Roughing it

We're going camping with the Cub Scouts this weekend, and much as I want to, I'm not looking forward to it.

I want to be excited, I really do. I want my son to think it's cool that we're putting up a tent and sleeping on the ground. In the cold. In the wild. Smelling like campfire. Worrying about bears, and whether they can sniff out the glucose tabs I've stashed in the tent, even though you're not supposed to keep any food in the tent with you.

But maybe I'm just being a big baby about it. (Fine, stop your snorting, I am being a baby.) I even went so far as to blame my dread on diabetes -- it will be so hard to manage Mark's diabetes out in the wild. But the truth is, it's not the diabetes, it's the camping with a kid I'm dreading.

See, in my not-so-distant past, I camped my fair share. But it was me and my friends, with a case of beer, a pack of hot dogs, $20, an old car and no real itinerary. We hiked where we wanted, cooked over a fire and got up when we felt like it. No one whined or complained of being bored and asked continually to play Gameboy; no one sat dangerously close to the campfire, and singed marshmallows and arm hairs; no one refused to eat breakfast because they hated scrambled eggs. Basically, I was in charge of myself. I was not (in most instances) a danger to my friends, nor were they a danger to me.

Which is not how I envision camping with my son. Instead, I envision a whole lotta temper tantrums. I envision Mark being mad for any and all of the following reasons:

• Not liking the meals.
• Wanting more marshmallows.
• Not wanting to touch any worms while fishing.
• Not catching a fish.
• Catching a fish but not wanting to touch the caught fish.
• Not wanting to clean the fish (but wanting to wave around the knife, because hey, he's got his knife chip!)
• Not wanting to touch the fish to throw it back in the lake.
• Not wanting to test his blood sugar in the middle of the night after eating five s'mores.
• Having high blood sugar after eating five s'mores.
• Having low blood sugar after eating five s'mores because he took so dang much insulin to cover them.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid. My parents took us camping every summer, and they had four kids, not just one.

But maybe that's really why I'm worried. I remember those family camping trips by the catastrophes that marked them.

I remember my brother Tim playing with a dead fish in a lake, attacking us as he hummed the Jaws theme. I remember a squirrel popping out of a potato chip bag and scaring me half to death, igniting a life-long hatred of squirrels. I remember watching a Marine strike force flooding the skies, seas and beach, searching for nuclear waste when an empty paint can washed ashore San Onofre beach. I remember my family driving off and trying to leave me in the middle of nowhere (twice!), while my brothers waved silently out the back window. And I remember Smed's many trips to the hospital, for falling off the high dive, getting stung by a bee, and getting hit in the face with a rock (he shouldn't have been calling me names!).

Now that I think about it, I've got good reason to be nervous about camping. And even more reason to be nervous about camping with Smed!

Calm down, you're saying, it's just overnight. And you're right. I'll take a deep breath, and pack appropriately. Sleeping bags, tent, granola bars, sense of humor. And most importantly, a map and our medical insurance cards, in case we have to make an unscheduled visit to the ER in the middle of the night (hopefully, not because the bears found the glucose tabs!).

Fun with words

One thing I love about Mark is that he's always improving his vocabulary. It's a pain to watch T.V. shows or read with him, because every two seconds he asks, "What's 'melancholy' mean? What does 'damp' mean?" But it's a small price to pay for a smart, well-versed child.

Once he learns a word, he's not shy about incorporating it into his speech. Sometimes this works, and sometimes...well, not so much. (A recent example was when he described a camp counselor with a gash in his leg, which opened up and spurted out piss. "Pus! It spurted PUS!" I corrected quickly, as he turned bright red.)

Last night, we went bike riding, and because it was a little chilly, I put on a fleece shirt. Mark complimented me on it later, asking, "When did you put that on? I didn't even see you do it."

"I put it on when we went bike riding," I said.

"Huh," he answered. "I didn't even nudist that you did that."

That stopped me in my tracks. I turned and asked, "You what?"

"Nudist," he repeated. "I didn't nudist." He saw me fighting a smile and asked, "What's 'nudist'?"

"Someone who likes to walk around with no clothes on," I explained. "Which clearly I am not, since I actually added a layer of clothing, instead of removing one!"

He turned bright red again, and clapped his hand to his mouth. "NOTICED!" he shouted at me. "I meant NOTICED!"

We were still laughing about it an hour later.

I'm getting roommates

Mark was thinking about where he'll live when he grows up, and he decided he'll just stay put. He informed me that he and his family will live with me.

I want to be close to my grandkids, but that seems...well, a bit close. (Not to mention we only have one bathroom.)

"Oh," I said. "Okay. Are you gonna have a lot of kids?"

He nodded. "Probably two or three."

"Hmmm..." I thought about it. "Where will you all sleep?"

Now it was his turn to think. He scratched his head, and finally answered, "Well, I guess the kids can sleep in the office. And my wife and I will get the bunk beds." He smiled, proud that he'd figured it all out.

