Not-so-open house

Last week was open house at Mark's school. Not only did I get to visit his classrooms, but the evening started off with a jazz band performance.

Mark rocked it during his songs. He's come a long way on the drums, although he still has some work to do in the rock star facial expressions department. On the other hand, he's definitely mastered the bored teenager empty stare.

The jazz band sounded great. The music teacher, Mrs. Saum, is fantastic, both with the kids and with teaching music. I feel so lucky Mark's school has such a great music program.

After the mini concert, it was on to the classrooms.

"Stay with me," I warned Mark, who frequently ignores me and pretends I'm invisible. "Don't walk five steps ahead or behind me. And I don't have ESP, so show me where your classes are."

Mark sighed, looked off in the other direction, and dragged his feet alongside me.

"Don't worry," I whispered. "All the other kids have parents, too--you're not the only one."

This time, he didn't even bother to respond.

We arrived at the first class, health. Mark tried herding me past the teacher (who also teaches P.E.), but I stopped right in front of her and introduced myself. She was sweet, friendly, and encouraged Mark to show me what they'd been learning about.

"Yeah, Mark, show me what you've learned," I said, really loudly. I know they've been studying sex ed (or whatever they call it these days), and I knew Mark wouldn't go anywhere near the board displaying their work.

"Come on, Mom," he growled. He grabbed my elbow and dragged me around the room as fast as he possibly could.

"Happy?" he grunted, pushing me out the door.

"Nice to meet you!" I called back to the teacher.

Next up was Language Arts (we used to call it "English"). A gaggle of girls was gathered around the doorway, and they perked up when they saw Mark.

"Hey Mark, why don't you buy a 'Dimensions'?" they asked, waving the school creative writing magazine in front of him.

"Yeah, Mark, why don't you buy one?" I repeated.

The girls jumped all over that.

"Listen to your mom, Mark!" they cried. "Your mom's right, Mark!" "Your mom's so nice, Mark!"

Mark buried his head in his hands. I realized now why he tries to ignore me. Little snit. So I spent a good five minutes talking to the creative writing/photography students--heck, these were my people!

The English teacher had many accolades for Mark, proclaiming him a deep thinker, with very wise, mature thoughts. That was wonderful to hear--I totally agree. When Mark and I aren't having immature contests or irritating each other, we actually do have very thoughtful conversations.

Every inch of the English room was covered up--there were even things hanging from the ceiling. I reached into the box containing the student folders, and Mark immediately tried to block me.

"Mine's not in there," he said, covering the folders with his hand to prevent me from searching. The box was full, overstuffed even, and not in alphabetical (or any other) order. I just shrugged; he's got a B in the class, so I wasn't that concerned. Besides, the claustrophobic room was closing in on me and I wanted out.

It was on to math next. This class was the exact opposite of English--the walls were covered, but in a very neat, orderly fashion, with white space in between. Everything was perfectly lined up, straight, and nothing fell from the ceiling.

Mark beelined for the box of student folders, but I beat him. These folders were also in perfect order, and I found his right away. I grimaced at the results of the last few tests, and spoke a few minutes with the teacher.

Last up was the yearbook and history teacher. Mark's doing well in both of those classes, so I heard good news there, too.

We wound our way through the campus, stopping for a quick peek at the 7th graders' new garden. It was gorgeous, and made me hungry (it was dinner time). 

 

I congratulated Mark on all the outstanding comments his teachers shared, though he was still busy moping about his math grade.

"Listen, I'm not worried about math," I said. "You'll get it together, or we'll get a tutor. That's just academic--I can teach you that."

Mark looked at me warily.

"Well, someone's who good at math can teach you," I clarified. "But all the other stuff--what a nice kid you are, what a caring kid, what a deep thinker...those aren't just learned responses or something you study hard and memorize. Those go deeper than academics--they tell me what kind of person you are. And I'd rather have that kind of kid than a straight A student any day."

He shrugged. I sighed. I wanted to hug him, but knew that was a mortal sin in a middle school--some other kid might see it.

"Whatever," I said, walking off. "I'm proud of you, and proud of the boy you are, and you can't change my mind."

Mark shrugged again and followed me silently.

"Now let's go," I said, glancing back at the growing salad. "I'm hungry!"

And finally, Mark did something completely contrary to his middle school nature.

He smiled. And agreed with me.

Maybe there's still hope after all...

They are Badd

The older Mark gets, the harder it is to discipline him. Time outs aren't as effective as when he was a little guy, and he still doesn't care if I take stuff away from him.

So I have to be much more creative. He doesn't care about things, but he loooooves music.

One day, as I was driving, I noticed him squirming in the back seat and asked what was wrong.

"Please change the station!" he yelled, as though he couldn't hold it in one more second.

I looked at the dial--NPR radio. Apparently, Mark is not a fan.

But NPR isn't on all the time, and regular public radio didn't seem to faze Mark, so I could only torture him with it during the early evening. Plus, Mark finally grew big enough to move up to the front seat, where he could control the radio himself. There are no more plaintive cries of "Change it!!!" Now, he just tears through the playlist himself. 

And then...I got satellite radio.

