Spelling counts

Today's lesson: It's hard to use the Internet if you cannot spell.

Mark's got a research project due next Tuesday. He wrote a report about sharks, and now needs a presentation board, with at least six pictures and captions, to go along with it.

He's taking a computer class at school, and though it has no Internet access, he fancies himself a computer whiz. So he started his online research with Google images, which has a lot of shark pictures, but not many captions. He then expanded his search outside of Google.

I left him at the computer while I did laundry. He was typing away and seemed okay, but when I came back 10 minutes later, he was gone.

I found him playing Legos in his room.

"What happened with your shark pictures?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I couldn't find any, so I gave up."

"What do you mean you couldn't find any?"

"None of the Web sites worked," he answered.

I thought maybe the Internet connection was wonky, so I checked it out myself. It worked just fine for me.

I decided on a little troubleshooting. I clicked the Address button to look at the history, to see where exactly he'd been searching.

And that's where I found the problem. He'd typed "www.animlplanut.com" at first, and when that went nowhere, he revised it to "www.animlplanit.com." They both lead to a page not found error message.

There were also a couple other addresses, including "www.discvry.com" and "www.discvryanimls.com." He finally gave up the homework part, and decided to watch some funny animal videos on YouTube by typing the phonetically correct but technically incorrect address "www.utube.com."

Which is a real Web site for the Universal Tube & Rollform Equipment Corporation. They sell new and used tube mills, pipe mills and roll forming machinery.

I have no idea what any of that means, and I found it about as interesting as Mark did. Because after that address, there were no other attempts. I'm guessing that's when Mark's interest in the Internet faded, replaced by his interest in the Legos instead.

And I thought my obsession with proper spelling was just a personality quirk. Turns out good spelling is not only helpful, it's actually essential--unless, of course, you really do want to order new or used tube mills instead of watching crazy cat videos.

He's got a point

Mark was telling me about his substitute teacher at dinner last night. I asked if his regular teacher, Mr. Robinson, was sick.

"No," Mark said. "He had jury duty today. But he'll be back tomorrow."

I nodded. "Jury duty, huh? He might be out for a long time if he gets picked."

Mark shook his head. "No, he'll be back tomorrow."

"How do you know?" I asked.

Mark stared at me like I was an idiot. "Just look at him," he replied. "He's got green hair. Who's gonna pick him for their jury?"

And...he's got a point.

"You're right," I said. "I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow."

My mom just tried to kill me

My family is full of really good cooks. Not just my mom, but all my brothers and sisters-in-law, too. Dinner at any of their houses is a treat to look forward to.

I, on the other hand, am a really good patron. Which means, I can't cook worth a damn, but I can point you to all the best restaurants.

But my brothers have been making me feel a little self-conscious about my culinary skills lately. This was most apparent at a dinner my brother Brad made. Mark was scarfing down the food, and only stopped once, briefly, to ask for more broccoli.

Seriously, he wanted more BROCCOLI! My kid, who won't eat anything that even resembles a vegetable, requested a second helping of my brother's broccoli. (I have never before--nor since--heard him repeat this request.)

And so, I picked up the gauntlet. I can't have my child growing up thinking the only homemade meals come out of Grandma's or his uncles' houses.

I started with a relatively easy meal--pasta. It had an Asian flair, and though it came from a box, I personally cooked it and added the spice packet, so I'm declaring that homemade. It was a little salty, but Mark gave it a thumbs up.

The next meal was ribs. I don't eat any meat other than chicken or turkey, but I figured I could grill it on the barbecue. I was a little concerned when I called my mom to confirm this and she said, "How long do you have to cook it?"

I was thinking, "Whaddaya mean, how long? It's five o'clock, I've got about 30 minutes!"

What I said was, "How long will it take?"

My mom instructed me to bake the ribs, informing me this could take as long as two hours. (And I would cook dinner for two hours why?) We compromised on baking them for an hour, then grilling them, which shaved off 30 minutes.

Mark also gave this recipe a thumbs up, albeit as a back-handed compliment.

"They're good," he proclaimed, and my heart swelled with pride. Then he deflated it by adding, "For you."

"They're not as good as Grandma's," he explained. "Grandma makes everything better than you."

My third attempt was black bean and pasta soup. Again, it came from a bag, but I had to wash, cook, and drain the beans twice, which again, I declare is cooking. I also added a chicken breast and veggies to make the soup healthier. Unfortunately, I did not add any additional liquids, so the "soup" turned into a chunky, gloppy stew better eaten with a fork. Which we tried. And did not like. And poured down the garbage disposal, replacing it with a can of clam chowder Mark inhaled.

I was about to give up on all this culinary crap, when my mom suggested I start smaller. She's a huge fan of Sam the Cooking Guy, and swore his recipes were so simple, even I couldn't mess them up. (I appreciate her misguided faith in me.)

So last night, armed with my Sam cookbook, a bottle of salsa, some chicken broth, tortillas, avocados and chicken breast, I whipped up a batch of Sam's tortilla soup.

It was amazing -- from start to finish, it took 20 minutes. As it was cooking, Mark wandered into the kitchen, lured by the wonderful smell. I felt so proud, and thought maybe my mom was right--even I hadn't screwed this up!

Until I sampled the soup and screamed like a banshee.

Mark came running back to the kitchen. "What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed.

"Burned my tongue," I cried.

