This.

Mark and I were looking at photos of our house taken a few years ago. The living room, filled with greenery, looked awesome.

"We need some new plants," I told Mark. I scanned the room--there's only one plant left:

"Pathetic!" I said to the tower of sticks with five leaves clinging to it.

It's my own fault. Every couple years, I decide the plants need food and buy those little plant fertilizer sticks at the dollar store. And every time, without fail, they kill my plants. Dead. Immediately.

So I need new plants. Sounds easy enough, but now I have the World's Largest kitten, who thinks anything new in the house is a toy, food or something he must protect us against. Doesn't matter which option he chooses, the results are the same--the threat is quickly mangled, chewed-up, and left lying on the floor.  

I arrived at the local nursery, smartphone in hand, fully aware that 90% of the plants I purchased will be eaten and regurgitated on the carpets. I spent a good hour perusing plants, trying to decipher the names of each plant, and then referencing it on the ASPCA web site. Turns out every plant I like is toxic to cats. 

I finally found a polka dot plant, a couple ferns and a small palm tree plant, all of which are non-toxic. Seriously, I found FOUR plants. In the whole nursery, there were only four plants that won't kill my curious, hyperactive, spastic giant kitten.

As soon as I got home, I transplanted my purchases. I watered them and sprinkled some cajun pepper in the dirt (a cat deterrent, according to my good friend, the Internet). Then I stood back, spray bottle in hand, ready to douse whichever cat attacked first.

And that's when I realized I completely wasted my entire lunch hour. Because Fernando was, indeed, curious...about the plastic drainage saucer. That's right, he didn't care about the plant at all, he just walked up and started chewing on the plastic drainage dish.

He was obsessive about it, too. Just as I'd imagined, but I thought he'd obsess over the plant, not the plastic. I squirted him good three or four times, then finally distracted him with a cat treat and a toy.

But not before he left his mark...

It turned out, unfortunately, like most of my other parenting decisions. I put a lot of thought, and work, into protecting the ingrates living in my house...but I'm always just the slightest bit off.

It's not really a secret

Mark was watching TV when a Victoria's Secret commercial aired. He leaned forward, very interested. He's 13, so I wasn't surprised he's interested in pretty girls--I was more surprised at how blatant he was about it (that's not Mark's cool-as-a-cucumber style).

"What is Victoria's Secret, anyway?" he asked. "What do they sell?"

I suppressed a giggle, and blessed his innocent little heart.

"Lingerie," I said.

He stared at me blankly.

"Pretty bras and underwear," I clarified.

And suddenly, he sat back, waaaaaay back, on the couch and looked away, embarrassed (and I blessed his prudish little heart).

"Why does it even matter?" he demanded. "Who needs dressy underwear? Nobody even SEES it!"

I bit my tongue again, and refrained from answering, "You wear it when someone WILL see it!" But I knew that would further embarrass Mark, so I went with another (still truthful) answer instead.

"Girls like dressy underwear," I explained. "Even if nobody else sees it. Girls like pretty things."

"But...nobody else sees it," Mark repeated.

"The girl sees it," I repeated. "It makes her happy. Like when you wear your soccer or football jerseys."

"But people see those," Mark reasoned.

"I know," I sighed. "It's a girl thing. We like pretty things, like flowers and scarves and lace. We like pretty things even if no one but us ever sees them."

He stared at me for a moment, then finally shook his head.

"I just don't get it," he said. "I don't get girls."

I smiled. "You never will," I said, patting him on the back. "We'll be a mystery your whole life, so get used to it."

Mark sighed, loudly, sadly, his shoulders sinking. He didn't like the sound of that, so I threw him one last bone.

"Don't worry, we don't understand you men, either," I said. "But it doesn't matter--we don't have to understand each other to get along. That's why you have guy friends!"

That made him feel better, a little, anyway. But he turned off the TV, grabbed a basketball, and went to shoot some hoops outside.

You know, where there aren't any models in flashy underwear, and life is easier to understand.

These are a few of my (least) favorite things...

Intellectually, I know that one day soon, my beloved young son will awaken as a grown man, make his bed and bid me a loving adieu. He will thank me for my many years of sacrifice and all the wisdom I imparted on him. I will hug him, kiss the top of his head, and wish him well at college.

OK, none of those things will ever actually happen (except for college), but I can hope. The logical part of me knows someday he will leave, but the emotional part of me is in denial, waging a constant, heated battle about whether he'll really go or not (he will leave, to do good in the world; he won't leave, because he's a good boy who loves his mother sooooooo much!).

Most days, just the the thought of Mark leaving renders me teary and speechless. But some days (occurring more frequently as Mark settles into teenhood), I seriously feel like breaking out the calendar, and gleefully marking off the dates.

The truth is, I'm not actually writing this post for you, my loyal readers (all three of you), I'm writing it to myself. My future self. The Heather in five years, struggling with Empty Nest Syndrome, who's furiously packing her car for the long drive to Mark's college, where she'll embarrass him in front of all his cool new friends in the dining hall. The Future Heather who will grab Mark, hugging him relentlessly, sobbing uncontrollably, screaming, "Mommy misses her little Marky!"

So, uh, yeah...Future Heather, don't do that. Unpack the car, take a deep breath, and sit down. Seriously. It was hard enough to get that kid into one college--transferring to another due to extreme maternal embarrassment is not an option.

Future Heather, Empty Nest Syndrome is coming. You may welcome it the first few months, as you gain back all the time usually spent cleaning up after Mark, putting away  the stuff he left out. But eventually, the house will be clean, and stay clean, and you'll realize with a shock it's because no one else is there to mess it up. (Except for Fernando, the freakishly large cat, who I'm hoping will finally calm down in five years. Please tell me he's calmer!)

What will you do, Future Heather? How will you navigate the silence, the cleanliness? How will you fill all those hours previously relegated to chauffeuring your child to and from social, academic and musical activities?

The answer is: I don't know. I'm still back here, in 2013, imagining it.

But Future Heather, before you get all verklempt about your son leaving, remember these things. Remember how dear young Mark left all of these things strewn about the house, and very nearly drove you to the very brink of insanity doing so.

