Anti-WHAT??

This is a friendly reminder that when you go to the drugstore, it's best to leave your children at home. Especially if they can read. And they're 8. And they laugh at anything containing the word "butt." (Which pretty much describes all 8-year-olds.)

We stopped at the drugstore this afternoon to purchase some Dramamine. A completely unhelpful clerk waved vaguely into the air with instructions to try Aisle 12. I did so, searching up and down the aisle with no luck. "I'll help!" Mark volunteered. "You look on that side, I'll look on this side."

And that's when I found out his side of the aisle was infinitely more exciting than my own. My side had every kind of stomach aid you can possibly imagine, which then segued into about 3,111 types of cold medicine for babies. Mark was searching his side of the aisle quietly, when he suddenly burst into laughter, and started chanting, "Monkey butt, monkey butt, AN-TI-MONKEY BUTT!"

I was mortified. "MARK! STOP THAT IMMEDIATELY!" I hissed, and he tried, bless his little heart. Through his snickering, he pointed at a round yellow canister and said, ever-so-innocently, "What? I was just reading the label!"

Turns out he was. To my shock, there is indeed a product called Anti-Monkey Butt. The label shows a grinning, red-bottomed monkey flashing a thumbs-up sign (although I couldn't figure out why he was so happy when the powder clearly wasn't working on his own bum).

I couldn't help it. I turned into a giggling 8-year-old myself. "Avert your eyes," I thought, but when I did, they landed on another product called Boileaze, which helps eliminate boils on your body. I bit my lip, and tried again, but this time, they landed on Staph-A-Septic, which helps prevent staph infections (although, seriously, would you really buy ANY product that contains the word septic? I've watched enough episodes of ER to know septic is never good).

Mark didn't notice any of this, because he was now dancing in the aisle and singing a made-up anti-monkey butt song. He was beginning to draw an audience of curious shoppers.

It was all I could do to get out of the store before losing it. I grabbed his hand and ran for the door, careful not to make contact with any possibly monkey-butt, boil-covered, staph-infected patrons perusing the shelves.

"But what about the Dramamine?" Mark asked, as we headed toward the door. "Are you just gonna leave without it?"

"You bet your monkey-butt I am," I answered. We just barely made it out the door before the laughter completely took over.

YES WE CAN!

Oh my god, did anyone else see The Speech last night?? Man, I am on such an Obama high this morning--it was that great.

I let Mark stay up late to watch it with my mom and I (I taped it, since he spoke during dinner). Mark didn't really understand the importance of it all, so I explained it to him. Before the speech, I told him that this was a first, an African-American man being nominated as a presidential candidate. I told him how amazing that fact alone was; but even better, the last man standing in the campaign against him for the Democratic nomination wasn't even a MAN--it was Hillary! A woman! (I love this country...)

Mark didn't get the significance of either point, to which I say--HOORAY! He'll grow up thinking it's completely normal for ANYONE, including a woman or a minority, to hold the highest office in the country.

But after the speech, I pounded another point into him. What felt historical to me about the speech was not the color of Barack Obama's skin, but the grace and humility of his character. We listened raptly, the three of us, cheering and calling out to the T.V., "That's right!" We felt like we were watching one of our own--someone who grew up in the real world, not another privileged politician with a silver spoon and a sense of entitlement. I was cheering for him not because of what he looked like, but because of what he felt, and thought. I was cheering for what he offered--hope and change--because both are in short supply these days. And I was grateful for what he was NOT selling--fear and scare-tactics.

All politics aside, I will say this: tonight an extremely smart, articulate, thoughtful man showed my son that with hard work and dedication, you really CAN become anything you want to become. Nothing can limit you, least of all the color of your skin.

So today, as a mother; as a minority; as a woman; as an aunt to little girls and little boys, who are also minorities; today, I say to them that if you think you can become anything you want to, well, you're right--YES, YOU CAN!!

Well, that was NOT fun

Q: How do you completely stress out a mom?

A: Tell her a week before classes start that her kid's not enrolled in school.

Oh, and for bonus points, remember that this is a kid with diabetes, who requires LOADS of extra planning to ensure his safety and well-being!

