Talk about a celebration!

Last night, my family converged in San Diego for a really wonderful celebration -- the Laura Kicked Cancer's (booty) party! (Hey, it's a family blog.)

Laura Roppé is a family friend, and all-around cool person. She released her first CD last summer, to glowing reviews. (To listen to or buy it, go to www.lauraroppe.com) She was on the radio, and on TV, and just everywhere, soaking up the love.

And then she was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Not just any kind, but the type only 10% of women diagnosed get. Suddenly, her singing c areer (and life) were put on hold, as Laura embarked on a 7 month journey of ch emo and radiation treatments.

During treatment, she looked forward to this summer, when she would celebrate being cancer-free by returning to the stage at the Belly Up Tavern. Last night was that night.

We piled into our c ars (or planes, in Tim's case) and headed south -- no way we were gonna miss out on this party! My parents bravely offered to watch all five SoCal grandchildren, and we readily took them up on it.

What a party it was. Laura looked and sounded great, and it was a really emotional night. Her family was all there, and her friends, and even the oncology nurses and some other cancer survivors. Any doubts that life is precious, and short, and whether we should make the most of it RIGHT NOW were completely erased last night.

Laura rocked the stage, and I was glad to be part of it. When I first saw and hugged her, she was smiling and happy, and gesturing toward her throat. "She's saving her voice to sing," her husband Brad told me. She smiled, and I just hugged her again. She looked around questioningly, raised up her hands like, "Where is...?" When it was obvious I didn't understand, she finally asked, "Where are your brothers??"

I can't believe she couldn't spot them, because they were very loud and hard to miss. (If there's anything louder than the four Dinsdales drinking beer together, I've yet to hear it!)

I pointed to Tim, who she hugged, then gestured at her throat and shook her head.

"She's saving her voice, so she's not talking," I told Tim. Then I smiled and added, "But she talked to me!" (Have I mentioned we Dinsdales are a competitive lot??)

The concert was phenomenal. Laura sang all her original tunes, and was witty and very personal with the crowd. Everyone was just so glad to see her healthy and back where she belonged -- if she'd sang jingles (which she admitted was her first ambition), we'd still have cheered her on like a rock star.

It did get a little ugly at the very end, when in typical Dinsdale fashion, my brothers bombarded Laura about a song she wrote for her husband (who we grew up with). I think they actually shocked and appalled her, and I'm banking on her long-time friendship to realize that though it sounds like cruel mocking, it is indeed, how the Dinsdale boys show love. Our family mottoes are, "We're only polite to people we don't like" and "We only tease you if we love you." Unfortunately, last night, they showed Laura and Brad a LOT of love!

Anyway, it was a fantastic night, one I feel so privileged to have been part of. I'd like to say we celebrated Laura the rock star last night, but that would be only partially true. We also celebrated Laura the mom, wife, sister, daughter, granddaughter, cousin and friend. I am so glad that all of those Lauras were there, and kicking booty onstage!

Now go out and hug the people you love, and remember "no day but today"!

No, he's not a clown

He's just...kinda dressed like one in this picture. :-)

If this picture is any indication, Mark and the cousins are having a blast.

The email containing the picture was labeled "Soaked and freezing!" and the follow-up text message read, "The only shop nearby sells Princess stuff!"

I'm guessing Mark will suffer being soaked for a while before he dons a princess gown. (Then again, maybe not -- kid hates to be uncomfortable, or cold -- in half an hour, a dry princess gown might not seem so bad to him!)

It's gonna be a loooooong day

My brother Scott and his kids are headed to Legoland to meet up with friends. He invited Mark along, and I readily agreed (even blew off a school field trip--how bad a mom am I??).

Mark looooves his Uncle Scott, and I love that Scott is comfortable enough with Mark's diabetes to take him for the day. Or at least, that's what he has me believing...Anyway, Scott is a very hands-on dad, and with three kids of his own, I completely trust him with Mark's care.

Shortly after picking Mark up, Scott called to say the kids hadn't eaten yet, so they were stopping at McDonald's. He asked if Mark had eaten yet.

"Yes," I answered. "But if he wants something else, call and I'll give you the carb count."

"We can figure it out," Scott told me. "We'll just figure...50."

I panicked a little. "But you don't know what he'll eat!" I did a little quick math, saying "English muffin, 20 carbs, hash browns probably 25..."

Scott cut me off and said, "See, what'd I say? 50!"

I laughed and hung up. Mark won't die, I reassured myself, Mark won't die.

The next contact I received was a text message. Mark got a large mocha, it read. 60 carbs.

I went to www.calorieking.com and input McDonald's large mocha. Boom! 58 carbs! I don't know how they did that, but he was spot on.

I smiled, proud of their carb counting, until I realized my brother was giving my 9-year-old son a large coffee drink. What the...! Oh well, he was the one who had to ride for an hour in the car with a kid jacked up on caffeine. If it didn't bother him, it didn't bother me.

I texted back, Perfect! Do you know that has coffee in it?

His answer: Too much, I'm dropping him off at your work.

That cracked me up (I knew he wouldn't really).

I heard from them again about half an hour later. My niece Nathalie texted me, Mark says hi.

Hi back to him, I answered.

The phone rang five minutes later, and Nathalie informed me Mark wanted to say hi again.

He got on the phone, giddy and giggling, and I could tell the caffeine was kicking in.

"HiMomhowareyou?I'mdrinkingreallivecoffeerightnowcanyoubelieveit?" he said to me in one quick breath. The he resumed giggling.

"Yes, I can tell," I answered. "Be good for Uncle Scott."

"I will!" he sang. "Bye!" And he hung up.

It's now 11. I'm sure my cell phone will be buzzing all day with text messages and calls for carb counts, but that's fine. I know my son is having a great time with his uncle and cousins, and I'm thrilled about it.

