It's all a matter of perspective

Sometimes I get frustrated when Mark can't follow simple instructions. I'll ask him to feed the cats, and he'll respond with a funny story that happened at school. I'll repeat my request, and he'll ask me how great white sharks thrust their jaws out of their mouths to bite their prey. I'll ask a third time, and he'll respond with some snarky comment, then, "Geez, I'm doing it! Why do you always get so mad?"

But now I've realized exactly why he can't follow my instructions. It's not that we don't see eye-to-eye, it's that we're looking in completely opposite directions.

We went to an Anaheim Ducks hockey game last night. I was excited because I'd never been to a pro hockey game before; I'd only been to semi-pro games for the Long Beach Ice Dogs, and I only attended on $2 beer nights. (Hey, after two or three beers, I become a rabid fan of any sport!)

Mark was excited because he got to stay up late on a school night. He didn't really care where we were going.

We found our seats, and I pointed out the Ducks, in black, and Tampa Bay, in white. I reminded him we were rooting for the black team.

Within minutes, the players were violently slamming each other into the glass walls.

"Oooooh!" I grimaced after one slam. "That's gotta hurt!"

"What does?" Mark asked.

"That guy just slammed the other guy into the wall," I said. He shrugged; he hadn't seen it.

Two minutes later, Tampa Bay tripped a Duck, and the perpetrator skated off to the penalty box.

"Serves him right!" I told Mark. "He blatantly tripped that guy!"

"What guy?" Mark asked, in a refrain that would come to haunt me as the night grew on.

The next offense was something called "high sticking" which I took to mean as raising the stick too close to someone else's head in a threatening manner.

I shook my head, as Mark professed to missing that incident as well.

"Are you even watching the game?" I asked him. "See that big oval of ice in the middle there? With all the hockey players skating around? Are you watching that?"

He shrugged and asked if there were any peanuts left.

Maybe he just wasn't into hockey. He counted the number of referees on ice, and was telling me how many when a fight broke out.

"There are three--" he started but I interrupted him by yelling, "Ouch!"

"Ouch?"

"Yes, ouch! That Duck just punched the other guy in the head!" I shouted. I pointed out where before Mark even asked the question.

"Oh!" Mark answered. I thought he'd say something like, "That's gotta hurt!" but instead, he corrected himself by saying, "I mean FOUR. There are four referees on the ice!"

"Did you even see the guys fighting?" I asked, and Mark nodded. I'm not so sure he did, though.

He did wake up at the end of the quarter ("Period," I corrected. "There are three periods." "Whatever," he replied.) That's when the Zambonis came out, and when a human hamster ball contest took place on ice.

"Look at 'em go!" he yelled. "They keep falling!"

Mark also loved the giant inflatable sheep and the yellow submarine that floated around the arena. But he immediately lost interest again as soon as the second period began.

He sighed loudly, and I glanced at him. He sat up immediately and feigned interest -- he could sense his bedtime depended on it.

"Ummm, what do they call the guys in the goals?" he asked.

I don't know much about hockey, but I knew this one. "You mean the goalies?"

He nodded. "So, they have to stop the ball?"

"The puck," I answered. "The flat, round thing is called a puck, not a ball."

"Whatever," he said dismissively. "I'm just gonna call it a ball. They hit the ball--"

I stopped him. "Wait, when you play baseball, do you say, 'I hit the football outta the park'?"

"No," he laughed. "That's dumb!"

"And you wouldn't say, 'The quarterback just threw the baseball to the wide receiver.' So it's not whatever."

"Fine, the puck," he conceded. "Does the puck..." He trailed off, his original question forgotten.

The second period ended around 8:30, and I thought about staying until the last one. But Mr. Fidgety beside me had downed his bottle of Gatorade and desperately needed to use the facilities. I figured now was as good a time as any to leave on a high note.

And I realized why Mark never follows my directions, even when they are as clear as a giant ice rink with every seat in the house pointed at it.

He's too busy worrying about things like peanuts, inflatables, and...whatever.

Yeah, that's about right...