I smiled and bit my tongue.

"Sounds like a great plan," I told him. "And you'll save a lot of money. All you have to pay for is a new bathroom!"

I think it's a pretty good solution all around. Of course, my future daughter-in-law may not agree...

What he wants to be when he grows up

Last night Mark informed me he was dropping out of school. He'd decided it was time for him to get a job instead.

"What kind of job?" I asked, but he shrugged and answered "I don't know."

"What jobs are there for people with a third-grade education?" I asked. "Actually, you don't even have that -- you haven't finished third grade yet!"

"I'll get a dirty job, I guess," he answered. "You know, like that T.V. show."

I thought about it for a minute. "You need to be really strong for those jobs," I told him. "Lugging around that dirt and all."

"Fine, then I'll kill termites," he said. "I'll be a terminator."

"Exterminator," I corrected, absentmindledly. "You have to be tall to do that." He wanted to know why, and I explained to spray poison up along the roofline.

"OK, then I'll be a teacher," he said.

"Well, then you definitely need to stay in school for that," I countered. "You don't even know algebra yet!"

"What's algebra?" he asked.

"It's an advanced math," I told him. "You've gotta learn math to teach school."

"Then I'll teach second grade," he answered smartly. "I already know that math. Or maybe even kindergarten, because I've known all that stuff for like, years now." He smiled at me triumphantly, as I burst into laughter. The image of him teaching a kindergarten class was hilarious.

"You really think you can handle a class full of Grants?" I asked, referring to my 4-year-old nephew. He nodded.

And so it was set in his mind. He's quitting school to become, ironically enough, a teacher.

Lucky for me, he's got a short memory, and he'd already forgotten about his new vocation this morning. He skipped happily off to school, right past the kindergarten classes, in his old role as a student.

A free $400 skateboard!

In my house, we have a time-honored tradition. At the beginning of each school year, I write out a check to Mark's school, and inform him that I am now exempt from any and all fundraisers.

If you don't have kids, let me explain. In order to raise sorely-needed funds, schools pimp out their kids to sell crappy stuff you don't need, like expensive wrapping paper or 5-gallon drums of cookie dough. Around Christmas, you can buy cheap trinkets or holiday meals; during all other holidays, you can buy candy; and during the spring, you can buy photos. There are also at least a couple "a-thons" during the year -- a jog-a-thon, a walk-a-thon, even a bunny hop. Those are the ones I can think of offhand.

And it's not just the schools -- if your kid plays sports or belong to Scouts, etc., they get another chance to ply your friends and relatives with unwanted stuff.

From a logical standpoint, I understand this. When the economy suffers, the schools suffer, and in turn, the students suffer. I realize that schools need to make up these funds somehow, but I'd rather opt out of selling and donate directly to the school, so they get 100% of the money, instead of just 10% from the stuff I never really wanted anyway.

But the companies working with the schools are savvy. They throw lavish assemblies for the kids, promising them iPods and video games, anything shiny with batteries that little kids drool over. The kids eat it up. I predict Mark's generation will grow into a pretty convincing sales force (who will be paid in iPods and cell phones instead of cash).

Yesterday Mark brought home a flyer for an upcoming jog-a-thon. He was brimming with excitement.

"Mom!" he shouted, jumping up and down. "If I collect $400 for the jog-a-thon, I can get a cool beach skateboard like Destiny has for FREE!"

"Not for free," I corrected him. "For $400."

"Whatever," he said. "That's what I want."

I reminded him Destiny's skateboard cost $250 (which until then, I'd considered expensive). I also reminded him that the $400 he "collected" would come from friends, family, or whomever else he hit up.

"You really think they want to donate money so you can buy a new skateboard?" I asked.

He nodded, but I could tell he was a bit doubtful. He hadn't thought about it like that.

"Don't you already have a skateboard?" I asked him. "In fact, don't you have two?"

"Yeah, but one needs new trucks, and the other one's too small," he said. "I need a better one."

"Sounds like you need to save your allowance, instead of hitting up your family," I answered.

He didn't like that one bit. He crumpled up the flyer and stomped off. I knew he was thinking evil thoughts and the phrase "meanest mom in the WORLD" flashed through his mind at least once.

It is my fault, though. He just couldn't sell the idea to me, which means he's not getting enough sales experience. Perhaps I really am hampering his growth, and his ability to compete with the highly competitive sales force of 2025.

But I can live with that.

A helpful skill

In addition to raising four kids, my parents both worked full-time while I was growing up. As you can imagine, they rarely had a moment to relax.

Because I was young, and kids think only of themselves, I never realized how much work that entailed. (Even as an adult I never realized it, until I got my own kid.) But my parents came up with some pretty creative ways to share the housework.

For example, my mom just ruined stuff. She washed all our clothes in hot water and then dried them at the highest heat. We panicked when we saw Mom gathering up clothes, because we knew in about an hour none of those clothes would fit. So we showed her -- we started doing our own laundry, so she wouldn't ruin our favorites clothes anymore.