I love it. Now, not only can I punish Mark with annoying music, I can really tailor it to his mood. When he's only mildly obnoxious, I put on Radio Margaritaville. (He is not a Parrot Head.) When he's a little more snotty, I put on the Broadway Standards station. And when he's REALLY mouthy, I hit him with the hardest thing I've got--Oprah Winfrey's OWN radio station. Boy, does he ever hate that one!

I have so much fun annoying Mark with the radio that now I do it when he's not being naughty. I can almost drive Mark to tears by blasting Norah Jones, and he hates pretty much anything they play on the 80s station.

"Oh, yeah!" I cheered yesterday, when a cheesy 80s song came on. 

"What is this?" Mark scoffed.

"Color Me Badd," I schooled him. "They were bad. All the guys in the band were wanna-bes. There was a George Michael look-alike, a Kenny G lookalike, an Arsenio Hall look-alike, and some weirdo Vanilla Ice wannabe who danced around in overalls with no shirt."

"I don't even know who any of those people are," Mark said. He reached forward to change the song, and I slapped his hand away.

"I did it all for loooooove!" I sang.

Mark clapped his hands over his ears.

"Let me change it!" he cried.

"No," I answered. "I had to listen to these bad songs growing up, so you do, too." 

He grew desperate. "No, I don't have to listen to it," he begged. "You don't, either. Nobody has to listen--we can change the station!"

I stopped singing for a moment--he was right, we didn't have to listen to it. But I saw the desperation, the pleading in his eyes, and I shook my head.

"It's not that bad," I said, and resumed my singing.

"Yes," Mark answered, plugging his ears. "It is that bad."

And he was right. It was bad. But boy, did that kid behave well the rest of the day. All I had to do was rattle my car keys, and he stepped up to help me.

It was awesome.

Pro at life

I never worry that Mark will have low esteem as an adult. This is partially because I try to feed his self esteem by being a loving and encouraging mom, but mostly because he seems to have plenty of it all on his own. 

Yes, the kid is confident. No, he's not afraid to show it.

He proved this once again during dinner last night.

"You finished your homework?" I asked.

"Of course," he answered. "In ten minutes. Because I'm a pro at life."

"You're a...what?"

"Pro at life."

I stared at him. "You know life loves a challenge like that, right? To say you're a pro at life...it's kind of like challenging life to beat you down."

"Nope," he answered. "I've mastered life. I know everything there is--I can do anything in life, and I'm good at it."

"Well, okay, then," I answered. "Empty the dishwasher."

"Already did," he said, then smiled and added, "Pro at life."

"Is the table cleared?" I asked.

"Yep," he said. "Pr--"

"Don't say it," I interrupted. "I know, I know."

"The kitchen is clean!" Mark declared, pointing toward the counters with a flourish. But we apparently have two different ideas of clean, because the counters were still laden with his messes.

I pointed this out, and Mark grumbled.

"You make me do all the work," he groused.

"That's why I got a kid," I said, vocalizing his belief on why people procreate. "So you can do all the chores I don't want to."

"I know, right!" he said, nodding in agreement. 

I looked at him and said, "Do you honestly believe that? That I only got you because I wanted a slave?"

He didn't answer, just raised his eyes as if to say, "Well, DUH."

"You create ten times more work for me, and you do maybe three percent of the work around the house," I said. "You're the worst slave ever."

But Mark wasn't offended. He merely smiled at me, and with a twinkle in his eye, he answered, "Pro at life."

And then I lost it, laughing really loudly. It's true--he really is a pro at life. He's the one kicking back while I do all the other chores--maybe I need to stop working so hard and take a few lessons from him instead.

But as of now...I'm declaring myself to be a semi-pro. Because the official "Pro at Life" title is already taken at our house.

That's not the REAL Easter Bunny

Last weekend, Mark and I were strolling through the mall when we saw a giant Easter Bunny.

He had his own little hut and a personal photographer. Little kids were lined up to sit on his lap and take a picture with him.

"Come on, Mark, let's take your picture!" I said. I didn't think he'd go for it (he's 13 and too cool for that now), but his reason surprised me.

"No," Mark said. "I don't want my picture with him. Bunnies don't wear glasses!"

That stopped me in my tracks. "What?" I asked.

"Look at him," Mark said, pointing to the giant bunny. "When have you ever seen a rabbit wearing glasses? That's right...NEVER!"

I was silent. Finally, after a little thought, I said, "Glasses, huh? So you're on board with the story of a giant bunny hopping across the country delivering candy to little kids? And you're okay with the same bunny hiding colored chicken eggs in the backyard? But the part of the story you don't believe is...the glasses?"

"Yup," Mark said, confidently walking away.

And so I followed. I never did get his photo with the big bunny, but it wasn't because Mark no longer believes in him.

He only believes in an Easter Bunny with perfect vision.

Attitudes of gratitude

Work has been really stressful lately, which is usually Mark's cue to kick up at home. Most kids would get out of the way of an insane yelling, screaming mother tearing her hair out, but then again, Mark's not most kids.

Instead of laying low, he pushes my buttons. He debates every word that comes out of my mouth, even the ones like, "Go. TO. BED. NOW!!!!!" He takes that phrase literally, assuming that since I never said to get OUT of bed the following morning, he should just stay there.

