Mark temporarily quit drum lessons last summer due to a bout of apathy. He was more interested in horsing around than playing drums, so when the instructor gently suggested I might save myself a few bucks by discontinuing lessons, I hung my head in shame, and did exactly that.
But I'm no quitter, and I determined my son wouldn't be, either. What kind of message was I sending by saying it's okay to quit something just because you're bored? (If that was the case, I wouldn't know any gainfully employed people!) Besides, we have an expensive drum kit that I gave up my garage for, and my sacrifice will not be in vain.
I did give Mark a few months off, though. We focused on soccer, which took up a good chunk of the fall, and gave me a chance to find a new instructor. I figured maybe Mark just needed a new challenge, teaching-wise.
Last night was his first lesson. The new instructor was great: funny, easy-going, but not too much so. He kept Mark on task, even when Mark was distracted by a nearby fancy electronic drum kit. He asked Mark to play along with a couple songs, which Mark did wonderfully. The only blip came when he asked Mark to read the music notes, and Mark forgot some of them. (I wasn't surprised, he's hardly practiced at all since last summer.)
But there was one moment when I knew that Mark and the new teacher would get along famously. The teacher reviewed the notes, but then said, "Now I'm gonna show you the cheater's way to remember them. I'm gonna teach you the right way to read them, too, but just to get started, I'll teach you this shortcut."
Mark's eyes lit up at that.
"You are preaching to the choir," I told the instructor. "This boy is all about the shortcut, and the cheater's way!"
And he was -- Mark did great! The teacher taught him to hit the drums based on the sounds they make: boom for the bass and high hat, chip for the high hat, bap for the snare and high hat. He wrote them out as musical notes on paper, and added a legend with the corresponding sounds. Mark was playing three, then six, different lines of music in no time.
"That's right!" the teacher said. "Boom chip, bap chip, boom boom bap chip! Now do it again." And he repeated himself enthusiastically, playing air drums along with Mark.
At one point, I started cracking up, and they both looked at me. I apologized, explaining that it sounded like Dr. Seuss to me. ("Boom chip, bap chip, boom boom bap chip" -- it just stuck in my head.) It reminded me of the Tweetle Beetle battle from the book Fox in Socks.
Instead of being offended, the instructor smiled and said, "Yeah, it is kind of like that!"
When the lesson ended a few minutes later, everyone was happy. The instructor was impressed by Mark's timing and ability to pick things up quickly, and Mark seemed sufficiently challenged. (He was also thrilled to play the electronic drum kit.) I was just happy to get him back into music.
Who knows if all the love and enthusiasm will last. Probably not, when Mark realizes he'll have to start practicing regularly again. But at least for last night, all was good in the drumming world.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Songs you know by heart
My mom's accused me on more than one occasion of winding Mark up before bed. Although I'd like to deny it, it's true.
I don't mean to rile him up. We start out very calmly, reading bedtime stories together on my bed. It's my very favorite time of day, our cuddle time. Mark looks so cute and innocent, all into his Calvin & Hobbes stories. But sooner or later, something triggers my silly button, and we toss sweet tranquility out the window.
Last night was just such a night. We read about poor Calvin, paper-thin, having morphed into a two-dimensional character. He was blowing aimlessly in the breeze.
"You know who he looks like?" Mark asked.
"Yup," I answered, and then burst into my favorite Flat Stanley song. (Yes, there really is such a thing -- we saw a musical about Flat Stanley, and the best thing about it was this song, which drives Mark insane because it gets stuck in his head and he can't get it out.)
"Where in the world would you go to
If you could really go to
Anywhere in the world!"
But rather than smile or applaud, my under-appreciative audience wailed in protest, "No, Mom, DON'T!"
Which of course translated to "Sing it again!" in my head. So I did.
I was cracking up, really enjoying myself, when the little rat pulled out the big guns.
"Mini sirloin burgers..." he sang, and I immediately rolled away, hands plastered to my ears.
"No!" I screamed. "Not that song! You know I can't get that song out of my head once I hear it!"
To which he smiled and repeated, "Mini sirloin burgers -- HA!"