She also ruined our lunches. Anyone who knows my mom also knows her penchant for freezing things -- ANYTHING. Leftovers, bread, full meals, potato chips (yes, seriously -- she freezes bags of potato chips!).

Well, one day she was watching T.V., and the show claimed you could save time by making and freezing sandwiches. I am sad to say my mom did exactly that. And the result was pretty much what you'd expect -- disgusting! After complaining for a week about the soggy, half-thawed pb&j's, Mom called us big ol' babies, and said if we didn't like it, we could just make our own lunches. Score another one for Mom -- in a few short weeks, she had us all making our own lunches and washing our own clothes.

(My Dad had a completely different take on saving time -- he simply locked us out of the house during the summer. If we couldn't get in, we couldn't mess it up, and voila, he saved time by not cleaning it!)

And so it was with pride that I walked into the garage the other day to discover Mark washing his clothes. He'd sorted them, and was washing the darks. When I opened the door, he was spraying Oxi-Clean on his shirt and I couldn't help smiling with pride. It's been a long time since I've seen a little kid doing laundry, and it brought back a lot of memories.

Perhaps I'd been too hard on my parents, I realized. Perhaps they weren't slackers foisting off their work, but were really just ahead of their time.

I'm sure my son will try to guilt-trip me when he's older about all the chores he had to do as a kid (just like we do to my parents). But I will smile and laugh, much as my parents do now, and convince him it wasn't punishment, it was character building, and really, he should be thanking me.

Now if I can just convince him to do the cooking, I'll be set for life...

I made some new friends

When I became a mom, I realized I'd have to make some new friends -- friends with kids. Up till then, I didn't really have a lot friends with kids.

I figured it would serve a couple purposes. First, I'd have other moms to discuss child development theories with (i.e., "Ummm...does your kid also eat every two hours, or am I just raising a horse?") Secondly, it would be a social event -- the kids could come over to play with Mark, and I could socialize with other adults. A win-win situation, huh?

Except it hasn't worked out like that. I work all day, commute, cook, and chauffeur Mark between drum lessons, Cub Scouts and diabetes family events. Throw in daily homework, baths, and laundry, and I'm lucky to get an hour or two to myself each night. The last thing I want to do at that point is be social!

However...in the past few weeks, I've revisited my original plan. In fact, I have made some new friends, and Mark's had more kid play time as a result.

True, I did deviate a bit from my plan. I didn't actually befriend other parents. In fact, I kinda cut out the middle man and befriended some kids instead.

The kids live up the street, and are already Mark's friends. One's in his class, another's in his grade, and her sister is just a year older. They spend their weekends riding bikes, riding skateboards, and chasing each other around.

Mark and I go bike riding around the school and the neighborhood, and they've caught up with us a few times. They end up going to someone's house to play, or going down to the school to play. I usually end up tagging along with them.

It's not that I don't trust them, it's that...OK, well, I'm a paranoid nervous mom and I don't trust Mark. We live on a busy street, and my son has not yet mastered the art of looking both ways before he rides across the street. In fact, he hasn't even started learning that skill yet, and yesterday, he almost got hit by a car because of it. (The car only missed him because I kept screaming, "Stop! STOP!!" at an increasingly loud volume.)

The other parents let the kids ride bikes in front of their houses, but that's about it. So when the kids realized they could go play at school because an adult was watching them, they fully embraced me. I was jumped into the gang.

This is not to say my new friends are perfect. They are young, and as such, not very skilled in social graces. Yesterday, Destiny called me on my cell phone exactly 10 times, which I had turned off during a Cub Scouts event.

"We called you like a million times," her sister, Nicole, said accusingly, when they finally found us.

"I can see that," I answered. "We were busy. Next time, just leave a message."

"We left four," she told me, and I pointed out to Mark that's why he doesn't have a phone yet.

We rode over to the school, me and my little motley crew. I spent the whole time yelling, "Car coming!" or "Get to the side of the road."

I could tell I was really part of the gang when Nicole started confiding in me. The other kids had ridden off, and she told me the kids in her class don't like her. I felt really bad for her.

"Why don't they like you?" I asked, and she shrugged.

"I don't know," she answered. "I'm nice, and I always try to be helpful, but they just ignore me."

As I sat there feeling bad for her, the other kids rode over. Nicole jumped up and grabbed a water bottle, which she sprayed all over the kids. They rode away, yelling at her, and she chased after them, laughing an evil laugh.

I took that opportunity to advise my new friend.

"Hey Nicole," I told her. "Remember how you said you don't know why people don't like you? It's probably because you do stuff like that."

I thought we were really bonding, but she stuck her tongue out at me and skated away. So much for friendly advice.