Not because the soup was hot, but because the soup was spicy. The kind of spicy you find in, say...FIRE!

But I'd already tossed out one pot of soup last week, I wasn't going to toss another. I pretended like the whole last moment hadn't occurred, and I sent Mark to the table bearing tortilla strips, cheese and avocados, all of which I hoped would mellow the flavor. It did not.

In between huge gulps of soda (which Mark set on my placemat with an ominous, "You will need this!"), I called my mom.

"You and Sam tried to kill me!" I cried. "Why would you suggest that recipe??"

"You used medium salsa?" she asked, and between my coughing and gagging, I peeped, "Yes."

"No, no, that's too hot!" she exclaimed. "You've got to use mild! I should've told you before."

I wiped the sweat from my eyes, and sputtered, "It's not that hot, I think I can finish it--" but was cut short by another coughing fit. Damn, that soup was burning my throat, my lips, my mouth! That was some hot soup!

And so, today, I think I shall hang up my apron. Tonight we are having tacos, made from pre-seasoned ground turkey stuffed into store-bought tortillas. I may add my own little flare with some diced lettuce (from a pre-washed bag of salad), and maybe even a little pre-grated cheese for color. I probably won't taste any of it, because I'm pretty sure I burned away all of my tastebuds last night, but at least it will look pretty.

I don't care what my mom says, Sam is not idiot proof. I can bear first-hand witness to that. (And Mark, unfortunately, will second that.)

What's that about rocks and glass houses?

Last night, I watched a show called Clean House. I don't know what's worse, the fact that I watched this show in the first place, or the fact that I watched it for a full hour.

The premise was taking a family living in utter filth and rewarding them with -- you guessed it -- a clean house. We're not talking a mildly unorganized house here -- God knows I'm not one to judge a few messy piles of paper or clothes on the floor. We're talking a full-on garbage dump masquerading as living quarters.

This family had so many clothes, so much junk, that they literally moved clothes piles in the living room every night to sleep on temporary beds, because they couldn't find the bed in the bedroom! Now that, my friends, is clutter!

(I'll admit it, I've got my own clutter. But I'm a considerate mess. My living room furniture, while not always spotless, is always accessible. You can get to it without without harming yourself. Just be careful opening the closet doors...)

Anyway, the decorating team convinced the family to sell the extra clothing and junk at a yard sale, then used the money to spruce up the place. It looked amazing at the end, and I thought maybe it wasn't such a bad deal for the family after all. I even toyed with embarrassing myself on national television if opening my closets resulted in a similarly remodeled home.

I couldn't stop thinking about the show all day today. I thought about how the host couldn't convince the mom to throw away any of the old clothes at first. It made her physically ill just thinking about it. Why is she holding on to all that crap? I wondered. How could she possibly need seven new still-in-the-package comforters?

Well, let's just say that I was feeling pretty good about myself and my domestic skills, especially compared to that messy family. But my superiority came to a screeching halt at lunch, which I spent at the car wash.

I was thumbing through my Oprah magazine, and saw the caption "See this movie!" The movie was Thank You for Smoking, and I realized I had seen this movie. A long time ago. I flipped back to the cover, and looked at the magazine date. It said March.

March 2006. That's right, I was reading a three-year-old magazine!

Suddenly I didn't feel so superior to the Clutter family. Turns out they aren't the only ones who have a hard time throwing things away.

(And boy, am I glad my Mom doesn't know how to leave comments here!)

Tales of a one-armed drummer

Walk into my garage on any given day and you'll see an assortment of drum sticks lying on the floor, ready to trip me up.

I've questioned the drummer in residence about this many times, and his answer is always the same: "That's where they go when I drop them."

Which I usually follow up by asking, "Why don't you pick them up?"

"I do," Mark answers. "When I start drumming."

Two drum sticks are usually enough for most drummers. My little drummer boy uses six during his 15 minute daily practice. He sets four of them on the bass drum, secured by the drum hardware. Then he starts practice using the other two.

He usually drops both sticks while practicing, and reaches for the backup sticks on the bass drum. He's gotten pretty good at reaching for a new one seamlessly. I'd be proud except that at the end of practice, he leaves all six on the ground where they fell.

Now picture me carrying full laundry baskets out to the garage and stepping on a rogue drum stick and you'll realize my frustration.

But yesterday Mark hit a new level of laziness. He was playing along to the song "Wait for You" by Elliot Yamin, and he sounded great. I watched him hit the hi-hat and bass drum on the 1 and 3 beats, then hi-hat and snare drum on the 2 and 4 beats.

I went inside for a minute, and suddenly, the beat changed. I couldn't figure out what was different, just that it was. So I poked my head into the garage and there was Mark, playing the snare and hi-hat with just one hand. The other hand was empty.

"Where's your other drum stick?" I asked, and he pointed to the ground. I counted five drum sticks there.

"Pick it up," I told him. "Play it right."

"I'm fine," he said, and kept on playing with one hand. "I don't wanna have to reach aaallllll the way down there to get it." (He was sitting on a drum seat about a foot off the ground.)

I'm sure the one-armed drummer in Def Leppard would cheer him on, but I'm pretty sure Keith Moon and John Bonham are cringing somewhere in the afterlife.

They're going bankrupt? What a surprise!

Until very recently, I had cable T.V. I had a trio of services, in fact -- cable T.V., phone and Internet service all rolled into one bundle. But after months of poor phone service and three bad cable boxes, I'm now a former subscriber.

