few pages, and put it down again without keeping track of a plot.

This, too, broke my heart; I wanted him to love books like I loved books. I took him to the library so he could pick out whatever he wanted. I bought him the latest and greatest in kid lit: The Hunger Games, the Warrior books. I bought him my favorites as a kid: The Great Brain series, A Wrinkle in Time. I bought him Harry Potter. I bought him whatever he wanted out of the Scholastic catalog every month at school. Alas, he spent most of his time reading Pokemon cards and Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, which had lots of pictures. He'd read just about anything that wasn't actually a book.

(And when he did have to read books for school...well, that was a disaster!)

Whatever, I figured, as long as he was reading something, it still counted. And so I stopped trying to force my favorites on him, and gave in to what he really liked. I bought magazine subscriptions to Mad, Thrasher, and Boy's Life. It was like feeding a baby pureed vegetables; I'd get those words into him one way or another, even if he spit most of them back out.

And then, a couple months ago, the most amazing thing happened. Mark brought home the first Harry Potter book. And he read it! Without prompting, without pushing, he read the whole book by himself, whenever he had a spare moment. He read it in bed, at night, and before school. He read it in class, and when he came home from school, even on the weekends. He read it when he was supposed to be cleaning his room, and eating his dinner. He read it while I did yard work, and yelled at him to help. He. read. the. whole. book.

As soon as he finished, he immediately asked to return to the library for the second book.

My heart sang with joy! Here he was, my avid reader, another lover of words and great stories. He'd read a book, a whole book, chapter by chapter, on his own, because he wanted to, and he'd enjoyed it! 

Woo hoo, I wanted to dance around the house! I felt like so many doors had suddenly opened for him, without him even knowing it. I felt like he'd joined a secret society, a smart, erudite society, with all the answers to the universe bound between two covers. I welcomed him to the society, and returned to the library to reward him.

He still checked out a Simpsons comic book, but hey, that's cool. You can't live on pureed vegetables alone, you gotta have some junk food, too. And right next to that comic book was this, the third Harry Potter book. It doesn't have any pictures, and it's 730 pages long! But Mark didn't even hesitate; he picked the book up and started reading it two days ago. He's already on page 124.

It's like the floodgates have opened, and Mark can't read enough. I recognize that kid, because I was that kid, always wanting to read more, to inhale words like other kids inhaled candy or soda. He's gonna cost me a fortune now, but it's the best money I'll ever spend, and I'll do it willingly. I renewed all his magazines, and his library card.

I also renewed my childhood memories, of mother and child, in the living room, quietly reading together. Only this time it's not me and my mom, but me and my son. 

But it's just as great the second time around...

Happy Adoption Day!

Today is our fifth (!) Adoption Day. This year, I'm going to let Mark describe how adoption feels from the kid's point of view...this is an awesome paper he wrote for class last year, which immediately brought me to tears. 

Happy Adoption day, Mark--I love you!

My Best Gift
By Mark Dinsdale

It was a gray, dingy, dreary, and uninteresting day. I was tired of moving from place to place. This day I didn’t realize that I was going to a place where I was going to stay forever.

Once a week, a lady called Heather would come and play with me. I thought she was a person who just came to play. One day when I was playing in the freezing cold, frosty air I had to pick up all my favorite belongings. I had no idea where I was going.

After I loaded up all my favorite belongings, I had to put them in Heather’s car. It was Thanksgiving Day when I went to her clean, tidy house. There was not a speck of dust in the huge house (although it was only one story). After five minutes of being in the home, unknown people started pouring into the house. I started to flip out and dove under my soon-to-be bed.

About ten minutes later, I came out from under my bed. After Thanksgiving, I went to my real house and I was explosive with anger. I did not want to go back to my real house; I wanted to stay at Heather’s house forever. When I finally got back to my house, I sprang to my bed.

About a month later, I was adopted. I had no idea! No one told me, until about fifteen minutes before my new mom came to the house. The person who adopted me was Heather.

“I should’ve known,” I whispered to myself because Heather came to my house every so often.

I still had a lot of stuff in the garage. Heather yelled, ”Holy cow, that’s a lot of stuff.” I looked for all my absolute favorite stuff. I got most of it and shoved it into the smooth, sleek, black car.

I bet if I was never adopted I would probably be at my fifteenth or sixteenth house. I’m glad I was adopted. Now I am the happiest kid on earth. 

Welcome, Spinster Aunts!

This past weekend, I was invited to my cousin's wedding. It was a beautiful ceremony, held in a garden at dusk. The bride and groom were gorgeous, the flower girls were adorable, and my whole family was ecstatic.

After the ceremony, we moved into an adjacent courtyard for appetizers. A mariachi band serenaded us, and we made our way through the crowd, greeting and hugging relatives. It was great to see everybody, and just when I thought it couldn't get any better, my brother Smed shared some incredibly happy news of his own. (I'm getting a new sister-in-law, and I'm THRILLED!)
 

So it was a pretty awesome evening. The sun was setting, and lit up the sky in a soft orange haze. It was the perfect evening, in the perfect setting. Until...

A waiter circled through the crowd, gently herding the crowd toward the tables on the lawn. As I passed my brother Smed, he snickered and said, "You're at the kid's table!"

