Royal Slacker

Mark's taking Spanish in school, which makes for interesting dual-language conversations.

"Yo soy un princesa," he told me the other day, explaining why he shouldn't have to wash dishes. That statement confused me more than a little.

"Um...well, technically, I think you're a princeso, since you're male," I explained. "But that doesn't sound like the right word, either..."

"Yo soy un princeso," he corrected himself, smiling. 

"Do you want to be a boy princess?" I asked. "Or are you trying to say you're a prince?"

"I'm a prince," he said. "How do you say that?"

"I don't know," I answered. "Maybe you should be king instead, because I know that one--el rey."

"I don't want to be a king," Mark said. "I wanna be a prince. Princes do whatever they want and if they get in trouble, the king takes care of it. It's more fun to be prince."

I wish I was surprised at that, but I wasn't really. 

"So you just want the title, but not the responsibility?" I asked.

"Exactly!" Mark grinned. "Kings work too hard."

"Huh," I said. "That's really interesting. Now wash the dishes!"

He snorted at me, and grumbled under his breath. I couldn't hear what he said exactly, but it sounded like "Princes don't do dishes. You're the mom, you should do them." 

I just smiled and handed him the dish soap. 

"Yo soy una princesa," I told him, and walked away.

We may not really live in a kingdom, but my house is not a democracy, either.
  

No comprendo

And sometimes our conversations go like this...


Mark, while doing his homework: This is a weird book...it only has Mexican names in it.

Me: What are you studying?

Mark: Spanish.

Me, after a brief pause: Seriously? You're surprised a Spanish book has all Mexican names in it? 

Mark: Yeah, that's weird, isn't it?

Me: Not really.

Mark: I think it's weird. 

Me: I can tell. What names should be in there?

Mark: Good names, like Mark.

Me: I bet there are a few Marcos in there.

Mark: Yeah, but my name isn't Marcos.

Me: It is in Spanish.

Mark: But we're not in Spain.

And that is when I lost the conversation. Or won it, I suppose. I'm not sure, really, because Mark just confused me into silence, which was probably the whole point. 

Either way, I'm just waiting for him to start his math homework now, and to hear his indignation when he realizes it's full of math problems.

A spectacular evening

Mark's freshman marching band year ended this weekend with a loss at the semi-final competitions. He was bummed, not because they lost, but because he won't spend every weekend with his friends now.

However, he had one final performance last night. It was the school district band spectacular. All seven high school bands performed, first individually, and then all together. It was pretty darn cool.

I'd seen a couple of the bands perform before. But the cool thing about this was that it was a showcase more than a competition. The kids totally treated it as such--the general mood was more supportive than it had been at any other show (which made sense, since they weren't trying to beat each other).

I signed up to volunteer. My contributions to the band thus far were monetary. I'd donated most of my money, and many boxes of snacks or water. But I wanted to give my time, though Mark was not pleased to hear it.

"You signed up for what?" he screeched. "Wait, what are you gonna do?"

"I dunno," I answered. "I just signed up as a parent volunteer."

"Are you gonna ride the bus?" he asked, nervously.

"I don't know," I answered.

"Are you gonna help hand out stuff?" he asked. "Are you gonna be on the field? You're not gonna help bring the instruments on the field, are you? Because you don't know how to do that."

"I don't know what I'm gonna do," I said, because  his faith in me was truly flattering. "You've done this all season long, you know better than I do. I'm gonna do whatever the other adults always do."

"Oh God!" he cried, stomping off. I could tell by his reaction that meant I was riding the bus and completely ruining his entire life, although maybe not in that order.

I wasn't sure what my job was, exactly; I just hoped I could help without getting in the way. (The band is a well-oiled machine, partly because the kids know what to do, but mostly because the band leaders and parents are phenomenal. Watching the dads load the equipment into the trucks is like watching a 3-D game of Tetris with musical instruments.) 

I arrived at the band room just in time to watch the chaos begin. I watched 80 kids comb through garment bags, slipping uniforms over their shorts and t-shirts. They buttoned their jackets, slipped on their shoes, then came to tell us they were missing a glove, a sock, a gold braid. (Each statement was quickly followed up with, "And yes, I already checked my bag, it's not in there.") Curiously, the only missing items were items that came in pairs. I have a high schooler myself. I wasn't surprised these things were missing; I was surprised there weren't more missing.

I introduced myself to the other moms, and asked if we were riding the bus with the kids, or driving ourselves.

"All chaperones ride the bus," came the answer. I felt great relief at that; now I knew exactly what my job was, and was not (I was mostly relieved not to break the well-oiled machine before they performed).

Mark hid in the farthest corner of the room that he could, careful not to acknowledge me. I made a mental note to return the favor when he inevitably came looking for concession stand money.

Finally, we loaded up the buses. I made sure to choose the second bus, loaded mostly with the color guard girls. I didn't really want to be on my ingrate son's bus anymore than he wanted me on there.

The bus driver started the engine, and as he did, the color guard started singing. They did a rousing rendition of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," which immediately sent the band members into a tizzy. 

"Can you not sing?" the band begged, which made the color guard sing louder. Luckily, they only got to 92 bottles before they finally got bored.

I sat in front of a couple of band boys who discussed important matters such as the iPhone 6, and whether it will eventually become an iPhone 100.

"It's like video game consoles," one boy noted. "They skipped like, 50 versions to go from the XBox 360 to XBox 4."

"They didn't skip 50," his friend answered. "It actually regressed--it went back like 365 numbers."