"I can't just wake up in one minute!" he yells, when I literally pull him out of bed. He makes this statement after 45 minutes of his clock radio playing music, 35 minutes of me telling him to get up, 15 minutes of the cat nagging him for breakfast, and 27 minutes of him saying, "I'm up," and me arguing that, "Eyes open is not up. Out of bed, dressed and fed is UP."

"Funny," I answer, recalling his 6:45 wake up over the weekend. "You didn't have any trouble Saturday morning!"

I've tried everything, including a squirt bottle, a hyperactive giant kitten, and an obnoxious, pounding alarm clock. I've let him sleep in and miss class, figuring that might put the fear of God (or his music teacher) in him, but he completely missed the point, and thanked me for letting him sleep in (subtlety is not his strong suit).

I no longer care if he gets out of bed on time; I'm actually more concerned that I'm going to stroke out from all the stress.

Yesterday, while Mark was at football practice, I tried walking it off. I'd read somewhere that the happiest people are the ones who practice gratitude. So as I walked the first lap, I thought of all the things I'm grateful for in my life.

I am grateful I don't have more kids.

I am grateful I didn't strangle Mark today.

I am grateful that Mark is a football field away from me.

I am grateful to have a job. (That was as positive as I could be about work.)

I want wine.

That's not gratitude, I reprimanded myself.

OK, I answered. I am grateful for wine. I should have brought some with me on this walk. By the second lap, I'd unclenched my teeth and fists.

I am grateful I'm not at work right now.

I'm grateful for Daylight Savings time.

I'm grateful for beer. I should've brought a beer with me.

Try again, I told myself.

By the third lap, I'd stopped hyperventilating.

I'm grateful for my wonderful family.

I'm grateful for book club.

I'm grateful we drink wine at book club.

There was a definite theme to my gratitude, but I didn't care. As I rounded the fourth lap, I realized the constant dizziness and nausea I've been feeling all week was dissipating. I was grateful for that.

I'd only planned to walk four laps, but it took me six before I started feeling human again. By the time I finished walking, I could actually breathe calmly, appreciate the setting sun, and laugh with one of the other football moms. I was almost back to myself.

On the way home, I flipped the radio to a new station I'd found that plays all acoustic music. It's awesome.

"Do you listen to this station on the drive home from work?" Mark asked.

"No," I said. "I just found it. Why?"

"Well, maybe you should," he said. "Maybe it will make you calm."

"You know what would make me calm?" I asked. "Having a kid that does what I ask! THAT would go a long to making me calm." Suddenly, I could feel my face burning bright red again.

"I shouldn't have said anything," Mark mumbled. Then he made his best decision all week and shut up.

I exhaled, and started all over.

I am grateful for wine, I thought.

I am grateful for beer.

I am grateful that I have 12 beers at home, but only one kid...

Sigh...I see a lot more laps in my future.

He's a little unclear on the concept

Mark was very excited to play sports this spring. I asked which one to sign him up for.

He mulled it over for a moment, then said decisively, "Flag football."

"Not soccer?" I asked. I was surprised--he'd been talking about soccer a lot lately, and watching all the international games on TV.

"Nope," he answered. "Football."

So football it was.

The first practice was a little tough. The coach spent most of it yelling at Mark, who ran around the field confused, always three steps behind where he should be. 

"He even yelled at me when I did things right," Mark said. 

Mark's a negotiator--when you tell him to turn left, he wants to discuss why it's better to turn right. It surprised nobody but Mark that coaches don't take well to that.

"You have to do what he says," I told Mark. "He's been coaching a lot longer than you've been playing. He knows what he's doing--just listen to him."

Mark responded, "Hmph."

After a few more practices, he seemed to get a little better.

"You like football now?" I asked and Mark nodded.

"But I still like soccer better," he clarified. 

I sighed. Somehow I knew the answer would be reversed if I'd asked him on a soccer field instead.

At the first game, Mark's enthusiasm went up again. Coach was passing out jerseys, and Mark grabbed at this jersey, beating out two other Adult Small size kids.

"Yes!" he shouted triumphantly. "I got number 10!" 

I remembered my brother Tim talking about jersey numbers when he played football, and how he always picked his favorite players' numbers.

"Cool!" I said. "Who wears number 10?" 

"My favorite player," Mark smiled. "Rooney."

I sighed. "Isn't Rooney a soccer player?" 

"Yup," Mark said. "Manchester United RULES!" He put his jersey on, smoothed it out, and ran off, whooping.

So the good news is, he's a little more excited to play football now. 

The bad news is, it's the wrong kind of football. 

Mark's fuzzy brother

Last summer, we adopted the tiniest, most adorable kitten. He was so little, he actually fit in my hand. 

Well, times have changed and our little baby's morphed into a giant cat. I call him Baby Huey, because he's roughly the size of a small dog, but still acts like a baby. (Which, technically, he is--he's a seven-month-old baby trapped in an NFL player-size body.) 

He's still awfully cute, though. He's very playful, and turns everything into a toy to bat across the room--even inappropriate things, like Mark's diabetes supplies.

He's also got good manners, most of the time. 

OK, who am I kidding? He has terrible manners, and will jump right onto the table to steal your food or the straw from your drink (his new favorite toy).

He's also independent--like most babies his age, he's learning to feed himself.