I'll definitely be buying my brave brother a beer (or two!) tonight, in thanks.

Yes, we have no bananas

I wandered into the kitchen recently for a snack. I knew there was one banana left, and yet, I couldn't find it anywhere.

Mark solved the mystery by explaining that it was going bad, so he stuck it in the freezer. Sure enough, that's where I found the solidly frozen (and now browned) fruit.

I wasn't sure what to do with a frozen banana, so I just left it there. Well, that apparently sparked Mark's culinary curiosity, and the next time I stepped into the kitchen, I noticed there had been some unusual activity.

The foil was out, as was a dirty spoon, and some grainy brown powder spilled on the counter. Absentmindedly, I picked it all up, noting the powder had a familiar chocolately fragrance.

Mark burst into the kitchen just then. "Mom!" he said excitedly, "I made you a present!"

He opened the freezer to display his newly-modified frozen banana, which now had a plastic fork jammed into one end. It had miraculously transformed into a chocolate banana!

"How'd you do that?" I asked, curious. I swiped at the banana for a taste, and recoiled as my taste buds and Mark reported back the same answer simultaneously.

"I used Nestle's Quik!" he said, beaming. "I dumped chocolate powder all over the banana." I could see how proud he was, and immediately stifled my gag reflex.

"It's really...chocolately," I admitted. It was the nicest thing I could think of to say.

"Can I try it?" he asked, and I readily handed it over.

"Mmmmm," he sighed, savoring it. He grimaced a little toward the end, but attributed that to having just brushed his teeth.

"Chocolate doesn't taste good after you've just brushed," he explained, but I was thinking frozen Nestle's Quik powder doesn't taste good EVER outside of dissolved into a glass of milk.

I had to scoot him off to school then, so he placed the banana back into the freezer. "That was sooooo good," he said dreamily.

And how good am I gonna look tonight, when I unselfishly offer up my dessert to him? I'll be the loving mama treating her grateful little kid to a special treat.

"No, that's okay," I'll tell him nicely. "I really want you to have it, son. I'll just make do with something almost as good -- perhaps a cruddy ol' cookie or a dish of ice cream. Anything for you, my boy."

Luckiest kid I know

Last week, Mark ran in the school jog-a-thon. To adults, the jog-a-thon is an opportunity to donate cash toward new computers for the school. To kids, it was an opportunity to collect raffle tickets and prizes (jogging was just the necessary evil to earn those tickets).

I saw one of the big prizes in the cafeteria last week.

"Mom!" Mark yelled, excitedly. "That's the bike I'm trying to win!"

I smiled and wished him luck. It was a shiny, cool new bike, but there's a thousand kids in his school. You can figure out the odds of him winning one of the grand prizes (I didn't want to burst his bubble).

Well, danged if he didn't do it! I was sitting at work, reading the online school newsletter, when I saw the following line under "Raffle winners:"

"Boy's bike: Mark Dinsdale"

I started laughing out loud, right there in my office, all by myself.

I'm telling you, he is the luckiest kid I've ever met in my life! (Of course, as my friend Nicky pointed out, "Good, he should be! He deserves whatever he wins to make up for his first five years.") He's won homemade quilts (he decorated a square), Padres tickets, photo sessions, even a whole week of baseball camp. I guess I shouldn't be surprised he won the bike, but I was.

(And let me tell you how hard this makes the whole "life isn't fair--you don't get always get what you want" lesson. It's hard to teach fairness and not to expect everything when -- well, when you win everything!)

Anyway, I was thrilled for him, but he was even more thrilled. He had to wait a couple days to ride it home, but when he did, he was so proud. And the bike is bigger than his previous one -- I hadn't really noticed he'd outgrown his bike until he got the new, bigger one.

So here he is, the world's luckiest boy:

That's some mad hot water

Mark's been trying out some new words again. And again, the results are hilarious.

I'd boiled some water on the stove and was pouring it into a cup.

"Be careful," Mark warned. "That water is scolding hot."

I turned to look at him. "It's what?" I asked.

"Scolding," he answered. "It will scold you."

"Scalding," I corrected him. "But good job using a new word."

He thought for a moment, then asked, "What does 'scold' mean then?"

"It means yelling," I said. "When you get in trouble, the teacher scolds you."

That cracked him up.

"Well, be careful of the yelling water, then," he said. "You don't wanna get burned -- or yelled at!"

"I will be careful," I answered. And thanked God my kid is always trying to improve his vocabulary.

Boys are different from girls

How so, do you ask? Because neither I nor any of my female friends have ever made the following statement:

"Nathan and I stuck our fingers into our ears today to see if we could touch our brains."

I looked at the boy who made this statement and asked, "And could you?"

Mark very proudly answered, "No, but I told Nathan I could. I said it felt squishy."

I started to giggle until he told me they also tried to feel their brains using other orifices -- namely, their noses. I immediately cut him off and ordered him to go wash his hands.

"But we did it hours ago," he protested.

"I don't care," I answered. "And I don't want to hear any more stories about fingers and noses!" I shuddered, as all those years surrounded by gross boys (i.e., brothers) came flooding back to me.

Suddenly, tea parties, princesses and little daughters didn't sound all that bad.

EARTHQUAKE!

Last night, Mark was just climbing into bed when the Earth plates shifted and gave us a good scare.

I was relaxing on the couch in the living room. Which is an add-on, and therefore not as structurally sound as the rest of the house. Which never really bothered me. Until last night.

I heard a weird noise, which quickly grew into a rumbling, and then into a full-on shaking. The ceiling was shaking, and then the TV armoire started shaking, followed by the china cabinet. All the glassware inside started clinking together, and I thought it was gonna spill open.