I won't slander the communication company by naming it. Instead, let's just say the name rhymes with...Smarter. As in, "My cable company is not smarter than a fifth grader."

I cancelled my T.V. service after replacing the third box in nine months. Came straight home from the company toting my new box, plugged it in, and saw nothing but snow. So I called the company, and told them to turn it off.

The woman on the phone tried her best to keep me. "Are you sure you don't want to give us another chance?" she asked hopefully.

"I gave you THREE chances!" I told her, and she answered, "Yeah...I don't know what to say to that."

I thought the problem was solved until the phone calls started. A representative called me Tuesday to confirm I'd cancelled the service.

"As of last Saturday," I told him.

He tried to win me back with a discount, and I did my best not to tell him what he could do with the discount. (Mark was standing right there; one look at his little puppy dog face reminded me to be a good example.)

Well, imagine my surprise when I came home Wednesday night and both my phone and Internet service were out. My voicemail worked when I called it on my cell phone, but the landline itself wasn't working.

I immediately called the cable company. I explained that both my router and modem were flashing, and that I had no phone or Internet service as a result.

"OK, we'll fix your modem," the technician told me.

"You should start with the router," I told him. "The modem won't work until the router's working."

He didn't like that at all. "Ma'am, that's a different department. But I can help you with the modem if you'd like."

Well, OK, then. He said he'd give me a minute to unplug the modem, and he could walk me through that if I needed help. (Gee, maybe he could walk me through turning on the overhead lights, too--they're both pretty tough!)

He walked me through steps for ten minutes until I heard him curse quietly over the phone.

"My computer just froze up," he said. "You're going to have to call back."

"You should try rebooting it," I said nicely. "I can walk you through that if you'd like."

He didn't think that was as funny as I did.

I called back, but this time I asked for the phone service department.

This technician was way more helpful. "Looks like you cancelled your phone service," he said. "That's why the router's not working."

"No, I only cancelled the T.V.," I told him.

He said the technicians had been to my house earlier that day and pulled the cables out. Not just the T.V. cables -- the phone and Internet ones as well.

"Maybe your router really is broken," he said. "But it seems like a big coincidence that the technician was there and now nothing's working." I agreed, and thanked him for his honesty.

He scheduled another tech to come out and reconnect the phone and Internet cables. He gave me an appointment time and said I should be there to let them in.

"I have to be home?" I asked.

"Yes, to let them in the backyard," he said.

I reminded him they got in just fine to rip everything out while I wasn't home. He said he'd put a note in the appointment so I wouldn't have to be there after all.

The next day, I checked my voicemail, and damned if they didn't leave me a message about my appointment. They called me on the phone they knew was broken, and left me a voicemail! And threatened to cancel the appointment if I didn't call back to confirm!

I was flabbergasted, but did indeed call to confirm the appointment. They said to be home between 10 and noon. I agreed to do so, then went to work.

My cell phone rang at 2 p.m., two hours after my scheduled appointment. The cable dispatcher told me the tech was on my porch but nobody was home.

"They said I didn't have to be home," I told him. "He can go in my backyard and connect it."

The dispatcher said he'd tell the tech. And when I arrived home that night, everything was back to normal. The router and modem were no longer flashing, the phone was working, my Internet was restored. I sighed deeply with relief, and thanked my stars I wouldn't have to deal with the dumbest cable company in the world ever again.

Until two minutes later, when the phone rang. I answered it, glad that it was working. But my smile faded quickly, when I realized it was the cable company.

They were calling to confirm my appointment for the next day.

He's a thoughtful kid

I've been busy with Mark's sleep-away camp applications during the past few weeks. One camp requires a TB test completed within the last two years, which of course Mark didn't have.

So it was off to the doctor Tuesday afternoon for the arm poke.

Afterwards, the doctor used a cotton ball to wipe away the tiny drop of blood, then applied a band-aid to Mark's arm. I complimented Mark on being so brave.

He asked if it was all done, and I said yes, except that we had to come back to the doctor's office Thursday morning for the results.

"Will that hurt?" he asked. He was worried about getting poked again.

"No," I answered. "All they do is look at your arm. They look at the spot where the doctor poked you, to see if it turned purple."

"That's it?" he asked.

"That's it," I answered.

He was relieved. So relieved, in fact, he decided to help out the nurse.

Mark showed me his arm just before we left this morning, and said, "Look, Mom, I made it easy for her! Now she'll know exactly where to look."

I've heard of ring-around-the-collar before, but never ring-around-the-TB-shot!

My new favorite quote

Mark emerged from his room yesterday, rubbing his stubbly head.

"I like my new haircut," he told me. "I don't have to waste so much time shampooing my hair anymore."

He glanced at himself in the mirror, then added, "And now I know how I looked as a little baby without any hair!"

Life lessons

Q: How do you know when a punishment is really effective?

A: When it turns your kid into a grumpy, stomping little ball of anger.

Saturday was Consequence Afternoon. We didn’t find any uniform pants last weekend, and now, after Mark’s art show, we also needed a new shower curtain. So Mark cleaned out his fish bank in preparation, to the tune of a whopping $33.

I was sad he had to spend his entire savings on new pants and a shower curtain, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

“So what?” he said, unconcerned. “I’ll just get more money.”

And that attitude turned the tide against him.