Remember how blood sugar test strips cropped up everywhere, on every surface of every room in the house. How the strips tumbled out of the dryer with clean clothes, and how piles of them sprung up overnight, a toxic mountain of hazardous waste on the bookshelf. How you found them everywhere--in the couch, the fireplace, the backyard, even the cat litter box--and how you thought, endlessly, curiously, "How did a strip get there?"

Remember the straw wrappers, from one of the million little juice boxes Mark downed to correct low blood sugars. The wrappers littered the kitchen floor, hiding behind the trash can or under the fridge. They fluttered into the dining room, catching air from a light breeze through the kitchen window. Remember how they crinkled underfoot each night on your way to bed, or how you constantly wrestled them away from Fernando, worried he'd eat them, when really, he just wanted to chase them. (Note to Future Heather: Mark wasn't the only one who thought you were a killjoy.)

And remember those little pill caplets, how they rolled out from behind the coffee and sugar jars, from wherever Mark tossed them after emptying them into his milk. Remember how hard Mark fought you about them daily, insisting he couldn't swallow pills, until you finally gave in. The important part is the medicine inside, not the little orange shell, you reasoned, and boy, did you live to rue that decision. Remember the day you uncovered an entire cache of spent pills, the same day Fernando found and emptied a bag of insulin needles throughout the house? Thank God no one visited that day, because it would've been hard to convince them that, despite all outward appearances, this wasn't really a crack house.

I could go on about the other annoying habits--the backyard littered with sports equipment, the bedroom that smelled like a woolly mammoth died in it, thanks to the overflowing dirty clothes hamper--but Future Heather, I think you get the point.

The point is, the house won't be full of little "souvenirs" Mark left behind anymore. They moved out with Mark, moved on to college, where now they'll annoy a whole dormful of equally slovenly college kids, who may not have rivers of used test strips, but most certainly will have hampers of dirty clothes.

The point is...oh heck, who am I kidding? I'm trying, Future Heather, to point out how Mark annoyed you, so you won't miss him as much. But the bigger truth is that, annoying little habits aside, he's a great kid, and that raising him up was an honor. Yes, he drove you nuts sometimes, just like you drove your parents nuts, but he also made you smile and laugh. He made your heart swell with pride and joy, and the biggest truth of all is that he made your heart come alive and sing, just by being his mom. He made you a better person during his childhood years than you made yourself during your whole life prior to him.

So you know what, Future Mom, forget everything I just said. If you miss Mark, call him. Visit him--just plan it ahead of time (college kids don't like surprise visits), and keep it together when you do see him.

As for me, 2013 Heather, well, I'm busy, too. I just walked through a house full of strips, wrappers and pills, out to the backyard, to go play basketball with my kid.

And it's all thanks to you, Future Heather, who made me realize that while some things (like test strips) will live in my house forever, my kid will not.      

My son's in Jeopardy!

My brother Smed planned an Iron Man movie day with the boys, and Mark could hardly wait. But that day, he called me at lunch to say he couldn't go because he was in a Jeopardy! tournament.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"I don't know," Mark grumbled. "Means I can't go to the movies with Uncle Brad."

I could tell he was bummed. And I was surprised when he came home after school.

"What about Jeopardy!?" I said.

"It's not till 4:30," he answered.

I decided to tag along. I walked back to school with him, camera in hand, to take photos during the tournament. But I was confused when Mark turned into the school early, heading toward the first grade building, instead of to the middle of the school toward the auditorium.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Room 24," he said. Turns out it wasn't really a tournament, it was just the tryouts for the tournament.

"Wait, you're trying out?" I asked. "Last week you swore wouldn't try out--you changed your mind?"

"I had to," Mark said. "The history teacher made us. I'm playing against Kelly, but she doesn't want to win--she's embarrassed to go onstage."

"It's just you and Kelly?"

"And another girl, but she's not coming," Mark confided. "She already told us."

Then he smiled at me, all self-assured and confident, going into battle with one opponent who refused to show up, and another planning to throw the fight. He liked his odds.

I just sighed.

We found the room, and met the guy running the tournament ("I'll take random jobs for $100, Alex"). Kelly came into the room with a big sigh, plopping into the chair, and nodding almost imperceptibly to Mark. Mark saw her nod, and raised her an eyebrow.
 
The tournament guy waited a few minutes for the last contender. The kids said she wasn't coming, so he called her home. When her mom answered, he explained she was due in class for the Jeopardy! tournament. There was a momentary silence, and then he answered, "Um, sure...okay."

"Mom didn't know where she was," he told us. "She said tell her to call home if I find her."

This afternoon was getting weirder and weirder.

Finally, the game began.

I thought it would be a quick match. Kelly did play like she was throwing the match at first, refusing to answer any questions. Mark held his own, but then Kelly couldn't help herself--she answered a question correctly after Mark missed it. Her confidence rose with the correct answer, and bolstered by her win, she went for the jugular--the math questions. I knew Mark was doomed.

She whizzed through three math questions easily, as Mark and I sat there clueless. Seriously--I did not get one math question right. I had absolutely no idea what the answers were. The first problem was -3(8) + 12=36. The other problems used the same numbers, but moved the parentheses and switched up the positive and negative numbers.

Kelly switched to a new topic, Green, Bean or Spleen, where she guessed the first two correctly (she got verde, green; and legume, bean, but Mark got body part = spleen right).

I watched Mark falter during the World Leaders topic, when the question was about a Chinese Emperor during the Sui Dynasty whose name began with W.

"Wendi," I answered silently. I didn't even know who Wendi was until two days ago, when Mark wrote about him for a history report.

But Mark didn't answer. He just shrugged. Kelly sighed and answered correctly, and I started to wonder who was really throwing the challenge.

Kelly won by $100; Mark lost with a final tally of -$1,600. He seemed a little bummed, but I consoled him, saying, "If you come out of Jeopardy! with any money, you weren't trying hard enough."

Mark just stared at me.

"If you don't bet big, you don't win big," I clarified. He just shrugged again.

"I didn't know any of the math problems!" he cried.