OK, the truth is, our giant Fernando has grown into a freakishly large, mischievous cat. He's naughty, fearless and literally takes your breath away when you're relaxing on the couch and he hurls himself onto your belly. But in just a few short months, he's become an indispensible part of our family, and we love him anyway.

Well, most of us do...

 

Some of us (names and breeds to remain anonymous) still think he's a hyperactive little pest.

Yay...?

We received a brochure for diabetes summer camp in the mail the other day. I'd already signed Mark up, so I just tossed the brochure aside.

But Mark found it, and brought it to me, all excited.

"Mom, I'm on the cover!" he said, pointing at one of the many faces.

"That's awesome!" I said. "Let me see."

Mark tapped the bottom corner, and sure enough there he was!

Unfortunately, as soon as I saw him, my smile and excitement disappeared. Because yes, there was Mark, in bold, bright colors, for everyone to see. There, amidst all the other happy, smiling faces, was Mark--giving his patented goofball face.

Sigh...so, the good news--Mark made the cover of the summer camp brochure. The bad news? He was being himself. 

I just gave myself a palm to the forehead (d'oh!) but Mark thought it was hilarious. Luckily, we both have a pretty good sense of humor, so where this potentially could've been a PR disaster, it instead turns into just another funny Mark picture.

13, part 2

Last week was Mark's real birthday--this weekend was his kid birthday party.

It was a laser tag party, which meant I invited Mark's closest friends to run around a 7,000 square foot warehouse shooting each other with laser guns. I've spent approximately eight years now telling Mark not to aim his laser pointer cat toy at anybody--then, yesterday, I turned him and all his buddies loose with explicit directions to do exactly that.

Granted, I did tell them not to aim at anybody's eyes, but with the all the chaos, it was hard not to.

But let me back up a bit...

When the boys met up at the laser tag place, they were excited. They were high on adrenaline and excitement, and they took it out on their surroundings, bouncing, jumping and crashing into each other.

They lined up to check in, standing behind another birthday party made up of seven- and eight-year-old girls. The girls were dressed in pastel leggings, striped shirts, and an abundance of flowery hair clips. They were holding hands and telling stories. I realized they were going to get eaten up by my rambunctious group of boys.

"You're competing against a bunch of girls!" I whispered to the boys. They erupted into cheers, and one boy shouted, "Let's kick some little girl butts!" Ironically, that was the same boy who later found himself surrounded by a circle of the little girls.

"They just kept shooting me!" he told us, shaking his head. "They stood all around me yelling, 'Shoot him!' It was AWFUL!"

I laughed at the image of those sweet little girls exacting their revenge for a good two hours.

At check-in, each boy received an access device, which looked like a giant plastic key chain. They promptly ran around the lobby attaching their devices to every outlet or metal bolt sticking out of the wall. I even caught one boy trying to wedge it into the soda machine.

The next step was rules, which included no running (yeah, right) no covering your targets (yeah, right, even more) and playing fairly. The little girls had lots of questions, such as can you have teams, and how do you put your name into your gun? The squirming boys had only one question--when do we start? (They did eventually embrace the teamwork plan, though, when they all agreed to ambush birthday boy Mark.)

And then they released us into the maze. Like I said, it was 7,000 square feet, two stories tall, a series of angled jet black shelters trimmed in colorful glowing neon paint. The place was filled with black lights and fog, giving it an eerie feeling. There were also mirrors and floors with partial fenced gaps, so you could shoot up or down through them. I wondered if the mirrors would reflect the lasers, but I never successfully dinged anybody using the old smoke and mirrors trick.

The kids started shooting each other the minute the door opened, but two minutes later, they were scattered all over the place. It was fun to chase them down.

Each contestant picked a funny name for the competition. One of the boys, Jonah, chose a hilarious name and announced himself each time he shot me.

"Here comes Princess Buttercup!" he'd yell, and then barrage me in lasers. He shot me more than anyone else did, mostly because I started laughing so hard every time he yelled out Princess Buttercup.

It was a blast. After 15 minutes of chasing down the boys (and more than a few little girls--who proved much tougher than they looked), the game ended. The boys were still giddy, and now sweaty.

I thought I'd done all right, but according to my score card...not so much.  

That's right, I had a bad girl name (Mama Mayhem), but did not have the aim to back it up.  I came in 15th place overall.
 

I passed on the second game to set up the party room. By the time the boys came out from the second round, I'd set up the pizzas, drinks and awesome cake my friend Kimberly baked for Mark, who requested a soccer ball. I loved the chocolate sprinkles she used for the black squares, and the green frosting around the bottom that looked like grass blades. And it was super yummy!

With their boundless energy, I was nervous about hosting seven 12- and 13-year-old boys on my own. But they were great--inhaling pizza as they compared scores, and laughing as Josh tried to eat an entire blood orange (unpeeled) without using his hands. 

 

There was only one scary moment, when I realized the lighter for the candles was missing--and found three boys trying to light all 13 candles on one half-slice of cake. (Fine, I admit it--after my initial freak out, I lit the candles for them to see what would happen.)

We sang happy birthday to Mark, watched him open his gifts (all cash and cards--he was stoked). Then, sufficiently sugared up on cake and soda, I turned the boys loose on the arcade. After being hit by a flying air hockey puck (I was nowhere near the game!), hit by a basketball (I was nowhere near the hoop), and returning four stolen Foosballs, I finally put those boys in the car and drove them home.