It was like fingernails scratching on the blackboard. I could already hear the soundtrack in my head, stuck on an infinite loop, and knew I'd spend the rest of my night humming about mini sirloin burgers (against my will).
"Where in the world would you go to --" I started.
"Mini sirloin bur -- " he sang back.
"If you could really go to..."
"-- gers -- HA!"
"OK, OK, truce!" I pleaded. He smiled triumphantly, and curled back into the pillows.
He started back on the story, "And then Calvin said --"
"Anywhere in the world!" I whispered.
And was promptly smacked in the head with a pillow.
So much for providing a calm, relaxing wind-down time before bed at my house.
I don't mean to rile him up. We start out very calmly, reading bedtime stories together on my bed. It's my very favorite time of day, our cuddle time. Mark looks so cute and innocent, all into his Calvin & Hobbes stories. But sooner or later, something triggers my silly button, and we toss sweet tranquility out the window.
Last night was just such a night. We read about poor Calvin, paper-thin, having morphed into a two-dimensional character. He was blowing aimlessly in the breeze.
"You know who he looks like?" Mark asked.
"Yup," I answered, and then burst into my favorite Flat Stanley song. (Yes, there really is such a thing -- we saw a musical about Flat Stanley, and the best thing about it was this song, which drives Mark insane because it gets stuck in his head and he can't get it out.)
"Where in the world would you go to
If you could really go to
Anywhere in the world!"
But rather than smile or applaud, my under-appreciative audience wailed in protest, "No, Mom, DON'T!"
Which of course translated to "Sing it again!" in my head. So I did.
I was cracking up, really enjoying myself, when the little rat pulled out the big guns.
"Mini sirloin burgers..." he sang, and I immediately rolled away, hands plastered to my ears.
"No!" I screamed. "Not that song! You know I can't get that song out of my head once I hear it!"
To which he smiled and repeated, "Mini sirloin burgers -- HA!"
It was like fingernails scratching on the blackboard. I could already hear the soundtrack in my head, stuck on an infinite loop, and knew I'd spend the rest of my night humming about mini sirloin burgers (against my will).
"Where in the world would you go to --" I started.
"Mini sirloin bur -- " he sang back.
"If you could really go to..."
"-- gers -- HA!"
"OK, OK, truce!" I pleaded. He smiled triumphantly, and curled back into the pillows.
He started back on the story, "And then Calvin said --"
"Anywhere in the world!" I whispered.
And was promptly smacked in the head with a pillow.
So much for providing a calm, relaxing wind-down time before bed at my house.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Mr. Speed
Just to keep life interesting, Mark had not one but TWO big projects to finish this past weekend.
Besides the mission, we also completed his Pinewood Derby car. Mark actually worked on this over Christmas with my dad, so the car was shaped, sanded and ready for paint.
It needed wheels, too, but I saved that for the Cub Scout dads to help with, since last year I nailed them in too far and the wheels wouldn't move at all. (In my defense, they also didn't fall off.)
Luckily, the scout leader held a workshop at his house. He emailed us saying he had a band saw, a circle saw, some other saws and a power sander. To which my mouth dropped open, because really, unless you're a carpenter, I didn't know why you'd have all those tools.
I quickly responded that yes, we'd be there. Based on last year's experience, I learned that "just" painting the car is still waaaaaaay outta my skill set. (This was also confirmed when the scout leader said Mark could prime and paint the car during the workshop, and I responded, surprised, "You have to prime it?")
The workshop was mostly me watching the dads expertly saw and paint the cars with their keenly interested sons. My son, on the other hand, ran away at every possible opportunity, preferring to play on the swing set. I reigned him in a couple times, so he could run the paint can over his car as quickly as possible before playing again.
I brought him back to help the scout leader nail the wheels in. Mark and I watched him nail the first one in, and I asked Mark, "Did you see that? Can you do that for the other wheels?" Before Mark could shake his head no, the scout leader pointed out this was the make-or-break part of the process.
"If you don't do this part right, the car won't run," he explained. I nodded as if I didn't already know that from experience.