"Don't worry," I said. "I didn't either. Not one!"

I asked about Wendi, and professed my surprise that Mark didn't answer that.

"Who?" he asked.

"Wendi, the Chinese Emperor," I said. 

Mark stared at me, blankly. 

"You know, the guy in your report TWO DAYS AGO??"

"Oh," he scoffed. "You think I remember something from two days ago?"

I sighed. Not really the answer I was hoping for.

"Anyway," I said. "Good job trying. How do you feel?"

"Bummed," he said. I started to say he battled well, but he interrupted with, "I can't believe I missed Iron Man for that."

And then I shut my mouth. Because honestly, I don't blame him. Missing a superhero movie to get crushed in 10 minutes by a girl who didn't even want to win...that's my idea of a rotten afternoon, too.

"Let's get some dinner," I said, patting his back. He had a hard loss, and the least I could do was buy him a drink. "Shirley Temples, on me," I said, and Mark brightened up at that.

So maybe the afternoon wasn't a total loss after all.

Out of the frying pan...

If my dear, sweet, young son doesn't make it to the end of the school year alive, it's not my fault--he brought it upon himself.

Mark won this little guy at a trip to Dave & Buster's last weekend. 

It's an alarm clock that looks like a big hunk of bacon. It shakes and dances, and sings a whole song about bacon, with some pretty complex lyrics, such as:

Get your butt up outta bed

It's time to get shakin'

Start your day off right 

With two pounds of bacon.

It's crispy, it's crunchy

You know it tastes great

So get that butt up 

or you might be late.

So get your legs a-movin' 

and get your arms a-shakin'

It's time to wake up 

and smell the bacon

Smell, smell

Smell the bacon

(sizzling sounds)

How do I know the words so well? Because Mark laid in bed, singing along with the song. When he finally got up, it wasn't to get dressed and/or eat his breakfast--it was to play the song 17 more times in a row.

"Make your bed," I reminded him the 37th time he played it.

"The bed is fine!" he replied. "Smell the bacon!"

"Brush your teeth," I told him.

"Bacon, bacon, ba-a-a-a-a-acon!" he rapped back.

"It's 7:50," I told, a little less patiently. Class was starting. 

"I'm putting on my shoes," he answered. I sighed. He has Converse high tops, and it takes him seven minutes to lace them up.

I finally gave up, and started working. This, of course, was when Mark decided he was ready. 

"Let's go!" he called out. "Are you ready?"

"Did you brush your teeth yet?" I asked.

He sighed loudly. "It doesn't matter! Are you ready to go or not?"

I bit my tongue--hard--telling myself not to answer, because nothing out of my mouth would be Supernanny-approved. But the withering look I shot him worked pretty well. 

"Fine," he grunted, then stomped off to pretend he was brushing his teeth. He stopped by his room one last time to hit the alarm and dance to the bacon song.

Finally, he dragged himself out to the car. Before I could unlock the doors, he grabbed the handle and shook it five times to annoy me. I got inside, and he shook the handle seven more times. I waited until he'd stopped, then moved my hand toward the lock. He shook the handle one last time. I just sat there, wondering if it was too early to substitute wine for my morning coffee.

During that two-second respite, Mark gave up, and started walking to school. I unlocked the door, and ordered him into the car. He ignored me, and I thought we were finally gonna have a show-down. But he abruptly turned, climbed in to the back seat, and rolled down the window.

I turned into the street, but noticed Mark was sitting very close to me.

"Is your seatbelt on?" I asked. 

He flopped back into his seat, and in his snottiest voice ever, brilliantly observed that, "It. Doesn't. Matter." I immediately pulled the car to the curb and waited, silently, until he sighed again, and clicked the belt in. 

"Just go!" he commanded. "Geez. This is how you make me late every day."

And that, my friends, is when I finally lost it. I laughed, loudly, continuously, until we got to school. 

"It's not that funny," Mark grumbled.

"Oh, yes," I answered. "Yes, it really is." And then I laughed again.

He rolled down both sets of back seat windows and slammed the door on the way out, just to be a jerk. But it didn't matter--I was no longer angry, or willing to be baited into a fight. 

"Have a good day!" I called out to him through the open window, but he just stormed off.

And I laughed again. Because I swear, humor (intentional or not) is the only thing that saved that kid's bacon today.

Poetic (in)justice

When I announced I was adopting a child, people heaped praise on me. They'd squeal with excitement, hug me, and scream, "Good for you!" We'd smile at each other for a moment, and then, quietly, seriously, almost like they couldn't help themselves, they'd add, "Being a mom is hard work."

I knew parenting was hard--I just underestimated how hard. I assumed everyone meant it was physically hard work--i.e., catering to a small, demanding child's every need (and there are many!) 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

What no one ever told me is that, in reality, 99% of the hard work is not even physical--it's mental.

Take, for example, the conversation regarding what will henceforth be known as the "Poetry project." Mark's assignment was to write, type up and print a series of poems for English class. (See, I already flunked the project by referring to it as "English" class, not "Language Arts.")

Mark swore it was ready to turn in. 

I asked again Wednesday morning, and was assured--again--the project was complete.

That afternoon, I arrived on campus for the school sports award ceremony. Mark immediately ran to my side, and asked, "After this, can you take me to Staples? I need to get--"

"Whoa!" I said, holding my hands up defensively. "How about 'Hi, Mom, nice to see you?'"

"Sorry," he said. "I just don't want to forget..."

The ceremony started, and we hushed up. But halfway through the ceremony, I received an email and saw that Mark's English grade had dropped TWO FULL LETTERS. Two! Overnight. The night after a certain poetry project was due.

Mark was lucky the email arrived during the ceremony--it gave me time to cool down, thereby saving his little life.

As we walked out to the car, I shared the grades with Mark.

"That's what I was trying to tell you," he said. "I need to go to Staples and get some magenta ink."

"For what?" I asked, exasperated.

"So I can print my pictures."

I stared at him blankly.

"The pictures for my poetry project," he explained, slowly.

"You finished the project," I reminded him.

"I know."

"You turned it in," I said.

"I know."