Last week, I was on call for jury duty. Most people dread this civic obligation, and give any excuse possible to avoid it. Not me -- I was kind of hoping to be called in.

But now I know what that feeling of dread is like. I've been feeling it since last Friday, when I was summoned to court of another kind -- the parent-teacher conference at Mark's school. Dun dun DUN!!!!

I arrived nervous, with Mark in tow. His behavior has been a bit... sub-par... lately. My mom suggested I bring him along to show him the teacher and I are on the same page. It turned out to be an excellent idea.

I seriously felt like I was in court, with a surly defendant who'd rather be outside playing kickball. The judge asked for opening statements, and I pleaded my case earnestly.

I conceded that my client, while perhaps not the best behaved, certainly possesses a thirst for knowledge, an obsession for reading, and a sweetness of spirit. I then admitted that the judge was not likely to see any of these traits during classroom hours, but rest assured, they are there.

I also noted somewhat apologetically that I'd received the behavior charts for my client over the past few weeks, and these, too, were being addressed. My client, I assured him, is currently under probation for said charts, and will not be released early for good behavior until...well, until there actually is some good behavior!

The judge smiled and began the hearing. I listened intently as the evidence was presented: here, in math, Mark was excelling; here, in grammar and spelling, he had room for improvement. I began to feel hopeful for my client, until the judge submitted the scientific evidence. It was grim, and I could hear my client audibly gulp, and shift nervously in his seat. I was caught unaware; there had been no indication of this in any of the court documents. Turns out the problem was not a plethora of scientific evidence, but rather the lack of evidence.

"Most students do pretty well in science, as long as they read over the handouts I give them," the judge told me.

I glared at my client and asked where his science handouts were.

"In the recycling bin," he answered, refusing to look at me or the judge.

"Your honor, I will make a better effort to review all the documents sent home with my client," I announced. My client then requested a brief recess, which the judge and I immediately refused.

The next part of the hearing focused on some other missing documents; namely, the instructions for a report due in the coming months. I looked questioningly at my client and asked where that paper was.

My client immediately sat up straight, and began patting down his shirt pockets, and then his pants pockets, searching for it. He reached for his backpack and dug through it and the folder it contained quite extensively. But he came up empty-handed, probably because the missing documents had been passed out days ago and were surely sitting in a landfill somewhere next to the science papers.

Eventually, the hearing dwindled down to the last few minutes. The judge accused my client of being unorganized and of inciting the other inmates at inopportune times (i.e., computer lab or music class). My client plead guilty as charged, but begged for mercy from the court. After promising to keep my client under a watchful eye, the judge smiled, and released us with a friendly handshake.

My client knew enough not to argue his case any further. He listened patiently as I admonished him, and agreed to the court-ordered plan of action. Upon walking in the front door, he jumped right to his homework.

"You are on probation until further notice," I announced, and he nodded his head sadly.

I'm hoping the next hearing goes a little better...

Is it stealing if it never leaves the premises?

When I picked Mark up yesterday, he was clutching a dark blue jacket that wasn't his. I knew because a) I didn't buy it, and b) it was about three sizes too small.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked, and he answered, "I found it on the playground."

When I suggested we drop it off at the lost and found, he grimaced and said, "Darn!"

"Why do you want it?" I asked, a little puzzled. "It won't even fit you."

He explained that the after school counselors won't let kids play outside in the afternoon unless they have a jacket on.

"So I just pick up sweat shirts from the playground every day," he said.

I bit my tongue so I wouldn't laugh out loud. Then I asked if he'd considered any other solutions.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like bringing your own sweatshirt every day," I answered. "And not losing it!"

He just looked at me like I was completely crazy. Like I'd suggested the most outrageous thing I could possibly think of.

Which I guess I had, when you really think about it. I'd suggested responsibility, a concept about as realistic to Mark as three-headed aliens or talking cats. Interesting ideas both, but really, what purpose would they serve Mark in the real world here?

"Yeah, you're right," I admitted. "It's probably easier to just pick up the stray jackets on the playground."