I sat up, and the shaking intensified. Now fully panicked, I ran toward Mark's room, yelling out for him. A photo frame fell off the table; I dodged it and kept running. It's weird how quickly I jumped into Mama Bear mode.

I rounded the corner to Mark's room, where he stood frozen. Seeing me seemed to jolt him, and he ran toward the doorway, where he braced himself. (He told me later he tried hiding under his bed, but his head was too big to fit under it.) I grabbed him, and then suddenly, it was silent. The shaking had stopped.

All I could hear then was my heart beating loudly.

"You okay?" I asked Mark, and he nodded.

I breathed out, relieved. A more together person would've taken their child outside to safety, but it ended so quickly, I didn't have time. It was the scariest quake I've felt in a long time; usually they are rolling, wavy; this one was jolting, like someone literally grabbed the house and started shaking it up.

I could tell Mark was scared, so I hugged him and told him it was okay. We called my parents in San Diego (120 miles away), and my dad said he'd just felt it.

My cousin Kathleen called and said the glasses had fallen off her counter and the pictures off her wall. She sounded as jumpy as I felt, and we laughed nervously. Turned out she was right near the epicenter.

I checked on the rest of my family, who were all safe. The only one really affected was my nephew Johnny, who woke up mad.

Mark sat curled up with me for about an hour afterwards. Poor little guy was scared half to death, and was now wide awake. I stroked his head and told him it was all right, and then finally, around 9:30, I put him to bed in my room. (He refused to go to bed in his own room.)

It was about this time that my cats also freaked out. You know how they say animals are always the first to know? Well, my little slacker cats were laying down on the job. They freaked out afterwards, meowing strangely, and creeping around the house with puffed-out tails and raised hairs on their backs.

Mark called out that he was still scared, and Frankie half meowed/half growled. I placed Frankie on the bed, and told Mark to pet him. It worked. Soon enough, both of them were curled up into each other and fast asleep.

(OK, disclaimer: This picture is what they looked like, but is not from last night. It took them both so long to fall asleep that I did not want to wake them up -- or "kick the dinosaur," as my dad would say. :-)

And I was left alone with the news, and the seismologists, and the people calling in to the news to report their experiences. I watched for a few minutes, and then eventually took a deep, calming breath and switched over to the Survivor finale.

Whew...another day in paradise, huh?

Mark's new backpack

We are counting down the weeks left in school. I don't need a calendar to tell me there aren't many; Mark's behavior is my barometer.

He tends to melt down during the last few weeks. It's like he spent the whole year behaving (it's a relative term), and these last few weeks, he just can't hold it in any longer. The naughtiness just bursts out of him, and he embraces it. It must feel quite liberating.

It took me a long time to settle down from yesterday's morning fiasco, but by the time I left work, I was calm. I even left a few minutes early, because Mark had a Cub Scout meeting. He wasn't happy about wearing his uniform to school, which I don't understand -- a uniform is a uniform, right? He had to wear it one way or another -- school or Cub Scout. I thought he'd welcome a break from the school uniforms he's always nagging about.

But of course, I thought wrong. I walked into the kid's club, and Mark greeted me as he does every day -- by hiding. Usually I humor him and look, but today we had somewhere to be.

"Let's go Mark, the Cub Scouts are waiting," I said.

He climbed out from behind the couch, grinning. And that's when I noticed his attire -- a blue polo shirt. It was certainly not the Cub Scout uniform he'd been wearing this morning.

"Where's your Cub Scout shirt?" I asked.

"Oh, I left it in the classroom," he said nonchalantly. Then he realized what he'd said, and he froze in fear.

"Why is it in the classroom?" I asked. "Why isn't it on your body?"

He responded as he always does when he's wrong -- defensively. "Geez! I just forgot it in there."

I realized he'd smuggled his polo shirt in his backpack -- this wasn't the first time he's done that. It wasn't even the first time this week -- lately, he's been smuggling all sorts of toys, books and rogue clothing to school. Any other day, I'd be mildly angry, but again, after this morning's incident, I was all out of patience.

"Let's go," I said. We crossed the playground to where the other Scouts were playing -- all of them in their neat uniforms, complete with hats and neckerchiefs. (Mark lost his second neckerchief last week.) I told the den leader that Mark had left his uniform in the classroom, and as a result, was unable to attend the den meeting. He completely understood.

Mark thought he was going home to suffer the consequences, but he was wrong. Instead, I dragged him to four different stores, and he had sense enough to follow me without whining. He knew he was in deep.

I couldn't find exactly what I wanted, but I found this, which was close enough:

"Remove everything from your backpack that you want to keep, and put it in here," I told him. "This is your new backpack."

He looked at me quizzically. "But it's not a backpack."

"It's close enough," I told him. "It's clear, so I can see in it -- you can't take any more toys or clothes in it. And if you 'lose' it, or 'forget' it, then you won't have any backpack at all. You'll have to carry your lunch, planner, flashcards and library books separately."

He wasn't happy, but he was smart enough not to mouth off about it. (I'm sure Monday morning will be a different story!) Instead, he filled it up, snapped it shut, and handed over his backpack.

He also wasn't happy when we got home, and I sent him to put on his pajamas. When he came back out, I handed him a breakfast shake, and told he was going to bed as soon as he finished.

"But it's not even 7 o'clock yet!" he protested.

"I don't care," I answered. "You made a lot of bad choices today. I'm putting you to bed early so you don't make any more. Now scoot!"

And he did. Leaving me alone with my anger, my dinner, and a big glass of wine.

My friend Jill is right -- motherhood is not for sissies!

