Last Christmas, Santa brought Mark a skateboard. Mark was thrilled. He bragged about all the tricks he would do, throwing in lots of skater terms like "ollie" and "grind." He described the ramps he would conquer, and the jumps he would stick perfectly on the other side. And then he walked his new board outside and ever-so-tentatively scooted it very carefully across the patio.
That's about the extent of his riding so far. He walks his board to one end of the patio, climbs aboard, pushes twice with his foot, then glides four or five feet until the momentum dies. Then he turns around, and repeats it.
I've watched him do this for a couple months now. I've tried to encourage him, and to praise him on the rare occasion he's pushed himself more than twice. I finally realized the boy is never going to ride any farther without help.
So I did what I do best when Mark needs to learn something -- I got out my checkbook. I may not have the patience of a good teacher, but I'm a wizard when it comes to Googling stuff. I found and signed him up for lessons.
Mark was so excited for today's lesson that he woke up really early. He even got dressed before waking me up. That's right, the boy of a thousand skater t-shirts woke me up, and I was a little surprised to see him in jeans and his button-down dress shirt. Apparently, it was formal day at the skate park.
Today was his second lesson, and I think he really likes it so far. He complained about all the padding (knees, elbows, wrist guards) at first, but fell within the first 10 minutes, and never complained about it again.
The class is great so far. The teacher, Adam, sets up a course for the kids, with various sized ramps and even a couple rails. He shows them how to go up and down the ramp, then calls out for them to try.
There's one little kid in the class, Shaefer, who's just a demon. He's got to be at least 8 or 9 (the minimum age requirement) but he's so little he looks about 4 or 5. Shaefer's small, but fast. He raced up those ramps fearlessly. Half the time he made it, and the other half, he fell to the ground and rolled just as fearlessly. But he got up every time and raced back. It was pretty cool to watch.
My kid, on the other hand...let's just say he was more...um...analytical about it. He thought about riding his board as fast as Shaefer. He thought about making that jump, and turning a 180 like Shaefer. But then he watched Shaefer fall, and that ended the analysis.
Adam called for Mark to try the ramp. Mark walked across the concrete, carrying his skateboard, until Adam stopped him.
"No, Mark, RIDE the board!" Adam called out.
Mark stopped and put the board down, then carefully climbed onto it. He gave his usual push, and glided toward Adam, stopping about three feet away. He held out his arms to Adam, beseeching him to pull Mark up the ramp.
Adam called for Mark to kick more, to build up some speed. Mark pushed once more, glided two feet. It was as painful for the other parents watching as it was for me.
"Is that your son?" one woman asked and I actually hesitated before answering.
"Yes," I finally admitted. "This is his first lesson. Ever." I prayed silently that she didn't recognize me from last week's lesson.
"He's doing great," she assured me, about two seconds before Mark tripped over his skateboard (which he was carrying -- not riding!) and fell. I realized it might take more than five classes for Mark to become proficient.
But Adam, bless his heart, never gave up on the kids. He helped them up the ramps, and taught them to flip around on their boards. I admired his patience, and just as quickly questioned his sanity when he announced it was time to combine the ramps and the rails (long, thin metal poles he expected them to ride across).
So Mark collected his skateboard, walked to the other side of the skate park, and lined up for the rails. I mentally calculated the fastest route to the nearest ER.
"Kick, Mark, kick!" Adam yelled, as Mark glided toward him. "Build up your speed!" Then he walked over to where Mark had stopped, and pulled him up the ramp and over the rail.
For the last trick, Adam showed the kids how to ride up to the rail, and jump over it on their skateboards. Mark did not manage to jump over, or even clear the rail -- instead, he got his skateboard stuck on the rail, and fell over it.
Oh my god, he's sooo my kid, I thought, and shook my head sadly for him.
Thankfully, after 20 more minutes of free skating, Adam finally took pity on the parents and set us free. Shaefer flew off toward home on his skateboard, and Mark walked his over to me.
"That was fun!" he said, and I nodded. I would describe it more as amusing, but hey, fun works too!
And so young Tony Hawk Junior removed the protective gear, hitched up his skateboard, and carried it to the car.
Well, at least I won't need the ER, I I thought to myself. He certainly won't break any bones walking.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Ouch!
Mark is a very smart boy; but he's book-smart, not street-smart, as he likes to believe.
What this means is, like any other kid, Mark gets in trouble, and tries to cover it up. Lucky for me, he's sneaky, but not very good at it.
Maybe it's because he doesn't watch enough police detective shows. I loved NYPD Blue; it taught me never ever to accept a drink from seemingly friendly detectives while being interrogated. (They routinely extracted DNA samples from soda cans or cups.) So maybe I've never been interrogated yet, but if it happens, I'll dehydrate before I give up the goods!
I've also learned from detective shows that if you commit a crime using your computer, smash it. To bits. To beyond smithereens -- they can retrieve anything off your hard drive. At the very least, empty the trash if you've sent incriminating emails, and delete your browser history if you've Googled things like "toaster in bath" shortly before your wife is electrocuted in the tub.
And I've learned that the bare minimum requirement to being a successful criminal is to wear gloves and wipe down a crime scene after committing a crime. Any criminal worth their salt knows to double-check the scene for evidence.
Lucky for me, Mark isn't worth his salt.
In the last week, he's incriminated himself multiple times. The first time he got busted was by the school cafeteria, who sent home a note saying Mark owes them $1.50.
"Did you eat in the caff?" I asked him, and he immediately shook his head. I don't care if he eats there, but it takes a little planning--we have to go through the menu, decide what he's gonna eat, and count the carbs for those items. None of which occurs when he spontaneously buys lunch.
"No!" he said defensively. "I don't even have any money left on my card!"
Before he could protest any longer, I handed him the note, and watched his attitude change. (I also told him he'd be paying the debt with his own money.)
The next day, the school nurse said Mark tested his blood sugar after school, and left the office without telling anyone. She only knew he was low because he left his meter on her desk.
He's always very surprised when he gets caught. He asks how I found out, and I always give him the same answer: "I have eyes in the back of my head. I see everything you do; nothing gets past me." He knows that can't be true, but I've caught him so many times, he actually believes it now.
He believes it so much that last night, he tried to put me out of business. We were just goofing around, being silly. I turned my back to him and suddenly, he jammed a finger into my head.
"Ow!" I yelled. "What'd you do that for?"
He grinned at me and said, "I poked you in the eye."
I knew immediately which eye he was talking about -- the one in the back of my head!
"It didn't work," I told him. "It was closed."
He was unconvinced until this morning. "Pay your cafeteria debt today," I reminded him, and he stopped in his tracks.
"How do you know I didn't pay yesterday?"
I smiled. "I always know," I told him.
I could feel his glare on my back as I turned around. And as I walked away, I know he wanted with all of his heart to make a smirky face at me.
But he didn't dare; he knew the eye was watching!
What this means is, like any other kid, Mark gets in trouble, and tries to cover it up. Lucky for me, he's sneaky, but not very good at it.
Maybe it's because he doesn't watch enough police detective shows. I loved NYPD Blue; it taught me never ever to accept a drink from seemingly friendly detectives while being interrogated. (They routinely extracted DNA samples from soda cans or cups.) So maybe I've never been interrogated yet, but if it happens, I'll dehydrate before I give up the goods!
I've also learned from detective shows that if you commit a crime using your computer, smash it. To bits. To beyond smithereens -- they can retrieve anything off your hard drive. At the very least, empty the trash if you've sent incriminating emails, and delete your browser history if you've Googled things like "toaster in bath" shortly before your wife is electrocuted in the tub.
And I've learned that the bare minimum requirement to being a successful criminal is to wear gloves and wipe down a crime scene after committing a crime. Any criminal worth their salt knows to double-check the scene for evidence.
Lucky for me, Mark isn't worth his salt.
In the last week, he's incriminated himself multiple times. The first time he got busted was by the school cafeteria, who sent home a note saying Mark owes them $1.50.
"Did you eat in the caff?" I asked him, and he immediately shook his head. I don't care if he eats there, but it takes a little planning--we have to go through the menu, decide what he's gonna eat, and count the carbs for those items. None of which occurs when he spontaneously buys lunch.
"No!" he said defensively. "I don't even have any money left on my card!"
Before he could protest any longer, I handed him the note, and watched his attitude change. (I also told him he'd be paying the debt with his own money.)
The next day, the school nurse said Mark tested his blood sugar after school, and left the office without telling anyone. She only knew he was low because he left his meter on her desk.
He's always very surprised when he gets caught. He asks how I found out, and I always give him the same answer: "I have eyes in the back of my head. I see everything you do; nothing gets past me." He knows that can't be true, but I've caught him so many times, he actually believes it now.
He believes it so much that last night, he tried to put me out of business. We were just goofing around, being silly. I turned my back to him and suddenly, he jammed a finger into my head.
"Ow!" I yelled. "What'd you do that for?"
He grinned at me and said, "I poked you in the eye."
I knew immediately which eye he was talking about -- the one in the back of my head!
"It didn't work," I told him. "It was closed."
He was unconvinced until this morning. "Pay your cafeteria debt today," I reminded him, and he stopped in his tracks.
"How do you know I didn't pay yesterday?"
I smiled. "I always know," I told him.
I could feel his glare on my back as I turned around. And as I walked away, I know he wanted with all of his heart to make a smirky face at me.
But he didn't dare; he knew the eye was watching!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Happy Birthday!
Today is Mardi Gras, and normally, I'd celebrate with a plethora of plastic beads and a King's Cake. But this year, I'm celebrating with a birthday cake instead. It's Mark's birthday, and today, I am the proud mother of a 9-year-old boy.
I woke him up by singing "Happy Birthday," and to my dismay, he rolled over in his bed, pulling the pillow over his ears. (Hey, I'm no American Idol, but my singing's not that bad!)
"No, Mom!" he shouted through the pillow. "No!"
"What do you mean, 'No'?" I asked. "It's your birthday! I think you're legally obligated to wake up happy."
But he was having none of it, not even when I gave him his first present.
"Since it's your birthday, I'm giving you a choice," I said. "You can sleep in late this morning, or go get donuts for your birthday breakfast."
And, in typical Mark fashion, he asked, "Can I do both?"
Now, let me just tell you, the only thing that boy loves more than his cat Frankie or sleeping in late is a donut. Sometimes he'll stop whatever he's doing, look up to the skies with glazed-over eyes, and say dreamily, "Donuts -- I love donuts!" I think it was the first thing he bonded with my dad over -- their mutual love of donuts.