I couldn't believe I actually offered that as a solution, but as Mark smiled and ran off, I realized sometimes ya just have to take what you can get!

It's all about the garnish

With much help from and gratitude to my village, I survived the weekend. I attended an awesome support group in San Diego for parents of kids with diabetes, and got to have lunch with my parents. All of this was possible because of the best cousin ever, Kathleen, who watched Mark all day.

Mark's done his part, too. He's worked really hard to improve his behavior this week, and very smartly attempted to suck up to me at every available opportunity.

He even went so far as to make me breakfast in bed yesterday. I could hear him banging around in the kitchen, and wondered what...um...delicious fare was coming my way.

First, came the coffee. It was in a ginormous cup, filled to the brim, splashing on to the floor as he eased down the hall to my bedroom (thank God for laminate floors!). Next, he returned with a tray onto which were placed these two small plates:




That's right, mine was peanut-butter toast and grapes, with rosemary sprigs shaped like an "H." That melted away what was left of my angry heart.

Mark created his own breakfast recipe as well: peanut-butter toast with macadamia nuts. He said it tasted okay, but not as good as he'd hoped.

"Rise and shine!" he called out, placing the tray on my bed. "I wanted to say 'Rise and shine, it's a beautiful day!' but somebody was too busy sleeping to enjoy it." He smirked at me, and I smiled back.

And so we enjoyed our breakfast in bed. Mine was a little extra crunchy, thanks to the new toaster we'd bought the night before.

"It burnt the first piece," Mark explained. "But it worked okay after that." A quick flip of my toast revealed I was the lucky recipient of the first piece. But I shrugged and ate it anyway.

Because really, the sun was shining, my breakfast was hand-delivered, and it was indeed a beautiful day outside. And really, what more could you ask for on a Sunday morning?

Is this the part where he tests my patience?

A few years ago, a co-worker greeted me and asked me how Mark was.

"He's lucky to be alive," I answered. "Just barely."

My co-worker, also a mom, nodded understandingly.

"You can't kill him," she answered, wisely. "It took you too long to get him."

I agreed she had a point. It had taken me two years to get him; no matter how sorely tempted I was, I couldn't strangle him after only a few months.

Well, now it's been almost four years. And if we're being honest here, I will admit it. Although I made things sound all sweet and rosy in a recent blog entry, really, I was just trying to convince myself a) that I love my kid and b) not to kill my kid.

I really do love my kid, but he came closer this week than he ever has to dying by the hand of his enraged mommy. Narrowly (very VERY narrowly), he escaped death.

He came out of the experience much humbler than he went into it, all full of teary "I love yous" and "I know you love me, too, even when you're really, really, REALLY mad." (That last part was debatable.)

We got through it all, and today, two days later, I am almost sane once again. But the worst part was that today was a school holiday.

That's right, as in a whole day off with the kid. To make matters worse, it was not a work holiday, so I had to work at home. I got to spend the whole day trapped at home with a kid I'm mad at.

Fun times, this being a parent. But today I made it work. Or rather, I made him work. He cleaned the kitchen, his room and the litter boxes; watered the plants, inside and out; put away laundry; and finished all other various tasks I assigned him. He also did some online research, on great white sharks and on high blood sugars and what happens if you don't control them. (The blood sugars, that is; I've yet to meet a person who could control a great white shark!)

But the point is, I survived. Thanks to my ever-present village (the one helping to raise my son), Mark is still alive. I wouldn't go so far as to say he's thriving, but sometimes life in itself is a major achievement.

Sigh...I will be back to funny Mark stories soon enough. If he lives...

Yes, that is illegal

Thursday night was Mark's Cub Scout meeting, which focused on the importance of being a good citizen. The boys learned all sorts of citizen-ly stuff, like the difference between rights and duties. ("Rights are something you get, and duties are...um, something you have to do," said one smart Cub Scout.)

Mark was more concerned with bending the brim of his hat up and bugging out his eyes. He stopped every time the den leader mentioned jury duty, and pointed at me because I'm on call to serve this week. Which was fine, until the den leader further elaborated, telling the boys that everyone is entitled to a fair trial by a jury of their peers.