Mom's (Non) Muffin Morning

Today was Mom's Muffin Morning at Mark's school. It's a wonderful chance for moms and kids to share breakfast while being serenaded by the middle school orchestra, followed by a trip to the classroom, where the moms help their loving offspring paint masks. (Don't worry, Dads got their day back in November.)

Well, wonderful for most moms, anyway. For Mark, there's absolutely nothing more embarrassing than being in public with his mom. I could defend his behavior as a natural part of growing up, or asserting his independence and transitioning to a teenager, but I won't; the truth is, sometimes he's just a big ol' brat. Today was one of those times.

I could sense the winds shifting toward brattiness, so I prepped him before leaving the house. I told him this was a special day, and I expected polite, respectful behavior. His eyes glazed over, so then I spoke the language he responds to most often -- threats. I promised to kiss him all over and call him "Mommy's wittle bitty baby" in front of everyone if he did not cooperate. He shaped up pretty quickly at that!

We walked to school, and I again reminded him to behave. He reiterated his promise to do so.

And behave he did. Right up until we walked through the school gates, and he said, "Bye, I'm going to play." He started to dart off, but I expected this, and grabbed his arm before he could flee. There were tons of moms around, so I reminded him again, nicely, that we were going to get muffins.

He squirmed away and said, "I'm not hungry. Bye!"

Again, I helped him back into line.

But he was determined to win. "Fine," he said, acidly. "I have to go to the bathroom then." He turned to march away, dodging and smirking at me. Once again, I grabbed his arm to lead him back to the line. I still thought we might succeed.

Until he opened his mouth and squealed, "OWWW, YOU'RE HURTING ME!! WHY DO YOU HURT ME EVERY CHANCE YOU GET??"

And, cut away from the muffin line. This time I didn't bother speaking, I just pulled him out of line under the gaze of a hundred appalled mothers. I led him to the wall where I ordered him to sit down immediately.

"You are done," I told him. I turned away from him, fuming, and told myself silently to BREATHE. (Yes, I said it just like that, in all caps -- I was MAD!) I took a few deep breaths, reminded myself again to breathe (lower caps) and finally calmed down.

Mark spent the next 20 minutes watching the other kids play on the playground. At one point he relented, saying, "Fine, I'll eat a muffin."

"I don't want to eat with you anymore," I said. "You're on a time out until the bell rings. And then you're going to class alone, without a mother to help you, because I am done with your attitude."

He shrugged, and that sent me over the edge. I am not proud to say that I told him I was going to get donuts (his all-time favorite treat) for breakfast.

The bell rang, and he went off to class. I walked home, stomach grumbling, because it was now 8:45 and I hadn't eaten breakfast. When I suddenly had an epiphany -- who says kids have to be part of Mom's Muffin Morning?

I'd already told my boss I was coming to work late, so I made the best of it. I grabbed my car keys and my new People magazine and drove over to my favorite bagel shop.

I enjoyed my favorite bagel and my favorite coffee and read my favorite magazine. At no point did any of them back talk me, whine that they were bored or wiggle uncontrollably in their seat. It was leisurely, it was relaxing, and it was a great way to re-start my day.

Maybe I'll send an email to the PTA president recommending a kid-free Mom's Day breakfast next year. I think it'd be a big hit!

Mark's new BFF

Mark loves to read, for which I am eternally grateful. He plows through books at an alarming speed, and then re-reads them until I think my head might explode. (We went through the entire Diary of a Wimpy Kid series before bedtime no less than five times. Just for the record, it's only funny the first couple times.)

His latest discovery is Calvin and Hobbes -- yes, the sassy little kid with his stuffed tiger. Mark checked out a couple Calvin books from the library, raced through them, and then bought his own copies of the comic collections. And every night before bed, we read the madcap adventures of Calvin and his talking tiger. Mark thinks Calvin is the bomb, and I think it's funny how Calvin's mom and I yell the same exact things at our little boys.

"See, ALL moms sound the same!" I told Mark.

Last night, as I went into his room for his nightly blood sugar check, I noticed something wrapped tightly in Mark's arms. Upon closer inspection, I saw it was a stuffed tiger. This morning, Mark informed me the tiger's name is Hobbes.

Apparently, Calvin's not the only boy with a magical stuffed tiger. I asked Mark if his tiger also talked, but he replied sadly, "No."

"Well, keep listening," I told him. "Hobbes only talks when Calvin's parents aren't around. Maybe your Hobbes is feeling shy because I'm here."

Mark flashed a hopeful look at Hobbes; then, a smile slowly crept across his face. He hadn't thought about that.

I hope Mark's imagination is as big as Calvin's; I just hope his propensity for trouble is not.

Becoming Mom

Yesterday I celebrated my third Mother's Day, and I have to say, they keep getting better.

It started Friday evening, when Mark gave me my first present -- a homemade keepsake box. I oohed and ahhed over it, but Mark didn't get it.

"There's nothing in it," he informed me. "It's EMPTY." He clearly didn't understand why his teacher forced him to give me a box with nothing inside. And he certainly didn't believe I loved it, no matter how many times I told him, because why would anybody love an empty box?

On Sunday, Mark brought me breakfast in bed, which my cats immediately tried to eat. I shooed them away and read my homemade cards, but Mark kept nudging my gift over to me. I could read the See's Candy logo through the paper. He kept eyeing it, and pushing it to me, until finally I ended his misery and gave him a truffle. He was ecstatic.

It was a far cry from my very first Mother's Day. That one turned out...well, not quite as well.

It had been a couple months since his birth parents' rights were terminated. He'd been calling me "Heather" up till then, and I waited before evolving into anything else.

But I realized it was time. Mark had lived with me for almost five months, and the whole "Heather" thing was getting kinda weird. People assumed we were mother and child, but introductions were always kinda awkward.