"OK, just watch Mr. Koch do it, then," I told Mark. Mr. Koch said Mark could watch if he wanted, which Mark understood to mean he didn't have to watch. He ran off without even saying goodbye.
When the car finally dried, it looked awesome. Mark chose a metallic bronze for the top, with black sides. We took the car home, where he painted and added a driver (a gorilla with road rage) and some decals.
"What's your car's name?" I asked as he added the last few stickers.
"Mr. Speed," he answered. "No, Shiny, because of the color. No, the gorilla is named Mr. Speed, and the car is named Shiny." He smiled and proudly held up his finished car.
Mr. Speed was pretty fast, too. Here he is zooming right out of the picture.
And of course, Mr. Speed needed to park Shiny somewhere. Conveniently, there was a nearby mission with an expansive front lawn that worked out well.
Mr. Speed was the perfect Catholic convert, as he completely forgot the sermon between church and the parking lot, and cut everyone off while leaving Mass.
We had great fun rolling Mr. Speed across the dining room table. He suffered one minor mishap when he fell to the floor and the gorilla broke in half. Luckily, we had a leftover bottle of Krazy Glue left, so we fixed him up in no time.
Can't wait for the big race on Saturday. Zoom zoom!
Besides the mission, we also completed his Pinewood Derby car. Mark actually worked on this over Christmas with my dad, so the car was shaped, sanded and ready for paint.
It needed wheels, too, but I saved that for the Cub Scout dads to help with, since last year I nailed them in too far and the wheels wouldn't move at all. (In my defense, they also didn't fall off.)
Luckily, the scout leader held a workshop at his house. He emailed us saying he had a band saw, a circle saw, some other saws and a power sander. To which my mouth dropped open, because really, unless you're a carpenter, I didn't know why you'd have all those tools.
I quickly responded that yes, we'd be there. Based on last year's experience, I learned that "just" painting the car is still waaaaaaay outta my skill set. (This was also confirmed when the scout leader said Mark could prime and paint the car during the workshop, and I responded, surprised, "You have to prime it?")
The workshop was mostly me watching the dads expertly saw and paint the cars with their keenly interested sons. My son, on the other hand, ran away at every possible opportunity, preferring to play on the swing set. I reigned him in a couple times, so he could run the paint can over his car as quickly as possible before playing again.
I brought him back to help the scout leader nail the wheels in. Mark and I watched him nail the first one in, and I asked Mark, "Did you see that? Can you do that for the other wheels?" Before Mark could shake his head no, the scout leader pointed out this was the make-or-break part of the process.
"If you don't do this part right, the car won't run," he explained. I nodded as if I didn't already know that from experience.
"OK, just watch Mr. Koch do it, then," I told Mark. Mr. Koch said Mark could watch if he wanted, which Mark understood to mean he didn't have to watch. He ran off without even saying goodbye.
When the car finally dried, it looked awesome. Mark chose a metallic bronze for the top, with black sides. We took the car home, where he painted and added a driver (a gorilla with road rage) and some decals.
"What's your car's name?" I asked as he added the last few stickers.
"Mr. Speed," he answered. "No, Shiny, because of the color. No, the gorilla is named Mr. Speed, and the car is named Shiny." He smiled and proudly held up his finished car.
Mr. Speed was pretty fast, too. Here he is zooming right out of the picture.
And of course, Mr. Speed needed to park Shiny somewhere. Conveniently, there was a nearby mission with an expansive front lawn that worked out well.
Mr. Speed was the perfect Catholic convert, as he completely forgot the sermon between church and the parking lot, and cut everyone off while leaving Mass.
We had great fun rolling Mr. Speed across the dining room table. He suffered one minor mishap when he fell to the floor and the gorilla broke in half. Luckily, we had a leftover bottle of Krazy Glue left, so we fixed him up in no time.
Can't wait for the big race on Saturday. Zoom zoom!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Mission Impossible
There's a Cub Scout mom that is seriously the most creative person I've ever met. Need a song about the Pinewood Derby? She's written one. Need a skit about saving the environment? Check. Need trophies or certificates made out of a few pipe cleaners, some broken crayons and an old dot matrix printer? Done. She can do it all, with the barest of supplies and the shortest possible notice.