I sat on a bench and let the kids roam the playground. (I didn't want to seem overprotective -- as long as they stayed in sight, and within the fenced in yard, I let them be.) They found a ball, and played one-touch, and pretty soon another kid they knew, Kyle, joined in. Apparently, he' been riding his bike around the school yard too.

"Ewwww, Kyle!" Nicole shouted. "I hate him!" She ran off and threw the soccer ball at his head.

They played a bit, then squabbled a bit, and I let them work it out. Eventually, they couldn't, and they started yelling a little bit louder at each other.

"Time to go home," I called, and they all collected up their bikes and helmets. They raced me to the gate, and then pedalled past me up the street.

We parted ways at the corner. They waved a last wave, and shouted out, "Bye, Mark! Bye, Heather!" and rode off. I cracked up a little -- in my day, parents were always Mr. This or Mrs. That, and were regarded with...well, not fear, but certainly as adults rather than peers.

Luckily, I'm not the most formal adult around. I called out, "Bye!" and then reminded Mark to look both ways before he crossed. And I realized I probably have another play date next weekend.

An open letter to diabetes

Dear diabetes,

This was Mark's spring break, and while I knew you'd spend it with him, I hoped you'd be a little more considerate. He's just a little kid -- you could've let him enjoy some of his time off!

I know you like attention, but really, this was ridiculous. You were really a pain in the neck all week! You started Monday morning, when I inserted Mark's new set into his belly, which he hates. You could've just stuck him and got out, but nooooo, you had to make him cry.

It continued Monday at lunch, when Mark wanted to be just like all the other kids, and "forgot" to test his blood sugar before lunch at camp. He overcompensated with his lunch dose, and sent himself low.

Then, Monday night, Mark's set fell out after only 10 hours (they usually last 3 days), and I had to re-stick him on the other side of his belly. Re-cue the crying.

No problem, I thought, at least we're good until Friday night. But you had other plans. Mark called me on the way home Tuesday afternoon to say the SECOND set fell out. Cue set number three.

It's odd to lose two sets in two days, but we went with it. You won't beat us diabetes, I thought, but you took up the challenge. Yesterday, Mark spent the whole day high, and I could almost hear your cackling. Lunch was 357, which I attributed to a freakish high. Dinner was 481, which Mark attributed to s'mores at camp. 10:30 check was 477, which I attributed to onion rings at dinner. I should have replaced the third set right then (and would've if he'd had ketones), but new sets send Mark low, and lows in the middle of the night are SCARY.

So I held off for one more test, and then you really got me. No number this time, just HI. Yes, I know that means Mark was over 500. 500!!! (He should be around 160 at night.) Curse you, diabetes!

Yes, I sent Mark to the bathroom, AGAIN, for the third time since his 9 o'clock bedtime, so his body could get rid of all the extra sugar. And yes, that was me, at 1 a.m., fumbling for the insulin bottle, new set and new cartridge with my eyes half-open, which I then shot into Mark's bum while he slept. I prayed he would go lower (but not too low) in the next four hours.

Yes, that was me, waking in a panic when I heard Mark fumbling around this morning.

"What's your number?" I called out, even before saying good morning, and again I cursed diabetes for robbing me of the most basic social graces.

"I didn't check yet," he answered, but moments later, I heard the familiar beep of the meter, and he called out "75."

Which meant we'd finally hit the other end of the spectrum. "Eat your breakfast RIGHT NOW!" I called out, and through the baby monitor, I heard him sigh and say, "OK."

And so I sent Mark off to camp. He didn't have his meter, because the counselor accidentally brought it home yesterday. (I really hope he brings it back, but I brought my extra meter just in case I have to drive up at lunch.)

Mark wore his favorite hat, his favorite Dodgers jersey, and some dark circles under his eyes courtesy of last night's high sugar roller coaster. I thought he'd be kinda cranky, but instead, he was thrilled to spend his last day at camp with all his new friends.

So, take that, diabetes. You tried, you really did, to steal his week off and make him miserable. But it didn't work, and I'm here to say nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah! I know, not exactly the most mature response, but so what. I'm a little sleep-deprived this morning, and feeling overprotective of my boy.

In closing, diabetes, I just want to say you stink. You made things rougher than necessary for my kid this week, but he still had a blast. He enjoyed his spring break anyway, no matter how many curveballs you threw his way. You tried to shut him down, but only succeeded in slowing him down a bit.

So, nice try diabetes. But you picked the wrong kid to pick on this week.

Heather

Suit yourself

I'm constantly teasing Mark that he grows overnight, but there is some truth in it. I always buy his clothes a size too big, so he can wear them longer than a minute, but he manages to outsmart (or outgrow) me at every turn.

For example, last spring I bought him a suit. He tried it on, and the coat was obviously too long -- I couldn't see his hands at all. "Perfect!" I proclaimed, figuring I'd get at least a couple months out of it.

By the time he put it on again at Christmas, I could definitely see his hands -- and his wrists, and his cuffs, and about halfway up to his elbow. Mark didn't want to wear the suit, but it was Christmas Eve, and he didn't have a choice. The only one happy about the too-small suit was Grant, who realized he was about to get a new suit from his favorite cousin Marky.