"Ask your mom if you can have a cookie," people would say, and Mark would yell out, "Heather, can I have this?" It really confused the other kids in his class when he called me Heather.

So about a month after he last saw his birth parents, I decided it was time. We were goofing around, and I told him I was changing my name.

"To what?" he asked, curious.

"To 'Mom,'" I told him. "From now on, I'll only answer to 'Mom.'"

He giggled and thought that was great fun. And of course, he immediately tested me. "Heather, can you tickle me?"

I looked around the room. "Did you hear something?" I asked him.

He giggled again and asked, "MOM, can you tickle me?"

"Certainly!" I cried and tickled him till he couldn't stand it anymore.

It was funny for the first day. He'd follow me around the room, calling me "Heather -- I mean, MOM."

It was a little funny the second day. By the third day, he was downright annoyed.

"Heather, when's dinner?" he'd ask, and I'd keep doing whatever I was doing.

"I only answer to 'Mom' now," I'd tell him, and he'd grit his teeth and say angrily, "Fine, Mom, when's dinner?"

After a few days, Heather faded away completely. He went from "Heather" to "Heather -- I mean, Mom" to just plain old "Mom." It was awesome.

By the time Mother's Day -- my first! -- rolled around, I was so excited. I'd worked long (almost three years!) and hard to get to this day, and I wanted to celebrate. I'm a MOM! I wanted to shout from the rooftop, but I realized that perhaps this day wasn't as joyful for Mark. I was sure he was missing his birth mom, so I tried not to make a big deal about it all (outwardly, anyway).

Mark presented me with a gift -- a photo of him smelling a giant Gerber daisy. It was beautiful, and I teared up immediately. "Thank you, honey!" I said, hugging him, and suddenly, his mood turned completely.

He grunted angrily and ran away. Just then, the doorbell rang, and in came some friends I'd invited over for dinner.

I couldn't wait to show them my new picture, but dinner and the conversation distracted me. I didn't remember the picture until dessert.

But I couldn't find it. It had disappeared, and when I asked Mark about it, he shrugged and walked away. I searched a bit more, when suddenly I walked past my new paper shredder and my heart sank.

I opened the shredder, and there on top were the tiny ribbons of what was recently my Mother's Day photo. My heart sank and I started to cry; at first, because he'd shredded the picture, but then because I realized so many of our "first" special occasions (Christmas, birthdays) ended up like this. For Mark, as a confused little boy missing the only family he'd known until recently, these were sad, not joyous, occasions. They were obvious reminders of what he no longer had. And though I knew he loved me ("just a little bit"), he felt disloyal to his original family, and confused.

And so I took it down a little. I downplayed the picture and played up dessert instead. That made him a little happier, but still, he watched me warily, even a bit defiantly. You are not my mother, I could almost hear him say, and I realized that today was not the day to wage that battle.

In fact now, three years later, I've realized it was never really a battle at all. I don't want him to forget his birth family; I never will, because they gave me the greatest gift of my entire life -- my son, Mark. For that, I am eternally grateful.

And so when Mark presented me Friday with a box -- an empty box in which he saw no worth -- I smiled. It wasn't thrashed or kicked in; it wasn't shredded or wrecked; it wasn't handed over with anger or disdain. Instead, it was painted red ("Because that's your favorite color, Mom") and lovingly decorated with plastic flowers and beads. And three days later, it looks exactly the same -- I checked the shredder all weekend, and found no box, no flowers, jammed in there.

It's funny how you measure love. For some, it's all about the big shows of affection. For others, like me, it's more about the quiet victories.

The Lonely Spirit

Today, my little niece Gabi celebrated her first communion. It was a really wonderful event -- 200 little boys with white shirts and ties, and little girls dressed like tiny brides, all surrounded by proud parents and family members. Gabi gave a reading during the mass, and did great. It was so cute!

Mark, on the other hand, is not an active member of the Catholic church. He doesn't know the prayers and responses by heart like the rest of us. So when the priest said to lay our hands on our children's heads for a prayer, he squirmed away from me.

"Come back here," I told him. "Let's do the sign of the cross."

"The WHAT?" he said, a little louder than necessary.

"The sign of the cross," I repeated. I placed my hand on his forehead, his chest and then side to side, telling him, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

"The what?" he asked again, confused. "Who's the Lonely Spirit?"

It took me a moment, but then I broke into giggles.

"The HOLY Spirit, not the Lonely Spirit!" I told him.

But I giggled about the Lonely Spirit for the rest of the day.

Wrong number

Mark is always calling me from s chool for carb counts, or to report his blood sugar. As such, he's very comfortable using the phones in c lass and the nurse's office (he's better with them than I am!).

One day he called inquiring about a new battery for his meter. I told him where it was, and he said, "Hang on, I'm putting you on hold."

He returned with the new battery, and then said, "Now I'm gonna put you on speaker phone."

I realized he was putting me on speaker while he changed the battery.

"Hold up!" I told him. "Are there any adults around to change it for you?"

Suddenly I heard the substitute nurse call out, "Mark, who are you talking to?"

"My mom," he answered, and she grabbed the line. "I didn't even know he called you!" she said apologetically. It wasn't the first (or last time) he's called on his own.

Yesterday he called just as school was letting out. I recognized the class phone number and figured he was calling to report a high or low blood sugar.

But when I answered, he sounded surprised.

"Oh, sorry Mom," he said sheepishly. "I didn't mean to call you."

I was about to hang up when a thought struck me -- who else would he be calling from class?

"Hey, Mark!" I called out. "Who were you trying to call?" I couldn't even imagine.

"Kid's Club," he said, and then he hung up.

Apparently, he was going to be late to after school care, so he phoned to let them know. I was proud of him being so responsible.

And I was a little flabbergasted at how times have changed since I was a kid!