I frowned--I'm not good at math but 360-4 is not 365. But the boys had moved on to who knew more numbers in the pi sequence.

"I used to know, like, 27 numbers," one boy said. "My 7th grade math teacher said whoever memorized the most got extra credit, and I won!"

"How much extra credit did you get?" the other boy asked.

"Two points," the first boy said. "I wanted to get 3.14 points, but the teacher wouldn't give me that."

I thought he made a good point--the teacher missed an opportunity there! 

Soon enough, we reached the school. We unloaded the bus, and the kids made their way over to the trucks to unload their stuff. The dads passed out all the equipment, which the kids immediately started playing. I was amazed to see the instrument pieces fitted together--I never knew tubas came in multiple pieces!

Then it was off to the field for the group rehearsal. The great thing about bands is that if you have a loud voice and a whistle, you can get them to do anything you want. (I could rule the band world if I had a whistle!) The drum majors from all the schools lined up their bands, and within a few minutes, they were playing the group songs. 

Mark's band was thrilled, because they play one of the group songs in their show. He was stoked he had to learn one song less than everyone else.

"What are you playing with the group?" I asked, since they don't usually roll out the timpani for stuff like that.

"The tambourine," he said, and I shook my head, because honestly, when you're playing tambourine, does it really matter if you have to learn two or three songs?

The show finally started with the host school's steel drum band. I thought they were awesome, especially when they played "Margaritaville." 

The local city college band played too, performing during each of the breaks when the bands took the field.

The next band up was tiny--just the drumline. But they had a secret weapon--cheerleaders. And the minute the music started, those cheerleaders started shaking everything they had. The band boys in the stands went crazy, whooping it up and cheering wildly--they were not cheering for their fellow drummers.

Mark's band went down to practice after them, and I went with them. It was my chance to perform one of the sacred rituals--pluming the hats--and I was nervous. I didn't want to mess this up.

"How about if you get out the plumes and I put them in the hats?" another mom asked. I nodded gratefully. We worked together quickly, until everybody had a tall yellow feather sticking out of their caps.

But just before the band took the stage, the mom came racing back towards me.

"The drumline!" she gasped, grabbing up the bags. Apparently, they'd gone off somewhere separately to practice, and none of the drummers had plumes. 

We plumed them all with seconds to spare, and they took their places.

And man, did the band do an awesome job! They've been adding new movements, music and visual effects to each show, and this was no different. The theme was American music, and boy, did they do it justice. My favorite part was when Mark and the rest of the pit crew came marching out at the end, Mark pretending to play a fife, and Abe Lincoln dancing wildly. They were so good, the crowd all around us went crazy (although maybe it just sounded that way because I was sitting with all the other Millikan parents!). I had tears in my eyes at the end, I was so proud of them. 

The next band was my favorite (after ours). They walked quietly to the field, until the drum major blew her whistle. That sent them all running in a hundred different directions across the field, but somehow they ended up in precise lines. They played current pop songs, danced around, and the tuba player even sang "Rapper's Delight." (Yes, she put down her tuba first!) She rocked it, although she lost her place a couple times because she was laughing so much. Again, all the bands hooted and hollered, loving the silliness.

At the end of the school performances, the kids filed down onto the field en masse. Even though they only practiced once, they knew exactly where to go, and how to play all together. 

I strained to find Mark among them all. I finally did, and was not surprised by where he was--smack dab in the middle of the field. He was near but not with his band, and he was not playing the tambourine. He was playing the cymbals, crashing them together loudly, dramatically, high above his head, with a huge grin on his face. He was having the time of his life.

But he stopped playing during the next song. He held the cymbals at his side, and simply looked around. He watched the different bands playing, and even turned around to watch the musicians behind him. He was slowly taking in the whole scene, and even from the stands, I could see the smile on his face grow bigger and bigger.

And that was my favorite part of the whole show--watching my kid in the middle of all the chaos. He was one of them---he'd found his place, his people, his moment, and he was thoroughly enjoying it all. He wore his school sweatshirt proudly, and he laughed with all his friends, soaking it all in, one happy kid. The sheer joy on his face brought me to tears for the second time that evening.

It was a band spectacular, indeed.

Living the Life I Want

I spent this weekend with my mom, sister-in-law, and Oprah Winfrey, and had the most amazing time ever!

OK, fine, so maybe Oprah didn't sit anywhere near us, but honestly, it didn't matter. She spoke, we listened, and everyone left happy.

Let me back up a bit...Oprah hosted the Life You Want conference in eight cities around the country, and this was the last stop on the tour. I purchased tickets as fast as I could, and dragged my mom and Kim along for the ride. Luckily, they loved it as much as I did.

I wasn't sure what to expect from the event. The web site was vague, stating that we'd have a wondrous adventure with Oprah and her hand-picked trailblazers Deepak Chopra, Elizabeth Gilbert, Rob Bell, and Iyanla Vanzant. It promised to help me envision my next steps to the life I want, and it touted O Town, a pop-up village where I could learn and shop with fellow fans. 

Well, I wasn't sure I needed all that, but it certainly sounded interesting. I was in.

My mom and I started our adventure in a long line, where we collected our event wristbands. They were chunky white plastic blocks that looked and felt like house arrest bracelets. I wasn't sure what they were for, but I suspected the tour sponsors used them for marketing purposes.

Mom and I wandered over to O Town next.

I overheard a woman asking her friends what O Town was, and one answered, "It's a place to stand in long lines."