"So it was complete and you turned it in?" I repeated.

"YES," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Why are you rolling your eyes at me?" I asked. "And why are we still talking about this if you already turned it in?"

"There wasn't any magenta ink," he said, and I swear, my head almost exploded, spurting magenta ink instead of blood.

And then I stopped. He'd never admit he turned in an incomplete project, and he'd never understand why, exactly, this whole conversation was frustrating me so. Bless his hyper-focused little brain, he was like a drowning man refusing to admit his lifeboat was ripped and sinking. ("It's not sinking, Mom, I just like to swim!")

I could watch him go under, or I could toss him a life preserver and walk away. I opted for the latter choice, but only because I was preserving something else--the little bit of sanity I have left.
 
Turns out I worried needlessly. As always, everything worked out for Mark. I refused to buy more ink, but he found an extra cartridge at home (where it'd been all weekend). He turned in his pictures and brought his grade back up a full letter. He still doesn't understand my panic any more than I understand his, but that may always be the case.

Although, if you really think about it, maybe his excuses weren't really that far off topic after all. He wasn't lying, exactly, he was just using...poetic license.

And because it's Mark, I'm sure he'll get extra credit for that.

Light as a feather

We don't have a scale at home, but really, who needs one? The only one interested in how much he weighs is Mark, and thanks to our car, I can tell you his weight within a tenth of a pound.

He weighs 80 pounds, give or take an ounce.

I have a totally scientific method for weighing him--I use the passenger seat air bag light as my guide. The light displays "Air bag on" when anyone over 80 pounds sits there. If the passenger weighs less than 80 pounds, the air bag goes off.

Seems simple enough, but that danged thing is sensitive. Seriously. I've actually watched Mark shift in his seat and the air bag went off--like just shifting was enough exercise to lose a couple ounces. I've also seen Mark turn off the air bag simply by sighing or sneezing.

Now it's a running joke in our family..."You didn't eat enough lunch," I'll tell Mark, when the air bag is off. "Eat a cookie."

Or "The air bag just went on because I picked up your magazine," he'll say. 

The air bag stays on more during winter, when he wears a jacket. Mind you, this is Southern California--we're not talking heavy winter coats here, usually just windbreakers.

It happened again yesterday. When he got into the car, Mark sadly pointed out the air bag was off.

"You need to eat more," I told him. "Turn that air bag on!"

Ten minutes into our drive, Mark fell asleep. He awoke with a yawn when the car stopped, then pointed at the dashboard.

"The air bag went on!" I exclaimed. "It was off when I started the car."

"Well, yeah," Mark said. "Because I was sleeping."

"How does that affect the air bag light?" I asked.

He just smirked at me. "Duh," he said. "I weigh more when I'm sleeping."

"You...what?" I stuttered.

"I'm dead weight when I sleep," he answered. He demonstrated by slumping back into his seat. Sure enough, the air bag light turned on.

And I said...nothing. Because, honestly, how do you argue with that?

Gotcha!

Mark was being a prickly pear, sassing me and just generally being obnoxious. I gave him a couple of warnings, and still he persisted. I finally took away the one thing he loves more than life itself.

"That's it," I snapped. "No more TV for you today."

"What!" he exclaimed. "What am I gonna do after dinner?"

"Read a book?" I suggested. "Play some basketball?"

Punishing Mark is like clearing the cache on your Internet browser--you may just want to clear away the last troublesome URL, but you also clear out all the other items cached in the memory, too. As soon as I took away the TV, he walked around the house with a blank look, complaining there was nothing to do. He couldn't think of one thing.

But I wasn't being punished. So a couple hours later, while Mark was getting out of the shower, I turned on the TV.

A commercial came on for a new sandwich. It looked like this:

 
"Man, you'd love that sandwich," I said to Mark, as he entered the dining room. "It's made on a Hawaiian roll."

"I love Hawaiian rolls!" Mark said. He licked his lips.

"I know," I said.

He stood there for a moment, watching me, then asked, "Does it look really good?"

"Yep," I said. I rewound the commercial. "See for yourself."

Mark stood in front of the TV. Then he turned to me with the biggest grin--which confused me, because I didn't think he'd like the sandwich that much.

But it wasn't the food he was smiling about.

"Ha!" he said. "You said I couldn't watch any TV tonight--but I tricked you into letting me watch!" Then he laughed and laughed, very proud of himself.

"Dammit!" I said. He totally did trick me. I still can't believe I set myself up like that!

Oh, well. We all have occasional parenting losses. Mark wasn't laughing as hard when I flipped mine back around to a parenting win.

"Good night," I said, kissing his wet hair. "Sleep tight."

"I still have ten minutes till bedtime," he complained.

"Tricked you," I said. "Now get outta here, kid."

Off he went, calling out, "Fine, but I still win! I tricked you first!"

I giggled, because he did trick me. Little stinker!

Must be nice to know everything in the world

I'm learning the old adage is true...the middle school years really are hell on self-esteem.

My self-esteem, that is...not my middle schooler's. His self-esteem is just fine, thanks. 

Mark's always been confident in himself. The big change is his confidence in me. When he was little, he'd ask me questions because I was Mom, the all-knowing. He'd ask questions because he wanted answers, and he wholeheartedly believed I had them.

Now, as a snarky 13-year-old, he questions for a different purpose: to prove me wrong. Apparently, the brain trust has shifted in our house. I no longer know anything--anything at all--and Mark suddenly knows everything. Seriously. He even advises me how to drive and park my car, something he's never, ever, ever done in his entire life.

He's pretty good at giving attitude, too. I come home each night and watch him for a couple minutes, playing basketball with his best friend, laughing and joking. It makes me happy to see him thriving socially.

But then poof! As soon as his friend leaves, Mark turns into a snarling, surly little being who's suddenly lost the ability to communicate in any language other than angry grunting.

It's like there's an invisible alarm clock somewhere out in the universe, and it goes off every night when Mark sits down at the dinner table. That ding! signifies that all intelligent conversation must stop, and all language becomes non-verbal.

"How was school today?" I ask every night.