Eventually, he chose donuts over sleep. He hopped out of bed, and danced around his room. He brushed his teeth while singing, and dressed very quickly, shaking his booty at me. He even drank his morning shake without complaint when I said I couldn't send him to school all jacked up on fried dough and sugar alone. (He's gotta have some protein, or he'll go low by 10 a.m.)
And finally, he was ready. We drove to the donut shop, where he took one look at the display and asked, "Can I have two donuts?"
"Sure," I said. It's his birthday, and I was feeling magnanimous.
It took a few minutes, but he finally decided on a maple bar and a devil's food covered in coconut. He sat at the table, still singing and wiggling in anticipation. "I looooove donuts!" he reminded me.
He savored the maple bar, licking his fingers between bites so he didn't miss a single bit of it. He took a while to eat it, and when he finally finished it, he patted his belly and blew out a long breath.
"You okay?" I asked, and he nodded.
"I'm getting kinda full," he said.
"Well, you don't have to eat the second one," I told him.
He looked at me like I was insane, and threw his arms into the air. "What are you, CRAZY?" he shouted. "OF COURSE I'm gonna eat the other one!" He shook his head in disbelief. He couldn't believe I'd even suggest such a thing.
He took about three bites of the coconut one, then looked back over at the display and sighed.
"I should've got a glazed one," he said wistfully.
"You can get one next time," I said.
"When? In another YEAR?" He shook his head at me again. I swear, he may be newly 9, but he's got the teenage attitude pefected already.
Finally, after watching him take the smallest bites ever for 20 minutes, I insisted we leave. I wanted him to have a few minutes to run all that sugar off on the playground before class started.
I dropped him off across from school, and watched him run along the sidewalk, racing my car to the crosswalk. He danced across the sidewalk, and I just smiled.
There's goes my 9-year-old, I thought to myself. And I smiled at the happy, confident, loving little boy he's grown into.
Happy birthday, little man. Laissez les bon temps rouler!
I woke him up by singing "Happy Birthday," and to my dismay, he rolled over in his bed, pulling the pillow over his ears. (Hey, I'm no American Idol, but my singing's not that bad!)
"No, Mom!" he shouted through the pillow. "No!"
"What do you mean, 'No'?" I asked. "It's your birthday! I think you're legally obligated to wake up happy."
But he was having none of it, not even when I gave him his first present.
"Since it's your birthday, I'm giving you a choice," I said. "You can sleep in late this morning, or go get donuts for your birthday breakfast."
And, in typical Mark fashion, he asked, "Can I do both?"
Now, let me just tell you, the only thing that boy loves more than his cat Frankie or sleeping in late is a donut. Sometimes he'll stop whatever he's doing, look up to the skies with glazed-over eyes, and say dreamily, "Donuts -- I love donuts!" I think it was the first thing he bonded with my dad over -- their mutual love of donuts.
Eventually, he chose donuts over sleep. He hopped out of bed, and danced around his room. He brushed his teeth while singing, and dressed very quickly, shaking his booty at me. He even drank his morning shake without complaint when I said I couldn't send him to school all jacked up on fried dough and sugar alone. (He's gotta have some protein, or he'll go low by 10 a.m.)
And finally, he was ready. We drove to the donut shop, where he took one look at the display and asked, "Can I have two donuts?"
"Sure," I said. It's his birthday, and I was feeling magnanimous.
It took a few minutes, but he finally decided on a maple bar and a devil's food covered in coconut. He sat at the table, still singing and wiggling in anticipation. "I looooove donuts!" he reminded me.
He savored the maple bar, licking his fingers between bites so he didn't miss a single bit of it. He took a while to eat it, and when he finally finished it, he patted his belly and blew out a long breath.
"You okay?" I asked, and he nodded.
"I'm getting kinda full," he said.
"Well, you don't have to eat the second one," I told him.
He looked at me like I was insane, and threw his arms into the air. "What are you, CRAZY?" he shouted. "OF COURSE I'm gonna eat the other one!" He shook his head in disbelief. He couldn't believe I'd even suggest such a thing.
He took about three bites of the coconut one, then looked back over at the display and sighed.
"I should've got a glazed one," he said wistfully.
"You can get one next time," I said.
"When? In another YEAR?" He shook his head at me again. I swear, he may be newly 9, but he's got the teenage attitude pefected already.
Finally, after watching him take the smallest bites ever for 20 minutes, I insisted we leave. I wanted him to have a few minutes to run all that sugar off on the playground before class started.
I dropped him off across from school, and watched him run along the sidewalk, racing my car to the crosswalk. He danced across the sidewalk, and I just smiled.
There's goes my 9-year-old, I thought to myself. And I smiled at the happy, confident, loving little boy he's grown into.
Happy birthday, little man. Laissez les bon temps rouler!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Word of the day: Grateful!
I've become so used to diabetes now that finger sticks and bolusing (giving insulin) are second nature for me. It's the same for my family and friends -- no one panics anymore when they see a low number on Mark's meter -- they just automatically hand him a juice box.
And as Mark gets older, he's become more responsible. He checks his blood sugar, counts carbs, boluses, and corrects lows or highs by himself. (Pretty amazing feats for an 8-year-old!) Because of that, I worry a lot less when I'm away (after school, with babysitters, etc.).
But it is still nerve-wracking to leave him in someone else's hands. There's the whole notion that no one takes care of him as well as I can (not true!) vs. the idea that time away gives Mark (and his caretakers) more opportunities to succeed and thus, more confidence.
Yesterday was a definite confidence builder. My brother Scott invited us to Disneyland, with our brother Brad, his wife, and all the kids.
"I can't," I told him. "I'm going to a baby shower."
"What's Mark gonna do?" Scott asked, and I said stay with a babysitter.
"He'd rather go to Disneyland!" Scott said. "Send him with Brad and Brandy."
He was right -- Mark would rather go to Disneyland with his cousins, aunt and uncles. But my brothers haven't watched Mark on their own before. (Scott's wife Mary usually manages Mark's diabetes when they babysit, but she was working.)
"Really?" I asked. "You'll test him before lunch and count his carbs?"
"Yeah!" Scott said enthusiastically. "He'll be fine!"
Wow, that was huge. Taking four kids, a toddler, AND diabetes to Disneyland -- now that's a commitment!
So I checked with Brad, who said no problem, they'd drive Mark. Then I told Mark, who was thrilled. I was pretty thrilled, myself -- not only were my brothers watching Mark, they were giving me a whole day to myself!
So Sunday morning, I packed up Mark's meter, some juice boxes, his Disneyland pass, and $20. I reminded him to check his blood sugar before lunch ("I know, Mom!") and to text me his lunch menu so I could count the carbs.
"I want to estimate the carbs myself," he answered, and who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth?
I told him, "Great! Text me the estimate, so I can help if you need it."
I dropped him off at Brad and Brandy's, and he was so excited, he about pushed me out the door.
"Bye, Mom!" he said, and ran off to play with Johnny.
Then I went off to an early movie with Edra, still dazed and delighted at this sudden good fortune.
I hadn't heard from them when the movie let out at 1, so I called to see what Mark ate for lunch. Nathalie informed me he hadn't eaten yet, and I bit my tongue.
"OK," I said. "Tell your dad it's time for him to eat." Don't panic, I told myself. If Mark was starving, he would've told Scott.
Five minutes later, Brad called, asking how many carbs were in a hot dog and chips. I told him, he said okay, and hung up. I couldn't believe how easy it all was!
I went off to the baby shower, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I got one more call, asking if Mark could have ice cream. "He's looking up the carb count right now," Brandy told me.
"Definitely, he can have it!" I told Brandy.
An hour later, I picked Mark up from Brad and Brandy's. He'd had a great time, and no one seemed traumatized. I couldn't stop beaming.
And so today, I am grateful. Grateful to Scott, who invited Mark along without hesitation. Grateful to Scott, Brad and Brandy for taking such great care of Mark, and giving him something he loves -- a day with the family. And grateful to my whole family for coming along this journey with me, reaching the point where "Mark, my nephew with diabetes" simply becomes "Mark, my nephew."
It sounds like such a small thing, but really, even today, I am overwhelmed by it, and soooo proud of them all! My brothers gave me such a huge gift yesterday, and for that, I will always be grateful. For Mark, it was just another day in the park, but for me, it was the day my brothers rose up, and succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.
And you can't get more confident than that!
And as Mark gets older, he's become more responsible. He checks his blood sugar, counts carbs, boluses, and corrects lows or highs by himself. (Pretty amazing feats for an 8-year-old!) Because of that, I worry a lot less when I'm away (after school, with babysitters, etc.).
But it is still nerve-wracking to leave him in someone else's hands. There's the whole notion that no one takes care of him as well as I can (not true!) vs. the idea that time away gives Mark (and his caretakers) more opportunities to succeed and thus, more confidence.
Yesterday was a definite confidence builder. My brother Scott invited us to Disneyland, with our brother Brad, his wife, and all the kids.
"I can't," I told him. "I'm going to a baby shower."
"What's Mark gonna do?" Scott asked, and I said stay with a babysitter.
"He'd rather go to Disneyland!" Scott said. "Send him with Brad and Brandy."
He was right -- Mark would rather go to Disneyland with his cousins, aunt and uncles. But my brothers haven't watched Mark on their own before. (Scott's wife Mary usually manages Mark's diabetes when they babysit, but she was working.)
"Really?" I asked. "You'll test him before lunch and count his carbs?"
"Yeah!" Scott said enthusiastically. "He'll be fine!"
Wow, that was huge. Taking four kids, a toddler, AND diabetes to Disneyland -- now that's a commitment!
So I checked with Brad, who said no problem, they'd drive Mark. Then I told Mark, who was thrilled. I was pretty thrilled, myself -- not only were my brothers watching Mark, they were giving me a whole day to myself!
So Sunday morning, I packed up Mark's meter, some juice boxes, his Disneyland pass, and $20. I reminded him to check his blood sugar before lunch ("I know, Mom!") and to text me his lunch menu so I could count the carbs.
"I want to estimate the carbs myself," he answered, and who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth?
I told him, "Great! Text me the estimate, so I can help if you need it."
I dropped him off at Brad and Brandy's, and he was so excited, he about pushed me out the door.
"Bye, Mom!" he said, and ran off to play with Johnny.
Then I went off to an early movie with Edra, still dazed and delighted at this sudden good fortune.