She wasn't kidding--there were lines for all the sponsors. We walked past booths for skin care, cars, and furniture stores, and one that simply read "Go boldy." I wasn't sure what they sold, but I cracked up at the woman behind me who read the sign out loud.

"Go baldly," she read, then asked, "Who wants to go baldly?" 

On the center stage, an OWN TV lady interviewed some of the network stars, including our favorite, Kym Whitley. She was hilarious. Iyanla Vanzant came onstage and she was pretty interesting, too. She's usually a little annoying, but she gave some great advice, especially when one woman asked how to make her life happier.

"Being happy is a choice," Iyanla told her. "Just like being sad or miserable is a choice. If you aren't happy, change that. If don't like your life, change it. You have to make the choice, and you have to do the work. No one else can do that for you." 

I nodded in agreement. Happy doesn't just come to you--you've gotta go after it. I realized I was gonna learn a lot this weekend, and I was excited!

Finally, it was time to start the show. We followed 10,000 giddy women (and a few less-giddy men) into the arena. Usually, I hate crowds, but this one was different. There was an electric energy in the air. These women were excited, happy, and unbelievably friendly. Everywhere we turned, they started a conversation, offering up chairs, asking where you were from. There were 10,000 people there, but they all felt like friends, neighbors, community...It was fantastic!

We climbed the stairs to the cheap seats, where Kim met us. The crowd waited for Oprah to take the stage, but in the meantime, they were there to party! A DJ played 80s dance tunes, which the crowd loved. (Apparently, all the Oprah fans are my age!) My mom, Kim, and I jumped up to join in the dance party, singing loudly, and busting our best moves.

And then, abruptly, the music stopped. The house lights went off, throwing the arena into darkness. Then Oprah herownself came over the speakers, talking about the beginning of time, when all that existed were the stars in the sky. Suddenly, my house arrest bracelet lit up--it turned blue, flickering like a star. All the bracelets in the arena turned blue, and it did look like a night sky full of stars. The crowd went insane.

Then the blue lights changed to red and yellow, just like the stage colors. A giant sun appeared onscreen, as Oprah said it was the dawning of a new day. The crowd cheered wildly as the sun rose, and then even louder as Ms. O took the stage. It. was. awesome!

When the crowd finally settled down, Oprah spoke. She talked for almost two hours, telling her story. A common thread ran through her stories--of triumph and failure, of second chances, of realizing that your biggest challenges and weakest moments are the ones that make you grow the most. She spoke of life as a series of mountain tops and valleys, and warned us not to get stuck when we hit the valleys.

"Don't let those valleys define you," she said. "Life is a series of highs on the mountain tops and lows in the valleys. But the challenging times are what make you strong, so use what you learn in the valley to make you stronger the next time you're there." 

I loved the message. It wasn't anything new, or even wildly original. But it was sincere, and honest, and it was a good reminder. It was like sitting down with an old friend you admire, someone who's always given your good advice. It was a wonderful way to end the evening.

The second day started out with another dance party. It was so much fun to just let loose, to dance wildly without a care in the world. I can't remember the last time I had that much energy so early on a Saturday morning.

Oprah came onstage, and then she brought out Deepak Chopra. He explained the difference between spirituality and religion (spirituality is your connection, your experience with God; religion is someone else's experience, their interpretation of how that relationship). I realized that's how I feel, and why I never really felt much kinship to religious institutions or (in my case) the priests that ran mine. I always felt like I was following their rules and their beliefs, not my own.

Next up was group meditation. I didn't know if that was possible in that giant arena--seriously, just moments before, the music was blaring, and the people were cheering and dancing. But Deepak did it--he quieted the crowd until you could hear a pin drop. He told us to close our eyes and focus on our breathing, and we did. (Well, I did, but then I opened my eyes--the silence was so sudden, it was like the people all disappeared. I had to see if they had!)

When Deepak brought us out of the meditation, I opened my eyes again, feeling strengthened and renewed. It was crazy how relaxed I felt.

The next speaker was Elizabeth Gilbert, author of the book Eat, Pray, Love. I totally dug that book, and I was excited to hear her. She was a great speaker, relaying her story with passion, but it felt different. I'd felt the common thread with Oprah and Deepak Chopra--their stories weren't mine, but I could relate to them. 

I couldn't relate to Liz Gilbert's story--it was one of misery and hopelessness. She recounted how she hated her life, her marriage, how she spent every night on the bathroom floor sobbing, searching for a way out. She relayed her desperate conversations with God, and how stifled she felt by her life, but how she didn't was so fearful of changing it and disappointing her family. 

It just made me so sad. I've felt low, and I've felt depressed, but that level of unhappiness, at feeling totally trapped in your whole life...I haven't felt that. 

So I listened with new ears. Instead of feeling sadness, I felt gratitude.

"Thank you," I whispered to my mom. For not making me doubt everything in my life, or for feeling like all I wanted out of life was an escape, is what I wanted to say. I couldn't really verbalize all that, but she knew what I meant.

I did enjoy the second part of Liz Gilbert's story, though. The soul-searching and relief when she found her way out of the darkness, and The Quest. Her Quest. I was even a little jealous at that point, not because I need a year away from everything to find myself, but because I want to spent four months each in Italy and Bali. That would be amazing...

Rob Bell was up next, and he was pretty good. He also emphasized the breathing, saying that if you are breathing, you get another chance (second chances, breathing, and listening to your spirit were the big themes here). I also liked his message of Love Wins--love always does win, and you have to love everyone, especially yourself.