See, when I was a kid, we didn’t learn “lessons.” We didn’t get warnings, timeouts, or “consequences.” We got beat, plain and simple. You acted up, you got in trouble, you got the belt. All my Dad had to do was touch his belt buckle, and we knew we were in for it. It instantly brought my brothers and I to tears and hurried apologies.We tried everything to make the spankings stop as quickly as possible. We even tried playing tough, pretending like the whooping didn’t hurt. (It only took one time to realize our parents spanked us harder when we laughed—after that, it was straight to tears.)

And so, because of Mark’s cavalier attitude, I realized I had to make him hurt a little.

Mark made it very easy on me. Two minutes after stepping into Target, he asked if we could look at video games.

“Sure,” I answered.

“Really?” he asked. He couldn’t believe I’d said yes.

I nodded and we walked toward the games. He lit up, pointing at the various games.

“Oh, look at that new Pokémon one!” he cried. “And check out the Tony Hawk one!”

He was so excited. I asked which one he’d pick first, and he pointed to the Pokémon one. “Then I’d get that one, that one and that one.”

“Cool!” I said. “How much do they cost?”

“That one’s $29.99, and that one’s $26.99,” he answered. Then he remembered the $33 in his pocket and said, “Hey, I have enough!”

I nodded and agreed. “Yep, you do!” Then I frowned, like I’d just thought of something unpleasant. “But you have to buy pants and a shower curtain with that money.”

And that’s when Mark turned into Stompy Mad-Face. He watched his Pokémon dreams turn into a uniform nightmare.

“Oh my God!” he cried. “I won’t have any money left for games! Nothing!”

“You might,” I said, hopefully.

“No, I won’t,” he snapped. “I’ll have nothing, not even one dollar! I’ll have ZERO DOT ZERO ZERO DOLLARS!”

The laughter almost won at that comment.

We ambled over to the boy’s clothes section, which was completely devoid of uniforms (a little late in the year, I guess). I finally found a pair of blue shorts for $7.99, and Mark cried indignantly, “What? EIGHT BUCKS for a pair of shorts?” He was downright offended.

I nodded. “I know, clothes are expensive!”

I grabbed another pair of shorts—this pair cost $10. I thought Mark was gonna have a heart attack.

“Eighteen dollars!” he cried. “FOR SHORTS. I won’t have enough for a shower curtain, too!”

“One thing at a time,” I answered.

He paid for his shorts and stomped out of the store. Target didn’t have shower curtains I liked, so we went to a different store.

Mark had $14 left. He did not look at any patterns at all—he went straight for the cheapest curtain they had.

“Look, $12.99,” he said.

I shook my head. “It’s vinyl,” I said. “I like fabric ones, like the one at home.”

I pointed at a pink curtain that said “Ooh la la.” It had poodles and purses and high-heel shoes all over it.

“How about that one?” I asked, laughing.

“Fine,” he said.

“You want to put up a pink curtain filled with girly stuff all over it?” I asked.

“I DON’T CARE!” he yelled. “As long as it’s cheap!”

I was cracking up. Now that I could see the punishment working, I prolonged it, holding up each different curtain, studying it, then putting it back down.

Finally, he picked one out and said, “How about this one?” He held up a shower curtain filled with monkeys eating bananas.

“You like it?” I asked, and he nodded. “Well, the bananas match the paint, and the trees match the brown towels I bought to go with the other curtain. Yeah, I guess it’s fine.”

“How much is it?” he asked. I pointed to the tag, and when I told him it was on sale (10% off), he broke into applause.

He was still five bucks short, but I advanced him the money from next week’s allowance. He was just happy to be done with it all.

And so, in the very near future, Mark will be sporting some new shorts to school, and I’ll join a barrel of monkeys in the shower. And hopefully the lesson will last longer than the shower curtain.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

When Mark woke up yesterday, he was just your average 9-year-old sorely in need of a haircut. By day's end, he'd received both the haircut and the hero status that went with it.

Mark's school held a St. Baldrick's head shaving event yesterday, and I'm proud to say my son was a participant. He shaved off his hair to help fight childhood cancer, and he did it in honor of a friend currently battling cancer. Yep, you can safely say that I was the proudest mom around yesterday.

He was very nervous about the whole thing, because that kid really loves his hair. But when he promised to shave it back in January, I promised he wouldn't have to cut it until the shaving. The promise of no haircuts between then and now was powerful incentive.

My cousin Kathleen had a great idea for easing him into the haircut -- she suggested we each cut off a lock of his hair beforehand. But Mark didn't like that idea, and hid behind the patio furniture to elude her. She trapped him, and cut off a small bit, while I videotaped it and tried really hard not to laugh.

Mark then ran out the front door, and when I followed him, he ran around the corner wielding a Super Soaker squirt gun.

"Never!" he shouted, shooting water at me. "You won't get any more of my hair!"

So I was a little nervous he was going to back out at the last minute. But my fears were completely unfounded. When they called kids onstage, Mark bounded up there like a little trooper.

There were about 50 kids from his school participating, but Mark was the only kid from his class. His teacher, Mr. Robinson, was there and jumped onstage to do the first shave. He took the clippers and shaved off a huge swath of hair, leaving a shiny white path across the middle of Mark's head. Mark didn't complain a bit.

Mr. Robinson passed the clippers back to the hair stylist, who spent the next four minutes shaving off the rest of Mark's hair. When Mark finished and stood up, the crowd cheered. His hand instinctively reached for his head, rubbing where only moments before, hair had been.