I hadn't heard from them when the movie let out at 1, so I called to see what Mark ate for lunch. Nathalie informed me he hadn't eaten yet, and I bit my tongue.
"OK," I said. "Tell your dad it's time for him to eat." Don't panic, I told myself. If Mark was starving, he would've told Scott.
Five minutes later, Brad called, asking how many carbs were in a hot dog and chips. I told him, he said okay, and hung up. I couldn't believe how easy it all was!
I went off to the baby shower, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I got one more call, asking if Mark could have ice cream. "He's looking up the carb count right now," Brandy told me.
"Definitely, he can have it!" I told Brandy.
An hour later, I picked Mark up from Brad and Brandy's. He'd had a great time, and no one seemed traumatized. I couldn't stop beaming.
And so today, I am grateful. Grateful to Scott, who invited Mark along without hesitation. Grateful to Scott, Brad and Brandy for taking such great care of Mark, and giving him something he loves -- a day with the family. And grateful to my whole family for coming along this journey with me, reaching the point where "Mark, my nephew with diabetes" simply becomes "Mark, my nephew."
It sounds like such a small thing, but really, even today, I am overwhelmed by it, and soooo proud of them all! My brothers gave me such a huge gift yesterday, and for that, I will always be grateful. For Mark, it was just another day in the park, but for me, it was the day my brothers rose up, and succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.
And you can't get more confident than that!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Party time!
If you heard a loud, joyous noise earlier today, fear not. It was not a thundering stampede or even the wild cries of dogs wailing at the sky while fireworks rain down. Yes, the cries belonged to wild beings, but they were not beasts; rather, they were 15 9-year-old boys (and two girls) set free in a room full of inflatable bounce structures. That's right, it was Mark's birthday party today, and I have to say, it was pretty darn fun. We went to Pump It Up, a private warehouse full of inflatables. They had a bounce house for the little kids, a bigger one for the bigger kids, an obstacle course, and my favorite, a giant slide.
The boys arrived full of energy and ready to bounce. First they watched a video explaining all the rules, including what to do when the whistle blows (stop), what to wear at all times (socks), and if it was okay to push five kids down the slide at once (no). Of course, each time the video asked these questions, the kids yelled the opposite answers back at the T.V. My 2-year-old nephew Johnny didn't like the rules at all, and jumped up to smack the T.V., to the delight of the 9-year-olds. Johnny fit in really well with the big kids!
Then it was time to let loose. The door opened, and the screaming kids ran into the room, scattering. They climbed the obstacle course, they bounded up, then down, the slide, they raced across the obstacle course until they were sweaty and red in the face. Then they raced across it again, flinging themselves down the slide at the end.
It was sheer madness! There were kids flying past me in every direction. I saw Mark zip past with a couple friends, and then saw him perched at the top of the slide, ready to descend. He let out a whoop, and flew to the bottom. He was quickly followed by three other boys.
Mark had a blast, tumbling down the slide and boxing giant inflatable punching bags. But he was never in one place for long, and people kept asking me where he was. (The answer was always the same -- a vague hand wave in the distance, and the phrase, "He's over there -- I think...")
He had such a good time, he bounced himself a little low. I fed him granola bars before we got there, trying to boost his blood sugar so he wouldn't go low from all the jumping. It almost worked, until at one point, I found him lying alone in the bounce house, not moving much.
"You okay, buddy?" I asked. "You feel low?"
"No," he answered. "I'm just tired."
Which is a low blood sugar symptom. I insisted on checking him -- but he refused to come out, so I finally just tested the finger he shoved out the bounce house entrance. He was 73, and lunch was still half an hour away. So I juiced him up, fed him another granola bar, and sent him on his way. Poor kid, diabetes wouldn't even let him celebrate his birthday without feeling sick.
I followed Mark to the giant slide, just in time to see these three jokesters come down:
They were laughing their heads off, and I couldn't help laughing, too.
"Come on, Heather, you've gotta try it!" Kathleen shouted. So the next thing I know, I was climbing up the slide, and then zipping down at an alarming speed. There was a speed bump at the bottom of it, which I completely rolled right over. When I reached the bottom, I couldn't even get up, I was laughing so hard.
It was hilarious! And fun! I tried it a whole bunch more times; once with baby Carver, once with Kathleen, once with Vic, and a couple times by myself. And as only I could do, I managed to hurt myself -- I scraped my arms along the inseam, and gave myself a road rash down my whole arm! I loved that my grownup friends had just as much fun as Mark's friends. I loved seeing a third-grader fly down the slide, immediately followed by one of my laughing grown friends.
After 90 minutes of jumping, the kids were exhausted and hungry. However, they managed to pose for this very nice group shot before running off to lunch:
As soon as we said go, they were running off to the lunch room, where many pizzas awaited. The kids wolfed it down faster than we could replace it! Jonah told me he ate five pieces, and Kyle walked by with pieces 8 and 9. Mark told me Kyle was trying to break his previous record of seven pieces!
"Don't throw up, Kyle!" I warned. I was thankful the jumping part was over!
They also scarfed down strawberries, grapes and lemonade. I turned around at one point to see five boys in a circle lifting their shirts and rubbing their swollen bellies. "My stomach's soooo FULL!" said one boy, patting it lovingly.
But they weren't too full for cake! Back to the tables they went, to demolish a mint chocolate chip ice cream cake. I still can't believe they had any room left...
When they were all good and sugared up, it was time to leave. I gave Scott a box of goodie bags to hand out, and the kids clamored around him, hands out.
"Me, me!" they shouted. "I want a bag!"
"Let me hear you bark like a dog!" Scott told them, and suddenly, the room was filled with barking. "No, bark like a BIG dog!" Scott said, and the barks got much bigger. He rewarded them each with a bag.
It was an awesome day. Mark had a great time with all his friends, and it was just as much fun watching him run rampant with them. He was in heaven -- things to bounce on, climb on, and slide down. I'd worried that he and his friends were too old for a bunch of bounce houses, but they proved me wrong. They loved every minute of it, even trying to sneak back in after lunch.
He was equally excited about his gifts, which included plenty of Star Wars Legos, a few Nerf guns, and other cool stuff. He also got some gift cards and even a semi-inappropriate birthday card. He was thrilled with it all, and spent the afternoon building Legos and shooting Nerf arrows at us.
I'm sad to see my little guy growing up so fast. But if it means watching him enjoy a day like today, among his friends, eating pizza and ice cream, and running wild, then I guess it's a small price to pay. I loved every minute of it, hanging out with my friends and family, watching my boy have so much fun. I loved watching him jump and play, blow out his candles, rip open his presents. And I loved being able to say, "Yep, it's my son's birthday" for the fourth year in a row.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Something's not right here
Last night I was racing home when I had a sad realization...my kid has a better social life than I do!
Take this week, for example. It was completely Mark-centric: we went to the Harlem Globetrotters, the Discovery Science Center, the Pink Panther 2 movie, drum lessons, Cub Scouts, skateboarding lessons, and the week's highlight -- Mark's birthday party tomorrow.
And his official birthday's on Tuesday, so I'm sure we'll do something fun to celebrate.
For myself, I did...well, usually, I'd say nothing (book club once a month is my big social outing), but this was an unusual week. I went to the movies! Called the babysitter and took three hours off for myself. It was pretty great. (I have now seen...well, one movie in the Academy Awards Best Pictures category.)
It's all kind of funny, really. Four years ago, I was just as busy, and planning just as many activities. But I was planning them for myself. In fact, exactly four years ago on Mark's birthday (before I even knew Mark), I woke up at 5 a.m. in New Orleans, on my way to the Zulu Parade. I had a beer in hand and beads around my neck by 6 a.m., and I was a happy girl.
So it's kinda funny to see how much my life has changed in those four short years. Nowadays I'm more likely to get a handful of Legos than a neckful of Mardi Gras beads. I'm more likely to eat pizza at a Cub Scout meeting than a four-course meal at Emeril's NOLA restaurant. And I'm more likely to be awake at 5 a.m. checking Mark's blood sugar level than I am to be checking my own blood alcohol level.
I guess kids really do change your priorities, huh? I can attest to them changing mine. I'm leaving work a bit early tonight because of my big Friday night out -- that pizza dinner with 11 squirrelly Cub Scouts.
What's that Bob Dylan always said? The times, they are a changin' for sure!
Take this week, for example. It was completely Mark-centric: we went to the Harlem Globetrotters, the Discovery Science Center, the Pink Panther 2 movie, drum lessons, Cub Scouts, skateboarding lessons, and the week's highlight -- Mark's birthday party tomorrow.
And his official birthday's on Tuesday, so I'm sure we'll do something fun to celebrate.
For myself, I did...well, usually, I'd say nothing (book club once a month is my big social outing), but this was an unusual week. I went to the movies! Called the babysitter and took three hours off for myself. It was pretty great. (I have now seen...well, one movie in the Academy Awards Best Pictures category.)
It's all kind of funny, really. Four years ago, I was just as busy, and planning just as many activities. But I was planning them for myself. In fact, exactly four years ago on Mark's birthday (before I even knew Mark), I woke up at 5 a.m. in New Orleans, on my way to the Zulu Parade. I had a beer in hand and beads around my neck by 6 a.m., and I was a happy girl.
So it's kinda funny to see how much my life has changed in those four short years. Nowadays I'm more likely to get a handful of Legos than a neckful of Mardi Gras beads. I'm more likely to eat pizza at a Cub Scout meeting than a four-course meal at Emeril's NOLA restaurant. And I'm more likely to be awake at 5 a.m. checking Mark's blood sugar level than I am to be checking my own blood alcohol level.
I guess kids really do change your priorities, huh? I can attest to them changing mine. I'm leaving work a bit early tonight because of my big Friday night out -- that pizza dinner with 11 squirrelly Cub Scouts.
What's that Bob Dylan always said? The times, they are a changin' for sure!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Keep on clippin'
Mark loves clothes -- he's obsessed with them. I'm not sure how to deal with that, since I, as you know, am not similarly obsessed. It's not so much that I'm uninterested in clothes, I just didn't get the well-dressed gene, like my sisters-in-law did. I'd like to describe my style as "casual chic" or "hip soccer mom," but it's really more along the lines of "It was clean, and it matches, so I wore it."
But Mark's really picky about what he wears. Once he decides clothing is not to his taste, it takes an act of God to convince him to wear it. (Ironically, he attends a public school district that requires uniforms, which drives him crazy.)