Suffice to say, I am not that mom.
I have been dreading the mother of all craft projects -- Mark's California Mission -- for five years now. To me, it represents a time to show just how few craft skills I have, and how unlucky my poor son is to have such an artistically-challenged mom.
Along the way, friends have kindly given suggestions. But just saying the words "Build it with sugar cubes" doesn't really help me. I can use all the sugar cubes I want; at some point, I'm gonna need a blueprint to give it shape. (Never mind the fact I have a son with dia betes, a sweet tooth and no self-control -- using sugar cubes is just asking for trouble!)
The next suggestion, which I thought was awesome, came from my niece Hannah, who offered to sell her mission to Mark for ten bucks. I yelled, "Sold!" at the exact same moment Mark scoffed over the high price. Then he reminded me he was supposed to build the mission himself, not buy it from someone. (Sure, he picks that moment to finally learn ethics.)
The last suggestion, which I ultimately took, was to buy a kit. A kit! I beamed. Maybe Father Serra was smiling down on me after all. Maybe Mission Day wouldn't be the most embarrassing day of Mark's young life after all.
We bought a kit of the Santa Barbara Mission. In fact, we didn't just buy the kit, we bought all the cool little accessories that went with it: farmers, corn, a wheel barrow, palm trees, a pond and fountain, even little gravestones and crosses for the cemetery. Things were looking good!
Until this weekend, when we actually put the mission together. We followed the steps precisely: glued the paper pieces onto cardboard and cut them out. This proved a little difficult for tiny fourth-grade hands. I helped by cutting out 25 doors and windows, each of them threatening to rip and ruin at any moment.
Then we glued the pieces together. Again, I tried to let Mark do it all; this was his project, I was just offering encouragement. (At one point, I ran out of both patience and encouragement, and asked Mark, "Wouldn't it have been easier to just write a report about the mission?" He snapped back, "Yes!")
But there's one frightening moment in time that you sometimes see with alarming clarity: that make-or-break moment when you envision everything falling apart quickly and permanently. That moment came when Mark and I tried gluing the mission walls together with white glue. They simply wouldn't stick, and the whole chapel wobbled. I made an executive decision, telling Mark to stop immediately and walk away.
We resumed the project after a quick trip to Jo-Ann's Fabrics. We came home with armfuls of glue, every kind you can imagine. Those walls were going to stick one way or another.
After about four hours, we had a freestanding building and a base covered in plastic grass that kept shaking off on the floor. Mark and I were exhausted, but relieved.
Sunday morning was painting day. We carefully carried the mission outside and spray painted it with a sand-textured tan paint. Our biggest impediment was getting the cap off the paint can; that sucker would not budge. I finally smacked it against the garbage can, and it broke off in 15 pieces. Mark looked at me, puzzled, and I just said, "Sometimes ya just gotta use brute force." (I learned later the caps are child-proof, and you simply have to pinch them off.)
The paint was a huge improvement! The mission went from looking like a paper model to...well, looking like a real mission!
"Time to raise the roof," I told Mark, and he obligingly lifted his hands in the air repeatedly and made an "ooh, ooh!" noise. He brought them down long enough to affix the roof to the chapel.
Which left us with one final question -- how to attach the mission to our grass-covered base? I was pretty sure the glues we had wouldn't work, so it was back to Jo-Ann's for advice. We returned with a hot glue gun, which did the trick nicely.
And then came Mark's favorite part of all: laying out the accessories. He was very excited to place them, though I warned multiple times not to Krazy Glue his fingers together. To which he responded by rolling his eyes, sighing, and accidentally dipping his finger into a puddle of Krazy Glue.
I finished gluing the last few pieces while he tried prying the hardened glue off his fingers. "Wow, this stuff really sticks!" he proclaimed, to which I responded by rolling my eyes and sighing.
Finally, after approximately 8 hours, $90-$100, and five different types of glue (white glue, glue sticks, rubber cement, two bottles of Krazy Glue and a hot glue gun), we finished. And though I am biased, I think it looks AWESOME.