"Yeah, Mom!" Mark sneered, and I shushed him immediately. Embarrassed, I whispered, "I've got jury duty next week," so the other parents would realize I was a potential juror, and not a criminal awaiting my fair trial.

The boys also learned that some rights, while protected, aren't always appropriate.

"Who can name a right?" the den leader asked, and the boys eagerly waved their hands.

He picked one boy, who immediately lowered his hand and said, "Um, I forgot."

So he picked another boy, who correctly identified the freedom of speech.

"What does that mean?" the den leader asked, and the boy answered, "It means you're allowed to say whatever you want."

"Right," answered the den leader. Then he frowned, and asked, "But can you always say whatever you want? Or are some things maybe...illegal to say?"

This made the boys scratch their heads. They couldn't think of anything you'd actually say that might warrant arrest.

Until one boy's hand shot up in the air.

"I know!" he called out. Then he dropped his voice, and quietly said, "The F word."

All the other boys gasped, then nodded. Surely, this was a serious crime.

The den leader, bless his heart, nodded too, and managed to keep a straight face. "Yes, that is very bad," he agreed. "It's not appropriate, but it's also not illegal."

The other boys raised their hands, and each took his turn at giving roughly the same answer. Apparently, for Cub Scouts it's illegal to say the F word, a cuss word, a bad word or even a naughty word.

The den leader eventually pointed out the correct answer -- that we aren't allowed to threaten the rights of other people, as in saying we're going to harm or kill them. This actually shocked the boys, who asked, "Why would you tell someone you're gonna kill them??"

We also learned other important civic information, such as the days you should fly your flag outside. I thought that might include the Fourth of July, Veteran's Day, and maybe President's day. Instead, I was shocked to learn that acceptable days also include Mother's and Father's Day. (Not sure how you commemorate those days if your parent is from another country.)

Even though he spent most of the lesson goofing around, Mark was listening when the den leader described watering your lawn. He explained that because of the drought, we can only water our lawns on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. I don't know why that one struck a chord with Mark, but he chastised me profusely Sunday morning when I watered the back lawn.

"What day is this?" he asked me, accusingly.

"Hey, I only water the backyard once a week," I said. "If I don't do it now, I'll forget!"

He glared at me, until I explained that technically, I can do it any day, because I'm not using my other two allotted days. I'm actually saving the city water by only watering once a week. He didn't buy it, so I turned the sprinklers off.

And so we all came away from the lesson better citizens. I also came away agreeing with the boys on their points -- that bad words would be illegal (especially from the mouths of Cub Scouts) and that flags should be flown every day (just to make sure we didn't miss any important days).

I struggled a little with the watering one, but I'll survive. Because of course, if I forget, I'll still be protected by my right to a fair trial.

Let's just hope that jury of peers doesn't include any Cub Scouts.

Rough week...is it Friday yet???

I was pretty great with kids when I was just an aunt. I had unlimited patience, creativity and energy. I knew my nieces and nephews were the smartest, funniest kids around, and I spent as much time telling them that as I could.

Well, things are a little different when you become a parent. First off, turns out the job is full-time. You can't just leave when you're tired; "OK, kids, Mommy'll see you next week" doesn't really fly.

You realize that sleep is overrated (for you, not your kid) and your appreciation for the mundane expands in ways you never thought possible ("Yes! I've got 30 minutes of free time -- I can totally do laundry and empty the dishwasher!").

As a mom, you realize that even if your kid is smart and funny, he's also pretty demanding. For starters, he requires at least three meals a day, plus snacks, which is a huge deal if your previous cooking experience was defrosting frozen boxed dinners. And that was on the days you actually did cook -- more often than not, dinner consisted of happy hour appetizers or Taco Tuesday.

Pre-child, my life was full of social engagements and cultural events. It still is, though now those social engagements are solely my child's, not mine, and I am relegated to chauffeuring him back and forth. And cultural events are more along the lines of Sponge Bob than art exhibits or concerts.