"Uuuh," Mark grunts. I've interpreted this grunt to mean, "Fine, thanks for asking."

"What was the best thing that happened to you today?" I ask next.

He replies with a shrug and an "Errr." I've interpreted this to mean, "Wow, there was so much, I can't even think of one specific thing to share. But thank you for being interested!"

Some people might give up at this point, but not me. I am strangely committed--I love a challenge. I won't give up until I get a full sentence out of my little Neanderthal.

"What'd you do at lunch?" I ask. "Who'd you eat with?"

In return, I get a heavy sigh, an eye roll, and then, after a moment of simmering silence..."The same thing," he'll grumble. "Basketball. With the same people. I tell you every day."

And boom! A semi-conversation. Success!

Not every night is a Demoralizing Dinner. There are two ways to make conversation a little easier: one is to eat dinner in front of the TV, which Mark loves, because he gets to watch TV and I don't pepper him with questions. Mark loves this so much, he asks me every day, hopefully, which table are we eating at (meaning: living room coffee table in front of the TV, or dining room table). I burst his bubble most days and tell him we're eating dinner like a normal family--in the dining room, where we will provide the soundtrack and canned laughter, not the TV.

The other way is to just wait it out. After dinner, I join him on the basketball court/patio. He doesn't mind conversing then, as long as we keep up the activity, and he's suitably distracted/hyperfocused. ("Must. Get. Ball. In. Net.")

I realize it's a teenage thing, and that hopefully, on his 20th birthday, he'll miraculously be cured and turn into a civilized human being. But in the meantime--self-esteem be damned--I'll keep trying, and keep trying NOT to take the attitude personally.

And who knows, maybe I'll get more than just a few syllables out of him each day.

Uuuh...

The puppet show

Boys and girls play differently--waaaaay differently.

I don't say that as a child behavior specialist, a teacher, or any other kind of professional in the child development world. I say it as a girl who grew up with three brothers, in a neighborhood full of boys, and now, as a mother of a son.

They play differently.

I remember being baffled by this as a little girl. I'd line up my stuffed animals for long talks or an impromptu reading session (I wasn't a tea party kind of girl), but before we could really get started, my brothers would charge in and attack them. They'd leave my room a mess, me in tears, my animals askew, swaggering out full of bravado, proud of themselves for proving their worth and ridding the world of dangerous enemies (like my stuffed elephant).
 
I thought I'd left that world behind when I grew up, but as I mentioned before, I have a son now. And he is once again proving my theory correct.

Case in point: A puppet show.

I loved puppet shows as a little girl--it was a way to bring my animals, and my stories, to life. It allowed me to sort out my world creatively, to weave stories and morals together through dramatic play, to become heroine and tragic figures alike, depending on my imagination.

Well, Mark had a similar opportunity this weekend, but his puppet show went a little differently. His show starred a lion, a zebra and a Nerf gun, and only one of those puppets came out alive.

"Mom, watch my show!" Mark cried, right before he filled the zebra up with Nerf darts. "It's about a zebra and a lion!"

I was filled with inappropriate giggles and horror simultaneously. Mark brought the zebra back to life, and it walked side by side with the lion for a moment, conversing happily. Until the lion did what lions do, and ate the zebra. I could hear Mark laughing wickedly behind the curtains.

I sighed. Boys play differently, I reminded myself. It wasn't right or wrong, just...different.
 
Unless, of course, you're a zebra puppet. In which case...sorry, things just aren't gonna end well for you in this show.

But there's till hope, if a little girl happens by. Then, and only then, your narrative may turn from innocent, half-eaten victim to honored tea party guest. But until then, the poor zebra is destined to die repeatedly, in various tortured ways, with only momentary respites, as the puppeteer occasionally turned the Nerf gun away from the zebra, using it on the audience instead.

Did I mention boys and girls play differently?

This is why you don't leave your phone sitting around unattended...

Mark and I sat in the living room the other day, two feet apart. I lounged on the couch, reading the Sunday paper and Mark occupied the love seat, just chilling.

Or so I thought. I really didn't notice what he was doing, or that he was so quiet. That should've been my first clue--nothing good ever comes of a silent kid.

It wasn't until later, when I picked up my cell phone to make a call, that I realized what he'd been up to--taking and assigning photos to my phone contacts.

This is now the contact picture that appears when I dial up our favorite restaurant...

This is the new contact photo for Mark's school...(I have no idea how he took it with no hands!)

This is for our favorite pizza joint--I was a little confused at the expression until Mark explained it, mimicking a friend's hungry baby ("Hungee, Marky is HUNGEEEEE!").

This one is for our home phone number. Guess he decided to change it up a little.

But this one was my favorite. You can tell we share the same sick sense of humor, because Mark and I both burst into laughter when I saw it. 

The contact? Why, it's for poison control, of course.

The Lesson

This weekend was a crazy party weekend. Mark's best friend Sean turned 13, and celebrated with a 20-hour party.

Well, technically, it was a two-parter party. The first part was at a park, where the boys played Fear Factor, eating disgusting things like oysters and sardines (ironically, a container filled with bologna and jelly elicited more "ewwwwwws!" than the seafood).

After the park, it was on to Sean's house for a sleepover. My very brave friend Liz (aka Sean's mom) supervised a houseful of middle-school boys determined to stay awake all night long playing video games. They made it until 4 a.m., when, Josh told me, "My body literally shut down, and I fell asleep with my iTouch in my hands."

The boys (and Liz) didn't go completely sleepless--they did get 3 1/2 full hours of shut eye. And Mark was still going strong when I picked him up.

"We're going to another party in two hours," I reminded him. "Then Boy Scouts at 7. So nap if you need to when we get home, you've got two hours."

"I'm taking a shower when we get home," Mark told me. Of course, showering turned into playing with his kitten, which turned into, What do you mean it's time for Corban's party, why didn't you tell me???

Mark slept for 20 minutes on the way to the party. He made me promise we'd leave early, but of course, he had so much fun, I had to drag him outta there 45 minutes after the party officially ended. We got home just in time for him to shower, eat dinner, and change into his Boy Scout uniform.

And then, finally, he hit the wall.