"It feels weird," he said. "But at least I still have whiskers."

"You mean stubble?" I asked, rubbing the minute hairs left on his head.

"Yeah, stubble." He sighed. "I should've asked for a 1," he said, referring to the clipper level which would've left him with a tiny layer of hair.

Did I mention how proud I was of him??? I couldn't stop rubbing his bald head, and telling him that.

"I know," he said when I told him again how proud I was. "You said that a million, jillion times already!"

It was a fun event to watch. One by one, the participants took the stage, most with longish hair. Once shaved, they left the stage, rubbing their heads, and were met by friends or family members offstage who did the same thing. It was funny to see all the shiny white heads, and the hairlines of where hair used to be.

Mark got a t-shirt and button to commemorate the event, and I took about a hundred pictures of him newly-shorn. His teacher congratulated him, then delivered the best news ever.

"You can wear a baseball hat to school tomorrow," he told Mark, so Mark wouldn't get sunburned. Mark was thrilled at that, although a little less thrilled when he got home and discovered that his favorite hat was too big now, sans hair.

Mark was also thrilled to get an ice cream cone out of the deal. (Hey, he earned it!)

After the shaving, we went to Scott and Mary's house for dinner. His cousins were all there, and excited to see Mark's head. Except for 2-year-old Johnny, that is. Johnny was excited to see me, because that meant Mark was somewhere close by, but he didn't recognize him.

"Look Johnny, it's Mark," I said, pointing at Mark. But Johnny's eyebrows shot straight up. He didn't recognize Mark at all, and wasn't sure of that bald kid in front of him. He looked from me to Mark, then back again, and finally ran away.

Scott and Smed also congratulated Mark, saying he resembled a Buddhist monk.

"Where's your hair?" Scott asked, to which Mark answered, "Hey, at least I've still got my appendix!" (Which was only funny because Scott lived after his appendix burst.)

It was hilarious to watch Mark run through the house. It definitely took some getting used to seeing that bald head.

When we got home, Mark readied himself for bed, and rubbed his head once more.

"My head feels funny on the pillow!" he called, making me giggle.

It was weird though, to pass his room, and see that stubbly head on the pillow. And even weirder to see him wake up this morning. I'm still not used to the hairless head yet.

But enough of my impressions, here are some pics so you can see for yourself.

The "before" picture

The "during" picture

The "after" picture

Still feeling the "whiskers"

With Mr. Robinson

My Little Monet

Some parents display their children's artwork on the refrigerator; others frame it and hang it on the walls. But my son was thoughtful enough to show his latest creation in a more permanent exhibition space: the bathroom.

Specifically, it's on display in my shower. Or rather, on the shower curtain. That's right, my little artiste demonstrated his creative flair by spraying bleach all over the shower curtain today.

Why would he do that? you might ask, to which I would answer, I have no flippin' idea.

Yes, I have childproof locks on the bathroom cupboard. But he's 9 years old, and has never taken any interest in the cupboard's contents before, so I never use them. Today, for whatever reason, he decided to have a go with the Tilex bottle and the shower curtain.

It's a stunning piece of art. Certainly, I was stunned when I walked into the bathroom and noticed the streaked bleach marks all over the curtain.

And as an art fan, I love to hear about artistic inspiration. So once I regained my composure, I called the artist in to hear what inspired him to spray bleach all over the place. He was artistically casual in his response. "I don't know," he answered with a shrug.

Perhaps he was merely being humble, or maybe he was afraid to anger his muse. So I asked him again.

"I don't know," he answered again. "I just did it."

"You just ruined the shower curtain for the heck of it?" I asked. He nodded.

I also fancy myself a bit of an artist (though I'm more photographically inclined), and this seemed the perfect opportunity to discuss artistic tools and media. So I lit into him about inspiration, composition, installation, and the immortality that results from timeless works of art.

Well, that's what I would have said if I'd been using the artistic terms. But Mark's young, and still developing his vocabulary, so I used the laymen's terms instead.

Which sounded more like, "I don't care what the hell gets into your head, you'd better not EVER spray the cleaning products on anything EVER again. If I catch you again, you're DEAD!"

DON'T save the drama for your mama!

Wow, anyone who says boys are less dramatic than girls obviously doesn't have a clothes-obsessed 9-year-old boy.

Today was free dress day at school, a reward for completing last month's home reading club assignment. Mark was excited, but even more thrilled after last week's shopping excursion, when I rewarded him with a new pair of pants for doing so great on his report card.

Not just any old pants, mind you. Black super skinny jeans. He's been begging for them for six months now. We're talking Jonas Brother skinny here. Skinny jeans on a skinny kid -- kinda looks like he's wearing tights!

He loved the pants so much he wore them on Saturday AND Sunday, along with his new black Skatedogs t-shirt. And reminded me all week that he was going to wear them again on free dress day. He was so excited he even washed his clothes to ensure they were clean.

To which I said -- right on! Anything that makes him volunteer for laundering duties has my seal of approval.

So he loaded up the washing machine with black clothes, then went to bed. I transferred the clothes to the dryer, and imagine my surprise when a black Converse high top with flames fell out and landed on my toe.

I chalked it up to sloppiness -- I figured Mark scooped it up accidentally when he grabbed his clothes. But then -- literally -- the other shoe dropped, and I saw that the little rugrat had washed both shoes. On purpose!