As the boys in the back seat laughed hysterically over pictures in my People magazine, poor Mark, who was fighting a cold, drifted off to sleep. I felt bad that he felt so bad, but then he smiled in his sleep. And I didn't feel nearly so bad--because even sick, I knew Mark had a blast celebrating his foray into teenhood.

And that was a pretty great thing to see.
 

13

On Sunday, Mark hit a major milestone...He celebrated his 13th birthday. That's right, he's officially a teenager. (In related news, I'm officially the mom of a teenager--OHMYGOD!!!!! How did that happen??)

Some friends wished Mark a happy birthday, but even more people offered me condolences. You've got a teenager now was the common theme. Brace yourself.

To those people, I say, HA! Anyone who knows Mark knows he's had a snotty teen attitude since he was five. I'm not going to tempt fate by saying, "How much worse could he get?" Instead, I'll just say that my dear son has spent the last eight years lovingly preparing me for his teenage years. (Translation: He's always had an attitude, now he just has an excuse for it.)

But I digress. It was Mark's birthday, and we started the celebration as we always do--with donuts. He scarfed down three before I could even wish him happy birthday.

Mark's kid party is next week--laser tag and pizza with his friends. So this week, we held his family celebration. We invited our family and extended family over for lunch.

It was a perfect day to celebrate outside--sunny and gorgeous. We feasted on deli sandwiches and laughed a lot. Mark chatted a bit during the meal, but was more interested in sending objects flying across the backyard--footballs, basketballs and soccer balls--with his friend Sean and our little friend Corban. Lunch was good, although you had to keep one eye on the lawn to avoid getting hit in the head.

After lunch, we busted out the birthday (cheese)cake, which Mark had requested. Turns out inserting birthday candles into cheesecake results in a cracked cake, but the surface stayed intact long enough for Mark to blow out all his candles. Didn't matter much anyway--we just filled in the cracks with raspberry sauce. (Poor Corban was a bit distressed by all the smoke!)

I bought Mark a funny hat to wear, but forgot to give it to him. I remembered exactly one minute after all the photos were taken.

"Your hat!" I yelled, racing into the house for it.

"Oh yeah," my mom answered. "Go get his dunce cap!"

I reminded her it's a "birthday hat," not a "dunce cap." But it's nice to know I won't be the sole reason he goes into therapy as an adult.

Mark cleaned all the candles off for us, which I appreciated. Then he gave his best "smoking birthday boy" pose, which I didn't appreciate as much.

Then it was the boys' favorite part--time to rip into the gifts. Mark got a lot of cash and gift cards (score!), a cool blue sweatshirt, a Dodger's iTouch case and some Silly Putty. I gave him new skinny jeans, and then we listened to Uncle Brad rant for 20 minutes about how boys should not wear skinny jeans. (It was funny to watch the whole party ignore him!) Mark tried them on, and I was stoked--if it wasn't for skinny jeans, my skinny son would never have pants that fit him!

The boys went back to tossing things around the yard, and the adults slowly said their goodbyes. I wasn't sorry to say goodbye, though, because the party never ended. Instead, it slowly morphed into an Oscars party. That's right, we did as good party goers do--we pulled the leftovers out of the fridge, and started round 2. We watched the red carpet arrivals and the bad speeches, and feasted on a second round of sandwiches, dips and cheesecake.

So, happy birthday, Mark. Thirteen freaked me out a little bit, because of the teenage thing (OK, more because of the being-a-mom-of-a-teenager thing). But I handled it okay, right up until Mark blew out the candles, and my friend John said, "Wow, 13...only three more years till he's driving!" And then I had a bit of a panic attack...

But I survived. Let's just hope I can still say that at the end of Mark's teenage years...

Yeah, seriously Mark, naked people??

Mark's history teacher uses an online forum for questions and answers. The rules are simple: once a week, you must post one question and observation, and you must respond to someone else's post. You have to be positive and respectful, and you must cite your research sources.

Mark left his page up yesterday, and I couldn't help myself. I read through the questions and comments, and overall, I was very impressed by the students' tones. They were very supportive of each other.

Here was Mark's post:

I couldn't stop cracking up after reading this, for a number of reasons.

First of all, I have a refrigerator magnet of the David sculpture. Mark has pointed out numerous times that David is, in fact, buck naked, and did I ever notice that??? Every time he asks me that, the David magnet mysteriously moves to the bottom of the fridge, where apparently it won't offend anyone else's sensitive natures (except maybe the cats).

So it's funny to see Mark suddenly declare David one of the greatest sculptures of all time. (For the record, he's right--I've seen David in person, and it is one of the greatest sculptures ever.)

The second funny part was Daniel's response--to Moises. I give Daniel extra credit for his encouraging words...to Moises. (A+ on subject material reading comprehension, C- for the details, Daniel.)

Third funny part--Parker's response.

Mark, seriously, naked people?

I can't decide whether Parker's in disbelief that a) Michelangelo carved naked people, or b) Mark pointed this out on the public class forum. Either way, it's funny. Especially because, as my mom pointed out, Mark is a little prude, and easily embarrassed by any sort of immodesty. So it's even funnier that he actually pointed this out in front of the whole (virtual) class.