We slipped out a little early to beat the lunch crowds. It was a good plan, because we beat the lines, enjoying fat shrimp po'boy sandwiches in the sun, and recounting our morning.

After that po'boy (OK, and a beer), I was a worried I might be a little sleepy for the afternoon sessions. But Oprah thought of everything--she brought our some Soulcycle instructors, who got the crowd on their feet and moving. We waved our arms, our legs, exercising in our tiny spaces, 10,000 lit-up bracelets moving up and down in sync. It was the perfect way to get everyone motivated--I was wide awake for the rest of the afternoon!

The last speaker was Iyanla Vanzant. She was good, much funnier than she is on her TV show. 

"I like her better as a comedienne," my mom said, and it was true, she was pretty dang funny.

Oprah closed out the show. She brought all the trailblazers back onstage for a final round of questions and applause, but they turned the tables on her. It was the very last show of the tour, and they wanted to thank her. Their heartfelt speeches made everyone in the arena, including Oprah, tear up. We all left feeling great--invigorated, inspired, and ready to change the world.

But first...dinner with my family. It was great to see my brother Tim, and my niece and nephew. (Heck, it was just nice to be around teenagers who were actually glad to see me--my surly teen is never happy to see me!) We laughed so much around the table that my face actually hurt. And we laughed just as much the next day, hopped up on cupcakes and sugar.

Overall, the weekend was one of the best ever. I learned a lot, but mostly, it was just a great reminder that I am living the life I want. I surround myself with uplifting people, I travel and spend time with my family--the things that really fuel my spirit. I don't waste time anymore on people who don't have time for me, or energy-sucking people. 

So I didn't walk away with any new, shocking revelations or fixes--I walked away with reminders to keep moving forward on my path. Follow the light, like the ever-changing colored bracelets showed me. Remember what I learned in the valleys, remember that every day is a second chance, like Oprah said. 

And most importantly, remember that being happy is a choice. I choose happiness, and I will do the work. 

I am filled with gratitude--to my parents, for raising me to be strong and loving, and to this weekend, for reminding me that I'm on the right path. 

Thank you, Oprah!

Man Potpourri

Mark loves to smell good. Not good as in, "I shower daily to smell fresh and clean," but good as in "I love me some artificial spray that covers up my natural...scent...so that I don't have to shower!"

Yeah, that kind of good. 

He once received a Christmas-themed can of body spray that made him (and the 20 feet surrounding him) smell like pine trees. Mark wore it year-round, a waft of pine forest mingled with grubby boy sweat following wherever he went. It was not my favorite smell.

Now that he's a teenager, he doesn't mind showering, and he's got a whole new set of smells to apply. He uses approximately one cup of mouthwash daily, and showers with a pungent Axe body wash. He uses a musky Old Spice shampoo and conditioner, which coordinates nicely with his Old Spice Fiji deodorant. And occasionally, he still adds the pine tree body spray, which apparently has a life-time supply in that bottomless can.

He is a walking cornucopia of what a man should smell like. (According to teens...) On a related note, I now take a daily allergy pill thanks to the artificial sprays.

Usually, I can combat these overpowering smells by just opening the windows. But the other day, I walked in to a full-on nasal assault so strong, it actually made my eyes water.

"Oh...my...GOD!" I cried, rubbing my eyes. I thought maybe the local SWAT team had lobbed in a couple tear gas grenades while I was out.

Luckily, I was home just long enough to grab some papers and get out. I figured whatever that smell was, it would die down by the time I came home later.

But I was wrong. It was just as strong. I tugged at my shirt, pulling it over my nose in a makeshift mask, and investigated.

After a brief search, I found the culprit:

I also found the top to the culprit, unceremoniously tossed nearby, and immediately re-capped it. My eyes stopped burning as soon as I put the top back on. 

Mark entered the house a few minutes later, and had the exact opposite reaction. He breathed in deeply, smiling, using his hands to direct the scent toward his own nose.

"It smells so gooooooood in here!" he sighed. "Did you buy a new candle?"

I just stared at him in disbelief. Finally, I handed the deodorant over to Mark. 

"You forgot to put this away," I told him. "It was stinkin' up the place!"

"That one's for school," he told me, stuffing it into his backpack. "I use it for basketball."

And sure enough, he was right. Because when I went in to the bathroom, there was a another (capped) deodorant on the counter.

It had this sticker on it, which cracked me up:

I giggled as I put it away. Because I certainly don't like the smell, but at least I like Old Spice's sense of humor (and now I know what sunshine and freedom smells like!). 

Karmic Retribution

Mark started high school a couple months ago. Coincidentally, that's also the time he amped up his snarky teenage attitude. He's perfected the art of snarling under his breath, talking back to me at every opportunity, and, inevitably, stomping out of the room because how else can he deal with such an idiotic mother? 

Of course, he can also immediately reverse that attitude from surly to charming as necessary. Those moments usually preface requests for money or permission to attend an extracurricular activity (which requires money). It's gotten so bad that whenever Mark's nice, I automatically sigh and pull out my wallet. (Or sometimes, when I've had enough, I don't.)

But Friday morning, I'd had it. I'd been awake all of 10 minutes, and I'd already checked Mark's blood sugar, fed him his morning breakfast shake, helpfully opened his blinds, and gently encouraged him to wake up.

"Time for school!" I said, as cheerfully as I could muster. (Which is not much, at 6:20 a.m.)