Man, that was my week. It started when I found out, by accident, that Mark wasn't enrolled in after-school care because he wasn't enrolled in school. (What the WHAT????) Classes were full, so I was supposed to show up on the first day of school, and probably take Mark to a different school with openings. And maybe (maybe not) a school nurse. And definitely a staff not trained in diabetes care. And not even in our neighborhood.

Talk about stress!! To say I flipped out is a bit of an understatement. I was like Bruce Banner, but instead of the Hulk, I turned into Mad Mama Bear. Luckily, as my mom noted, I've got my grandmother's genes. I wasn't going to roll over easily.

And so I went into hyperdrive, phone and keyboard in hand. I called and emailed pretty much anybody working in the departments titled "superintendent" or "board of education." I spoke to everyone in the front office at the elementary school, including the principal and the counselor, multiple times. I brought out the big guns--my letter writing-skills, diplomacy and even the D card (diabetes), and my sense of indignation that, yet again, my child was being denied access to his neighborhood school. I pleaded, implored, rampaged, and ended up taking more Tylenol in the past few days than I have all year long.

But it worked! With much help from the superintendent's admin assistant and the principal, the school opened up another 3rd glass class, and my son's enrolled in it. Grandma was right--a little hell-raising helps.

Whew...it was quite the Chinese fire drill (without the car, of course). But he's in, he's got after-school care, and I'm relieved. I have no idea who his teacher is, but right now, I don't even care. I'm just excited that for...well, the first time EVER...my son can walk to his own neighborhood school, safely, in less than 10 minutes, and spend the day learning with other kids from our neighborhood.

I guess it's true what they say about the harder the battle, the sweeter the success...this one's been 2 1/2 years in the trenches, capped off by a crazy week before school starting, and victory couldn't possibly feel any sweeter than it does now. :-)

Uh, no, I won't

File this one under: Questions I will NEVER answer yes to.

Went to breakfast with friends yesterday. Afterwards, 13-year-old Gillen took Mark and David into the army-navy surplus store to show them around.

His mom, Jill, dragged me into an antiques shop next door. We'd been gone awhile, so I called to check on the boys. (They were with an adult, David--but it's Gillen and Mark, in an army store, we're talking about here.)

Gillen answered, and said yes, they were still in the surplus store. And then he asked me, in all seriousness, if I would buy Mark a hatchet. "He found one, and he really, really wants it," Gillen said.

"NO!" I answered instantly. Gillen started to plead his case, but I just hung up on him and hurried next door. I found Mark walking around with the hatchet in his hot little hands.

I immediately disarmed him, and he ran off with Gillen. They returned a few minutes later, unsheathing a machete. "Well, can I get this instead?" Mark asked, and I just shook my head.

"Come on!" he protested. "It's not even sharp!"

"No," I said. "Dull just means you'll bleed to death slowly instead of severing your limbs quickly."

I swear, sometimes I don't understand how boys survive childhood long enough to grow into men...

Back on the job

Here's a sight I haven't seen in a couple weeks...the little man fast asleep in his own bed. I walked by his room tonight, and his night light was on for the first time in a fortnight. I found it strangely comforting. He was sound asleep, bathed in warm light, and just looked completely at peace.

He returned from camp today...and of course, he had a blast. He couldn't wait to tell me all the things he'd done--ride a pony named Peter Pan, swim in the whale-shaped pool, relax on the porch swing outside his cabin. He canoed across the lake, splashing "muck" all over the counselor whenever he paddled. He made a car in woodshop ("I burnt myself a couple times") and loved the snow cones ("They were carb-free--I ate three!"). His activities were timely (participating in the Silly Olympics) and goofy (he ate an entire spaghetti dinner without using his hands at all). He spent the car ride home singing about 15 new camp songs he'd learned.

But Mark didn't do all the activities--when I asked if he'd gone fishing, he scrunched up his face and told me, horrified, "No--the worms were ALIVE!" He couldn't believe the counselors wanted him to actually hook up a live worm as bait.