His taste in clothes is definitely teen skater. He loves Tony Hawk brand clothes, or anything with skulls on it. He loves hoodies and baseball caps, but only the ones with flat bills. He likes jeans, but only black jeans -- he refuses to wear blue jeans, for reasons unknown. Also in the reasons unknown category -- clothes must meet strict criteria; interestingly enough, cleanliness is not part of that criteria. He'd wear the same clothes every day without washing, if I let him (for the record: I don't let him!).
Mark also likes to experiment with patterns and colors. It's not uncommon for him to wear a knit cap, striped shirts with camouflage shorts, topped with a plaid hoodie and flamed shoes, and to scoff at me loudly when I suggest perhaps adding a solid color item to the outfit. I've been scoffed at enough times that now, instead of making suggestions, I make pictures -- photographic evidence to torment the adult Mark.
His clothing style is definitely casual -- except for ties. For some reason, he loves ties. He hates collared shirts, but will wear them with a tie. He wears them willingly, and proudly.
This weekend, he wore a tie. He dressed himself, and asked, "How do I look?" I assured him he looked great.
He not only loves ties, he's very protective of them. He was reading a Garfield comic book, and came to a line where Garfield disparages clip-on ties. That line stopped Mark in his tracks.
But Mark's really picky about what he wears. Once he decides clothing is not to his taste, it takes an act of God to convince him to wear it. (Ironically, he attends a public school district that requires uniforms, which drives him crazy.)
His taste in clothes is definitely teen skater. He loves Tony Hawk brand clothes, or anything with skulls on it. He loves hoodies and baseball caps, but only the ones with flat bills. He likes jeans, but only black jeans -- he refuses to wear blue jeans, for reasons unknown. Also in the reasons unknown category -- clothes must meet strict criteria; interestingly enough, cleanliness is not part of that criteria. He'd wear the same clothes every day without washing, if I let him (for the record: I don't let him!).
Mark also likes to experiment with patterns and colors. It's not uncommon for him to wear a knit cap, striped shirts with camouflage shorts, topped with a plaid hoodie and flamed shoes, and to scoff at me loudly when I suggest perhaps adding a solid color item to the outfit. I've been scoffed at enough times that now, instead of making suggestions, I make pictures -- photographic evidence to torment the adult Mark.
His clothing style is definitely casual -- except for ties. For some reason, he loves ties. He hates collared shirts, but will wear them with a tie. He wears them willingly, and proudly.
This weekend, he wore a tie. He dressed himself, and asked, "How do I look?" I assured him he looked great.
He not only loves ties, he's very protective of them. He was reading a Garfield comic book, and came to a line where Garfield disparages clip-on ties. That line stopped Mark in his tracks."Whoa!" he said loudly, dropping the book and holding up his hands. "Whoa! Watch it, Garfield! That is not cool!"
He took a deep breath and shook his head.
"You okay?" I asked, stifling a giggle.
"That is soooo not cool!" he answered, a bit angry. "He'd better watch it about the clip-on ties, or I'm not gonna read his book anymore!"
"It's all right," I said soothingly. "He's a cat -- what does he know about ties, anyway?"
"True," Mark admitted, but he still felt stung. He loves cats, and to have his favorite animal diss his favorite article of clothing...well, that really was a slap in the face!
Eventually, he did calm down. He held tightly to his clip-on tie, though. Nothing was gonna come between him and his tie -- not even a cartoon cat.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Emperor's New Clothes
Diabetes is a tricky disease. It demands that you follow a rigid routine of blood sugar checks, eating on time and insulin delivery. Any deviation from the routine (i.e., dinner's late, or mom falls asleep on the couch and misses the 10:30 p.m. blood sugar check) results in...well, not-so-good results.
But here's the rub...even after you train yourself to follow the routine closely and become really organized, you must then train yourself to throw it all out the window and become very flexible. As in...I followed the dinner routine (checked and corrected Mark's blood sugar, counted his dinner carbs and bolused the insulin), and now it's time for Mark's pre-bedtime shower. Only...right before he gets in the shower, Mark says the three words I dread most.
"I feel low."
Annnnnnd...STOP! Here's where our routines -- after-dinner and diabetes -- break down. Now a new routine -- the low blood sugar routine -- begins. Mark washes his hands, checks his blood sugar and reports the number. ("69 -- told you I was low!") Then he picks his sugar of choice, eats, waits to feel better, possibly re-tests, feels like crud for the better part of an hour, then moves on. The low blood sugar ritual adds a 30 minute delay to whatever we were doing beforehand.
Even though low blood sugars usually aren't funny, last night's low was unintentionally hilarious. As I mentioned, it occurred before Mark's shower. So he was walking around naked, about to get into the tub, when he felt low. Lows before showers are especially bad, since the hot water causes insulin to be absorbed faster, possibly making him drop even lower.
Mark chose a box of jelly beans to correct the low. Jelly beans are a rare treat, and he was in no hurry to finish them. So there he was at 8 o'clock, casually walking around the house naked, eating jelly beans, just having a good ol' time. He was eating them one by one, savoring them, completely oblivious to the ticking clock, his approaching bedtime, or the general concept of modesty. He had a handful of jelly beans, and life was good. (Even the low blood sugar was a small price to pay for a handful of jelly beans.)
As for me, I was just glad no one rang the doorbell at that exact moment, because it was a pretty funny predicament to explain. My mom did call, however, and when she asked what Mark was up to, I hesitated for a moment.
"Well," I finally said, "He's standing around naked, eating jelly beans."
Even Mark could hear her laughter over the phone. He looked at me, like "Why is Grandma laughing?" and I just looked back at his naked little body (and his jelly bean-stained hands) and shrugged.
"She says it's time for you to get in the shower!" I lied.
Man, you could read all the mothering books in the world, and I doubt you'd ever find this scenario in them!
But here's the rub...even after you train yourself to follow the routine closely and become really organized, you must then train yourself to throw it all out the window and become very flexible. As in...I followed the dinner routine (checked and corrected Mark's blood sugar, counted his dinner carbs and bolused the insulin), and now it's time for Mark's pre-bedtime shower. Only...right before he gets in the shower, Mark says the three words I dread most.
"I feel low."
Annnnnnd...STOP! Here's where our routines -- after-dinner and diabetes -- break down. Now a new routine -- the low blood sugar routine -- begins. Mark washes his hands, checks his blood sugar and reports the number. ("69 -- told you I was low!") Then he picks his sugar of choice, eats, waits to feel better, possibly re-tests, feels like crud for the better part of an hour, then moves on. The low blood sugar ritual adds a 30 minute delay to whatever we were doing beforehand.
Even though low blood sugars usually aren't funny, last night's low was unintentionally hilarious. As I mentioned, it occurred before Mark's shower. So he was walking around naked, about to get into the tub, when he felt low. Lows before showers are especially bad, since the hot water causes insulin to be absorbed faster, possibly making him drop even lower.
Mark chose a box of jelly beans to correct the low. Jelly beans are a rare treat, and he was in no hurry to finish them. So there he was at 8 o'clock, casually walking around the house naked, eating jelly beans, just having a good ol' time. He was eating them one by one, savoring them, completely oblivious to the ticking clock, his approaching bedtime, or the general concept of modesty. He had a handful of jelly beans, and life was good. (Even the low blood sugar was a small price to pay for a handful of jelly beans.)
As for me, I was just glad no one rang the doorbell at that exact moment, because it was a pretty funny predicament to explain. My mom did call, however, and when she asked what Mark was up to, I hesitated for a moment.
"Well," I finally said, "He's standing around naked, eating jelly beans."
Even Mark could hear her laughter over the phone. He looked at me, like "Why is Grandma laughing?" and I just looked back at his naked little body (and his jelly bean-stained hands) and shrugged.
"She says it's time for you to get in the shower!" I lied.
Man, you could read all the mothering books in the world, and I doubt you'd ever find this scenario in them!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
It was a lovely day...
...and a day filled with love!
I spent Valentine's Day with most of my favorite people, the affectionately named Poker Mamas (Edra, Monica, and Vicki). Edra invited us over for a Valentine's Day brunch, and I always accept a party invitation! We noshed on bagels and drank champagne, and pretty much spent the morning congratulating ourselves on having fine taste in wine and friends.
Then Mark and I were off to the Harlem Globetrotters game, which was pretty darn fun. I remember seeing them when I was just a little kid, and laughing my head off at them. I am happy to report that some things never change. The jokes were the same, the tricks were the same, and I laughed just as hard as I did when I was 7.
Mark enjoyed it, too. He thought they were really funny, especially when they stopped playing basketball and started playing football. Yes, on the basketball court, with a basketball! He also liked the race sponsored by IHOP -- a footrace between a huge piece of bacon, a giant pancake, and a big egg. The bacon won, but just barely.
He also liked this weird little mascot guy named Lil G. Lil G wore an inflatable costume that he bounced all around in, even upside down on his head. He was quite adept at eating things, too, including a giant can of Campbell's soup (the other sponsor) and then, remarkably, a live man.
"Is that man really eaten?" Mark wanted to know, and I just nodded. "Looks like it," I said.
Mark was also happy that the Harlem Globetrotters won the game, even when the opposing team tried to cheat. He couldn't stop laughing at their coach, who had to wear a tutu as punishment for losing. (I kinda laughed at that, too -- it's not often you see a grown man in a tutu.)
I bought Mark a red, white and blue basketball during the halftime. At the end of the game, the Globetrotters autographed it for him. Mark is usually too embarrassed to ask adults anything. However, when he wants something, he loses all sense of shyness, and becomes very focused. That's what happened when it came to the autographs. There were tons of people crowding the players, including tall grown men, and they were all shoving basketballs toward the players. A shy kid didn't have a chance of getting even one autograph, but luckily, Mark is not shy in these situations. He wriggled his way to the front, and got not one, but six autographs! He is so proud of his new Globetrotters ball that he woke up at 8 o'clock this morning, and went outside to shoot some hoops with it.
It was a really fun afternoon. We had only spent an hour with the girls, so we headed back to their place. We sat around drinking more wine, and eating the leftover cookies and brownies. Then we ordered pizza, drank a little more wine, and sank into the couches, happy and content. It may not have been the most romantic Valentine's Day, but it was filled with love and happiness all the same. :-)
Really, not a bad way to spend a day, if you ask me.