You know it's gonna be a bad conversation when...

...it starts with, "Mark is just fine. Please don't worry, he's okay, but..."

That's the call I got yesterday. Mark, in fact, was okay, though his friend Kyle wasn't so lucky.

Mark, Kyle and another kid, Nathan, were goofing around in the bathroom at school yesterday. They were slamming the entrance door, which then popped the exit door open. They were having a blast right up until Kyle stood in the doorway while Nathan slammed the door. Instead of popping open, the door popped Kyle. Just above the eye, winning him a free trip to the hospital for stitches.

Technically, Mark was not completely involved. He wasn't the injured party, or the injurer, and thought he'd get off scot-free based on those two facts.

Yes, Mark has a flawed sense of justice, which I attribute to his age. But with apologies to Aretha Franklin, she needs a new song for my son -- called "R-E-S-P-O-N-S-I-B-I-L-I-T-Y."

And so Mark and I had a little heart-to-heart talk. At first, he was just scared for Kyle, and got a little teary. I understood that, and consoled him.

Then I explained that while no, Mark didn't actually push the door, that didn't leave him innocent, as he believed. He was a willing accomplice, he was just lucky enough not to be on either side of the door at the time of the accident.

"But it could just as easily have been you," I reminded him. "You were still an accomplice."

I thought he understood that, but he proved me wrong a couple hours later. He agreed to write an apology letter to Ms. Lyndsi, who's in charge of the afterschool care.

"What's Ms. Lyndsi's j ob?" I prodded.

"To keep us safe," Mark answered. Good, maybe this wouldn't take so long after all, I thought!

"And what happens when you guys goof off, and someone gets hurt?" I asked.

"Then Ms. Lyndsi is not doing her job," he answered, and he started writing, "I am sorry you did not do your job."

"Wait, wait!" I told him. "This is about your actions, not Ms. Lyndsi's. She was doing her job, but you weren't helping her. That's what you're sorry about."

He finally got the note written. I breathed a sigh of relief and we moved on to a letter to Kyle.

Which read, "Dear Kyle, sorry you got hurt when NATHAN hit you with the door."

This was gonna be a tough lesson. "Stop blaming everybody else!" I told him. "This is about you. Take responsibility for your actions."

"But I didn't push the door!" he yelled.

I thought about it for a moment, until the light bulb went on. "Remember at Scout camp the other day, when the Scout master said not to do anything dangerous?" I asked.

He nodded.

"And what did he say to do if somebody else was doing something dangerous?"

"He said tell them to stop, because it's not safe," he said.

"Right!" I exclaimed. "Did you tell Nathan and Kyle to stop?" He shook his head. "Did you stop, or walk away because it wasn't safe?" He shook his head again.

"Then you didn't do your part," I ended. "You were misbehaving, and you didn't stop yourself or your friends from doing something unsafe. The only difference is that you didn't push the door or catch the door."

I took a deep breath. Sometimes it's hard being so wise. ;-)

It took another half hour, but finally Mark finished the two letters. I had to remind him multiple times to apologize for his actions, not other people's shortcomings, but finally he finished. He took responsibility for making Ms. Lyndsi's job difficult, and for messing around in the bathroom.

Dang, who knew parenting could be so hard? I forgot that instilling values and responsibility is not a one-time lesson, but rather something that must be instilled and then repeated. Many times. Many, MANY times.

I am soooo not looking forward to lessons during Mark's teenage years!

Baby beat box in the howwwwse

I knew it would happen eventually, and in a way, I'm glad. My son has turned into a baby beat box.

Why, do you ask, does this make me happy? Because despite all Mark's protests and railing against drum practice, it's sticking. The lessons, the knowledge, the joy of percussion -- Mark's got it.

I remember my brother Tim and my cousin Michael as boys. They played drums, and they couldn't walk by any surface (including our heads) without drumming on it -- with their fingers, with their drumsticks, with pencils, with whatever. It was a constant beat, a constant movement and noise, and at the time, a constant irritation. (Then again, everything my brothers did when we were kids was annoying!)

But now, as an adult, it makes me smile. Mark's drum lessons aren't just torture any more, he's actually starting to enjoy and retain the information, and the evidence is -- you guessed it -- a constant drumming.

Which is the good news. The bad news, as I mentioned, is the constant drumming on everything, and now, the beat boxing.

It started yesterday as I was getting ready for work. I could hear him dancing down the hallway, grunting and making all sorts of noises. "Boom ba, boom boom ba, boom ba, boom boom ba, eee eee eee eee!" was what it sounded like, but at least he had a pretty good beat going. The boy's got rhythm.

The sounds quieted a bit, and I figured he was getting dressed. Soon enough, they grew loud again, and then louder still, and as I brushed my hair, I realized he was very close. As in, on the other side of the bathroom door, beatboxing his little heart out. I just listened to him and smiled.

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I opened the door, and there he was, not only beatboxing, but dancing as well.

"Yo yo yo yo, Mama!" he sang, throwing his hands in the air. "Boom, boom, POW!"

I couldn't help it, I cracked up. "Yo, MC Marky Mark, go make your bed!" I told him, and he danced off toward his room.

"Boom boom BA!" he replied. I watched him pull the comforter across his bed as he sang out, "Wiki wiki wiki wik!"

And then the littlest human beat box collected his backpack and headed off to third grade.

Never a dull moment in my house, I tell ya!

S'more fun than you can shake a stick at

We have returned home triumphant from our first camping trip! We not only survived, we had a blast.

The campground was pretty much our speed -- it was not the middle-of-nowhere refuge I feared, but rather smack in the middle of a residential R.V. park. We had a whole hill to ourselves, with a communal fire pit and dining area. It even had a basketball court in the middle of it -- not exactly roughing it!