"I'm sooooo tired," he whined on the way to Scouts. "Do I really have to go tonight?"

"Yep," I answered.

"I can't miss ONE WEEK?" he complained.

"You're missing next week," I said. "And the Memorial Day event. So yes, you can miss a week--just not this one."

He sunk into the seat.

"You knew about this before the party," I reminded him. "You made the choice to stay up playing video games all night, and that's fine. But you can't weasel out of your other commitments because of it."

He sighed. I could almost hear him silently asking, "Does EVERYTHING have to be a lesson?"

Yes, I answered silently. It does.

"Today's lesson is called 'sucking it up,'" I said out loud. "It's okay to have fun, it's okay to pull an all-nighter, but when your responsibilities come knocking the next day--"

"I have to suck it up," Mark finished.

"Yep," I said, turning in to the parking lot. "Have fun!"

Mark slammed the door and ran in to the meeting. When I checked on him later, his patrol was dragging. Three of the four boys were at the party, and were laying their heads on the table, fighting sleep.

At one point, the adrenaline kicked in, and they all jumped up to run around the table, completely inappropriate. I marched over to remind them to be respectful. But they were so slugnutty from not sleeping, it was like trying to tell a bunch of drunks to be quiet--it just made them louder.

Mark insisted he was not sleepy all the way home. He actually went the opposite direction, turning into a dancing, fast-talking maniac. He was fighting sleep deprivation with every fiber in him.

Five minutes after I sent him to his room, the house became eerily quiet. I tiptoed to Mark's room, and there he was, slumped on the floor. He was leaning against his bed, head back, glasses askew on his face, holding his pajamas. Dead asleep. I mean, he was out cold. I realized exactly what Josh meant when he said his body literally shut down.

"Come on, buddy, time for bed," I gently prodded Mark. He awoke with a start, put his pajamas on and crawled on top of the bed. He didn't even crawl under the covers, just slept on top, all the way through to this morning.

But hey, I've gotta give it to him. He grumbled a little, but in the end, he did suck it up.

Lesson learned!

My Little Nightmare

The hotel hosting the PADRE fashion show was quite busy last weekend--there were two other conferences going on at the same time.

I passed a sign for one of them, which on a normal day would've been weird enough--Actors and Models for Christ. (I guess Jesus has his own talent agency now?)

But you couldn't miss the attendees of the other event--they weren't loud, but they stood out. They wore gowns, robes, plastic swords, bright wigs and even brighter outfits. The few girls had wings, tiny little wings up to massive works of art spanning their entire backs. The boys (many, many boys) wore colorful outfits, and unicorn backpacks.

And hats, many, many hats, all of them sporting ears. Some people wore single unicorn horns sprouting from their foreheads, others wore a pair of tiny horns atop their heads. And the colors--it was a colorful crowd, like someone popped open a bag of Skittles and set them free to roam the lobby.

We were intrigued.

"What's going on?" my mom asked the concierge, gesturing toward the crowd.

"It's a My Little Pony convention," the concierge responded.

As in cartoon ponies? For little girls? We looked around again--there weren't any kids around, and certainly not many girls. The group was mostly young men in their late teens and 20s, walking around with stuffed ponies on their shoulders. It was kinda weird.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any weirder, a giant unicorn, powered by three boys, ran by me. Seriously. I had to chase it down and get a photo.

These girls were actually fashion show models, not MLP attendees.

I learned these guys were "bronies"--a mashup of the words "bro" and "ponies." That's right--they are male superfans who love cartoon ponies.

Despite their outlandish costumes, the bronies were very well-behaved. There were lots of security guards roaming the lobby, and they set up a very clear, definitive border between the fashion show and the bronies. I had to go through three different guards to pick Mark up from practice.

Mark walked uncomfortably through the crowd of fairies and unicorns.

"They're freaking me out," he grumbled.

I tried to keep an open mind, but it's hard when you're surrounded by a crowd of grown men carrying stuffed animals.

In the end, the extra security seemed unwarranted. The slight, quiet bronies didn't look or act like a threat--in fact, like ponies, they were easily spooked.

We encountered one very nervous young guy on the elevator who was convinced the malfactioning car door opened on every floor because someone was pranking us. ("That was awkward," he proclaimed, when we finally reached the lobby, voicing no one else's opinion.)

Another girl freaked out on a different elevator, claiming she was claustrophobic, and pushing her way off. For a bunch of pack animals, they sure seemed to hate crowds (or, you know...interacting with other people).

I couldn't get enough of it--I thought they were awesome, I wanted to talk to all of them. ("So...who's your favorite pony? What's your favorite color--rainbow? Me too!") I tried sneaking into the vendor hall, but got shut out by a beefy security guard. I wanted to learn everything there was about being a brony, but Mark wouldn't let me near them.

My mom was equally fascinated.

"What do you call them?" she wondered. "I mean, all of them together, as a group?"

I just shrugged. I had no idea--what do you call of group of ponies? A herd?

We got our answer as we checked out of the hotel the next morning and passed one lone brony in the hall.

"Join the heeeeerd," he neighed at us, confirming my guess. I almost lost it, biting my tongue so I didn't laugh right in the poor socially awkward young guy's face.

But I did nudge Mark once we passed him.

"Yeah, Mark, join the herd," I whispered.

Mark just sighed. He'd thought it was bad enough walking through the lobby with his mom potentially embarrassing him in front of his PADRE friends. He had no idea I could up the embarrassment level so much higher by stalking the bronies.

Whatever. All I know is that when I return next year, I'm wearing a unicorn backpack.  

Fashionisto

OK, I don't know if that's really the male version of "fashionista," but it sounded more appropriate.

Saturday night was Mark's third trip down the runway in the PADRE Foundation's annual fashion show. He rocked it, as always, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

This year, I also learned that it pays to have friends in high places. Shanda's dad John Kunkle is an auctioneer (he even has his own TV show, Container Wars--watch it!) and when I asked if he'd volunteer to help us out, he didn't even hesitate. He was in!

John helped out in the (not-so-)silent auction, encouraging bidders to bust a move. After the auction, he and his wife Debbie joined us at our table during dinner and the show.