"Of course, they're alive," I told him. "That's what fish like to eat, live worms. What do you think, they're gonna eat frozen worms or something, just so you can bait the hooks a little easier?"

That made sense to him. "Frozen would be good--then they wouldn't be all gross."

I just shook my head. "Fine," I said. "Then you can have a frozen hamburger for lunch."

He even brought his own clothes home this time, and another new pair of black jeans.

And so now he's home for good. No more sleepaway camps, or even daycamps. I'm back to work as full-time mom, and it feels pretty good. I REALLY enjoyed my two child-free weeks, but I also missed my little guy. I feel refreshed, recharged, and ready for duty.

(Let's see how long that feeling lasts!)

UnPop-Tart

I know better, I really do. I know they aren't good for me. I know they aren't healthy in any respect, even though the packaging claims they contain seven essential vitamins and minerals and zero grams of trans fat. I know not to feed them to my kid because they shoot his blood sugar up through the stratosphere, where it lingers for the better part of the morning, making him cranky and me miserable.

But even knowing all that, I can't help myself -- I love Pop-Tarts. I even bought a toaster once just because it had a Pop-Tart setting.

I don't usually buy them (see above paragraph re: Mark's blood sugar). But Mark was gone, and I had a moment of weakness while strolling through the grocery store. OK, maybe it was more impulsive ("Mmmmm, Pop-Tarts!") than weak, but whatever, I ended up with a box of chocolate frosted Pop-Tarts.

So this morning, I unwrapped the foil packaging, placed my Pop-Tart into the toaster, and marveled at the marketing genius who put together the words "toaster" and "pastry." (I mean, really--when was the last time you said "Do I want something from the toaster, or do I want a pastry? Wait, I know--I'll have BOTH!")

It wasn't long before my breakfast was cooked, and I reached in carefully to retrieve it. And that is when my morning joy disintegrated...along with my Pop-Tart, which had somehow wedged itself between the two hot shards of metal that hold the bread slices in the toaster.

Damn...if you think a Pop-Tart is bad for your body, you oughtta see what it does to a toaster! As soon as you crack the outer shell (with say, a knife or fork you mistakenly think will pry the pastry loose), all the chocolately gooey-ness melts out, seeping into the toaster crevices, and coating the metal parts. And once that Pop-Tart is broken, forget getting it out of the toaster--it's like pulling a cracker across a cheese grater--crumbs EVERYWHERE.

Guess I'm buying a new toaster this weekend.

He's off again

Sent Mark off to his second week of sleepaway camp. He spent a nice weekend with his cousins, slept in Monday morning, and enjoyed a leisurely morning playing with his cats and Matchbox cars. I forgot how easy life is when you're 8.

My morning was not as calm. I rushed around, rooting through his closet for old, expendable clothes that 1) still fit and 2) he would wear. This was not an easy task--he'd lost 90% of his expendable clothes at camp last week, and of the clothes he had left, he refused to wear the "teeny tiny" school shorts. I figured meeting both criteria was too difficult, so I just settled on clothes that fit. I partially solved the dilemma by transforming two pair of thrashed school pants into cutoffs. He loved them, and I bit my tongue to not point out the striking resemblance their length bore to my own cropped pants. I didn't say the words "male capri pants," but I certainly thought them.

While I loaded his luggage into the car, I asked him to take the garbage cans out to the street. This was met with immediate resistance, and a shocked, "Why do I have to do everything around here?" Then the mention of chores triggered another thought and he reminded me that I owed him allowance from last week.

"For what?" I asked. "You weren't even here!"

"So? I still get allowance."

Now this debate I had to hear. "Um, did you feed the cats last week?" I asked.

"No, but I made my bed every day!"

I shook my head. "Doesn't count. It's a sleeping bag--it was already made!"

He could've debated forever, so I shut him down with a quick, "No chores, no money" and finished packing the car. We were off to the hospital lobby to meet the bus.

However, the bus was not as anxious to meet us. In fact, it was nowhere in sight. I crammed into line to check Mark in. I passed off his pump supplies, checked in his luggage and got him a spiffy new name badge. He busied himself playing with the hospital house phone and the pay phone next to it.