I spent Valentine's Day with most of my favorite people, the affectionately named Poker Mamas (Edra, Monica, and Vicki). Edra invited us over for a Valentine's Day brunch, and I always accept a party invitation! We noshed on bagels and drank champagne, and pretty much spent the morning congratulating ourselves on having fine taste in wine and friends.
Then Mark and I were off to the Harlem Globetrotters game, which was pretty darn fun. I remember seeing them when I was just a little kid, and laughing my head off at them. I am happy to report that some things never change. The jokes were the same, the tricks were the same, and I laughed just as hard as I did when I was 7.
Mark enjoyed it, too. He thought they were really funny, especially when they stopped playing basketball and started playing football. Yes, on the basketball court, with a basketball! He also liked the race sponsored by IHOP -- a footrace between a huge piece of bacon, a giant pancake, and a big egg. The bacon won, but just barely.
He also liked this weird little mascot guy named Lil G. Lil G wore an inflatable costume that he bounced all around in, even upside down on his head. He was quite adept at eating things, too, including a giant can of Campbell's soup (the other sponsor) and then, remarkably, a live man.
"Is that man really eaten?" Mark wanted to know, and I just nodded. "Looks like it," I said.
Mark was also happy that the Harlem Globetrotters won the game, even when the opposing team tried to cheat. He couldn't stop laughing at their coach, who had to wear a tutu as punishment for losing. (I kinda laughed at that, too -- it's not often you see a grown man in a tutu.)
I bought Mark a red, white and blue basketball during the halftime. At the end of the game, the Globetrotters autographed it for him. Mark is usually too embarrassed to ask adults anything. However, when he wants something, he loses all sense of shyness, and becomes very focused. That's what happened when it came to the autographs. There were tons of people crowding the players, including tall grown men, and they were all shoving basketballs toward the players. A shy kid didn't have a chance of getting even one autograph, but luckily, Mark is not shy in these situations. He wriggled his way to the front, and got not one, but six autographs! He is so proud of his new Globetrotters ball that he woke up at 8 o'clock this morning, and went outside to shoot some hoops with it.
It was a really fun afternoon. We had only spent an hour with the girls, so we headed back to their place. We sat around drinking more wine, and eating the leftover cookies and brownies. Then we ordered pizza, drank a little more wine, and sank into the couches, happy and content. It may not have been the most romantic Valentine's Day, but it was filled with love and happiness all the same. :-)
Really, not a bad way to spend a day, if you ask me.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
My funny Valentine
I knew when I adopted a little kid I'd face different challenges than with a baby. I welcomed some differences (no 2 a.m. feedings! no diaper changes!) and mourned, then accepted, others (I never heard his first words or saw his first steps). There were also other differences I never expected but should have.
For example, immediate love -- on Mark's part, that is. Like any biological parent, I loved Mark before I even met him. The first time I read his file and saw his picture, I fell. This is my child, I thought, and I immediately loved him as such. I felt a maternal pride and warmth for him, and couldn't wait to wrap him in my arms.
However...I also felt a sense of caution, because I knew I couldn't really do that. Unlike a biological mom who's just given birth, I couldn't hold my son the first time I met him. Mark was a kid with a history already, not a helpless newborn baby. He didn't know me from Adam -- I was just another new adult in his life.
Not to mention he already had a mom. OK, so maybe he didn't live with her, and maybe she wasn't the best mom, but she was his biological mom. And nobody had told Mark he was going to be adopted -- nobody had told him he was getting a new mom. I faced an uphill battle right from the start.
So I proceeded cautiously. When I met Mark, I introduced myself as Heather, even though inside I was screaming, "I'm your mom!" I played with him for a couple hours, and when I left, it took all my restraint not to hug him and kiss him goodbye. Instead, I settled for a high five, which he was more than happy to give.
We continued like that for five or six weeks; both of us on a first name basis, both of us taking our leave with a high five. I was affectionate with Mark, but not overly so. If I was a little kid and some adult I'd just met was always hugging me, I'd freak out. So I tried my best not to freak Mark out.
When Mark moved in, I felt like probation had ended, and I loosened the affection ban. "Goodnight," I'd tell Mark every evening. "I love you."
He'd scrunch up his face and tell me defiantly, "Well, I don't love you!"
"That's okay," I'd respond. "You don't have to."
I never took it personally, because I knew this was a little kid going through a tough time. I knew this was a little kid with no control in his life; somewhere, some random judge was telling him who could be in his life and who couldn't; who he had to see, and when; where he had to live, and where he had to go to school. Mark had no say, and he was an angry little guy because of it. I couldn't blame him, though; I'd have been angry, too, if it was me.
But Mark really is a loving little guy, and slowly, over a few weeks, he warmed up.
"Goodnight," I'd say, same as every night. "I love you."
"Well, I don't love you!" he'd still say sometimes, but eventually, that gave way to, "I love you, too --but just a LITTLE bit!" Then he'd hold up his thumb and forefinger to show me the littlest possible gap he could, indicating the littlest bit of love he felt.
I'd smile, and he'd retract his statement immediately. "Did you hear me?" he'd say. "I only love you a little bit!"
And I'd answer, "Well, that's OK -- it's more than you loved me yesterday!"
He always measured his love with his hands. Pretty soon, the little gap became a bigger gap. He'd stretch his hands out, a foot apart, and say, "I love you thiiiiiiiis much." Then I'd stretch mine a little further and say, "Well, I love you thiiiiiis much!" Each night the hands would stretch a little farther out. Soon, we were adding far away distances, and it began to sound like a popular children's book -- "I love you to the moon and back." "Well, I love you to the moon and back, infinity!"
It went on like that for a few more weeks. Then, one night, he was really sleepy, and when I told him I loved him, he answered, "I love you too," then rolled over and went to sleep. There was no disclaimer; there was no measurement of how much or how little love he felt. I waited, but it never came. I grinned the biggest grin ever, and I cried.
Three and a half years later, there are no more caveats. There are no measurements. Mark simply says, "I love you, Mom," and he means it. And each time he says it -- even now, three and a half years later -- it still makes me melt. It was a big win, his love -- it was a test I took every night, and didn't pass for months. When it finally came, it was awesome, because I knew I'd earned it, and I knew it was genuine.
So yes, I missed out on some things in his early childhood. I didn't hold him at birth, and receive his immediate undying love simply because I'd given him life. But three and a half years later, I've given him a different life. So now when he says "I love you," I believe it. I've earned it, I'm worthy of it, I paid the price for it in patience and hard work.
And so today, February 14th, the day we celebrate love, has become very special to me. It's really a triumphant day, a day I cherish a hard-fought love, and the little boy it comes from. And I think to myself, really, what other Valentine could ever beat that?
For example, immediate love -- on Mark's part, that is. Like any biological parent, I loved Mark before I even met him. The first time I read his file and saw his picture, I fell. This is my child, I thought, and I immediately loved him as such. I felt a maternal pride and warmth for him, and couldn't wait to wrap him in my arms.
However...I also felt a sense of caution, because I knew I couldn't really do that. Unlike a biological mom who's just given birth, I couldn't hold my son the first time I met him. Mark was a kid with a history already, not a helpless newborn baby. He didn't know me from Adam -- I was just another new adult in his life.
Not to mention he already had a mom. OK, so maybe he didn't live with her, and maybe she wasn't the best mom, but she was his biological mom. And nobody had told Mark he was going to be adopted -- nobody had told him he was getting a new mom. I faced an uphill battle right from the start.
So I proceeded cautiously. When I met Mark, I introduced myself as Heather, even though inside I was screaming, "I'm your mom!" I played with him for a couple hours, and when I left, it took all my restraint not to hug him and kiss him goodbye. Instead, I settled for a high five, which he was more than happy to give.
We continued like that for five or six weeks; both of us on a first name basis, both of us taking our leave with a high five. I was affectionate with Mark, but not overly so. If I was a little kid and some adult I'd just met was always hugging me, I'd freak out. So I tried my best not to freak Mark out.
When Mark moved in, I felt like probation had ended, and I loosened the affection ban. "Goodnight," I'd tell Mark every evening. "I love you."
He'd scrunch up his face and tell me defiantly, "Well, I don't love you!"
"That's okay," I'd respond. "You don't have to."
I never took it personally, because I knew this was a little kid going through a tough time. I knew this was a little kid with no control in his life; somewhere, some random judge was telling him who could be in his life and who couldn't; who he had to see, and when; where he had to live, and where he had to go to school. Mark had no say, and he was an angry little guy because of it. I couldn't blame him, though; I'd have been angry, too, if it was me.
But Mark really is a loving little guy, and slowly, over a few weeks, he warmed up.
"Goodnight," I'd say, same as every night. "I love you."
"Well, I don't love you!" he'd still say sometimes, but eventually, that gave way to, "I love you, too --but just a LITTLE bit!" Then he'd hold up his thumb and forefinger to show me the littlest possible gap he could, indicating the littlest bit of love he felt.
I'd smile, and he'd retract his statement immediately. "Did you hear me?" he'd say. "I only love you a little bit!"
And I'd answer, "Well, that's OK -- it's more than you loved me yesterday!"
He always measured his love with his hands. Pretty soon, the little gap became a bigger gap. He'd stretch his hands out, a foot apart, and say, "I love you thiiiiiiiis much." Then I'd stretch mine a little further and say, "Well, I love you thiiiiiis much!" Each night the hands would stretch a little farther out. Soon, we were adding far away distances, and it began to sound like a popular children's book -- "I love you to the moon and back." "Well, I love you to the moon and back, infinity!"
It went on like that for a few more weeks. Then, one night, he was really sleepy, and when I told him I loved him, he answered, "I love you too," then rolled over and went to sleep. There was no disclaimer; there was no measurement of how much or how little love he felt. I waited, but it never came. I grinned the biggest grin ever, and I cried.
Three and a half years later, there are no more caveats. There are no measurements. Mark simply says, "I love you, Mom," and he means it. And each time he says it -- even now, three and a half years later -- it still makes me melt. It was a big win, his love -- it was a test I took every night, and didn't pass for months. When it finally came, it was awesome, because I knew I'd earned it, and I knew it was genuine.
So yes, I missed out on some things in his early childhood. I didn't hold him at birth, and receive his immediate undying love simply because I'd given him life. But three and a half years later, I've given him a different life. So now when he says "I love you," I believe it. I've earned it, I'm worthy of it, I paid the price for it in patience and hard work.