Mark immediately and angrily rolled over, slammed off the lights, and screamed at me to shut the blinds.

"I'm trying to sleep here!" he yelled. "Geez...back off!"

And that woke me up a little bit. My eyes opened, my jaw clenched, and my fists tightened. I envisioned wrapping Mark a little tighter in that blanket, at least enough so that he couldn't talk. But then I took a deep breath and left. I figured the best thing I could do was give myself space.

I took three short steps across the hall, into the bathroom. Physically it wasn't much distance, but now there was a door between me and Mark, and that was just enough to keep him alive a little bit longer.

I was still steaming, though. I'm not a morning person, and I hadn't even had my coffee yet. Under better circumstances (i.e., any time after 11 a.m.), I'd ignore bratty Mark. But waking up to that--it's a lot harder. My brain wasn't coherent enough to have rational thoughts, let alone patience.

I turned on the shower. As I did, I accidentally brushed the bath towels next to it.

Suddenly, something fell from Mark's towel. It dropped to the ground, where it wriggled, and my instincts kicked in. I grabbed some toilet paper and squished the darn thing.

It was a spider--a big one. A big, black, squished spider, who'd just suffered an untimely death. 

At first, I felt kinda bad. I try not to kill spiders (except black widows--they're fair game!) but this one caught me off guard.

Then I felt relief--glad the spider fell when I was in the bathroom, and not Mark. Because Mark is deathly afraid of spiders. He totally freaks out when he sees them.

And then, suddenly, I felt...giddy. I giggled to myself, because it was funny that the spider fell out of Mark's towel. Well, a good and proper mom might not think it was funny, but a newly-awakened mom who'd already been disrespected...well, it was pretty funny to that mom.

It was funny because here I was, feeling defeated and insulted, and the universe kinda winked at me. 

"Wanna see something?" the universe whispered to me, before unleashing the very thing that scares my snarky kid the most--an eight-legged dose of karma. And it helped immensely!

I knew I could never tell Mark. He'd flip out and refuse to shower or dry off ever again. But it was okay--I didn't need to tell Mark anyway--it was enough that I saw the spider, that I got the message. The universe saw I'd been wronged, and righted it. 

I felt validated. But just to be sure, I shook out my own towel before using it. ;-)

The Unspookiest Night Ever

I always wondered when Mark would lose interest in Halloween...the answer, apparently, was this year.

He feigned interest last month long enough to con me into buying a "costume"--a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sweatshirt. I realized there was only a 50% chance he'd actually wear it on Halloween (he's fickle), but I bought it anyway.

And true to form, on Halloween, he refused to wear the sweatshirt.

"Free dress day at school!" he sang happily to me instead. (That kid really hates school uniforms.)

"It's not free dress day," I reminded him. "It's COSTUME day. You are free to wear a costume."

"That's what I said," he repeated, slowly enough for my stupid parent brain to comprehend. "Free. Dress. Day."

We stared each other down for five seconds, until I broke.

"Not free dress. Costumes," I repeated. "Or uniforms."

He stomped off to his room, returning with a smirk, a Jamaican running jersey, basketball shorts, and his sweatshirt. He also sported a baseball cap and basketball shoes--basically, free dress.

"I'll wear the sweatshirt until I get hot," he explained. "Then my costume will be a Jamaican runner."

And that's how Mark talked himself back into his uniform for Halloween. 

"Fine, bye," he called out, walking out the door. He was totally unfazed, not angry or snotty--a dead giveaway he was up to no good.

"Let me check something," I said, before he got too far. I motioned to his backpack, and he handed it over with a loud sigh. I pulled out the clothes he'd stuffed in there for later. Mark thinks I'm totally predictable, but the truth is, he's just the same. He snatched his bag back, then stomped off to school.

Mark was much happier by the time I got home from work. He was still bummed to miss a friend's Halloween party (because of grades), but he helped me fill the candy bowls and wait for trick or treaters. And there was a Lakers-Clippers game on TV, so he was thrilled about that.

"That's a lot of candy," Mark observed, popping a candy bar into his mouth.

"I know!" I said. I'd never stayed home on Halloween, so I wasn't sure how many kids would come, but I expected a lot. Usually, we got 10 or 12 before we went trick or treating on our own. 

But not this year. I don't know where the trick or treaters went, but they skipped our house. We got a total of four small groups of kids, all girls, and that was it.

Mark jumped up when the first group knocked, racing toward the door.

"Slow down!" I said. "It's okay, you can give them candy."

"I don't wanna," Mark said, ducking past the front door. "I'm hiding."

And sure enough, that's what he did. He repeated this with the three other groups, jumping behind the couch, or slinking behind a wall. 

"There weren't any monsters at the door," I told him. "Just a bunch of little girls."

"They might know me," Mr. Self Conscious said, climbing out from behind the coffee table.

"They don't know you," I said. "They looked like sixth graders."

"Exactly," he said. "I know a lot of sixth graders."

I left that alone. I've learned you can't fight Mark with logic.

By 7:30, it was clear we'd get very few (if any) more kids. 

"Wanna go see some spooky houses?" I asked Mark. "I saw one scary house with a fog machine on the way home from work!"

"Nah," Mark said. He chomped another candy bar and changed TV channels.

"Wanna walk around the neighborhood and see kids in costumes?" I asked, but Mark just shook his head again. He'd realized that this was his most productive Halloween ever. He had all of his favorite things--TV, sports, and candy he didn't have to beg from the neighbors. And best of all, the candies were all his favorites.