Front of the mission
The farm side of the mission.
Perspective was not our friend: notice how much larger the corn is than the people, and the people are larger than the doors into the chapel.
The cemetery side of the mission; graves and the giant gravedigger, who again can't fit through the door.
But of course, this proud smile made all our hard work and stress completely worth it:
But mostly, I am just grateful it's all over. I explained to my friend Edra that my five years of worrying is finally done. Once we deliver it to school unharmed, I will breathe the biggest sigh of relief ever.
"Yeah, I bet you're relieved," she answered. "No more worrying." She poked at the bell tower and added absentmindedly, "At least, not until next year, with his science fair project."
My stomach sank, and my heart stopped beating for a minute.
Maybe Hannah has one of those she can sell us.
Suffice to say, I am not that mom.
I have been dreading the mother of all craft projects -- Mark's California Mission -- for five years now. To me, it represents a time to show just how few craft skills I have, and how unlucky my poor son is to have such an artistically-challenged mom.
Along the way, friends have kindly given suggestions. But just saying the words "Build it with sugar cubes" doesn't really help me. I can use all the sugar cubes I want; at some point, I'm gonna need a blueprint to give it shape. (Never mind the fact I have a son with dia betes, a sweet tooth and no self-control -- using sugar cubes is just asking for trouble!)
The next suggestion, which I thought was awesome, came from my niece Hannah, who offered to sell her mission to Mark for ten bucks. I yelled, "Sold!" at the exact same moment Mark scoffed over the high price. Then he reminded me he was supposed to build the mission himself, not buy it from someone. (Sure, he picks that moment to finally learn ethics.)
The last suggestion, which I ultimately took, was to buy a kit. A kit! I beamed. Maybe Father Serra was smiling down on me after all. Maybe Mission Day wouldn't be the most embarrassing day of Mark's young life after all.
We bought a kit of the Santa Barbara Mission. In fact, we didn't just buy the kit, we bought all the cool little accessories that went with it: farmers, corn, a wheel barrow, palm trees, a pond and fountain, even little gravestones and crosses for the cemetery. Things were looking good!
Until this weekend, when we actually put the mission together. We followed the steps precisely: glued the paper pieces onto cardboard and cut them out. This proved a little difficult for tiny fourth-grade hands. I helped by cutting out 25 doors and windows, each of them threatening to rip and ruin at any moment.
Then we glued the pieces together. Again, I tried to let Mark do it all; this was his project, I was just offering encouragement. (At one point, I ran out of both patience and encouragement, and asked Mark, "Wouldn't it have been easier to just write a report about the mission?" He snapped back, "Yes!")
But there's one frightening moment in time that you sometimes see with alarming clarity: that make-or-break moment when you envision everything falling apart quickly and permanently. That moment came when Mark and I tried gluing the mission walls together with white glue. They simply wouldn't stick, and the whole chapel wobbled. I made an executive decision, telling Mark to stop immediately and walk away.
We resumed the project after a quick trip to Jo-Ann's Fabrics. We came home with armfuls of glue, every kind you can imagine. Those walls were going to stick one way or another.
After about four hours, we had a freestanding building and a base covered in plastic grass that kept shaking off on the floor. Mark and I were exhausted, but relieved.
Sunday morning was painting day. We carefully carried the mission outside and spray painted it with a sand-textured tan paint. Our biggest impediment was getting the cap off the paint can; that sucker would not budge. I finally smacked it against the garbage can, and it broke off in 15 pieces. Mark looked at me, puzzled, and I just said, "Sometimes ya just gotta use brute force." (I learned later the caps are child-proof, and you simply have to pinch them off.)
The paint was a huge improvement! The mission went from looking like a paper model to...well, looking like a real mission!
"Time to raise the roof," I told Mark, and he obligingly lifted his hands in the air repeatedly and made an "ooh, ooh!" noise. He brought them down long enough to affix the roof to the chapel.
Which left us with one final question -- how to attach the mission to our grass-covered base? I was pretty sure the glues we had wouldn't work, so it was back to Jo-Ann's for advice. We returned with a hot glue gun, which did the trick nicely.