There are plenty of upsides, though. For example, my multiplication and long division skills are improving, after lying dormant for a good 30 years. But sadly, my grammar skills are diminishing. Mark asked today for help distinguishing common, abstract and concrete nouns, and I looked at him blankly. I had no idea there were more than one type -- and I'm a professional writer!

But I don't mind all the work. I really love my kid, and though he sometimes drives me crazy, he also cracks me up. He's taught me a lot about life (savor it), about my capacity for love (limitless when it comes to him), and about patience (not quite as unlimited as my love).

And he's taught me to appreciate the simple, wonderful things about being a parent. That no matter how burnt out or fatigued I become, no matter how rough the day, there's always hope, there's always another chance tomorrow.

I may run out of patience and forget he's just a little kid who needs constant reminders to wear clean clothes and brush his teeth (with toothpaste). But when I do, he reminds me, in his own sweet way, that I have more patience (and love) than I think.

My friend Jill always says God makes 'em extra cute so you don't kill them. She's definitely right about that...

I'm going to bite your neck...when I wake up

Last Friday was the highlight of Mark's school year -- the Halloween carnival. He basically gets to run around the school yard freely, going on rides and buying junk food. There's nothing he loves more than that, except saving his own money by convincing his friends to spend theirs. (The question "How many carbs are there in a root beer float?" was quickly followed by, "Damian bought it for me!")

He also likes playing the games, especially the ones with food prizes. He succeeded again in winning a two-liter bottle of diet soda in the pumpkin walk, which thrilled him to no end.

When I arrived to pick him up, he collected all his winnings: the soda, a big bag of candy and toys, some purple Halloween socks the nurse gave him, and two pair of pink vampire teeth. Which he promptly popped into his mouth.

The teeth didn't bother me so much as the slurping noises that came at the end of every sentence he tried to say.

"Ishn't it coo I won anudder bodda a shoda?" he asked, slurping noisily.

"I have no idea what you just just said," I answered. I turned around in my seat to look at him holding up his bottle of Diet Dr Pepper. "How many pair of teeth do you have in there?"

"Chew," he answered, raising up two fingers as I stared at him blankly.

We were on our way to San Diego, and he talked excitedly (if incoherently) about the carnival. I couldn't understand him, so I just nodded and answered, "Um hum," "Really?" "Cool!" and "Wow" at each slurping interval.

By the time we hit San Juan Capistrano, he'd stopped talking. I tipped the rear view mirror down to see him in the backseat, and the sight made me smile. There was my scary little vampire, fast asleep, still wearing his pink fangs.

Traffic was completely stopped, so I aimed my camera phone at him and snapped a picture. I completely forgot one of the big vampire rules -- that their reflections don't show up in mirrors or on film. Here's what I got:



But I was pretty sure that despite the pink fangs, Mark isn't really a vampire. So I shot again, and succeeded:



I know I'm legally obligated to believe my son is the cutest kid around, but seriously...how much cuter does it get than a sleepy vampire in the back seat?

Vampires, mummies and the Holy Ghost

We traveled to San Diego this weekend, since Halloween is one of those holidays better spent with a horde of kids. Mark was thrilled to spend it with his cousins.

First on the agenda was a trip to the pumpkin patch. Before I was even through the gate, Mark was holding a large, lopsided pumpkin with an $8 price tag on it.

"I want this one!" he shouted. I glanced around the lot, but it was kinda like buying a Christmas tree on Christmas day; not much to choose from. There were but a few rows of lonely, leftover pumpkins.

Some nice man gave us his leftover ride tickets on his way out, and the kids immediately used them on the giant inflatable slide. They raced up and down for 20 minutes, until finally they stumbled over to us, pink and sweaty. It was 85 degrees and hot outside; so much for a change of seasons!

Their next stop was a game booth. First, they threw plastic balls into giant pumpkin cutouts. Then they moved down a few steps to try their hand at fishing for magnetic turtles. Each turtle was labelled with a size that referred to a box of inflatable toys. All our kids won medium or large, which meant they got to choose an inflatable hammer or bat. They immediately raced off to beat each other silly with them.