No big deal. I set them aside to air dry, and turned on the dryer.

Well, this morning, the first thing Mark said to me was, "Did you dry my clothes?"

"Yes," I answered.

He giggled a little. "Did you see my shoes?" he asked, quite pleased with himself.

"Yes," I answered again.

He ran out to the garage to retrieve his clothes. I heard the door slam, and then an angry little voice shouted, "My shoes are still wet!!!"

He stood in the doorway, glaring, demanding an explanation. Mind you, I hadn't even gotten out of bed yet -- and a top o' the morning to you, too!

"Well, yeah, that's what happens you wash them," I said.

He immediately burst into tears. Now this I was not expecting!

"I didn't know they'd get wet!" he wailed. "I wanted to wear those shoes with my skinny jeeeeeeeeeaaaaans!" I realized this was God's punishment for all the years I killed my own mother's dreams of having a little girly-girl with neat hair and fancy dresses.

"Oh lord," I mumbled. Just then my alarm went off, with two radio announcers discussing Friday the 13th. So at least there was a rational explanation for the sudden outburst.

I went to the office to console Mark, who was curled in a fetal position on the bed. He was still crying. I tried to be as understanding as I possibly could before my morning coffee.

"Fine," I said. "If you go get ready, I will put your shoes in the dryer. If you complain AT ALL, I will not." (That's about as comforting as I get first thing in the morning!)

He complied, and 20 minutes later, he was lacing up his high-tops. "They're still kinda wet, but I don't care!" he told me happily.

As we walked out the front door, Mark stopped abruptly, saying "Oh, I forgot my black sweatshirt!"

I looked down at him, in his black shirt, black jeans and black shoes. The only spot of color were the flames on his shoes.

"Come on, Mark, you're not Johnny Cash," I said. "Off to school with you!"

"Who's Johnny Cash?" he asked.

"The Man in Black," I said. "Now, go..."

I could see his eyes grow wide, and I realized I should have shut up. I could see requests for Johnny Cash records downloaded from iTunes in my near future.

Oh well, could be worse. With his penchant for all-black clothing, I should just be glad it's not Goth music he's into. Or Marilyn Manson...

One proud mom

As a working mom, I don't get many chances to socialize with the other moms at Mark's school. I walk Mark to school, and pick him up at Kid's Club afterwards, and I don't often see other parents.

But slowly I've been meeting them. I met some at Mark's birthday party, and they were all very nice. So I was thrilled last weekend when Mark was invited to Damian's birthday party, and I got to see those parents again.

While the boys were in the laser tag arena, I talked with Damian's mom. She's really nice, and very friendly. We talked about the boys, and she kept saying how sweet her son was.

"He just hates arguments," she said. "A couple weeks ago, some kids were fighting on the playground, and he tried to step in and break it up."

And this is when the parent meet-and-greet went south. That story sounded vaguely familiar.

I gave an embarrassed little laugh and said, "Oh, I think that was my kid!"

She stopped for a moment, but then dismissed my comment, trying to save my dignity. "Oh, maybe," she said. "It was when Mr. Robinson banned them all from playing one-touch for a week."

And...confirmation!

"Yep, that was definitely my kid then!" I said. It figures -- I finally get a chance to talk with other parents, and the first story I hear is about my kid fighting!

The boys came running out of the laser tag game just then. I pointed out Mark and another boy running right next to him.

"There go the two culprits," I told her.

Now it was her turn to be embarrassed.

"Oh, I didn't mean -- " she started. "I was just..." She didn't know where to go with it.

I leapt in to save her. "Don't worry," I said. "It's okay! And the boys were best friends again the next morning, so it's no big deal."

"Yeah, boys are much easier when it comes to stuff like that," she said. "They don't hold grudges like girls do."

I agreed, and we kept on talking. I thought it was pretty funny -- here I finally get to talk to other parents, and the first thing we talk about is Mark's bad behavior!

Nothing like making a good first impression, I always say...

Yes, Alanis, it is ironic

Thanks to my friend Jill, for emailing this little news gem. I just had to share it.

16 arrested in fight at nonviolence concert

(SILVER SPRING, Md.) Montgomery County police say 16 people were arrested after a fight broke out during a concert held to promote nonviolence and to remember a Silver Spring teen killed last year.

The free Stop the Violence youth concert was held Saturday night on Ellsworth Street in downtown Silver Spring in memory of 14-year-old Montgomery Blair High School student Tai Lam, who was shot to death in November. Police say fighting broke out near the stage toward the end of the concert and at least one person resisted arrest.

Police say 16 adults and juveniles were arrested for offenses such as assault and disorderly conduct.

Can I get a little help here?

I often say that my son spends 30 minutes trying to get out of doing a 2-minute task (like making his bed). Boy, did he ever live up to that yesterday.

I was unloading groceries from the car, which included breakables such as eggs and wine (staples in our household). They were in brown paper bags, which are environmentally-friendly but not nearly as strong as plastic bags.

Mark is not the most careful when it comes to "boring" things like carrying groceries, and I didn't want him to rip the bags. So I loaded up all three heavy bags and carried them gingerly to the front door. Once there, I rummaged through my pockets for my keys (in the dark), balancing the bags precariously. I managed to unlock and open the door, and get all three bags into the house unscathed.