And then came Mark's favorite part of all: laying out the accessories. He was very excited to place them, though I warned multiple times not to Krazy Glue his fingers together. To which he responded by rolling his eyes, sighing, and accidentally dipping his finger into a puddle of Krazy Glue.
I finished gluing the last few pieces while he tried prying the hardened glue off his fingers. "Wow, this stuff really sticks!" he proclaimed, to which I responded by rolling my eyes and sighing.
Finally, after approximately 8 hours, $90-$100, and five different types of glue (white glue, glue sticks, rubber cement, two bottles of Krazy Glue and a hot glue gun), we finished. And though I am biased, I think it looks AWESOME.
Front of the mission
The farm side of the mission. Perspective was not our friend: notice how much larger the corn is than the people, and the people are larger than the doors into the chapel.
The cemetery side of the mission; graves and the giant gravedigger, who again can't fit through the door.But of course, this proud smile made all our hard work and stress completely worth it:
But mostly, I am just grateful it's all over. I explained to my friend Edra that my five years of worrying is finally done. Once we deliver it to school unharmed, I will breathe the biggest sigh of relief ever.
"Yeah, I bet you're relieved," she answered. "No more worrying." She poked at the bell tower and added absentmindedly, "At least, not until next year, with his science fair project."
My stomach sank, and my heart stopped beating for a minute.
Maybe Hannah has one of those she can sell us.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Mark the mountain climber
After a week of crazy rainstorms, we were ready to get outside in the sunshine this weekend. So when my cousin Kathleen invited us on a hike, we jumped.
We drove up to Rancho Palos Verde to hike down to the tide pools. Unfortunately, it was high tide and the pools were completely covered, but that only slowed us down a little.
We first drove to the very top of the road. The view was spectacular, even though the sheer cliffs dropped suddenly. There was no safety rail, and I'm terrified of heights, so I kept a safe distance. Mark did the same, and though he tried to play tough, I could tell the edge made him nervous. Especially when a much smaller kid went racing toward it.
"There's a humongous cliff right there!" Mark warned him. "You better slow down!"
I just smiled at Cautious Mark. He doesn't visit much.
We headed down the mountain to the trails. We sent Tim and Mark down the trail first, and when we got down a bit, we saw them perched on a tiny overhang. I almost had a heart attack immediately.
"Tim will keep him safe," Kathleen assured me, but I was more worried about the path I was standing on -- it was a foot wide and had a 150 drop to the pounding ocean below.
I tried to watch the boys traverse the path back to us, but it was so nerve-wracking, I couldn't look. I was afraid my nervous energy might freak Mark out and make him slip.
Once they were safely back on the trail, Mark scampered away. He climbed the mountain to our left, a massive wall of crumbling red clay and dusty rocks. He scooped up every rock he could find and heaved it off the cliff. (I've learned that in Boyland, there's absolutely nothing more satisfying than throwing rocks.) I watched and tried not to cry out nervously every time he stepped too close to the edge.
Kathleen and Tim strolled down the trail, and I stood back as Mountain Goat Mark climbed the mountain. He was having the best time.
"This is the most exciting day of my entire life!" he called out to me, brushing red clay off himself. I just smiled. His happiness was infectious.
Pretty soon we made it down to the beach. Mark was thrilled to see the entire beach was made up of rocks -- he immediately started chucking them into the sea.
I was thrilled to see the waves. From the top of the cliff, they didn't look that big, but from the beach, they were enormous. I swear, they must've been 10-15 feet high, continuously crashing against the shore.
We watched wave after wave breaking against the cliffs, and marvelled at them. They never slowed down -- the bay was white and foamy from the constant rough water. After watching the waves for a good 40 minutes, we hiked back up the mountain.
Mark threw rocks at the mountain on the way up, and I warned him repeatedly to be careful. He sighed, "Oh, Mom, stop worrying!" and I stood there for a moment, silently agreeing with him. I would've stood there longer, if not for the sudden sharp pain in my shoulder.
I saw Mark cover his mouth in horror. "I didn't mean to do that!" he shouted, as I watched the offending rock bounce off my arm.