The bus was to leave at 1, but 1 dragged on to 1:30, which dragged on to 2. Meanwhile, I argued with my squirrelly child to get off the grubby floor, to not touch the dirty trashcan, to stop trying to wedge his fingers into the elevator doors, and to PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE not crack his head open on the tiled floors 20 minutes before he left for camp. I finally relented on the last one, because he was intent on cracking it open, and I figured, well, we're already in the hospital, so if he's gonna crack his head open, at least he picked the right place to do it.

By the time he finally got on the bus, I was ready for him to go. I watched him climb aboard, waited around a couple minutes, and figured I was clear. They weren't gonna let him off the bus, so I headed to my car. I'd enjoyed having him back the past three days, and I'll miss him over the next few days. But right then my head was pounding, and I was irritated.

"Child-free again," I sighed, and that soothed my head a bit. I sure love my kid, and I wouldn't trade him for anything. But as I enjoyed the peace and quiet walking by myself to the car...well, let me just say, I finally understood why people send their kids away to boarding school!

At least there's no dirty laundry

Returned to Northern Cal this weekend to pick Mark up from camp. I thoroughly enjoyed my carefree, child-free week, but I also missed my little man a lot. It's been almost three years since I lived alone in the house, and it felt kinda strange to be home when he wasn't.

I certainly had a blast while he was gone. I saw two movies, went to one concert and one extended happy hour. I didn't cook once--turning on the coffee maker was the closest I got to actually using a kitchen appliance. I'm not proud of myself--I even dined on frozen yogurt and movie popcorn one night, just because I could.

I slept in late every day, because there was no one else to cajole awake or prepare meals for. It was just me--wake up, shower, out the door, arrive at work. No side trips to school or daycamp, just straight to work. It was pretty cool.

But like I said, I did miss my little guy, and I was anxious to see him again. He stepped off the bus looking sleepy and unfortunately dressed in a red t-shirt, green sweat pants, and shoes without shoelaces. A mesh laundry bag was slung over his shoulder, and his open shoes flapped as he walked--he looked like he was returning from a week in jail, not camp.

"Where are your shoelaces?" I asked him in the car.

"We had a treasure hunt," he said. "They needed shoelaces, so I gave them mine."

Kim and I congratulated him on being a team player, but when I asked what happened to them after that, he simply said, "I lost them." When we got home, Kim didn't even get out of the car--I unloaded his bags, and she drove off to get him new shoelaces.

Once inside, I kissed his head, and recoiled in horror. "Your scalp's bleeding!" I shouted, and dug through his hair to find where the red splotches ended. He shook me off, explaining it wasn't blood, just red dye left over from crazy hair day.

He ran off to play with Hannah and Nick. I dragged his duffel bag to the washing machine--I would wash his clothes, repack them, and be ready to go for the next camp Monday morning. I expected a new wardrobe, like last year, when Mark traded away all his clothes (that's what he told me, anyway). He made out pretty well--traded some old diabetes walk shirts for Pirates of the Caribbean shirts, and a very snazzy Beatles shirt.

What I wasn't expecting to see was a nearly-empty duffel bag. Where were the new clothes? Hell, where were the OLD clothes?

Mark said he'd lost them.

"What do you mean, you LOST them?" I sent SEVEN complete sets of clothes--shirts, shorts, underwear, socks, two pair of jeans. I fished around in the duffel--there were exactly three pair of jeans and one pair of shorts. That's it. I'd only packed clothes I didn't expect to ever see again, but I thought I'd see new clothes in their place. (He was very excited about a new pair of black jeans he'd acquired. "No one else claimed them, so I did," he said, proudly.)

Luckily, I'd planned ahead, and brought clean clothes for Sunday. (I figured his would be filthy--and I'm sure they are, wherever they may be.) I didn't bring pajamas, though, so he was thrilled to sleep in his clothes that night. Only 8-year-old boys are excited to sleep in the same dirty clothes they've worn all day (and probably most of the week).