And so today, February 14th, the day we celebrate love, has become very special to me. It's really a triumphant day, a day I cherish a hard-fought love, and the little boy it comes from. And I think to myself, really, what other Valentine could ever beat that?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Feeding the werewolf
Mark's class had a Halloween party a while back, where a mom passed out some pretty cool party favors. They were little orange bowls shaped like dog dishes, filled with little round cookies that looked like...well, yes, dog food. But don't worry, it wasn't really dog food -- it was werewolf food!
That's what the label said, anyway. I still had my doubts (it really does look like dog food!), so I stashed it where I stash all the other junk food Mark brings home when teachers deem it diabetes-unfriendly. (Bless them all, no one wants to make a mistake and give Mark food he's not supposed to have; so when in doubt, they send it home.) It went into the Pantry of No Return (also known as the Pantry Stuffed to the Gills with Food I Buy but Never Eat).
Last night, Mark was feeling a bit low, and wanted a snack. This happened at the same time I was talking to Kelley on the phone, so instead of waiting for me to offer him a granola bar or glass of milk, Mark seized control of his snack choice. Hence, he walked into the living room carrying a little dish of werewolf food he was trying to open and spill all over the floor.
He finally opened it up, so I kept on talking to Kelley. Imagine my surprise when I turned to see this:
Yup, there's my pride and joy, eating like a dog. When I asked what he was doing, he answered like a dog, too, simply barking out, "Woof!"
And yep, I'm awfully proud. I used to be the proud mother of a cute, bright little boy. Now I've morphed into one of those proud "pet parents" instead -- mother to a cute, bright, little werewolf pup.
He's not all that hairy yet, and he's got a pretty good disposition for a baby werewolf. But you might wanna steer clear of my house during the next full moon anyway...
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Just peachy
Or, "The Only 5 Adjectives You Really Need to Know."
Mark brought home his homework last night, which is always a test in patience (mine -- and I don't always pass that test!). When he works at home, his brain goes completely blank, and it turns into a guessing game. ("What's 5 x 2?" I'll ask, and he'll answer, "8? 12? 16?")
Last night, we tackled adjectives. Mark needed three adjectives to describe himself, his best friend, a recent trip, his teacher and his Halloween costume.
He'd filled out the adjectives for himself -- "cool," "peach," and "funny." ("Peach" refers to his skin color -- last year he told me his friends were brown and black, and that he is peach.)
But after working a couple minutes, it was obvious he needed some help. I explained to him what adjectives are ("they describe a noun -- this blue coat, this gold box, this small car, this silly boy") and he nodded his head, as though he understood me. I was pretty proud of my teaching skills.
"OK," I said. "Now tell me three words to describe your best friend, Josh."
This completely stumped him. "Um...." He scratched his head, and picked up a little car from the table. "I brought these cars to dinner so that --"
"No! No cars!" I told him. "Focus on the adjectives. When you think about Josh, what one word do you think about?"
"Oh!" Mark exclaimed. "The playground! And one touch! We like to play one touch during recess."
Did you notice the adjective in that sentence? No, neither did I.
"OK," I said. "Let's try again. I will say a sentence, and you will complete it with ONE WORD. ABOUT JOSH. Got it?" Mark nodded.
"OK. Josh is..."
I looked at him expectantly. He shrugged.
I was starting to lose it a little. I tried again. "OK, why do you like to play with Josh? Because he's what?" I was fishing for "nice," "funny," "playful," something.
"He likes one touch," Mark told me.
"OK, let's try something else. What does Josh look like?"
"He's peach," Mark said.
"You already used that one," I said.
"How about pink?" Mark asked.
"What does his hair look like?" I asked, and Mark answered, "It's kinda curly. It's actually really curly, and then it -- "
"One word answers!" I yelped. I was searching for a hair color or length, but I got a shrug instead.
And so Josh's adjective became "curly." I guess that's not an actual descriptive word for Josh, but at this point I didn't care.
By the time I finished the next two questions, Mark had figured out what adjectives were, and had used the same five for the rest of the answers. They were:
At this point, my voice was rising and my patience had worn thin. My parents were staying with us, and my mom came over to relieve me. "Let me try," she said.
She rocked! She did much better than I did, by giving Mark descriptions, and having him say the opposite. It worked really well.
"My teacher is mean," she said. "Your teacher is..."
"Nice!" he answered.
"My teacher is dumb," she said. "Your teacher is..."
"Smart!" He was getting it now.
But he still couldn't quite pare them down to one word answers yet.
"My teacher is short," she said. "Your teacher is..."
"Tall!" Mark answered. "Well, kinda medium-ish, actually. He's not really all that tall -- "
My mom snapped him back before he could keep rambling. "He's tall," she said definitively, so Mark just nodded.
And so he finally completed his homework with my mom's help, not mine. I tried, I really did, but there's a reason I'm a writer and not an educator, like my parents were. I may not be able to help Mark with his homework, but I could help him write a novel. Even if he won't be able to describe it when it's done.
I can just hear it now. "My novel is...peach."
Mark brought home his homework last night, which is always a test in patience (mine -- and I don't always pass that test!). When he works at home, his brain goes completely blank, and it turns into a guessing game. ("What's 5 x 2?" I'll ask, and he'll answer, "8? 12? 16?")
Last night, we tackled adjectives. Mark needed three adjectives to describe himself, his best friend, a recent trip, his teacher and his Halloween costume.
He'd filled out the adjectives for himself -- "cool," "peach," and "funny." ("Peach" refers to his skin color -- last year he told me his friends were brown and black, and that he is peach.)
But after working a couple minutes, it was obvious he needed some help. I explained to him what adjectives are ("they describe a noun -- this blue coat, this gold box, this small car, this silly boy") and he nodded his head, as though he understood me. I was pretty proud of my teaching skills.
"OK," I said. "Now tell me three words to describe your best friend, Josh."
This completely stumped him. "Um...." He scratched his head, and picked up a little car from the table. "I brought these cars to dinner so that --"
"No! No cars!" I told him. "Focus on the adjectives. When you think about Josh, what one word do you think about?"
"Oh!" Mark exclaimed. "The playground! And one touch! We like to play one touch during recess."
Did you notice the adjective in that sentence? No, neither did I.
"OK," I said. "Let's try again. I will say a sentence, and you will complete it with ONE WORD. ABOUT JOSH. Got it?" Mark nodded.
"OK. Josh is..."
I looked at him expectantly. He shrugged.
I was starting to lose it a little. I tried again. "OK, why do you like to play with Josh? Because he's what?" I was fishing for "nice," "funny," "playful," something.
"He likes one touch," Mark told me.
"OK, let's try something else. What does Josh look like?"
"He's peach," Mark said.
"You already used that one," I said.
"How about pink?" Mark asked.
"What does his hair look like?" I asked, and Mark answered, "It's kinda curly. It's actually really curly, and then it -- "
"One word answers!" I yelped. I was searching for a hair color or length, but I got a shrug instead.
And so Josh's adjective became "curly." I guess that's not an actual descriptive word for Josh, but at this point I didn't care.
By the time I finished the next two questions, Mark had figured out what adjectives were, and had used the same five for the rest of the answers. They were:
- Cool
- Funny
- Awesome
- Peach
- Pink
At this point, my voice was rising and my patience had worn thin. My parents were staying with us, and my mom came over to relieve me. "Let me try," she said.
She rocked! She did much better than I did, by giving Mark descriptions, and having him say the opposite. It worked really well.
"My teacher is mean," she said. "Your teacher is..."
"Nice!" he answered.
"My teacher is dumb," she said. "Your teacher is..."
"Smart!" He was getting it now.
But he still couldn't quite pare them down to one word answers yet.
"My teacher is short," she said. "Your teacher is..."
"Tall!" Mark answered. "Well, kinda medium-ish, actually. He's not really all that tall -- "
My mom snapped him back before he could keep rambling. "He's tall," she said definitively, so Mark just nodded.
And so he finally completed his homework with my mom's help, not mine. I tried, I really did, but there's a reason I'm a writer and not an educator, like my parents were. I may not be able to help Mark with his homework, but I could help him write a novel. Even if he won't be able to describe it when it's done.
I can just hear it now. "My novel is...peach."
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Say what?!?
I've mentioned before that Mark's quite opinionated, and that once he makes up his mind, there's no changing it. So I'm not sure what to do about this one...
Mark has decided that dinosaurs never existed. "Dinosaurs aren't real," he told me matter-of-factly. "They never were."
I shook my head and wondered where this came from. I spent every childhood vacation looking at dinosaur bones and other fossils. What the heck was this kid talking about??
"What do you mean they're not real?" I asked. "Who told you that?"
"No one. I just know they're fake." He smiled at me like I was a dumb little child he was enlightening.
I was stumped. "What about all the books about dinosaurs? And the museums?"
"Fake."
"What about Sue? You stood in front of the biggest, most complete T. Rex skeleton in existence -- how can you say she's fake?" I asked.
"Because she is," was his reply. "Those bones are so fake -- they're not even white."
Mark has decided that dinosaurs never existed. "Dinosaurs aren't real," he told me matter-of-factly. "They never were."
I shook my head and wondered where this came from. I spent every childhood vacation looking at dinosaur bones and other fossils. What the heck was this kid talking about??
"What do you mean they're not real?" I asked. "Who told you that?"
"No one. I just know they're fake." He smiled at me like I was a dumb little child he was enlightening.
I was stumped. "What about all the books about dinosaurs? And the museums?"
"Fake."
"What about Sue? You stood in front of the biggest, most complete T. Rex skeleton in existence -- how can you say she's fake?" I asked.
"Because she is," was his reply. "Those bones are so fake -- they're not even white."I explained that if his bones were lying in the ground for 65 million years, they'd be brown too. He still shook his head.
I tried another tact. "Why would museums show dinosaur bones if they weren't real? Wouldn't that discredit the museums?"
He put his foot down. "They AREN'T real," he told me. "I've never seen them, so they never existed."
Aha -- a loophole! We've been studying the Presidents a lot lately, so I seized on that. "Well, then George Washington's not real either," I said.
"Yes, he was!" Mark didn't like that at all.
"But you said it didn't matter if something's in books or museums." I said. "So if you never met him, he can't be real."
I thought the logic worked, but I forgot I was dealing with a stubborn almost-9-year-old. He cast my theory aside, reiterated one last time that dinosaurs never existed, and asked me to turn up the car radio.
Well. There's nothing I like more than a challenge, especially one that reeks of Creationism casting aside Darwinism. Which turned out to be particularly relevant, as my marine biologist friend Vicki was currently vacationing in the Galapagos Islands, birthplace to Darwin's theory of evolution.