I looked at him, confused, as my mom dragged me off to the seating chart. And sure enough, Smed was right. 

My table was all kids--my son, my nieces, my nephew, and my cousin's kids.

I just stared at my mom.

"It's okay, Kathleen's at your table, too," she said. And then I felt even worse, because Kathleen doesn't even have any kids! 

I adore my nieces and my nephew, and my son. I would've hung out with them anyway, checking in on them throughout the night. I wasn't upset about their company, per se, because I love those kids. It was the whole spinster aunt/babysitter vibe I had a problem with. There were no other parents at our table.

You'd think they'd seat Kathleen with her mom, and Scott and Mary with their kids. Somehow, Kathleen ticked off the seat planner, and Juan paid the price!

But I made the best of the situation. I was gracious, understanding, and demure.

OK, no, I was not. In reality, I collected up all the champagne on the table, and split it with Kathleen. I then proceeded to drink too much, say bad words, and let all the children gorge on candy before dinner. I was seated at the kid's table--might as well act as if I belonged. I figured if I was gonna be publicly humiliated, I was gonna do it on my terms.

"We can eat all the candy?" my cousin's kid, Lauren, asked, incredulously.

"Do what you want," I said. "I'm not in charge."

The only time that comment didn't work was when Grant started arguing with Mark. I shushed them both, as Kathleen reminded me, "You're not the babysitter!"

I nodded, then pointed at Mark and said, "I know, but this one's mine, so I actually do have to discipline him."

Turns out, despite the public humiliation and marital status discrimination, I had a pretty good time. But hey, that may be all the glasses of wine talking. Because Scott rounded us up immediately after dinner, and said we were going home. It was only 9:30!

Oh, well. So I got banished to the kid's table. That's the bad news. The good news is I won't have to worry about that again, since I probably won't be invited back to any more weddings. (Did I mention the dinnertime karaoke at our table?)

But that doesn't matter. The married people can have their lovey-dovey romantic evenings back--I won't be at the next family wedding. I'll be at the bars with my single friends, whooping it up, and having a blast.

WITHOUT kids.

That's not Jesus

I love my home. I love my area, I love the local school, and I love my neighbors.

Well, most of them, anyway.

A few years back, my next door neighbors got divorced. Up until then, they'd been very nice, quiet, friendly neighbors. But once divorced, the woman went crazy, whooping it up and turning her also very-nice house into a crack den.

I tried for two years to get rid of her and all the druggies who flocked to her house. Nothing worked--not the stink eye, not rallying the other neighbors, not the police, nothing. It seemed like no one would help.

During the worst of it, I gave up my fight and decided to just move. I put my house up for sale, sat back, and waited for the offers to roll in (this was before the housing market crashed).

When they didn't, I resorted to something I don't normally--religion. Someone told me to bury a statue of St. Joseph in the backyard, upside down. Apparently, St. Joseph is the patron saint of homes or something, and brings good luck and fast offers to your home.

What the heck, I thought. Those crackheads were driving me nuts, and I wanted to get out.

And so I ordered my very own little plastic statue of St. Joseph. Mark opened the package when it arrived, and was befuddled.

"Mom!" shouted my six-year-old son. "Somebody sent us Jesus!"

"That's not Jesus," I corrected. "It's St. Joseph. We're supposed to bury him in the backyard, and he'll help us sell our house."

Mark looked at me, confused--pretty much the same feeling I get now, telling this story with a few years of perspective on it. But I buried St. Joseph, just like the instructions said. I waited, but the offers never came.

But Mark still had concerns about our friendly saint. And because he was little, without filters, he voiced them often, and loudly, and never at the right moment.

"Tell her we buried Jesus in the backyard!" he shouted, while I was talking to our real estate agent. I shushed him, growling, "It's NOT Jesus!"

He also wondered who got possession of the saint when we sold the house.

"Tell her about the guy buried in the backyard," Mark said, nudging me in front of one prospective buyer. "Does she get him if we move? Or does he come with us?"  

Needless to say, that lady did not put in an offer.

He was fascinated by St. Joe. Mark told numerous people about him, always leading with, "We buried a guy in our back yard!" I'm pretty sure people thought I was a serial killer.

Well, the economic down turn foiled my plans, and we never did sell the house. Ironically enough, our luck finally changed when the neighbor almost burned her house down while we were on vacation. The crackhead and her squatter posse moved back into the condemned house, and that was finally what the city needed to get them out once and for all.

Like I said, all that happened years ago. I hadn't even thought about it until last night, when Mark and I were tossing the football in the backyard. Suddenly, apropos to nothing, Mark said, "Hey Mom, there's Jesus."

"What?" I asked, confused.

"Jesus," Mark repeated, pointing at that ground. "Remember, we buried him?"

And so he was--and so we did! Somehow, he'd found his way up and out, and was lying in the dirt.

"Huh," I said, brushing him off. "He looks like he's carrying donuts and a jug of wine."

I took a good look, and thought of how much more involved in our community we are today, and how much I love our little home. I silently thanked him for not being much help after all.

The I picked up the football, turned to Mark, and repeated what I've been saying all these years.

"That's not Jesus," I told my little heathen son.