That evening, Tim and Kim went to a party up the street. I stayed home with the kids, eating pizza and playing video games. Shortly after I put the kids to bed, Tim came home. He didn't like the drinks at the party, so he made his own and returned to the party. He came back 45 minutes later to refresh his drink, and take a bottle of tequila back to the party. He came another hour after that, this time bearing food and a good buzz.

"I brought you dessert!" he said a little too loudly, and held a plate out to me. He pointed at the little puff pastries and chocolates, then frowned, examining the plate closely. "Maybe it's not dessert--I thought these were little pastries, but it looks like there's corn on them. So maybe it's not dessert. But it's probably still good--just eat them first, and pretend like it's not dessert." He rambled on like a 15-year-old after his first beer.

He sat and talked to me for a good half-hour after that, and I told him he's the worst party guest ever, clearly one with A.D.D. "What do you do when you go to parties that aren't at the end of your block?" I asked. "Do you actually talk to other guests, instead of your sister?"

"I don't go to parties unless they're on my block," he said, and then he left. I wasn't worried--I knew he'd be back again soon. He returned shortly after midnight with Kim in tow. The dancing had started, and she didn't want to leave, but he'd made his last trip home for the night.

Needless to say, they slept in a little later this morning. We eventually packed up the car and headed to the beach. Even Mark, who splashed through the surf in a bathing suit he borrowed from Nicholas, because of course, his suit was lost somewhere between camp and who-knows-where...

Mama got a girls' night out

That's right, and I dragged my sister-in-law Mari along for the ride. We attended our friend Laura Roppé's CD release party at the Belly Up Tavern last night, and it was a blast! (The pic is from her CD cover.)

We ran into all the Roppé's, including Lynn Roppé (Brad and Brian's mom), who I haven't seen in probably 20 years. She immediately told Mari a story about how young Brian came home once with a bald patch on his head, and reported that it came from me pulling his hair out. His mother was horrified until Brian told her, "It's okay, I got her back--she has a bald patch, too." Mari looked at me, but I just shrugged. "Sounds about right," I said. We weren't exactly the sweetest children growing up.

Then I saw Brian, who couldn't wait to show me pictures from his latest adventure. "I went to a party at the Playboy Mansion," he told me proudly, and flipped through his phone to show me pictures. "Here's the front of the Mansion--recognize that?"

I just stared at him. "Um, no," I answered. "Because I'm a GIRL!" (Hey, I may not recognize the Playboy Mansion, but ask me who was on the last five covers of People magazine--that I know.)

The place was packed with Laura's friends and family. Big Brad was pacing around, and when I asked if he was excited for his wife, he answered, "I'm really nervous!" He had no reason to be--when Laura came onstage, the crowd cheered wildly and the party started.

She was AWESOME! Gorgeous, confident, and having a great time...it was literally her moment in the spotlight, and she reveled in it. She sounded fantastic, singing her original songs. (I listened to the CD today, and it's SOOOO good! Go to http://www.lauraroppe.com/ to listen to or buy her new CD, Girl Like This.)

It was so much fun. Mari and I danced and whooped it up, bringing Laura's song "Mama Needs a Girls' Night Out" to life. We were still high from the music and laughing as we drove home, when suddenly, some guy ran into the otherwise deserted road. I missed him, but only because he moved quickly. Mari couldn't believe it--she rolled down her window to let him have it.

"That was not a good choice you made!" she yelled as we zipped by, and I started laughing, thinking of how many times a day she says that to her kids.

Even on our girls' night out, we couldn't stop being Mamas.

Call 911, I'm on fire!

We were sitting around, watching the Olympics, when Kim made her casual announcement. "Oh, tonight is dinner at the firehouse," she said. I immediately perked up.

"Dinner where? Details, please!" I tried to sound as casual as she did, but it didn't work. First I sent my son to camp for a week, and now I would dine with firemen? This was quickly becoming one of my best trips to their house EVER!

Turns out they'd won the dinner in a silent auction, and I got to join the lucky winners.

So off we went, to Fire Engine 1. We were greeted by a very nice fireman, who led us around the garage and showed off their big, new, shiny fire engine. It was pretty cool.