Mark's task was far simpler. I asked him to bring his skateboard and helmet into the house. No breakables, no heavy lifting, no uneasy balancing. Piece of cake, right?

Except that it wasn't. Mark took his time (apparently helmets are very verrrrrry heavy) and the cats started inching toward the open front door. I set down the bags and closed the front door so they wouldn't escape. I left it unlocked for Mark.

Not two minutes later, I heard him calling me from the front porch.

"Mom, can you open the door?" he asked. I was in the middle of unloading the bags, and didn't remember his hands being that full.

His called out again, a little louder this time. "Mom! A little help, please!"

I kept putting away groceries. I wanted to see how long it would take him to open it himself.

His voice got louder.

"Mom! Please open the door!"

I was about to give in when his voice changed -- it sounded like he was inside. Then I realized he'd lifted the mail slot in the door, and was yelling into the house through it.

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. His hands were too full to open the door, but not to lift the mail slot!

Then the yelling stopped. Before long, there was a tentative knock at the door, then many not-so-tentative knocks, followed by another request for me to open the door.

"Mom!" he shouted, pounding on the door. "Can you PLEASE open the door for me?"

Before I could answer, he opened the door himself. He was carrying his skateboard in one hand and the helmet in the other. This had obviously impeded him from opening the door himself.

He was angry, and as he passed by me, he snarled, "Geez, you always say ask for help when I need it, but then you don't even help..."

I pointed to his helmet, and said, "You should've put the helmet on your head. Then you could've opened the door yourself."

I thought that was some pretty good troubleshooting, but instead of thanking me for the sound advice, Mark shot me the stink eye instead.

Oh well. I'm just glad he finally figured out how to get inside.

Quotable quotes

Here are my three favorite quotes of the weekend.

From Mark:

Mark: "Hey Mom, look, there's a pecan on my blanket!"

Me, puzzled: "A what?"

Mark: "A picture of a pecan. Look!"

Me, staring at a bird, not a nut: "That's a peacock, not a pecan."

***
From Mark's report card:

"Mark is a nice young man to have in class. When he is focused, he is ready to learn and try his best."

What, Mark's not always focused??? I'd like to say I'm shocked, but instead, I'll just say the apple didn't fall far from the tree on that one.

***
And from my dad, excitedly describing his new jacket with lots of pockets inside. (He loves jackets.)

Dad: "There's even a pocket for my cell phone."

Me, laughing: "You don't have a cell phone!"

Dad, also laughing: "And there's another pocket for my Blueberry."

Me, laughing harder: "You mean your Blackberry? You don't have one of those either!"

Dad: "Blackberry, Blueberry, whatever."

I certainly do have a funny family...

Ahoy, matey!

When Mark opened his closet yesterday, a pile of clothes fell out. He started to kick them back in, until I stopped him.

"Are those clothes clean or dirty?" I asked.

"Dirty," he answered. I reminded him they go in the hamper, not back in the closet.

He hesitated for a moment, glanced at me, then scooped them up so quickly it set off my Suspicious Mommy alarm.

"Hand them over," I said, and after another moment of hesitation, he did, with a huge sigh.

I unravelled the crumpled clothing. To my surprise, what looked like a pair of pants was really two HALF pairs of pants. That's right, the child who apparently fancies himself a tailor had sliced off one leg on each of the pants.

Well, perhaps slice is not the correct word. It looked more like he'd stuck the pants in the paper shredder, because they were raggedy and torn all along the bottom. Or maybe he'd used a serrated knife to cut them, instead of scissors. They looked like pirate pants, all ripped up along the bottom.

Then Mark did what he does best in these situations -- he got defensive.

"What?" he shouted, even though I hadn't said anything.

"What do you mean, what?" I answered. "What happened to your pants?"

Mark sighed. It's obviously a lot of work dealing with such a dumb mother all the time.

"I was out of shorts," he said snottily, surprised that I couldn't figure that out myself.

"So you decided to make your own?" I asked. "You thought I wouldn't notice these?"

"Never mind," he sighed, as if ending the conversation. "You don't get it."

Oh, but I did. I got it all right. And now he was going to get it, too!

"Throw them away," I said, handing back the pants.

He took them, and eyed me nervously. "You're not gonna yell?" he asked.

"Nope," I said. "But looks like we're shopping for new pants this weekend."

His face relaxed; he was obviously relieved.

Until I asked, "How much money do you have in your ceramic fish bank?"

"I have lots," he said proudly. "Probably like $20 or $30."

And then he realized where this was going. "Oh, COME ON!" he protested angrily. "I have to buy MY OWN PANTS?"

I smiled. And I realized why it's so important to give kids an allowance. Not to reward them for good behavior, but to provide them the necessary funds to (literally!) pay for their mistakes.

So if you're looking for me this weekend, I'll be easy to find. I'll be the one in the Target boy's department, picking out blue uniform pants with the sullen, mopey 9-year-old.

Can I borrow your sweatshirt?

I've written before about Mark's propensity for losing things, especially sweatshirts and lunch boxes (we've gone through six lunch boxes already this year). And now, in some strange karmic retribution, those items are returning...

Some items, like his camouflage lunch box, come back on their own. Mark mentioned that he'd brought it home, in a tone that suggested a reward for such thoughtfulness.

"Oh, great!" I said. "Where'd you find it?" (It's been missing for a month.)

"I dunno," he answered. "It just showed up on my desk yesterday."