And so last week, it was time for a new suit. We're going on a cruise to Alaska this summer, and Mark needs some fancy duds. (And even some not-so-fancy duds -- 90% of his wardrobe are school uniforms.)

I was holding out to buy his suit closer to our actual departure date, but because of Easter, the stores had dressy kid's clothes on sale, and you know I can't pass up a bargain. So I purchased his next suit, a snazzy pinstriped black suit, and some pastel-colored shirts and ties to go with it. (The pinstripes were a compromise. Mark really really really wanted a white suit -- this one in particular, called the Steve Harvey Gangster Pinstripe Suit. He begged all he could, but I would not relent.)

I handed over the new suit and a pale green shirt, and asked Mark to try them on. He came back with the suit buttoned up, and said, "I tried it on with a different shirt." He then unbuttoned his coat, and flashed his white and blue Dodgers jersey.

"Nice shirt," I told him. "But doesn't quite go with the suit." I sent him back to the room, grumbling, to change it. I reminded him that if it was an Angels jersey, he could've worn it. (We have a big Angels - Dodgers rivalry in our house.)

He came back wearing a new shirt and clip-on tie, and he looked great!

Mark loved his new black suit. It was big (think David Byrne from Talking Heads), which made me happy -- we still have 2 1/2 months before the cruise, and barring any freakish growing spurts, I think it'll still fit him then. And it had pinstripes, which made Mark happy, even if the color wasn't his first choice.

"You look good, buddy," I told him, adjusting his collar. "Now that's how you should dress!" He smiled and strutted around the room proudly.

"I'm gonna wear suits like this when I grow up," he told me, and I nodded.

"You dress like that and you'll get a good job when you grow up," I told him.

He shot back, "Well, I guess you don't have a good job, then." I looked at him blankly, and he said, "Well, you just wear jeans to work. So you must not have a very good job."

And thus ended the fashion show.

"Don't worry about my job, buster," I told him. "Worry about your manners instead!"

He went to change out of his suit, and suddenly I thought maybe the white suit was more appropriate instead for my little gangster. If he gets any mouthier, I may buy it for him, then take him for some professional portraits. Now those will be photos worth sharing when he's older!

Hippity hoppity, Easter's on its way

Yesterday we celebrated Easter in the traditional Dinsdale manner -- with much cooking, a little competition, and a lot of laughter.

Scott and Mary hosted us because their house can hold us all, and because they're really good hosts. Everybody brought food and drinks, and it was an all-day eating fest. Scott roasted lamb (which we tell the kids is "steak") and my mom made a turkey.

I usually bring the drinks, because let's face it, I can't cook. But this year I stepped out of my comfort zone and offered to bring an appetizer. (I figured if I really messed it up, hey, at least there'd be other food!)

I brought a long, skinny baguette that I sliced into little rounds. Scott then watched me slice figs very carefully -- I'd gone to three stores before I found them, so I made sure not to waste them. He said it needed a fat to go with it, so I produced a small bowl of gorgonzola cheese. He was intrigued.

"I add the cheese, then melt it in the oven, and drizzle it with honey," I told him proudly.

"You could use chicken, too, with barbecue sauce, or even with marinara sauce," he said, and suddenly, I didn't like where this was going. "In fact, I have some left-over turkey."

"Don't touch my bread!" I warned, but no one ever listens to me. He spread a layer of marinara sauce, then added a basil leaf, a slice of turkey and topped it with mozzarella cheese. Even I admitted (silently) it looked good, but I wasn't gonna tell Scott that.

My mom also thought it looked good, and did tell him.

"I guess it's all right for left-overs," I told her. "But wait 10 minutes and you can have some fresh appetizers!" Even cooking is competitive with Dinsdales.

We placed our trays in the oven, and Scott tried to cheat by placing mine on top. I didn't know any better, but Mary called him out, saying, "You know everything burns on the top rack!"

He pretended not to remember that, but he got me in the end by turning on the broiler and overcooking the bread.

"Oh well," I conceded. "At least my appetizer was more Biblical than yours. Come on, you can't get more Biblical than figs and honey on Easter!"

He smiled, and held up the meat. "I cooked the sacrificial lamb," he answered, and like my mom says, no matter how funny you are in our family, someone will always be funnier!

Mary made a really wonderful brie and fig jelly appetizer, and her mom Fran made her traditional cheese ball. (It's so good!) My dad said me he'd eaten every kind of cheese ever made, and I don't think he was wrong.

Smed made a "grownup" mac n cheese that was pretty scrumptious too.



The kids weren't impressed with any of the food, and devoured a Costco-sized box of goldfish crackers before lunch. Mark ate so often (every hour on the hour) that I had no idea what his blood sugar was -- he never stopped eating long enough for me to check (you can't check within two hours of eating, or it will just read high).