I always felt sorry for teachers for having to grade all that homework. But now...heck, I'm kinda jealous!

This is why I hate diabetes...

Mark and I had a super fun Sunday planned yesterday. We were going to see The Life of Pi in the morning, then go for a long bike ride in the afternoon. In between the ride and a Boy Scout meeting, I was going to make Mark a rib dinner using my Mom's recipe (his favorite). It was going to be an awesome day...until diabetes got involved.

Poor Mark woke up with a super high blood sugar--520! Ack! (He should be 70-120.) He also had ketones, which are bad. He told me all this at 7:45 while I was sleeping, then quietly left my room and whispered, "Don't worry, I already corrected."

When I REALLY woke up an hour later, I made him check again. His blood sugar had skyrocketed even more--now, the meter just read HI. He had large blood ketones, and I started to panic. I always tell Mark that low blood sugars are a more immediate danger than highs, unless you've been high for a while and you have ketones--that leads to diabetic ketoacidosis, where your body is basically poisoning itself with acid. That's when you end up in the hospital. 

And that's what was currently going on with Mark's body.

Now I was wide awake. I got the supplies ready to change Mark's insulin pump set, and we found out why he was so high when the already-loosened old set fell off into Mark's hand.

I put on a the new set, gave Mark a whole lotta insulin and a giant cup of water (to help dilute the ketones), and sat back. The next few hours were gonna get ugly.

Mark re-tested 30 minutes later. He was 542. Still dangerously high, but at least he was coming down.

At 10 a.m., he drank a breakfast shake. He said he felt fine, but I refilled his cup with water, and placed a bucket next to him just in case.

At 11 a.m, he re-tested. 482--still high, but coming down. I felt a little better.

At 11:30, Mark threw up. This was my worst fear, what I'd been dreading--it meant the ketones were winning.

I cleaned Mark up and called for reinforcements--the doctors at the children's hospital. (They always say to call in if the kid throws up even once.)

The doctor explained all the things I did wrong (which I knew, because as soon as I said them out loud, I realized what I SHOULD have done--correct the first high with a syringe, check the set immediately). I kicked myself for being lame, for being human, and I agreed with the doctor--yes, I should set an alarm and wake myself up again at night when he's high, yes, I should be more vigilant, yes, I should...blah blah blah. By the time I hung up, I was kinda mad. I'm doing the best I can here, and this was a fluke. This is not how we typically manage diabetes in our house--what I really wanted to know from the doctor was whether or not to take Mark to the ER.

The doc said to take Mark in if he throws up 2 or 3 more times. 

"I'm taking him in the next time he throws up," I told her and she agreed that was fine. She told me to keep the food light--soup only for now. I hurried off the phone to check on my pale little kid.

He felt a lot better, and when he checked his blood ketones, I knew why--they were all gone. But I didn't trust the meter, and made him re-check. Still gone. Mark's blood sugar was down to 327, and it was the only time I've actually been glad to see a number in the 300s. I breathed a huge sigh, and felt like we might actually beat this.

I half-corrected Mark, as the doctor suggested, so all that rage bolusing I'd done early didn't catch up and actually send him low. And then finally, around 2, he felt well enough to eat something. 

I fed him a bowl of chicken soup.

"Is this canned soup or homemade?" he asked, suspiciously. He was finally acting like himself again.

"Canned," I said, and he looked at me, disbelieving. 

"You won't eat it if I say homemade," I said, and he just shrugged and slurped up the rest of his soup. But as the afternoon wore on, he gradually returned to normal Mark, and eventually, most (but not all) of my worry dissipated.

And now here it is, a day later. I can look back with hindsight at all the things I should have done, but it doesn't really help. What helps now is knowing we overcame it, and that not everything was wasted--Mark got to spend most of the day on his bean bag chair in front of the T.V., which he loved. And he got a bonus day off school for Lincoln's birthday, so he didn't lose his whole weekend.

But I'm not as forgiving. Fine, diabetes, you won this round. I may have slipped up this weekend, but I won't next time. I'm gonna keep on you, and I'm not gonna let up. You may have ruined this Sunday, but that's all I'm giving you. That's all you get. 

Until next time....

The Tooth Fairy lets us down again

About a month ago, Mark lost his tooth. And then, somewhere out in the garage, he lost it again.

"I lost my tooth," he screeched.

"I know," I said. "You showed me."

"No," he said, more urgently. "I lost it. The bag it was in--I can't find it."

I just sighed. I knew it would turn up eventually, and yesterday, it finally did.

"I'm putting it under my pillow tonight," Mark told me.

"OK," I said.

He cleared his throat, then made sure I gave him eye contact. 

"I said, I'M PUTTING MY TOOTH UNDER MY PILLOW TONIGHT," he repeated. "So the Tooth Fairy knows." 

And then I sighed again. Man, the kid can't remember to pick his clothes up off the floor, but he remembers the ONE TIME the Tooth Fairy forgot to switch out his tooth for cash. For a week. (C'mon, maybe the Tooth Fairy was busy at work, trying to feed and clothe the little ingrate!)

Either way, that "incident" triggered a new policy wherein Mark has to tell me whenever he hides a tooth under his pillow. That way, I can summon the Tooth Fairy, so she won't forget him.