"Do you think we'll get better seats because John and Debbie are with us?" my mom whispered. I giggled, because I'd wondered the same thing. We usually end up at the back of the room, somewhere between Siberia and the exit doors.

Turns out we got GREAT seats! In fact, we were at Table 1. They placed us there so John and the MC could scoot backstage easily. Oh, and the MC was none other than Miss America 1999 and the former host of the dLife TV show, Nicole Johnson. That's right, we sat with Miss America--we were definitely moving up in the world!

The dinner was good, and the videos they showed of the kids during various PADRE activities was great. We spotted Mark kayaking in the Catalina video, and in some of the summer camp pictures. And of course, they flashed the kids pictures on the giant screens during dinner--I got the Kunkles and Miss America to join my mom and I, screaming for Mark every time his picture appeared.

They also showed videos on the big screens, of the parents and kids discussing how their lives changed with their diabetes diagnoses, and my eyes welled up almost immediately. The ceremony dragged on a little bit, but my favorite part was the raffle. A bunch of little kids stood onstage with Nicole Johnson, who asked them their names and ages. The two littlest kids were a big hit with the audience.

"How old are you?" she asked one adorable little boy.

"Three," he answered, waving at the crowd.

"And how long have you had diabetes?" she asked.

"Twenty years," he answered, very seriously. The audience lost it.

John got up and worked his magic, raising a ton of money during the auction. Bless his heart--I'd told him about the past couple years, when people donated crazy amounts of money. This year, however, someone turned the donation waterfall off, because no one wanted to give at first. John finally coaxed some money out of them when he lowered the amounts, but man, I felt bad for him at first.

But then, finally, came the best part of the night--the kids. This year's theme was Invincible, and boy, did the kids play up to that. They came onstage for the opening number, dancing around in astronaut suits. (I didn't quite get the correlation, except that maybe astronauts are invincible? Whatever, it was a fun dance!)

There were a couple other dance numbers, one by the boy performers group and one by the girls. But then the music amped up, and it was time for the models.

The show is actually a full-fashion show, sponsored by Macy's and featuring their clothes. They have professional adult models walking the runway as well, and I recognized some of them from the previous years (yes, Michelle, the crazy hip lady was there, although she's learning to walk better--didn't look like she was going to throw out a hip this year!).

The kids did a fantastic job--I am just so impressed by them every year. They come out on stage to blaring music and flashing lights, to a huge ballroom filled with 50 tables and 500 people staring at them. The runway is long, too--lots of room to panic and go running backstage. But they moved forward, each of them walking to the edge of the runway, flaunting their stuff, then walking back up the runway.

Mark did an excellent job again this year! He'd complained after practice that he was walking with a really hyper kid this year--what he failed to mention was that it was a little kid. Seriously, he's only like four years old! (And to make things even more challenging, the little guy had a low blood sugar right before going on stage...poor guy!)

I think they picked Mark to walk with him because Mark's so great with little kids. But here they came, both of them so cute and proud, Mark leading the little guy like a true champ.

I've never been so proud of Mark! He shined in more ways than one on that stage.

The boys came back out together during the finale. They held their signs up, telling the number of years they've had diabetes. It's so weird to see all those signs--so sad and inspiring all at once. You just want to hug all those kids and make them feel better, but at the same time, you realize what heroes they really are, and that after all those years of living with diabetes, they really might just be invincible. But invincible or not, they're still just kids.

The event ran long this year, and we were exhausted by the end. But also happy--very happy--and inspired. These kids fight Type 1 diabetes every day. They may not win the small battles every day, but with our help, and PADRE's help, they'll win the war--and have fun doing it!

My son the comedian...what a card

During our Mother's Day dinner, we discussed that no matter what the holiday, we hate serious cards.

"I hate those serious, flowery birthday cards," I said. "I look at those paragraphs of words in cursive, and my mind literally goes blank. I just wait a couple seconds, pretend I've read them, then open the card to see who it's from."

My mom and Shanda agreed. This was most certainly a funny-card crowd.

And apparently, Mark feels the same, because this is the loving card he gave me this year:

I wasn't sure what was more shocking--the fact he gave me this card, or the fact that my mom approved it (she took him shopping).

"Really, Mom?" I asked, pointing to the "rat's ass" comment. I couldn't even say the words out loud to my prim and proper mother.

But my mom just giggled and shrugged.

"What?" she asked. "He's heard worse."

I looked at Mark, who nodded in agreement. 

"I have heard worse," he said. He looked at me knowingly and I shot him back the stink eye.

I realized two things in that moment. One, that my son finally recognizes that even though they may sound contrary, my brusque tone and unconventional words actually are loving and supportive. (I do love you, Mark, even if I tell you to brush your damn teeth and put on some clean damn clothes--that is loving and encouraging in our family.) And secondly, that we've given up even the smallest illusion of propriety in my family, even on the most sentimental of days. It's out the door, a complete free for all.

Which also means that, yes, I'm a little worried about the birthday card my beloved son will buy me next month. So if you see me reading it silently to myself before sharing it out loud...just know there's a good reason.

Word to your mother

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and I'm never sure how that's gonna pan out at my house. Sometimes I'm feted with breakfast in bed and homemade gifts, sometimes all I get is attitude. Happily, this year skewed more toward celebration. 

My mom was in town, so I got her to myself for most of the day (sorry, brothers). After congratulating ourselves on being such amazing mothers, we treated ourselves to a nice brunch. Then it was home to relax, where I imposed a strict rule that we couldn't do any chores or cleaning. We pretty much succeeded, except for making dinner. (Unless we wanted Top Ramen--Mark's specialty--we had to cook a little. But we made Mark clean it all up.)

Mom and Mark did sneak off for a bit to buy me a present. Mark insisted he was not late, as there were still a few hours left in the day. 

Upon his return, he scrambled around, first searching for a gift bag, and then in the kitchen. He was hard at work on something in there, warning me to stay out so I didn't ruin the surprise. I happily complied.