The kids were then too full to eat lunch, but not too full to gorge on M&Ms and jelly beans they found during the Easter egg hunt.

Waiting for the hunt to begin

No cheating!

The hunt is on.

The victorious hunters with their spoils.

After all the cooking and eating, we took the kids to the park. They went wild, running around like maniacs, and didn't want to go back home. We tried to cajole them back to the house, but they ignored us, until we promised them cupcakes (more sugar!).

All in all, it was a really nice day. It was fun to sit around with the family and just laugh, and to watch the kids all play together. Our holidays are not that extravagant, and they're usually the same (sit around, eat, laugh, drink a little), but that's what makes them so enjoyable. They're the same, but not quite. But the people are always the same, and since they're my favorite people around, it makes for a pretty good day.


Hope you all had a great Easter, too! (Unless you don't celebrate Easter, and then I hope you had a really nice piece of matzah.)

A learning experience

I recently accompanied Mark's class on a field trip. If you haven't been on a field trip since you were a kid, let me just say this...it's a MUCH different experience as an adult!

First of all, you are an outcast on the bus. Your friends are not on the bus with you, and the last place anyone wants to sit is by a mom.

Which is fine by me. I was quite happy to let Mark sit with his friends. That is, until said friends started smacking each other and telling jokes with bad words as the punchline. I very quickly learned his seatmates' names, and spent the next 40 fume-filled minutes of the bus ride calling out, "Nathan, sit down. Nathan, stop saying that word. Mark, stop laughing when Nathan says that word. Josh, stop smacking the kids behind you. Nathan, didn't I tell you to stop saying that word??"

Lucky for us, the morning traffic was light, and we got to the Discovery Center a full 30 minutes before the IMAX movie started. Which gave us 2 minutes to unload the kids, 2 minutes to usher them against a wall, and 26 minutes to tell them to sit still and stop hitting each other. I challenged my group to a jumping jack contest (they had to get the wiggles out somehow), but Mr. R made them sit down again.

Somebody passed out 3-D glasses, and I wondered how many pairs would break before we got in to the theatre. But they entertained the kids for a long time. The boys put them on and made silly faces, which I photographed. Then they put them on backwards, which I photographed. The boys clamored around me to view the pictures and then plot new poses. I was certainly glad I'd brought the camera.


Finally it was time for the movie. We crossed through the lobby, which smelled of freshly buttered popcorn, and I was instantly hit with 33 requests for a bag. "No popcorn allowed in the theatre," I told them, and was proven a liar when the row of girls behind us came inside, crunching popcorn.

The kids loved the movie. It was a program about the sea, and as the first 3-D dolphins jumped toward them, the kids squealed with delight and reached out to grab them.

After the movie, it was on to the Natural History Museum. There were four chaperones total, including Mr. R, me, and two class moms. Mr. R. sent the seven girls with the two moms, then split the boys between me and himself. He had eight, and gave me four, saying, "I think Ms. Dinsdale can handle the boys, right?"

"No problem!" I said, grinning.

If you really want to see the difference between boys and girls, a museum is a fine place to go. Even though the girl group was larger than mine, they walked very nicely toward the nearest staircase. My four boys bolted for the giant T. Rex, racing all around it, and then toward the staircase, running upstairs against the crowd. They shoved their way through, shouting, "The T. Rex is this way!" and I wondered how quickly they would ditch me.

We examined the T. Rex exhibit, and then the bird exhibit. We ran (literally) through the rain forest exhibit, then into the Mexican Indian exhibit. We did so much running, in fact, that I worried Mark might go low. I repeatedly asked how he felt, and he answered me with a dismissive "FINE!" each time.

Until he went low. "I feel really shaky," he told me, and so I commandeered the boys toward a priceless work of art out in the hallway. "PLEASE DON'T TOUCH," read the sign on it, but young boys are quite literal, so they climbed on it instead. ("It doesn't say 'DON'T CLIMB,'" Nathan observed.)

I fed Mark, which prompted three more cries of "I'm hungry!" I fished out some granola bars, which they split. Then it was downstairs again, to a giant room filled with stuffed animal exhibits.

The room was gigantic, empty, and before we got there, quiet. I did a quick survey, and determined there was only one way out of the room.

"You're free, boys, but no running," I told them, and they sprinted off before I finished my sentence.

I saw another small group in the corner, and realized it was the girls and the other two moms. Before I could catch them, the boys flew past them, all loud yelling and flailing arms. I smiled at the appalled moms, then hissed "NO RUNNING!" at my group of wild banshees.

They stopped momentarily in front of a display, and immediately the giggling started. "What's so funny?" I asked.

Nathan (he of the potty mouth) pointed at a giant stuffed beaver. He smiled sweetly at me, and said, "We're looking at the DAM."

The other boys erupted into giggles. "Did you hear me?" he asked. "A DAM!"