"I kinda miss sorting through my candy and trading for the good stuff," he said. Then he fished out some M&Ms and brightened up. "But hey, this bowl is all good stuff anyway!"

By the end of the night, the living room looked like he'd been on a bender. Candy wrappers littered the floor, where Mark lay, holding his stomach and moaning.

"So...full..." he complained. That was my cue--with a little prodding, he cleaned up his mess and went to bed.

I thought this year might be a milestone for another reason. Mark doesn't have enough will power to ever turn down Halloween candy, but I thought this year, he was old enough to handle it, diabetically speaking.

"Just cover it," I pleaded. "You don't have to hide candy in your room and sneak it. If you eat it, just give yourself insulin." 

"I will," he said, confidentally. "Geez, I know how to handle myself around candy, Mom."

Which I totally agreed with--right up until the next morning. I made my coffee, then noticed his huge cup of hot chocolate with weird things floating in it.

"I added M&Ms," he told me. "It's the best hot chocolate ever!"

That's when I realized that no matter how hard I tried, or how much faith I had in him, he's just a 14-year-old boy. Who sees nothing wrong with starting his day with a giant cup of sugar.

So that's how our uneventful Halloween ended, as all the others before it had--with me taking away a giant bag of candy to keep my son out of a diabetic coma. 

But this year, it was much easier to do--I didn't have to buy the surplus candy from Mark (a kid only gives up his candy for cash). Technically, I'd already purchased the candy so Mark couldn't protest--he'd put no effort into collecting it. 

And, in the end, that sugary collection did make a lot of people happy, even if they weren't cute little trick or treaters. Just ask my co-workers, who gladly accepted the leftovers.

Hey Mark, just shake it off

I have a two-hour daily commute, so I hear a LOT of songs on the radio. All of them, in fact, which means I can sing any current song, because I hear. them. all. 

The only problem is the words. I know all the songs, and none of the words. This is not a new phenomena--I've been that way since I was a kid, confidently belting out the wrong words. I don't let a little thing like, oh, not knowing the lyrics, slow down my music appreciation.

Mark is the exact opposite. He knows all the songs and all the words, and loves to throw that in my face. He loves to mock me, repeating the phrases "Mom, that's not how the song goes..." or "Mom, that's not what they're saying" fifty times a day. It bothers him waaaaay more than it bothers me.

But Mr. Know-It-All apparently doesn't. 

Taylor Swift's song "Shake It Off" came on the car radio the other day, and Mark sang along in a silly, girly voice. He was being funny, and making me laugh, especially when he started mashing his hands together like he was kneading dough.

"And bakers gonna bake, bake, bake, bake, bake..." he sang, continuing his fancy patty-cake moves.

I couldn't stop laughing.

"That's not what she's saying!" I said, for the first time EVER.

He just rolled his eyes and sang louder. He knew I was the last person alive who could declare a song's lyrics right or wrong.

"That is what she's singing," he huffed, swiping my smartphone from the center console to prove me wrong. He searched for the lyrics, and I could see him mouthing the words in my peripheral vision.

We stopped at a red light, and I turned to look at him. He turned a tiny shade of red.

"Well, that's what it sounds like she's saying," he argued. 

I didn't answer. I just smiled at him and started wringing my own hands together.

"Bakers gonna bake, bake, bake, bake, bake!" I sang, laughing, until Mark smacked me.

"That's what it sounds like!" Mark insisted, but he was kind of laughing, too. Because like me, he recognizes when an embarrassing moment really is too good to waste on something as dumb as pride or being right. We just turned up the song and sang about bakers as loud as we could.

(For the record, the real line is "Heart-breakers gonna break, break, break, break, break"...which is nowhere near as funny as bakers who are gonna bake, bake, bake, bake, bake!)

Julia Child, eat your heart out...

Between all the booster club meetings, Scout meetings, fundraisers, and shuttling Mark between band and basketball practices, I've had very little time (and even less motivation) to cook dinner. My cooking hasn't just suffered--it downright disappeared. 

I felt guilty, and decided to cook at least once or twice this week. In my house, "cooking" means turning on the slow cooker, and I'm a pro at that.

But why should I have all the fun? I realized Mark needs some culinary practice as well, so I enlisted his help.

"Why do I have to make it?" he whined in his most supportive voice ever.  

"You don't have to, you get to," I answered brightly. "I'm gonna show you what to do this time, and you can make it on your own next time." 

And thus began another episode of Child Slave Labor, the ongoing show running in Mark's head.

Together, we whipped up a batch of homemade macaroni and cheese. I'd pre-cooked the noodles, then Mark mixed in milk, condensed milk, butter, salt, pepper, eggs, and a dash of paprika. I helped him fold in the cheddar cheese, and I could tell this was gonna be a good recipe, because the bag we put it in weighed a ton.

"Cheesy!" I said, placing the bag in the fridge. "That's gonna be good."

I showed Mark how to set up the slow cooker timer, and reminded him to spray the slow cooker before adding the mac n cheese. I asked if he had any questions, but he just grunted.

The cheesy pasta turned out really good. I'll make a few modifications for next time (pre-cook the pasta a little less, use sharp cheddar instead of mild, and actually follow the directions that said reserve 1/4 of the cheese to sprinkle on top instead of mixing it all in at once). But overall, it passed my successful dinner test--it was a hot, tasty meal, with enough leftovers for a second meal tonight and a few frozen packages for future dinners. I was very proud of us.