Next, he led us into the kitchen/dining area, where we met a couple of captains and some other firemen cooking up a storm. It was like a dream come true--cute men who saved lives by day, and cooked at night! Plus they are gone for 24 hours at a time, three times a week--sounds perfect to me. (And guys wonder why we love firemen so much!)

Suddenly, a dispatcher's voice interrupted our tour, and everyone strained to hear. There was an electrical fire, and Engine 1 was needed.

Our guide lead us to the garage, where we filed along the wall, out of the way. Seconds later, the firemen came running out from all directions, grabbing up boots and pants and pulling them on. They jumped into the two fire engines, and sped out of the garage, sirens blaring, lights blazing. Seeing that shiny new fire engine turn sharply out of the garage was even cooler than seeing it just sitting there.

We were all amped up from the excitement. We barraged our nice fireman/tour guide with questions. He told us all about the fire protection clothing they wore, and the gear they used. It was really interesting until I spotted something--yes, it's true--something shiny.

"Hey, it's the pole! Do you guys still slide down that when you go on calls?" I asked.

The fireman laughed and said, yes, some people still use it. However, it was created back when they put on their gear upstairs and slid down fully clothed. But now, most firefighters just wear shorts and gear up downstairs, avoiding the pole and the friction burns it gives to less-than-fully-clothed firemen.

It was on to the gym, and the T.V. room. We passed another pole, and Hannah said, "Look, it's raining firemen!"

"That's my DREAM," I told her, imagining firemen falling from the skies.

And then the dream ended...I had to go to the airport for my flight home. ("If I known we were dining at the firehouse, I would have changed my flight!" I told Kim.) I was bummed to miss riding in the fire engine, and dining with the crew.

Oh well, it was still a dream come true, even if it was a short dream.

What, no ashtray??

Dropped Mark off for sleep-away camp yesterday. He'd already completed a summer's worth of day camps, where he spent his time playing sports, and crafting art projects like the one to the left. ("I made you a shot glass!" he told me proudly, as I marveled over its gritty, crumbling clay-ness. I don't know where he came up with that idea--I've never done any shots in front of him, let alone the 3- to 4-ounce shots the clay "shot glass" obviously held. Quite frankly, I'd have been less surprised if he'd sculpted me a beer bottle instead.)

But it was time for his summer highlight--sleep-away camp! We flew up to Northern Cali, where the camp is, and where my brother Tim and his family live. Mark was so excited--not only was he going to camp (read: escaping Mommy and all the terrible chores she imposes on him) for a week, but he also got to see his cousins.

My last Mommy task for the week was convincing Mark to finish his lunch before he got on the bus. "I bolused you for all of it," I warned him, which is thinly-veiled code for "I gave you the insulin, you must eat the corresponding carbs OR ELSE." (If you think it's hard to get your kids to eat, try feeding a kid with diabetes AFTER you've already given him his insulin!)

And so it went for 15 minutes. He finally finished, though he dragged out every last mouthful and spilled some of the milk. Whatever. I figure he got most of the carbs in him.

There was still a good half hour to kill before the bus departed, and watching Mark not eat his lunch made us all hungry. We were standing in front of Tim/Kim's favorite restaurant, facing the parking lot and buses.

We grabbed a table in the patio and I went inside with Kim. ("Don't let that bus outta your sight!" I told Tim. "Run after it if you have to!" And he realized then that NOTHING must get between me and my child-free week.)

As soon as we ordered up lunch, the counselors yelled, "Load 'em up!" and started putting kids on the buses. I grabbed Mark up and out of his seat--I looked like that family crossing sign on the freeway, where the mom is running and pulling her kid through the air.

I got to the edge of the restaurant before I realized he hadn't said goodbye to anyone. "Um, go back and hug your cousins good-bye," I told him, and of course, he walked back in slooooooow motion. (A little too slow for a someone who couldn't wait to leave, I thought.)

We headed to the bus, where he pushed his way into line, and turned to me. I thought he was going to hug me, or say goodbye, but instead, in his lowest I-mean-business voice, he whispered fiercely, "You can GO now."

I was being dismissed? Here? Like that?