"Fine," I told Mark. "You can tell that story to your friend Vic, the scientist. And you can tell it to the ticket counter at the Natural History Museum, because you just won yourself a free field trip with me and my scientist friend to learn ALL about when dinosaurs roamed the Earth!"
I still think I'm gonna have trouble getting through to this thick skull, though -- and I'm not talking about Sue's!
Monday, February 9, 2009
Spelling lesson
Yesterday, while driving, a car managed to cut me off not once, but twice. The driver then slowed down to 15 miles below the speed limit.
"What an idiot!" I yelled, forgetting that my impressionable young son was in the car.
"Yeah, he IS an idiot!" the young son agreed. "I-D-O-T!"
Now, I love an ironic situation as much as the next person, but I bit my tongue on this one. I really would be the meanest mom ever if I pointed out that only an I-D-O-T couldn't spell I-D-I-O-T!
"You tell him, Mark!" I said. "Except..."
"What?"
"You missed a letter in I-D-O-T. What letter makes an 'e' sound sometimes?" I asked.
He thought about it a moment, then said, "Oh, I meant I-D-E-O-T!"
I shook my head. "Makes an 'e' sound but is not an 'e.' What other vowel does that?"
He scrunched his face and guessed, "Um, a?"
"I-D-A-O-T?" I asked. And bit my tongue again.
"Oh, I mean 'i'!" he corrected. "I-D-I-O-T. That guy was an I-D-I-O-T!"
I was so proud of my good speller. "Yes, he was," I answered back. "Good job!"
It wasn't until 10 minutes later I realized I'd perhaps focused on the wrong lesson here. A good mom would've focused on driving etiquette (i.e., not yelling names at other drivers) instead of spelling.
So maybe I'm the real I-D-O-T here after all!
"What an idiot!" I yelled, forgetting that my impressionable young son was in the car.
"Yeah, he IS an idiot!" the young son agreed. "I-D-O-T!"
Now, I love an ironic situation as much as the next person, but I bit my tongue on this one. I really would be the meanest mom ever if I pointed out that only an I-D-O-T couldn't spell I-D-I-O-T!
"You tell him, Mark!" I said. "Except..."
"What?"
"You missed a letter in I-D-O-T. What letter makes an 'e' sound sometimes?" I asked.
He thought about it a moment, then said, "Oh, I meant I-D-E-O-T!"
I shook my head. "Makes an 'e' sound but is not an 'e.' What other vowel does that?"
He scrunched his face and guessed, "Um, a?"
"I-D-A-O-T?" I asked. And bit my tongue again.
"Oh, I mean 'i'!" he corrected. "I-D-I-O-T. That guy was an I-D-I-O-T!"
I was so proud of my good speller. "Yes, he was," I answered back. "Good job!"
It wasn't until 10 minutes later I realized I'd perhaps focused on the wrong lesson here. A good mom would've focused on driving etiquette (i.e., not yelling names at other drivers) instead of spelling.
So maybe I'm the real I-D-O-T here after all!
Friday, February 6, 2009
Gloria Gaynor was right--I did survive!
Last night was my opportunity to lead the Cub Scout meeting. I was more than a little nervous, but I'm happy to report that it went well, and there were no nooses involved.
My topic was What Makes America Special, which I thought would be a fairly easy lesson. However, I read through the book last week, and found there were actual achievements the boys had to complete, which limited me a bit. But hey, I always love a good challenge.
Since it was dark and rainy, I immediately eliminated the flag-raising ceremony (plus I didn't have access to a flag pole). I was a little worried because my final activities included a lot of talking and some writing, which I know from experience (with Mark) aren't the most appealing activities for 9-year-olds after a whole day of school.
But the kids were great!! They sat in a U around me, and answered all my questions about famous Americans (George Washington and Abraham Lincoln). They already knew my Presidential trivia (George Washington was the only President who never lived in the White House) and taught me some new trivia (Abe Lincoln carried notes around in his stovepipe hat).
Next, we moved on to being a good citizen. Each boy told me one thing he'd done that week to be a good citizen. They also named people who serve America. The first answer was Army guys, and the next three answers were "That's what I was gonna say." With a little coaxing, I got some other answers, including Army guys ("Somebody already mentioned that"), OK then NAVY guys!, National Guard guys, and even Army nurses. (The Army was a very popular theme.)
We talked about what would happen if people were not good citizens, and the discussion turned a little dark.
"If there were no firemen, then the whole Earth would burn up."
"If there were no Army men, the bad guys would kill us."
"If there were no trashmen, we would live in houses filled to the very top with trash, and it would stink, and then we would get crushed to death and die."
"Good examples," I said. "Maybe we can think or some things that aren't quite as...destructive."
Next we moved onto identifying state trees, flowers, birds and flags. Upon mentioning the states, one boy told me he could sing the names of all 50 states in alphabetical order. Now this I had to hear! So he sang it, while the other boys followed along with their lists of states. It was pretty impressive!
The last activity was the writing one, where the boys had to write three things that makes America special to them. I kinda lost them here, which I knew would happen. There were some more great answers -- national parks, the people, freedom. And there were some kind of random answers -- again, the National Guard ("You really like the National Guard, huh?" I asked the little guy who'd answered all the previous questions with that), video games, even a story about a cousin's belly button. Oh, and one kid wrote down "violence" which I'm pretty sure wasn't so special, but then he drew lines all through it, and wrote "NO violence!'
But in the end, it went surprisingly well! I survived unharmed, and the boys weren't completely bored to death. Even my own kid participated and behaved, which doesn't always happen (he was repeatedly threatened on the way there!). I was sweating it for a bit in the beginning -- but in the end, we all survived.
And I'm just grateful the activity didn't involve knives, power tools, nooses or rope whips!
My topic was What Makes America Special, which I thought would be a fairly easy lesson. However, I read through the book last week, and found there were actual achievements the boys had to complete, which limited me a bit. But hey, I always love a good challenge.
Since it was dark and rainy, I immediately eliminated the flag-raising ceremony (plus I didn't have access to a flag pole). I was a little worried because my final activities included a lot of talking and some writing, which I know from experience (with Mark) aren't the most appealing activities for 9-year-olds after a whole day of school.
But the kids were great!! They sat in a U around me, and answered all my questions about famous Americans (George Washington and Abraham Lincoln). They already knew my Presidential trivia (George Washington was the only President who never lived in the White House) and taught me some new trivia (Abe Lincoln carried notes around in his stovepipe hat).
Next, we moved on to being a good citizen. Each boy told me one thing he'd done that week to be a good citizen. They also named people who serve America. The first answer was Army guys, and the next three answers were "That's what I was gonna say." With a little coaxing, I got some other answers, including Army guys ("Somebody already mentioned that"), OK then NAVY guys!, National Guard guys, and even Army nurses. (The Army was a very popular theme.)
We talked about what would happen if people were not good citizens, and the discussion turned a little dark.
"If there were no firemen, then the whole Earth would burn up."
"If there were no Army men, the bad guys would kill us."
"If there were no trashmen, we would live in houses filled to the very top with trash, and it would stink, and then we would get crushed to death and die."
"Good examples," I said. "Maybe we can think or some things that aren't quite as...destructive."
Next we moved onto identifying state trees, flowers, birds and flags. Upon mentioning the states, one boy told me he could sing the names of all 50 states in alphabetical order. Now this I had to hear! So he sang it, while the other boys followed along with their lists of states. It was pretty impressive!
The last activity was the writing one, where the boys had to write three things that makes America special to them. I kinda lost them here, which I knew would happen. There were some more great answers -- national parks, the people, freedom. And there were some kind of random answers -- again, the National Guard ("You really like the National Guard, huh?" I asked the little guy who'd answered all the previous questions with that), video games, even a story about a cousin's belly button. Oh, and one kid wrote down "violence" which I'm pretty sure wasn't so special, but then he drew lines all through it, and wrote "NO violence!'
But in the end, it went surprisingly well! I survived unharmed, and the boys weren't completely bored to death. Even my own kid participated and behaved, which doesn't always happen (he was repeatedly threatened on the way there!). I was sweating it for a bit in the beginning -- but in the end, we all survived.
And I'm just grateful the activity didn't involve knives, power tools, nooses or rope whips!
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
A tough choice, because the cuisine is so similar
Last night, Mark was discussing where to go for his birthday dinner. He gets to pick any restaurant he wants, and I have to suffer through it. So I was pleasantly surprised to hear his choice.
"I want to go to the fritter place," he told me, and my stomach replied, "Yay!"
It's a quaint little restaurant with a country-esque interior and an outdoor patio with a koi pond. The cuteness also extends to the food presentation. Each dinner comes with a salad, and an accompanying basket of fresh veggies. You choose the ones you want in your salad, and the waitress whips it up at the table.
They also make amazing yeast rolls, and fried chicken with mashed potatoes to die for. However, their specialty, as Mark noted, are the fritters (he doesn't even know the restaurant's real name, he just calls it "the fritter place"). They're little round balls of dough fried up and dusted with powdered sugar. It's about as close to eating a donut for dinner as you can get, and the waitresses pass them out liberally.
So I was VERY happy with his choice. Until he scratched his chin and said, "Or maybe I'll pick Taco Bell instead. Ummmmm, TACO BELL!" He actually licked his lips at the thought.
Damn! I was so close!
I'm actually very proud of how far his culinary appreciation has grown in 3 1/2 years. When he first moved in, all he would eat was boxed mac n' cheese and hot dogs. Peanut butter and mayonnaise or peanut butter and butter sandwiches were frequent requests. (I could never bring myself to make either -- I literally gagged at the thought!)
But sloooowly, his tastes became more refined, until one day he told me, "Hmmm, we haven't had a crab feast in a long time." A few days later, he requested, and finished, an entire filet mignon, and I realized I must be careful what I wish for, because my wallet was feeling the pain of my little foodie's increasingly sophisticated palate.
I wasn't totally shocked by the Taco Bell request -- mostly because last year he chose KFC for his birthday dinner. I shared the wealth on that one, inviting my parents and family along. I treated them all, because heck, it was my only son's birthday dinner, and that's how I roll. (OK, and because none of them would go if I didn't promise to buy!) I got a fried chicken dinner all right, but in no way did it resemble the delicacy served at the fritter place.
And so we'll see which restaurant wins out. Come February 24th, I'll either be dining al fresco beside the koi pond, or inside, on a hard plastic bench, next to the drive-through window.