"That was super easy," I said to Mark. "You think you could make it again all on your own?" 

Mark grunted again.

"Can I make macaroni and cheese for dinner?" he asked. "Yeah, I can. I can even go to the store and buy the ingredients." 

"Really?" I asked, excitedly. This was very encouraging news! I didn't think he'd be so excited about cooking.

Turns out, he wasn't. 

"Yeah," he grumbled. "I'll go to the store and look for the blue box of mac n cheese. Then I'll come home and cook it. Boom! Dinner's done."

And my happy mood deflated. So much for teaching valuable lessons here.

"Don't burn yourself out on boxed pasta and ramen noodles," I reminded him. "Or else you'll starve in college." 

Because he certainly won't be putting my cooking lessons to use then! 

Music to my ears

Saturday was Mark's second marching band competition. It was a bit further from home, so this time I dragged my friend Edra along with me. 

"Oh, great," Mark grumbled when I told him. "She can see me in my dumb costume."

I'd forgotten about his new costume--the pit kids all got a new wardrobe for their Americana-themed show. Mark was now a Minute Man.

Edra and I had a lovely day, visiting the super cute historic district of San Juan Capistrano, where we enjoyed a fabulous lunch and wine at a local wine tasting room.

We then drove to the high school competition, although I got a little confused by the parking signs. I ended up near the school buses, where a nice volunteer told me to make a u-turn. 

"There's parking on the right for $5," he said. "All the money goes to supporting our band, so you can park there if you'd like to help out."

"I'm already supporting a high school band," I told Edra, steering toward the free lot. But karma laughed at me, because I missed the free lot and ended up at the paid lot instead.

"Just pay the five bucks," Edra said, so I did. Sometimes you can't beat the universe...

We got there just in time for the 45 minute dinner break. We were a little bummed about that, until we saw a bake sale, which took the sting out of sitting around the bleachers for an additional 45 minutes.

The bake sale was unbelievable! There were trays and trays of gourmet treats, all individually bagged and tied. There were s'mores cupcakes with roasted marshmallows on top, and hand-dipped pretzel sticks. There were homemade cookies, three to a bag, and brownies with thin, perfect layers of frosting on top. There were cookie bars and rice krispie treats with M&Ms, and all of it was beautiful--everything looked fresh, like it came straight from the bakery.

"Did the parents make all this?" I asked, incredulously.

"Yep," the parent volunteer answered. "Everything is only a dollar each!"

I couldn't believe it--I barely got my kid to practice on time, and he left with a barely-nutritious lunch and 10 bucks for a snack bar dinner. And here, these Orange County parents had time to bake and bag tons and tons of beautifully crafted treats, and decorate them with ribbons. 

"That would be my contribution," I told Edra, pointing to a pink box of purchased donuts. "I'm a terrible parent!"

"Don't beat yourself up," she said, as we walked away. "Parents didn't make all these--the nannies did!" 

I took a look around the swanky neighborhood and agreed with her.

Finally, it was time to start again. The Millikan band marched out to the far end of the field. I craned my neck, looking for Mark and his new costume, but all I saw were blue and gold uniforms, and the flag team.

Then the announcer called the team onto the field. Immediately below us, the pit raced by, pulling the percussion instruments with them. Mark appeared maybe ten feet away, and Edra and I called out to him.

Here was his reply:

That's right, as soon as the little stinker saw us and saw my camera phone pointed at him, he turned the other way. He refused to acknowledge us at all. (Ahhhhh, teenagers.)

But no worries, I still managed to get a photo once they were all set up.

The kids sounded and looked great. They even added a third song to the show, and new marches. They did a phenomenal job, and we cheered wildly for them at the end.

We stayed to watch the bands in Millikan's level, five bands in all. Edra loved it--she'd been on the color guard team all through high school, and said this competition really brought back a lot of memories. She had a lot of great insight, and explained why the teams did what they did--how some kids marched quickly in big steps to cover a lot of ground, while others took tiny steps or just moved in place. She pointed out how they marched heel to toe. She pointed out that marching is really hard to learn, and even harder to learn while playing instruments. And she pointed out the color guard moving seamlessly between the musicians.

"We used to get so mad at the band," she said. "Because we knew how to move around the field, and they didn't. They were used to playing, not marching, so they were always messing us up."

We also talked about college bands, and how complex their shows are. Edra told me it's because the college kids already know how to march when they get in--they don't have to perfect the basics, like high school kids do. 

It was awesome--I learned as much about marching, dancing and competing from Edra as I did about music from Mark. Between those two, I may actually figure out what's going on by Mark's senior year!

The other bands did a great job, too. I'd seen one of the other bands before. They have an awesome marching show, but the musical part was definitely lacking. I'd told Edra that they spent too much time on marching, and not enough on the music--but now, I understood why.

Edra and I left happy and proud of Mark. And of his band and band directors, too. Every time I see them, they've improved by leaps and bounds, and you can see all the hard work they've put into their show.

Rock on, Rams!

My new job: Concert reviewer

This week I attended my first high school instrumental concert at Mark's school. It was pretty darn cool!

So far, I've seen the marching band perform at a pre-game show for parents (awesome!), a couple football games (too distracting), and at a marching band competition (super awesome and distraction-free). But this was my introductory formal concert.

The first thing I noticed was how the kids all looked like waiters in their black pants and white shirts. (I waited for someone to come take my drink order, but apparently, they were too busy tuning their instruments!) Mark and a few other boys upped the look by adding black jackets, and of course, Mark wore his favorite black bow tie. He looked very fancy and professional.