"Yes, I know, it sounds like a bad word," I said. I shuffled them along before the girls came by.

Soon enough, it was time for lunch. I herded my boys outside, where the rest of the boys were climbing on the railing. The girls weren't there yet, so Mr. R sent me and the boys ahead to get the lunches. We made our way through a giant crowd of other classes, and by some miracle, I arrived on the other side of it with all my boys accounted for.

The kids chowed down their lunches, and loaded back onto the bus. Mark weaseled his way two rows behind me, so I couldn't quite see him. The boys in the row across from me were nice kids, but by this time I was worn down.

"Let's have a sleeping contest!" I told them. "Whoever sleeps the longest, wins."

And so they did. The three of them curled up, and though they occasionally giggled and tickled each other, they "slept" the whole way home. I am proud to say that Devin, Josh and Damian were my favorite kids of the day.

Back at the school, I disembarked, and watched the stream of screaming kids run back to the classroom.

"Thanks for your help!" Mr. R, said, and I nodded.

"Thanks for letting me tag along," I said.

And as I walked home, the screams fading with each footstep forward, I gave a silent prayer of thanks to every teacher out there. I don't know the patron saint of teachers, but I'm guessing it's someone who had a LOT of patience.

Rock star

Last summer, I bought Mark a drum set and he was thrilled.

He spent two hours a day the first week pounding on it, then gradually grew bored. (You can only play the same few beats so many times...)

I enrolled him in lessons, and his interest grew again. And then waned again, when he realized he had to practice what the teacher taught him every day. Suddenly the drums were a bit of a chore.

But Mark practiced every day, and as he's become better, it's become less of a chore. He recently graduated to playing along with his first song, Wait for You by Elliot Yamin (who also has Type 1 diabetes, in case you were wondering).

He practiced it for about two weeks now, and he's gotten really good! He actually keeps the beat, and plays along perfectly.

On Sunday, Mark's friends came over to play. "Mom, can I play my song for them?" he asked, and I answered, "Of course!"

Mark led them out to the garage, where they were suitably impressed by the shiny blue drums. They were also impressed by Mark's playing, but most impressed when he finished and let them try.

The girls were especially impressed, and in the back of my mind, a little warning signal went off. Even though Mark's only 9 and uninterested in girls, I had a glimpse of my son's teenage years, and his adoring female groupies, and I got a little worried.

Fawning girls aside, it was a pretty great moment. Mark always gripes about practicing, but it's made him really good. I didn't want to embarrass him in front of his friends, so I listened from the front lawn. As he finished the song, I couldn't stop smiling. I was just as proud of him showing off his drum skills to his friends as he was.

Music to my ears

In the interest of raising a cultured Renaissance man, I took Mark to the symphony this weekend.

Now, before you groan and ask how could I, let me say he wanted to go. (Which is more than I could say for my friends, all of whom declined the invitation.)

After all, he plays the cello, and he loves music. I thought it was a no-brainer.

As he dressed up for our big night out, I explained the rules to him. They were the same as for the movies: no talking, no squirming, no whining and no ruining the experience for other patrons. I emphasized that the last rule was punishable by death.

We arrived early, but I waited until just before the symphony started to find our seats (I didn't want to confine Mark any longer than I had to). Mark eagerly pointed out all the different musicians.

"Look at all the cellos!" he said. He was amazed at how many violinists there were (I counted about 35).

The fidgeting began as soon as the program did. Silently, I handed over a pair of binoculars, which bought me a good 20 minutes. Mark trained them on the different musicians, even exclaiming, "Hey, I think that's my music teacher!" He pointed her out among the violinists.

He was pretty good. I shushed him a few times, and he fidgeted all over the place, even moving down two seats, but that's my own fault. I'd bribed him beforehand, giving him half a Rice Krispie treat in exchange for a promise to behave. Perhaps a sugary snack wasn't the best choice, as he squirmed uncontrollably.

We sat through the first piece and were most impressed by the percussionists. One percussionist in particular, who brought out a giant wooden clapper. At certain points, he opened it up, then smacked it shut with a loud clap. At other times, he hit the cymbal delicately. There was another percussionist who stood in front of a huge bass drum, and over the course of the 18 minute piece, he hit it four times. A third percussionist played a small metal triangle.

Mark and I decided we could play in the symphony. He'd probably get hired before me because he can actually read music, but hey, if someone wrote "CLAP" every once in a while on the music sheets, I could figure it out. (They could probably put pictures of the cymbals, drums and triangle in there too, and I'd figure it out!)

We stayed for the first two pieces, which were about 30 minutes long, then left at intermission. Mark wanted to stay till the end, but I thought it only fair to let the people behind us enjoy the second half without distraction. When Mark protested, I told him, "You've done a great job tonight -- don't you want to leave on a high note?" He agreed that was probably best.

And so we left. Overall, he really enjoyed it, though I'd say his highlights were probably the Rice Krispie treat, waving the binoculars around, and staying up late more than the music itself. But whatever -- I'm just glad he didn't hate it, and that he'd go back again if given the chance.