We arrived early yesterday morning and met the group. They already had a casualty -- one boy bloodied himself up pretty good crashing his bike down the hill, mandating a new "no bike riding down the hill" rule.

They also regaled us with tales of the local fauna. Apparently, a couple fearless skunks sauntered into the campground, putting everyone into a panic. The skunks refused to leave, searching brazenly for scraps, while the campers scampered about nervously, trying not to frighten or alarm the skunks. They were terrified someone would end up in a tomato juice bath.

We found a spot and set up our tent. We'd barely gotten settled when the pack leader announced it was time for a Scout bike ride. Off we went, 16 boys and 7 adults, braving the offroad trail. Mark, as he loves to do, had traded his bike to another kid, who promptly fell off it halfway down the first hill. Mark was not allowed to trade anything else for the rest of the day.

We soon intersected with a cystic fibrosis charity walk. The walkers were friendly, and patient with the mob of Scouts riding recklessly along the path, and the volunteers along the side eagerly handed water bottles out to Scouts and walkers alike. Mark fell back after the first hill, so I rode with him, and was kind of glad (the Scouts kept clumping up in front of me). It was a really pretty ride along the lake.

Back at camp, we ate lunch, and then the boys set off on their own adventures. There was a huge grassy valley behind us, which the boys were allowed to explore in groups. It was hilarious to see them pour out of the bushes, wielding large sticks and branches they swore they'd found on the ground. The biggest lesson I learned this weekend was that little boys are fascinated with big sticks.

And knives. A couple boys had brought their pocket knives, and their whittling chips (like a license that says they passed knife safety). Mark was bummed he didn't have his, and watched enviously as they lit into some pieces of wood. His envy evaporated when we realized one of the boys had cut his thumb pretty badly with the knife. Luckily, there was a fireman and an EMT among the Scout parents, and Casualty #3 was expertly bandaged up.

Soon enough, the Scout Master rallied the troops for fishing. The boys were brimming with excitement, eager to display their fishing prowess. They bragged about who would catch the biggest fish. Of course, a fishing pole is nothing more than a long stick, so that was exciting too. The poles soon became light sabers, and you know where that leads...miraculously, no one got hooked during the duels.

We descended onto the shore in full yell, thoroughly ruining the quiet solitude of the fisherman already there. The only creatures louder than us were the giant geese squawking on the sand. The boys promptly started casting all about them, and I can't believe we didn't end up with a Casualty #4.

I taught Mark how to cast, preparing to impress him with a mighty distance. Instead, the line dropped into the water right in front of me. "It's okay, there's a learning curve," I told him, though I never did master it.

We continued on like that for about ten minutes until a very nice gentleman showed Mark the correct way to cast. He looked over the line and said, "You don't have a weight on here -- you need a weight." I searched through the starter tackle box that came with the pole; it had everything BUT a weight.

Luckily, one of the Scout dads had an extra weight. He crimped it on, then gave Mark some bait cheese to mold onto the hook (I forgot our pretty neon food in the tent). The weight sure did the trick -- soon, Mark was casting twice as far as he had before. He was still crossing everybody else's lines, but now he was casting at least 10 feet out into the lake.

And here is the ultimate proof that Mark is my child:

Mark actually did a pretty good job of casting. He didn't do so well with the actual fishing -- he kept pulling the line in and casting again, but he was having a blast. He kept trying to "trade" fishing poles with another kid who had a gun-type fishing pole. (It was the same kid who he'd traded bikes with.) Instead of casting, you load the hook and line into a barrel and shoot it out into the water. It was pretty hilarious.




Soon enough, Mark grew bored. "Fishing is actually kinda boring when you don't catch any fish," he said, and I imagined a thousand fisherman nodding their heads in agreement. (I, on the other hand, was grateful he didn't catch anything -- I had nightmares all week about gutting and cleaning fish!)

Mark ran off to play with the other Scouts, and I returned to the circle of chairs back at camp.

"Did you catch anything?" a mom asked, and I shook my head. "Nothing but a little boredom," I answered.

"Yeah, fishing seems pretty boring," she said. "You just sit around doing nothing."

A nearby dad couldn't let that pass. "It's exactly what you're all doing right now," he pointed out. "Except with a pole stuck in the ground next to ya!" We had to agree he was right.

It was kind of overcast, which made everyone a little sleepy. The afternoon dragged on (not in a bad way), and seemed to last for 100 hours. At one point, a mom asked if we should start dinner, and another mom answered that it was only 2:30!

The dads and boys played and I was content to watch them until it really was time to start to dinner, and claim my spot on the dinner crew.

We cooked up about 80 hamburgers, 40 hot dogs and 10 boxes of mac n cheese. There were a lot of Scouts and family members, but we didn't even put a dent in all the food.

And what's the answer to too much food? More food! Or rather, s'more food!

The men could hardly wait to build up a campfire. As soon as dinner finished, they dumped a trashcan full of wood into the firepit and doused it with lighter fluid. They told the kids to stand back, tossed in a match, and watched a huge fireball erupt. The parents moved the circle of chairs toward the fire.

The Scout Master led the boys in a round of skits that we performed when we were little kids at camp! It was really funny. Here's my little star (resting his head on a football):

Soon enough, it was time for s'mores. Unfortunately, there was so much wood on the fire that you couldn't get even remotely close to it. It was like a wall of heat, and I came away from it with tears in my eyes. I think I ate more embers than marshmallow.

The families, including mine, started heading off to bed. I could barely keep my eyes open, and Mark said, "Yeah, it's already 9 o'clock." Nine o'clock! On a Saturday night! And I couldn't wait to crawl into bed.