"I love you, too, honey!" I said loudly, and enveloped him in my arms. He struggled to free himself, protesting the whole time, "I'm serious! Go! GOODBYE!"

I hugged him again, a real one this time, and kissed his squirming head. "I can't just leave you here in the parking lot," I said. "I've gotta make sure you get on the bus."

And get on he did--he pushed his way to the front, and disappeared onto the bus. My nephew Nicholas had joined us by then, and we searched the rows for Mark, for one last wave goodbye. But Mark had parked himself in a row on the opposite side of the bus, and was hiding far below the window sightline.

"Well, I guess that's that," I said to Nick, and he nodded. We pushed through the crowd of crying parents and the kids waving furiously at them from the bus. Meanwhile, my son was still hunkered down on the bus, hiding from us. I heard a loud rumble as we walked away. I'm pretty sure it was the bus engines starting up, but I won't rule out the possibility that it was Mark sighing with relief that I was finally gone.

Awwwww....

Sometimes my kid drives me insane...and sometimes there are days like this, when I walk into the bathroom and see a sweet message he's written on the mirror.

Happily ever after...

Jimmy Buffett has this wonderful song where he sings, "I just want to live happily ever after, every now and then." I've always loved that song, and that sentiment--it's like, he's not demanding to be happy all the time, he's just hoping for those little moments of contentment, that feeling of happily ever after, if only ever so briefly.

I love those moments. I had one tonight--that moment when everything, for just one shining instant--was perfect in my world.

We went to dinner with Smed, Brandy and Johnny. There was a concert at the park, so we packed a picnic dinner and headed over. The band had already started, serenading us with big band melodies as we ate. Johnny, like any other self-respecting toddler, was more interested in the scenery than his dinner, so he hastened the end of the meal by ceremoniously tossing most of it off his tray. He let out a loud, guttural, grunting sound, and started shaking his tray, signaling that dinner time was OVER.

Brandy unbuckled him, and off he ran, Mommy and Daddy chasing after him. Mark stood and tossed his football to me, and I passed it back all wobbly. He thrust his hands in the air like, "What the heck??" and I just shrugged.

"I'm a writer, not a quarterback," I apologized, but he just rolled his eyes.

We tossed the ball back and forth, the sun hidden behind the massive trees, and setting behind him. The light was fading, the music filling the park, the boy completely engaged. He talked about his field trip that day, and coached me on throwing a football properly. He just looked so sweet and innocent--his face filthy from a busy day at camp; his favorite, too-big shorts falling off him; his Pokémon hat skewed slightly to the side. He grinned a big, happy grin, and from 10 feet away, I could still see the two glaring gaps waiting for his adult teeth to debut. He chastised me whenever I threw the ball short or bouncing away (which was a lot), but it didn't really matter. What mattered was that we were there, together, just hanging out, just...being.

That was it for me--I couldn't think of a better place to be, or a better person to be there with. That was my happily ever after.

Prison break

I've taken on a new profession--wild animal trapper. I'm not very good at it, but I made my first catch last night. (Don't worry, it wasn't cruel--it was actually more of a catch-and-release episode.)

Let me explain...my crazy neighbor almost burned her house down a few months ago, and moved out. She packed up everything but her cats--four adult cats and three adorable little kittens.

It really bugs me that she just up and left them to fend for themselves--who does that??? These aren't wild animals, they are domesticated cats she fed every day until she left them on their own.

Well, I tolerated those cats up until this weekend. Then, to my horror, I saw the mama cat get run over by a car. It was the most horrible thing I've seen. I can't get it out of my mind.

And now those three little kittens are orphans. They can't live on their own, and they are still young enough and cute enough that if I catch them now, they'll have a pretty good chance of being adopted.

So last night, I set up a cat trap in my garage. (They sneak in there a lot to eat the dry cat food Mark spills all over the place.) I baited it with wet cat food, opened the garage door a little bit, and I swear, within 20 minutes, the dang trap had been sprung.

But there was no cat inside. A little bit of fur, but no cat. I couldn't figure it out.

I re-set the trap, went to the movies and returned home to find not one but TWO kittens in the trap! They weren't at all scared, just relaxing. They were the cutest little things in the world. I couldn't believe my luck!