"I want to go to the fritter place," he told me, and my stomach replied, "Yay!"
It's a quaint little restaurant with a country-esque interior and an outdoor patio with a koi pond. The cuteness also extends to the food presentation. Each dinner comes with a salad, and an accompanying basket of fresh veggies. You choose the ones you want in your salad, and the waitress whips it up at the table.
They also make amazing yeast rolls, and fried chicken with mashed potatoes to die for. However, their specialty, as Mark noted, are the fritters (he doesn't even know the restaurant's real name, he just calls it "the fritter place"). They're little round balls of dough fried up and dusted with powdered sugar. It's about as close to eating a donut for dinner as you can get, and the waitresses pass them out liberally.
So I was VERY happy with his choice. Until he scratched his chin and said, "Or maybe I'll pick Taco Bell instead. Ummmmm, TACO BELL!" He actually licked his lips at the thought.
Damn! I was so close!
I'm actually very proud of how far his culinary appreciation has grown in 3 1/2 years. When he first moved in, all he would eat was boxed mac n' cheese and hot dogs. Peanut butter and mayonnaise or peanut butter and butter sandwiches were frequent requests. (I could never bring myself to make either -- I literally gagged at the thought!)
But sloooowly, his tastes became more refined, until one day he told me, "Hmmm, we haven't had a crab feast in a long time." A few days later, he requested, and finished, an entire filet mignon, and I realized I must be careful what I wish for, because my wallet was feeling the pain of my little foodie's increasingly sophisticated palate.
I wasn't totally shocked by the Taco Bell request -- mostly because last year he chose KFC for his birthday dinner. I shared the wealth on that one, inviting my parents and family along. I treated them all, because heck, it was my only son's birthday dinner, and that's how I roll. (OK, and because none of them would go if I didn't promise to buy!) I got a fried chicken dinner all right, but in no way did it resemble the delicacy served at the fritter place.
And so we'll see which restaurant wins out. Come February 24th, I'll either be dining al fresco beside the koi pond, or inside, on a hard plastic bench, next to the drive-through window.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Mark pulled the D card
So yes, diabetes is very serious. It's a chronic, life-threatening disease, if not properly managed. (And properly doesn't mean perfectly, which is an impossibility, it really means constantly.) Yes, it complicates our lives quite a bit, and interferes with such mundane tasks as eating or sleeping (or not sleeping, as the last three nights prove).
But in the larger scheme of life, it's become...just the way things are. I haven't ever gone so far as to forget Mark has it, but I don't dwell on it or obsess about it as much as I did when he first moved in. In fact, sometimes now I even forget to mention it to people, who stare at me horrified when I poke Mark's fingers and order him to bleed.
Instead, I make a big deal out of not making diabetes a big deal. "It's just what you have," I tell Mark. "Everybody's got something -- high blood pressure, high cholesterol, you name it." I want him to coexist peacefully with his diabetes, managing it but not letting it define him. I don't let him dwell on his diabetes, or play a martyr because of it.
However...sometimes diabetes is a big deal. Sometimes we do have to ask people for cuts in line or special favors because Mark's having a low blood sugar. I don't do it often, but when I do, I call it "playing the D card."
My mom's an expert at playing the D card. Sometimes it works well (hello, Disneyworld group FastPass!) and sometimes, it backfires. Once, after waiting a really long time in a restaurant, my very hungry mom told the waitress her grandson had diabetes and needed to eat. The waitress apologized and brought Mark a huge glass of orange juice, which would've sent his blood sugar soaring (he wasn't low at the time). "You better drink that whole glass!" I told my mom, laughing really hard.
So yes, I will admit that occasionally we use diabetes to our advantage. Not often, and we try to use our powers for good, not for evil.
Yesterday, I found out Mark's learned to play the D card as well. He got into a scuffle with his best friend last week. Heated words were exchanged on the one-touch court, prompting Mark to push Tyler. Tyler responded by punching Mark in the stomach, and both boys earned a week's worth of lunchtime detention.
Both boys received a good talking to, and in an example we should all follow when fighting, quickly moved on. I'd forgotten the whole incident until I ran into Tyler's mom yesterday.
"I'm so sorry about what happened last week!" she told me, so I knew she was talking about the fight. "Tyler was punished, and we talked to him, and I know Mark has diabetes, so--"
"Wait, you're talking about the fight, right?" I interrupted.
She nodded. "Don't worry about his diabetes," I said. "It didn't stop him from pushing Tyler first!" I told her that yes, he has diabetes, but it's not a free pass, especially when it comes to fighting.
Later that night, Mark told me he got to sit down at lunch detention.
"How come?" I asked. He'd said before they had to stand the whole time.
"Well," he started. "Some other kid was sitting down, and I asked why he got to sit down and we didn't. The lunch duty said he had a medical condition."
Everybody join me in a chorus of Oh no, he didn't! Because you know where this is going...
"And?" I prompted.
"And," he answered, "I said, 'I have a medical condition, too!'" So he got to sit.
I wasn't sure whether to congratulate him or admonish him for being so clever. But it was cut-and-dry for my mom.
"Good for him!" she cheered, when I told her the story. She was proud he'd figured out how to use his diabetes to his advantage.
I guess she's right. And at least he didn't end up with a jumbo-sized glass of orange juice this time.
But in the larger scheme of life, it's become...just the way things are. I haven't ever gone so far as to forget Mark has it, but I don't dwell on it or obsess about it as much as I did when he first moved in. In fact, sometimes now I even forget to mention it to people, who stare at me horrified when I poke Mark's fingers and order him to bleed.
Instead, I make a big deal out of not making diabetes a big deal. "It's just what you have," I tell Mark. "Everybody's got something -- high blood pressure, high cholesterol, you name it." I want him to coexist peacefully with his diabetes, managing it but not letting it define him. I don't let him dwell on his diabetes, or play a martyr because of it.
However...sometimes diabetes is a big deal. Sometimes we do have to ask people for cuts in line or special favors because Mark's having a low blood sugar. I don't do it often, but when I do, I call it "playing the D card."
My mom's an expert at playing the D card. Sometimes it works well (hello, Disneyworld group FastPass!) and sometimes, it backfires. Once, after waiting a really long time in a restaurant, my very hungry mom told the waitress her grandson had diabetes and needed to eat. The waitress apologized and brought Mark a huge glass of orange juice, which would've sent his blood sugar soaring (he wasn't low at the time). "You better drink that whole glass!" I told my mom, laughing really hard.
So yes, I will admit that occasionally we use diabetes to our advantage. Not often, and we try to use our powers for good, not for evil.
Yesterday, I found out Mark's learned to play the D card as well. He got into a scuffle with his best friend last week. Heated words were exchanged on the one-touch court, prompting Mark to push Tyler. Tyler responded by punching Mark in the stomach, and both boys earned a week's worth of lunchtime detention.
Both boys received a good talking to, and in an example we should all follow when fighting, quickly moved on. I'd forgotten the whole incident until I ran into Tyler's mom yesterday.
"I'm so sorry about what happened last week!" she told me, so I knew she was talking about the fight. "Tyler was punished, and we talked to him, and I know Mark has diabetes, so--"
"Wait, you're talking about the fight, right?" I interrupted.
She nodded. "Don't worry about his diabetes," I said. "It didn't stop him from pushing Tyler first!" I told her that yes, he has diabetes, but it's not a free pass, especially when it comes to fighting.
Later that night, Mark told me he got to sit down at lunch detention.
"How come?" I asked. He'd said before they had to stand the whole time.
"Well," he started. "Some other kid was sitting down, and I asked why he got to sit down and we didn't. The lunch duty said he had a medical condition."
Everybody join me in a chorus of Oh no, he didn't! Because you know where this is going...
"And?" I prompted.
"And," he answered, "I said, 'I have a medical condition, too!'" So he got to sit.
I wasn't sure whether to congratulate him or admonish him for being so clever. But it was cut-and-dry for my mom.
"Good for him!" she cheered, when I told her the story. She was proud he'd figured out how to use his diabetes to his advantage.
I guess she's right. And at least he didn't end up with a jumbo-sized glass of orange juice this time.
Monday, February 2, 2009
And the party location is...
...Pump It Up!
I took Mark to Pump It Up, and he surveyed the room. "OK," he said slowly, still a little unsure.
"Oh, there's also a giant slide around the corner," a Pump It Up employee pointed out. "Check it out!"
"OK, I'll have my party here!" Mark exclaimed suddenly, and I turned the corner to see what made him...well, turn the corner.
I was not surprised to see video games. Mark's idea of a great afternoon with his friends is to play video games and totally ignore them. I constantly remind him that Sonic the Hedgehog is not a real friend (not even if he can fly like Superman).
Whatever. I didn't tell Mark the video games are extra, and that I'm supplying him with pizza, cake and jumping, not quarters. I know he'll talk someone into giving him quarters (he always does), but I also know he'll jump around like a madman with his friends when we get there. (He hates to be left out of anything!)
So now my conscience is clear, and my deposit is safe. I don't care if Mark said yes because of video games, I'm just glad he said yes. I know he and his friends will have a great time.
And we'll probably have this very same conversation next year, when he cries because I've scheduled his party at a [bowling alley, ice skating rink, roller skating rink, fill in the blank] when he really wanted it at -- WAAAAAAHHHH!!!! -- PUMP IT UP!
I took Mark to Pump It Up, and he surveyed the room. "OK," he said slowly, still a little unsure.
"Oh, there's also a giant slide around the corner," a Pump It Up employee pointed out. "Check it out!"
"OK, I'll have my party here!" Mark exclaimed suddenly, and I turned the corner to see what made him...well, turn the corner.
I was not surprised to see video games. Mark's idea of a great afternoon with his friends is to play video games and totally ignore them. I constantly remind him that Sonic the Hedgehog is not a real friend (not even if he can fly like Superman).
Whatever. I didn't tell Mark the video games are extra, and that I'm supplying him with pizza, cake and jumping, not quarters. I know he'll talk someone into giving him quarters (he always does), but I also know he'll jump around like a madman with his friends when we get there. (He hates to be left out of anything!)
So now my conscience is clear, and my deposit is safe. I don't care if Mark said yes because of video games, I'm just glad he said yes. I know he and his friends will have a great time.
And we'll probably have this very same conversation next year, when he cries because I've scheduled his party at a [bowling alley, ice skating rink, roller skating rink, fill in the blank] when he really wanted it at -- WAAAAAAHHHH!!!! -- PUMP IT UP!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)