My brother Smed and his fiance, Shanda, also came to visit. We welcomed Shanda into our little celebration, wishing her a happy Mother's Day, since she's also amazing--a loving, stable mom to my little nephew. She was so sweet, bringing us little rose plants and wine. We had one big happy mom vibe going on.

As soon as he finished wrapping my present, Mark handed it to me.

"Open it!" he commanded.

"I can't," I told him. "Not until after dinner."

He insisted I open it immediately, in case I wanted to use it. I gently refused, reminding him there's a gift protocol--it's not a present-ripping frenzy.

But when I did open it, I realized why he wanted me to do it before dinner--he wanted me to use the gift during dinner.

That's right, he got me a set of specialized beer glasses--different kinds of glasses for different kinds of beer. Some moms get flowers for Mother's Day, some moms get beer glasses. Apparently, I belong to the latter group. (And in related news--boy, does that kid know what I like!)

"He picked it out himself," my mom said proudly, and I couldn't help smiling. "He said you only drink out of one glass."

I do, but it's awesome--my special Samuel Adams glass, created specifically to offer "a full sensory drinking experience by fully showcasing Samuel Adams Boston Lager's complex balance of malt and hop flavors," according to the brewery. (So yeah, one glass...)

"Thanks, buddy!" I enthused. "This is great!"

"That's a really cool gift," my beer-drinking friend Shanda said, admiring the set. "The beers really do taste differently depending on the glass."

Mark also included a Bud Light Lime Strawberry Margarita in a can. I wasn't sure which glass to use for that one, but Mark said I couldn't drink it at room temperature. (Whew!)

"I'll get you a beer!" he said, excitedly.

I was completely full from dinner, but there was no way to get out of an after-dinner beer without hurting the little guy's feelings. So as he got a Sierra Nevada from the fridge, Shanda and I read the descriptions to figure out which glass to use. We were torn between using the pale ale glass and the craft pub glass--Sierra Nevada's technically an India pale ale, but it's dark golden in color, like the beer in the craft pub glass. We finally opted for the pale ale glass and darned if the beer DIDN'T taste better in the specialty glass!

And so I enjoyed my beer with my other gift--a marshmallowy batch of Rice Krispie Treats that Mark made. (Coincidentally, it's also his favorite dessert.)

I hugged Mark and thanked him, and gave another silent thanks as well, for this crazy kid in front of me. The one who drives me nuts sometimes, who pushes my buttons and makes me want to scream in frustration. But that's not all he does--he also makes me insanely proud, of his kind and gentle nature, of how much he cares about his friends and family (and cats), of how sweet and silly he is. He makes me laugh, often, loudly. He asks me thoughtful questions, and engages me in conversations that are both thought-provoking and hilarious, often teaching me just as much as I teach him.

He opens me up to all sorts of things I never thought I'd do or be interested in. He tests me, yes, but not just in a bad way--he prods me out of my stubborn Dinsdale ways, encouraging me to try new things, new flavors, new thoughts. He makes me a better mom, and in doing so, he makes me a better person.

So yeah, in a way, Mother's Day is about me. But it's also about my mom, all the love she gives me, and how much more I appreciate her since getting my own child. And it's about the kid who made me a mom, too. His best gift will always be himself. Because, funny cards and breakfasts in bed aside, the best thing Mark ever made me was...a mom.

Ice cream, you scream

Mark and his buddy Sean came running home after school yesterday. Out of breath and jumping around, they excitedly asked if they could make ice cream. They'd learned how in their after-school math and science class. 

"But we only ate one bite," Mark told me. "I got a big chunk of salt in mine, so it was gross."

"It's super easy," Sean said. "All we need is milk, sugar, and vanilla. Oh, and ice and salt."

"And bags," Mark added. "LOTS of bags. I'm double-bagging mine so the salt doesn't get in!"

"OK," I said. "Let's do it! I wanna see how you make it."

"You just mix all those ingredients and shake it," Sean said. "Mark knows the recipe."

Which was not entirely true...

"We need half a cup of milk each," Mark said. "And half a cup of sugar. And three tablespoons of vanilla." He paused for a moment, then asked Sean, "Or was it teaspoons? "

"Teaspoons," Sean answered. "But it needed more."

"Um, half a cup of sugar sounds like a lot," I interjected. 

"Oh, wait, it was two tablespoons of sugar and three teaspoons of vanilla," Sean corrected. "And half a cup of milk."

I smiled--that sounded like a much better recipe.

"And it has to be kosher salt," Mark added.

"It doesn't have to be kosher salt," Sean said. "It just has to be that big kind of salt." (Which I'm pretty sure is kosher salt.)

The boys poured and measured, adding extra sugar and vanilla. They double-bagged the ingredients, filled a gallon bag with ice and salt, and they were ready to go.

"We have to shake it for 10 minutes," Sean said. "It's like making butter--but better!"

"Let's shake it outside," Mark said. "In case the ice makes holes in the bags." 

"Good idea," I said. 

They were enthusiastic shakers for the first three minutes. Then, they lost interest--well, they shifted their interest from shaking to basketball. Which wasn't really losing interest, they reasoned--it was actually better, because the bags were still shaking as they ran around the backyard. I just laughed and watched.

Sean's dad picked him up about 20 minutes later, before the ice cream was done (even with all that shaking). As soon as he left, Mark really did lose interest in shaking and just put his ice cream in the freezer.

He forgot about it until this morning. When I checked, it was frozen, and much browner than I expected. It was a funny shape, too, so it looked like a piece of frozen chicken. I almost tossed it into the crock pot for dinner accidentally. 

I was curious about it, though. I gently opened the bag, and scraped a piece off. It tastes like...vanilla extract. Frozen vanilla extract. With a lot of sugar in it.

It wasn't exactly ice cream, unless you're 13 and deprived of all treats all of the time (as a certain coupla 13-year-olds believe themselves to be). I'm sure it will be gone when I get home, but I'm not sure if it will be gone down the hatch, or down the sink. 

I don't care either way--the best part of the whole experiment was watching them make it. That alone was worth a cup of milk, three cups of sugar and 14 tablespoons of vanilla extract. (Or whatever the final recipe was...)