The second thing I noticed was wow, those kids are amazing musicians! Seriously. I attended all the elementary and middle school concerts, but only because my kid played in them, not because they were world-class performances. The younger kids, though they started off rough, usually found their way by the end of the songs. But these high school kids were on a whole different level--they sounded great right from the get-go, and each group sounded better than the last.

In addition to playing more and longer songs, the high school orchestra and bands were also a lot bigger. There were a lot of different groups, too--a jazz band, a jazz combo, an orchestra, the symphonic winds, the concert band, the marching band, and the chamber orchestra. They took turns onstage, waiting for the stage lights to shine on them before playing, and then exiting the stage quietly an precisely after the lights dimmed. 

The kids were far less squirrelly onstage prior to performing. Which was a little sad, since that was always the best (and funniest) part of the show at the elementary school concerts. 

The show started with the jazz band, which consisted of all boys (most of them on electric guitar) and one girl (on bass). They had a full drum-set and a couple horns. They were pretty good.

The orchestra sat onstage during their performance. The number of violins and cellos was impressive, as was the quality of the music. They played well, too.

Next up was the concert band. I'd read over the printed program multiple times by now, so I was surprised to see Mark onstage, as he was not listed as a member of the concert band (turns out, he played for a kid who couldn't make it). At first, I thought maybe I was wrong and that wasn't him--there are a handful of brown-haired kids with glasses, all dressed alike, so from a distance it's hard to pick out your kid sometimes. But I knew for sure it was Mark when he leaned in and kept talking to the kid next to him, and talked right up until the music started. (Mark's a very social kid!)

He was standing behind the orchestra, so I couldn't really see what he was playing. I thought it might be his regular timpani, but he was using regular drumsticks instead of the timpani mallets. I thought it might be snare drum, but I couldn't hear a snare, so I finally settled on cymbals. 

Which I dug for another reason--prior to Mark's concerts, I never realized there were so many different percussion instruments, or ways to play them. I'd always thought of cymbals as something you just hit to make a crashing sound, or hit together to make an even louder crash. But there was Mark, drum sticks in hand, playing a mounted cymbal like a snare drum.

Mark did play the snare for the next band, the symphonic winds. He'd very patiently explained to me what symphonic wind instruments are--"anything that uses wind to make a sound"--and then again, when he saw the confused look on my face --"anything you blow into, like horns, or flutes." But I was still puzzled at how drums are considered wind instruments.

"You move the air to make the sound," he'd said. "The air interacts with the drum head to make the music." I still didn't think of drums as wind instruments, but hey, what do I know? Mark's the true musician in the family.

Next up was the chamber orchestra. These all looked like older students, upperclassmen for sure. They filed into their seats, tuned their instruments, then sat quietly until Mrs. B, the conductor, appeared onstage. She explained to us that this was the most advanced band on campus, and boy, was she right. I don't know any chamber music at all, and if you asked me to a chamber music concert, I'd probably decline. But these kids were spectacular! They were totally at home on stage, playing those violins and cellos in a frenzy. Their bows flew across the violins at rapid speed, until the musicians stopped suddenly, plucking at the strings with their hands. Those kids had a razor-sharp focus, never once looking at their instruments, only staring straight ahead at their sheet music. 

I just couldn't get over those kids. They walked onstage as young adults, but the music they coaxed from their instruments betrayed their youth. I was only a few months out of middle-school concerts, but it felt like I'd traveled light-years ahead, musically.

The chamber orchestra left the stage to deafening applause. Apparently, I wasn't the only one they impressed. 

I watched the stage crew roll out the instruments for the next group, including the four giant timpani drums, which meant Mark was up again!

I've seen the marching band numerous times, but only outdoors, in big, open spaces. Watching them all cram onto this small stage was really interesting. They had lots of big, loud instruments--the tubas, of course, but also the trumpets, trombones, clarinets and flutes. The concert band used those, too, but the marching band used them completely differently. Their music is much louder, meant to be projected in a stadium, traveling over distances and loud crowds. The band tried to pare that sound down for the indoor auditorium, but it didn't quite work.

It was also funny to watch the musicians. They're used to moving, marching across the field. Obviously, they couldn't do that onstage, so they marched in place, stepping forward every so often in formation. 

And they brought a whole different vibe to the concert--a sense of fun. The jazz band brought a sense of cool, and the orchestras brought an air of culture. The band and symphonic winds brought a sense of class--"we are accomplished musicians, listen to how we've mastered our instruments." But the marching band--they brought the beat, the show, the I-wanna-get-up-and-dance. They whipped the crowd into a cheering, clapping, hootin'-and-hollerin' frenzy, exactly what you want at a football game or pep rally. They were limited by the size of the stage, but not by their enthusiasm.

I left the auditorium on a high after that, tapping my fingers and whistling their songs. It was a really great night.

Anyway...this was a very long-winded (symphonic-winded?) way of saying...boy, my kid has come a long way musically in the past couple months. I've run the gamut of emotions during his short career so far--sad that I never see him anymore (he's always at practice), proud of his focus and determination (not usually Mark's strong suits), and pure joy, admiration, and inspiration while watching him (and the other kids) perform. 

And excitement. Definitely excitement, both for the progress Mark's made so far, and for the progress he'll make in the next few years. He's come so far in such a short time--I can't wait to see where he'll be a few years from now!