Which was exactly what he was doing now--notifying me. 

But Mark is no dummy. He paused, then asked me, "Um...does the Tooth Fairy have any money on her tonight?"

"How should I know?" I shrugged. Seriously, the kid's almost 13--he knows the deal, but he's not willing to let up on traditions that involve monetary rewards, no matter how unbelievable they are.

So I hugged him and tucked him in, and made a mental note to remind the Tooth Fairy to stop by tonight. I repeated the mental note approximately 573 times, and then promptly  fell asleep on the couch.

This morning, Mark reported that once again, the Tooth Fairy had slighted him.

"She didn't come," he said sadly from his room. "Again..."

Dammit! I thought. How many times is this gonna happen?? And how many more baby teeth does that dang kid have left??

"Are you sure?" I asked, stalling.

"She forgot," he said. I could hear the unspoken judgment in his tone.

I used my go-to Mom defense. "Did you feed the cats yet?" I asked, and when he shook his head, I got angry and said, "Well, what are you waiting for? GO!"

"OK, OK," he muttered. "Geez..."

And the moment he walked away, I hurried into the office, scrambling for whatever cash I could find to make up for that slacker Fairy. Luckily, there was an errant $5 bill stashed away, so I grabbed it. It was 2 1/2 times what the Tooth Fairy usually pays for a tooth, but this wasn't the time to quibble over prices.

I slipped in and out of Mark's room, then called out once again, "Are you SURE she didn't come? Last time you forgot to check."

I watched him walk into his room. He called out, "I didn't forget to ch--hey, she DID come!" He came out of the room waving the five bucks.

And so the day was saved. A little late, perhaps, and cutting it close, but saved none the less. 

I just hope he loses the rest of those dang baby teeth very soon. Because the Tooth Fairy is old and forgetful, and obviously needs to retire.

He's expanding his territory

Mark is like a Tasmanian devil--he whirls through the house in a tornado, stuff flying all over the place in his wake. He walks across my clean living room, and by the time he gets to the other side, there are glasses (for seeing and for drinking), text books, snack wrappers, yo-yos, pillows, clothes, shoes, and cat toys strewn about. It drives me insane.

The kitchen's even worse--he takes out every dish we own, every bit of food from the fridge, cooks himself up a big ol' mess, and then retires to the living room to eat it. It's never occurred to him to return to the kitchen and wash any of those dishes, or put away any of that food.
 
Most of the time, I trail behind, pointing out the messes he leaves in each room, and telling him to pick them up. On my tired days, when I'm not up to arguing, I just put the stuff away myself.

Tiring as all this is, at least I have one single sanctuary to myself--my car. I spend almost as much time in there as I do in my home, so I keep it clean. But lately, Mark's been staking his claim there as well.

Usually it's just a couple things--a backpack, or a snack to eat later. But sometimes, it's more, and it's kind of embarrassing to explain all that stuff when I go to lunch with my friends. 

For example, this is what I pulled out of my car today:

That's right, a pair of shoes, but only one sock. A partial board from a tae kwan do demonstration. A water bottle, a comb, and a balloon. A granola bar. A metal camping bowl (or is it a cup?). And a joker card (which seems appropriate on many different levels). 

Seriously. Is there any doubt at all that I have a 12-year-old boy riding in my car? The good news is that it all makes a decent mobile earthquake kit--I have comfy shoes to walk in, a snack, some water, and a comb so I look good.

I was really annoyed when I emptied out the car. But then, unexpectedly, I had a pang of sadness, a moment of melancholy. I realized that in a few short years (five!), this stuff won't be here, because my kid won't be here. He'll be off to college somewhere, filling his own car with the same old mess--text books, snacks and water bottles, all upgraded to grown-man size.

And suddenly, the Boy Scout cup/bowl and the other stuff didn't irritate me anymore. They're markers, proof of his age, just like the Legos that used to live in the bathtub when Mark was 6. And someday soon, just like the Legos, all this stuff will disappear, and I'll actually miss this mess, and the little boy who made it. 

Sigh...I'm off to hug my little rugrat before he grows any more.

Batter up! Wait, no...

Mark's been on numerous sports teams over the years. He's played basketball, soccer, baseball, and even track. As a mom, I've spent numerous hours shivering in the cold night air, hungry, trying to read in the dark, watching Mark play basketball, soccer, baseball and track.

It's not my favorite thing to do, and truth be told, the long practices during dinner time make me grumpy. But Mark loves it. So I suck it up, spend lots of money on equipment he outgrows after one season and drive him everywhere he needs to be.

This winter, he wanted to run track, so I didn't sign him up for any other sports. I signed him up for flag football in the spring instead, and of course, that's when I found out track is now a spring sport, too. For a few minutes, I actually hoped (for my sake) Mark WOULDN'T make the track team, but of course he did (and I was glad, for his sake). So now he's running track after school and playing flag football at the same time. (And somehow doing his homework in between all that.)

I was just thankful it couldn't get any busier--until Mark came home and told me, "Oh, school soccer team tryouts are next week."

That's when I almost started crying. 

But I'm trying to take it a day at a time. Monday was the first night of football, and Mark was so excited. But he was excited in that middle-schooler boy way, where it comes off more as indifference than actual excitement.

"First day of practice!" I said, as we drove to the field. "This will be fun!"