Our tent was on a slope, so I slept tilted down all night. But with the air mattress and comfy sleeping bag, it was really nice. I only woke once at night, when I heard a little critter scratching outside my tent. At first I thought it was the little bunny or gopher we'd seen earlier (wildlife!), but the scratching sounded a little louder than that. I rattled the tent to scare it off. I was about to rattle it again when I realized it might be a skunk. I ceased all rattling immediately.

I slept soundly through the night, until the honking geese woke us up at 6 a.m. The other families woke up shortly after, and I listened to them talking. One kid was acting up, and I heard his mom yell, "It's Sunday morning, I'm tired, I need coffee and a shower! BEHAVE!" I could second that emotion.

I tried to go back to sleep, but a group of boys decided to liberate a giant flying disc that had lodged itself in the tree above our tent. "Where's the whistling football?" one of them yelled, and I waited for it to hit our tent. Which it did, about three minutes later.

"You hungry?" I asked Mark.

He still hadn't moved. I asked if he wanted to go get some breakfast with me, but he just shook his head.

"Bring it to me," he ordered. "ROOM SERVICE!"

Well, you can guess how well that went over. I repeated his room service request to a nearby dad, who yelled, "Hey Scouts, Mark needs help waking up! Go help him! " I laughed my head off as all the boys, without hesitation, converged on the tent and started shaking it.

"WAKE UP, MARK!" they screamed, pulling him out. "WAKE UP!" I might just try that trick tomorrow morning.

After breakfast, we broke down camp. I took down the tent but couldn't figure out how to get it all back into the tiny bag it came in. (And I realized just how one mom showed up at camp with a tent but no tent stakes!)

Pretty soon, the car was packed and the bikes were tied on. I felt like I'd been up for hours, and the day was halfway done. I glanced at my cell phone -- it was 9:30.

And so we survived our very first camping adventure. We saw some wildlife (bunnies, gophers, hawks) but thankfully not all of it (the sign reading, "Mountain lions spotted in this area, no children allowed without an adult" made me kinda nervous). I worried Mark wasn't going to enjoy it, especially when he asked yesterday, "Why bother camping for just one night?"

But I knew he'd had a great time when he told me, as he fell asleep Saturday night, "Mom, camping's really really fun. Even if it is for just one night!"

Fishing for compliments

Part of this weekend's wilderness adventure includes fishing. As in, casting into a lake and pulling out a fish.

I'm no stranger to fishing. My grandfather was an avid fisherman, and I spent numerous summers trolling Oregon's rivers and lakes with him. I loved fishing then, although it wasn't the fish I loved so much as the time with my grandpa. He had a little boat he would navigate easily down the river. He'd point out all the wild blackberry bushes, and the best spots to fish. He'd help me bait the hook, rolling the pseudo-cheese into little balls. He'd help me land any fish I caught, and even gutted and cleaned them.

My grandpa loved helping me, but also wanted me to learn the beauty of fishing for myself. So he warned that when I turned 12, I'd have to gut and clean my own fish. I never caught another fish after I turned 12, but I still enjoyed the boat rides along the river.

My brothers fished too, although they weren't all that successful. They caught more salamanders along the dock than fish from the lake. Tim once swore he'd landed a giant fish, and pulled up a rusty iron instead. And he even hooked me once, in the cheek, as I played along the river bank. Adding insult to injury, I got in trouble for that, but my Grandma Audrey soothed me and plied me with ginger snaps, which I made sure Tim could see me eating from the window.

So when I announced to Mark I was buying him a fishing pole, I thought he'd be excited. Instead, the first words out of his mouth were, "I am NOT touching any worms!"

"You can use other bait," I told him, but he remained doubtful.

"I just don't like to touch worms," he said, and started shivering at the mere thought of it.

My brother Scott pointed me to the local sporting goods store, where I found myself in the middle of the fishing pole section. I stood there among the myriad poles and lures, completely out of my element. Finally, a salesman took pity on me and offered up a basic pole with a small tackle box included.

I then made my way to the bait section. The first jar I picked was full of worms, and I could almost hear Mark screaming, "NOOOOOOO!" I put it down quickly.

The next jar contained bright red dots -- fish eggs. I knew once Mark read the label, there was no way he'd actually touch those.

The next few jars surprised me. They contained an assortment of brightly colored marshmallows dipped in glitter. Who knew fish had ADD, and can't pass up anything bright and shiny?

Unfortunately, that bait would work on another little fish as well -- I could see Mark sampling them, unable to resist any marshmallow (even pink, glittery ones).

Finally, overwhelmed at the choices, I grabbed a jar of neon striped nuggets, and headed toward the cashier. As she was ringing up the pole, I noticed they were actually trout nuggets.

"Will these work on any fish, or just trout?" I asked.

"I dunno," she shrugged. "I really have no idea."

Luckily, her co-worker stepped in and assured me it was fine.

On the way out, I realized the hooks weren't attached to the pole. There were instructions on the back for knotting them onto the fishing line, and for wrapping a pink rubber grub onto the hook as well. This time I shivered.

Mark was excited at the new purchases, shaking the bait jar around for a better look at the little neon nuggets.

"Can people eat these, too?" he asked, confirming my suspicions that he'd taste them.

"No!" I answered. "See, it says 'Not for human consumption' here, which means DO NOT EAT THEM!"

He frowned, and I'm still not convinced he won't try it.

And so tomorrow, if everything works out, he'll be casting into the lake with the other Cub Scouts (or surreptitiously eating trout nuggets by their side). I'm not sure which will be worse: if he doesn't catch a fish, or if he does, and I have to help him unhook and clean it.

Then he'll learn there are more disgusting things than worms to touch -- namely, fish guts. Or live fish parts, as we struggle to unhook and release the little guy back into the lake.

I'm already pretty sure I'll like fishing better as a granddaughter than as a mom.