My parents invited their neighbors over for dinner, which consisted of pizza, baked beans, mummy dogs and chili that was so hot, my brother Scott couldn't stop sweating.

"That's GOOD!" he gasped between bites. (He made it, and was very proud of himself.) He insisted I try some, and for a few minutes afterwards, I saw stars, as though I'd been pounded in the head with an inflatable bat. It was that hot!

My mom and I created the mummies by painstakingly wrapping hot dogs in crescent roll dough. I must admit my mom was much better at this than I was. "My patients don't look so good," I noted, as the "bandages" fell off once again.



My nephew Grant was intrigued and bothered by the mummies. "What are you putting on them?" he asked Scott more than once.

"Bandages," Scott told him, which did not sate him. "It's just bread dough, Grant," he explained, but Grant didn't believe him.

"What are you putting on there?" he asked me, and I answered the same thing. He frowned, and questioned my mom.

Finally, his mom gave him a bite of the "bandages" and he finally let it go.

Even though it was hot outside, the kids couldn't wait to dress up. They were in full costume by 5 o'clock, and quickly scarfing down their dinner. They wanted hit the streets as soon as possible, and didn't like hearing they had to wait until dark.



Finally, at 6 o'clock, we could hold them back no longer. The five adults filled our plastic ghost cups with wine, and headed out. The kids raced up the street, filling their plastic pumpkins with all the refined sugar they could get. Which turned out to be quite a lot; the neighborhood is an older one, with few kids. The homeowners were glad to see the kids, and loaded them up with handfuls of candy.

I've got to hand it to the kids, they did pretty well. The complaining didn't start until about 45 minutes in, when Mark grabbed at my cup and peered inside.

"I'm thirsty," he panted. "Is this water?"

I swiped it back. "No, it's wine. Keep going!"

Luckily, Michelle the neighbor, had brought along a bottle of water, which she graciously shared with my dehydrating son.

Ten minutes later, the complaints started up again, with cries of "My pumpkin's too heavy!"

"Do you have a bag I can put this in?" Mark asked me, apparently unable to see that all I was carrying was one plastic cup.

"I've got bags!" Michelle said. She was waaaaay more prepared than we were.

"There you go," I told Mark. "Go get one from the good mommy."

The kids circled the cul-de-sacs, and when the complaining grew loud again, Scott and I chastised them.

"Seriously," I said. "It's Halloween. It's the one night of the year you can run up to any house in the country, and people will give you free candy! What are you complaining about??"

Scott asked them what other night of the year that happened, and they all agreed none. They rallied for a few more minutes, until Grant tripped and fell, and announced he was done.

So we returned home at 7:30, and the mayhem began. The kids dumped their pumpkins out onto the table and began trading candy furiously. Mini-bars flew from hand to hand so quickly I was sure the chocolate would melt.

Everyone was finally happy with their take. Mark separated out all the Skittles and Starbursts, which I allow him to keep for low blood sugars. Next, he picked out his 10 favorite candies and set them aside to eat later. Then, he picked out three candies to eat immediately. The rest he handed over to me, and I handed him $10 in return. He got candy immediately, and for the next couple weeks, and $10 to boot. He was a happy camper.


We let them run wild for a bit afterwards, since they were fully revved up and enjoying a nice sugar buzz. But eventually, the sugar crash followed, and they settled down to sleep.

Oh, and as far as the diabetes...it made itself known, especially on this holiday dedicated solely to consuming massive amounts of sugar. All the walking actually made Mark a little low by bedtime; even after the junk food dinner and three mini-candy bars, his blood sugar was 70. I gave him some milk, and apparently, diabetes roared its ugly head and protested at the healthy food. His blood sugar shot up to 418 (!) two hours later.

But that was just a sidenote to the whole story. The best part of the story didn't even involve a meter; instead, it focused on six happy kids, their smiling parents and grandparents, and loads of happy childhood memories they made that night.