Well, my luck changed quickly. I turned my back on them for an instant, to get them some dry food and close the garage. I heard them rustling in the cage, and by the time I looked back at the cage, the garage door was closed and the cage was EMPTY!

I couldn't believe it! How'd they get out at all, let alone so quickly?? (And if they could get out in the first place, why had they stayed in there?) I went out onto the driveway and looked at the yard next door--where the kittens were lounging, peacefully. One of them was on his side, rolling around--not scared or traumatized in the least. He yawned lazily and stared at me, as if to say, "Hey, thanks for dinner!" He had a full stomach and no hard feelings whatsoever.

I went back and checked out the trap. There is the LITTLEST TINIEST gap ever between the trap door, which no one but a kitten could escape through. I still can't believe I was outsmarted by a couple of wild kittens.

So I guess I'll have to keep feeding them until they get big enough to NOT escape. And that little lounging kitty has earned himself a new name--Houdini.

I'm bored...

Most people know me as Mark's Mom, an all-encompassing term for chauffeur, cook, housekeeper, laundress, story-reader extraordinaire, band-aid applicator. (I'm also a pretty good carb counter and yes, I CAN estimate the total carb count of your entire lunch in less than 20 seconds--skills that are woefully underappreciated by general society.)

I think of myself as Mark's personal assistant. My boss may be little, but he is outspoken. He debates even the simplest seemingly-non-debatable suggestions ("Why do I always have to wear clean socks??") and is shocked when I insist he repeat tasks on a daily basis ("Why do I have to feed the cats EVERY night?"). I've read that celebrity personal assistants also have immature, demanding clients but to them I say--"PFFFT!! Stop your whining, you get a paycheck and you can actually quit your job."

But my young prince himself likens me more to a court jester--someone whose sole purpose in life is to allay his boredom and keep him entertained.

Now this, as you may guess, is not a role I enjoy or encourage. I remind him that he does, indeed, possess an active imagination, an overstuffed bookcase, and a room full of toys, an observation that is met with the same blank stare every time.

Yesterday we went to lunch with some friends. It was a beautiful day, and afterwards, we decided to take the little water taxi around the bay. We waited for the boat, and I pointed out the little fish in the water and the big paddle boat moored beside us. Mark just shrugged.

Then the water taxi arrived. It cost two bucks, and lasted an hour--a pretty good deal, I thought. We putt-putted across the bay in a boat, and saw a seal sunning himself next to some giant pelicans. We saw an old Russian spy submarine, and a gigantic cruise ship with a twisty water slide on top. We saw people fishing, and having family picnics. We saw a bright yellow power speed boat. We saw the jutting downtown buildings and the coast all the way up to the pier and beyond. I thought it was pretty cool--definitely worth two bucks, and way more fun than sitting around the house doing nothing.

My bored son disagreed. The water taxi was only fun as long as he teetered precariously along the edge while I faced the other way. It was also fun when he provoked me into chasing him as he leapt from the back of the boat to the front. And of course, it was fun when he pretended to throw his plastic cup into the water so many times that Edra took it away from him.

But as soon as I strongly "invited" him to sit down and live (vs. running around and being strangled), the fun stopped. He looked at the captain and asked when the pilot was gonna start the boat again. He corrected himself--"I mean, the sailor"--but then decided it didn't matter what the guy was called, his job was obviously to torture Mark. All interest in the pilot/sailor ceased.

"Here we go!" I announced brightly when the sailor started the boat up again, but Mark was done. He laid down on the bench with great flourish, ensuring he could see nothing but my knees. And then, with a huge sigh, he rolled his eyes at me, and silently wished he was anywhere else in the world but on this boring boat.

Soon enough, we were home. Mark immediately asked if I wanted to play cards, or shoot baskets, or play something else. "I'm tired," I told him. "Go find something to play with."

And with that, my young child--the same boy I could not convince to sit anywhere near me on the boat--pouted and stomped off. "You NEVER want to play with me!" he hissed, and somewhere, I just knew there was a pilot/sailor shaking his head sadly.