"Uh...sure," Mark said, shrugging.

That was the last time he acknowledged me that night. As soon as we got on the field, he ran away. I watched the other kids appear, grab their belts and flags, and run off. 

I signaled to Mark to come get his flags, but he just looked the other way. I waited patiently until he came to my side of the field, and pointed toward the bag with the belts in it, but he waved me off.

"Not now, Mom," he said, through gritted teeth.

So I shrugged and went back to my book. A few minutes later, the game stopped because Mark had to go get his flags.

Next up was running and catching. I watched Mark fumble a few balls, and reminded him to cradle the ball, like I show him when we practice together. He didn't even bother to answer, just stared straight ahead, no doubt wishing me to the cornfield.

I gave up and starting talking to one of the other moms. We laughed and joked during the whole practice.

"Mark's wishing I would just go away and stop talking to him," I told her.

She just laughed. "Yeah, because none of the other kids have moms here, either," she said sarcastically, nodding at all the nearby moms. "And those moms aren't telling them the same things."

I knew we were going to get along just fine.

She looked at her watch and wondered when Coach was going to end practice.

"Doesn't he notice we're the only ones left out here?" she said. She was right--I glanced around. All the other teams were gone.

We got our answer a few minutes later. At precisely 8 p.m., all the lights surrounding the field shut off. Apparently, practice was over.

"He can keep his flags," the other mom told me, nodding at Mark's belt. "Take them home and cut the belt down until it fits him. Then, burn the edges where you cut it, so it doesn't unravel."

"Thanks!" I answered. She'd given me all sorts of helpful advice already.

Mark ran over to the team bag and dumped his belt and flags in it.

"Bring them back," I told him. "They go home with you."

"No, they don't," he said. Before I could open my mouth again, he growled, "It's fine, Mom. I don't need them."

Ah, the joys of a mouthy tweener. I gave up, but the boy next to him didn't.

"Take 'em home, dude," he said. "Cut them down to size, then burn the edges. You keep 'em all season."

Mark stomped over to get his flags, grudgingly.

"Good practice," the coach told the boys. "Same time next week...We'll practice until--" he glanced around the dark field. "--until 7:50, I guess."

And so Mark finished his first football practice. He was tired and hungry, but happy. I was happy, too, but for a completely different reason--it was warm inside my car. I reminded myself to bring gloves to the next practice, and to spend less time trying to talk to my ungrateful young son.

It may be a loooooong season...
 

Warning: Imminent scars ahead

As I noted in an earlier post, Mark recently started shaving (unbeknownst to me). I only found out when he admitted he'd used MY razor.

"I need my own shaver," Mark whined. His peach fuzz was barely visible, but his pride was puffed up and easy to see. This wasn't just about shaving, this was about becoming a man.

I sighed. I couldn't say no without hurting his feelings or stifling his manliness. And so I agreed, but with one condition.

"Uncle Brad will teach you how to shave," I told him. I thought he'd like that (male bonding time! No worrywart moms telling him what to do!), but he waved me off, insisting he already knows how.

I wasn't all that worried about it until I actually went shopping. Five minutes in the razor aisle convinced me that the shaving industry is gunning for Mark's jugular, intent on shredding up my son's sweet little baby face.

The razors weren't just singular blades. Sure, there were some cheapy disposable blades, but I knew Mark would refuse them. He doesn't want plastic blades, he wants a REAL razor, a man's razor.

However...the men of America are apparently all Grizzly Adams types, with thick, coarse beards that will choke a singular blade. These were some of my choices:

Seriously, MACH 3?? TURBO? I had many problems with this, the main ones being THREE blades seem like overkill for a little peach fuzz, and the fact that we're at Mach 3 right out of the starting gate. You wouldn't give a kid a Ferrari the first time he ever drove a car--where's the razor blade equivalent of a nice, safe sedan?? I don't want Mach 3, I want speed bumps (slow down!) and safety bumpers.

The second blade wasn't much better.

Just like that, we're at five blades. FIVE BLADES. America, what is wrong with you? We can't balance the national budget, but we (and by we, I mean MEN) can grow facial hair thick enough to warrant a five-blade attack? Why not machetes? I think I cut myself through the packaging. 

I was beginning to despair. I like my kid's face! I'd like him to keep it intact for maybe a few more years. I'm not looking for a visit to the ER or the blood bank. I don't want him to disfigure himself or earn a "Scarface" nickname. I just want to gently walk my son across the next threshold toward manhood, with his self-esteem and facial skin intact.
 
I finally gave up and purchased a twin-blade razor I thought looked safe enough. But I still wasn't convinced. I called my friend Kelley to lament, and she stopped me with, "Why don't you just get him an electric shaver?"

YES! Genius Kelley. Not only would it eliminate facial grating, Mark would love it because it's an electric gadget (and I wouldn't have to buy expensive replacement blades once a week as Mark tore through them). Kelley for the win!

I searched around online and found an inexpensive shaver that came highly recommended for teens with thin hair. (Sorry, Grizzly Adams.) It's compact, washable, and has a safety cover so you can't even see any razor blades. I let out a huge sigh of relief--Scarface has left the building!

It may not seem like a banner day at my house, but today will forever be known as the Day I Saved Mark's Face.