And that, parents, is why I write Mark's name on every single thing he owns. He may not be responsible enough to keep track of it, but the school office staff is.

In another reversal of fortune, Mark has found, not lost, sweatshirts lately. You'd think I'd be relieved he's actually adding to his wardrobe, but truth be told, I'm a little worried. He says he's found the clothes, but it seems a little suspicious to me that he's finding the exact styles and sizes of clothing he really likes.

The first occurrence was when I picked him up a couple weeks ago and he was wearing a bright red sweatshirt I'd never seen before.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked.

"On the playground," he answered. "Somebody just left it there. Can you BELIEVE someone would just leave their sweatshirt on the playground?"

I thought of all the times Mark had done exactly that, and said, "Um, yes, actually I can."

I checked the sweatshirt for a name tag, but there wasn't one. I explained that it was great he'd picked it up, but perhaps the proper place for it was in the lost and found, not in his personal closet.

"Fine, but we should wash it first," he said. And once it got home, it never left.

I should have been more strict about returning the sweatshirt, but I wasn't. As a result, he's acquired two more the same way. Neither had names in them, and neither were returned.

I am worried that he's not so much finding them anymore, but that he's taking them. I explained that it's not okay to steal, even if it is just a ratty old sweatshirt somebody left behind. I also explained that there's a difference between finding a sweatshirt on an empty playground vs. finding one on a crowded playground as the recess bell is ringing. I explained that he'd better not take sweatshirts home just because he likes them, because that is stealing, not finding!

"I know," he huffed indignantly, as though I am the dumbest person alive. Then he killed his case by saying, "This sweatshirt is soooo comfy..."

I figured I'd take a more indirect route back to the proper owners. I allowed Mark to wear the sweatshirts to school. That way, he wasn't stealing clothes so much as borrowing them. In the meantime, Mark is warm, dressed appropriately, and we don't fight about clothes every morning. And I know it's just a matter of time before he, too, leaves them on the playground, and they find their way back to either the original owner or to the lost and found.

It's a tough job raising kids. But it's a tougher job not raising thieves!

What they don't print on the label

My first year with Mark was a one of intense learning. I soaked up every bit of diabetes knowledge I could, grilling doctors and nurses for info, reading books, attending conferences, and scouring the Web. I became pretty adept at recognizing symptoms of high/low blood sugars, counting carbs, and managing diabetes.

However...there are certain side affects of diabetes the doctors, books and conferences do not tell you about. I had to learn about these the hard way -- from experience. These side affects include:

* Vampirism. Yes, as in vampire. Which is what my young son has become. Can't tell you how many times I've caught him sucking the blood off his finger after a test.

* Psychosis. Sure, the doctors said if Mark's blood sugar is high, he may become "irritable" or "cranky." But nobody told me the honest truth, which is that when Mark's high, he turns into the devil! Seriously. I'm not exaggerating, we're talking head-spinning, venom-spewing psychotic episodes here.

* Insomnia. Or rather, a highly tuned sense of delaying bedtime by uttering three simple words: "I feel low." (I'm not talking about the times he really is low; rather, the times he pushes back bedtime by almost 30 minutes by engaging in a slowed-down version of the testing process.)

* Manipulation. Mark knows better than to ask me for candy. Instead, he peruses the candy aisle very carefully, and casually says, "Hmmm, this would be good for treating a low..." And cut to Mom buying said candy.

* Short-term memory loss. As in, Mark completely forgets how to count carbs for vegetables, but dangle a cookie in front of him, and he's amazingly accurate.

* Creativity. At mealtimes, Mark frequently gives himself insulin, only to announce moments later that he's full. He then names the foods he's willing to consume to make up for those missing carbs. Interestingly enough, those options usually include soda, glucose tabs, or an extra helping of dessert. Equally interesting is how hungry he becomes for his meal again when I announce the only replacement food is milk, and lots of it.

* False highs. These are most common at, but certainly not restricted to, nighttime. It occurs commonly after Mark tests, registers high, and answers negatively to the question, "Did you wash your hands?" (For some reason, the meter reads dirt as sugar, and registers high.) But dirt's not the only culprit -- Mark's had highs due to excessive scented lotion, sugar, petting the cat, wiping his hands on the table, or washing his hands with wipes, but not letting them dry. All of these are quickly followed by loud sighing, stomping, banging around as he rewashes his hands, and then re-testing.

But of course, the side affects are not limited solely to Mark. Unfortunately, they've affected me too. My symptoms include:

* Needle misperception. I've become so accustomed to needles, that I don't think twice about carrying them in plain sight. Which makes for some pretty awkward moments; once I said good morning to a family in a hotel hallway, and watched them quickly dash away. It was only then I realized I was holding a loaded needle, and they didn't know it was filled with insulin, not illegal drugs.

* Inability to watch my language. I wish I could say that I've only asked Mark, "Are you high?" in public once, but I'd be lying. It's a fairly common question, as is the threat, "Why are you acting like this? You'd better be high!" (The only acceptable excuse for bad behavior.) I forget that other people don't get the context (high blood sugar, not high on drugs), which also makes for some funny stories.

Like I said, I've never seen any of these symptoms or side affects in the diabetes literature. I think I'll write a book -- What You REALLY Need to Know after You've Learned Everything You Need to Know About Diabetes.

I think it would be a big hit. At least with the www.childrenwithdiabetes.com folks.