But if we do go again, I'll make sure I bring bribe money for snacks. And he'll get his bribe snack AFTER the show next time!

Wash with care

I may have mentioned it before, but diabetes is a tricky disease. You can follow all the rules, but it still has a mind of its own.

Some diabetes management tasks are clearly visible -- spend more than a couple hours with us, and you'll see Mark check his blood, correct a high or low, and count carbs before he boluses. But other tasks -- tasks you and I take for granted -- are much trickier.

Such as bathing. Chances are, you jump in the shower without a second thought. Not so for Mark.

The first time bathing became an issue was when Mark got his insulin pump. Suddenly he had this extremely expensive device that was waterproof, but not heat-proof. He can wear the pump in pools, but hot water cooks the insulin, making it a bad idea in the bath.

Then there were the sites. The pump is connected to Mark through a tiny cannula (plastic tube) stuck into his skin with a needle. It has an adhesive that keeps the site on Mark, and if we're lucky, it sticks for about three days.

Except when you submerge it in water. Then it peels off, and Mark gets another opportunity to shoot a needle into his body. As you can imagine, he declines this opportunity every chance he gets.

The temporary solution to losing sites was to eliminate baths. Instead of a nightly bath, Mark took a bath every three days -- that way, if the site fell off, it was time to change it anyway.

I mention this was a temporary solution because any of you who have or know little boys also know that a bath every three days is...well, not optimal. Turns out these little critters are excellent at attracting dirt, and the..."aromatic"...smells that accompany dirt infused with little boy sweat.

So I embarked on a mission to keep Mark's sites on in water. I tried numerous clear adhesive products with wonderful names like IV3000 or Tegaderm, which didn't work. I cemented the tapes using a liquid adhesive called Skin-Tac, and that worked better, but Mark still lost sites with alarming regularity. (Oh, and did I mention the sites run about $40 a pop to replace?)

And so I went to the boards...the www.childrenwithdiabetes.com boards. Where the parents suggested another product, called OpSite Flex-Fit tape. It worked like a charm! Suddenly, Mark's sites stayed on. He showered one, then two, then THREE days in a row, and we didn't lose the site! He got out, I gave him the insulin he missed while disconnected from the pump, and life was good.

It was a miracle, and I celebrated it as such. Until...I tried removing the tape. Which refused to come off. And sent Mark into a screaming fit as I doused it in Uni-Solve three times, and then finally ripped it with all my might. Mark was in tears, but the site finally came off. I couldn't believe it -- first I couldn't get the sites to stay on, now I couldn't get them OFF!

I went back to the boards, and this time the parents recommended a product called Medi-Sol. That did the trick -- Mark's sites peeled off easily, and we were back in business. He started a new nightly bath regimen, and was thrilled. (He really likes baths!)

Except...now the daily bath has sent his little body into a series of low blood sugars. Apparently, hot water opens up your arteries, which causes the insulin to rush through and burn out much faster than it's usual 2-hour time frame. Which means I can't give him the insulin he missed while in the bath (it sends him even lower), and around 11 p.m., he shoots waaaaay up to the 300s.

So nw we're on a new schedule. I give Mark his insulin as soon as he gets home, around 6 p.m. We eat, wait 90 minutes, then I give him a small, uncovered snack (to keep him from going low), and put him in the shower. When he gets out, I give him the missing insulin, cover the snack, and cross my fingers. So far, my success rate is hovering near 50%.

I'm certainly not complaining, and I'm not whining about how hard diabetes is. It's just fascinating to me how much work and thought diabetes requires for things as simple as bath time, and how dire the consequences can be for Mark if I judge incorrectly, or bathe him too soon after dinner.

To you and I, it's just a shower. To Mark, it's a whole science experiment, and another chance to outwit diabetes. Unfortunately, as is often the case, diabetes is a formidable opponent.

This is why 9-year-olds aren't doctors

Mark came home from school the other night with a huge headache. That's usually a symptom of high blood sugar, but he tested in range. Turns out it was just an ordinary headache.

I gave him a children's aspirin and some dinner. He held his head throughout dinner, and I tried my best to soothe him.

"It'll feel better soon," I assured him. "Give the aspirin some time to kick in."

He moaned. It clearly wasn't working yet.

I tried to distract him. "You want some lettuce for your tacos?" I offered. He nodded.

"How about cheese?"

This time he shook his head.

"You don't want cheese?" I asked. I felt like that woman on the old coffee commercials. "But you always love cheese on your tacos!"

"No thanks," he said. "My head hurts too much. I just don't think cheese and headaches are a good combination."

"Um, OK," I said, because really, I couldn't think of what else to say to that. I know some things -- like drum practice -- are not conducive to headaches, but I've never heard of cheese further aggravating one.

Live and learn, I guess. And be grateful they don't give out medical licenses to third-graders.