Kathleen corrected him, calling out, "What you meant to say was 'Sorry, Mom! Are you okay?' Right?"
"Sorry, Mom, are you okay?" he echoed. I assured him I was, but that he'd better start running. He complied.
Kathleen, Tim and I made our way up slowly. I was enjoying the beautiful view, and Kathleen and Tim were following Mark's example, and throwing rocks over the cliffs.
When I reached the top of the hill, I was greeted by my moments-earlier hyperactive son doing this:
"Let me in the car," he begged. "I need some warmness!"
Since sunset was only a few minutes away, we decided to wait and watch the sun go down. It was as beautiful as we'd imagined it would be.
Mark was exhausted from all the running and lifting/throwing rocks. I was just content with such a great afternoon, and grateful at how much fun Mark had.
Kathleen and I thought he'd whine about the steep path, but instead he had embraced and enjoyed it.
"We have to come back here again, Mom," he said sleepily from the back seat.
"We will," I promised. "We will."
We drove up to Rancho Palos Verde to hike down to the tide pools. Unfortunately, it was high tide and the pools were completely covered, but that only slowed us down a little.
We first drove to the very top of the road. The view was spectacular, even though the sheer cliffs dropped suddenly. There was no safety rail, and I'm terrified of heights, so I kept a safe distance. Mark did the same, and though he tried to play tough, I could tell the edge made him nervous. Especially when a much smaller kid went racing toward it.
"There's a humongous cliff right there!" Mark warned him. "You better slow down!"
I just smiled at Cautious Mark. He doesn't visit much.
We headed down the mountain to the trails. We sent Tim and Mark down the trail first, and when we got down a bit, we saw them perched on a tiny overhang. I almost had a heart attack immediately.
"Tim will keep him safe," Kathleen assured me, but I was more worried about the path I was standing on -- it was a foot wide and had a 150 drop to the pounding ocean below.
I tried to watch the boys traverse the path back to us, but it was so nerve-wracking, I couldn't look. I was afraid my nervous energy might freak Mark out and make him slip.
Once they were safely back on the trail, Mark scampered away. He climbed the mountain to our left, a massive wall of crumbling red clay and dusty rocks. He scooped up every rock he could find and heaved it off the cliff. (I've learned that in Boyland, there's absolutely nothing more satisfying than throwing rocks.) I watched and tried not to cry out nervously every time he stepped too close to the edge.
Kathleen and Tim strolled down the trail, and I stood back as Mountain Goat Mark climbed the mountain. He was having the best time.
"This is the most exciting day of my entire life!" he called out to me, brushing red clay off himself. I just smiled. His happiness was infectious.
Pretty soon we made it down to the beach. Mark was thrilled to see the entire beach was made up of rocks -- he immediately started chucking them into the sea.
I was thrilled to see the waves. From the top of the cliff, they didn't look that big, but from the beach, they were enormous. I swear, they must've been 10-15 feet high, continuously crashing against the shore.
We watched wave after wave breaking against the cliffs, and marvelled at them. They never slowed down -- the bay was white and foamy from the constant rough water. After watching the waves for a good 40 minutes, we hiked back up the mountain.
Mark threw rocks at the mountain on the way up, and I warned him repeatedly to be careful. He sighed, "Oh, Mom, stop worrying!" and I stood there for a moment, silently agreeing with him. I would've stood there longer, if not for the sudden sharp pain in my shoulder.
I saw Mark cover his mouth in horror. "I didn't mean to do that!" he shouted, as I watched the offending rock bounce off my arm.
Kathleen corrected him, calling out, "What you meant to say was 'Sorry, Mom! Are you okay?' Right?"
"Sorry, Mom, are you okay?" he echoed. I assured him I was, but that he'd better start running. He complied.
Kathleen, Tim and I made our way up slowly. I was enjoying the beautiful view, and Kathleen and Tim were following Mark's example, and throwing rocks over the cliffs.
When I reached the top of the hill, I was greeted by my moments-earlier hyperactive son doing this:
"Let me in the car," he begged. "I need some warmness!"
Since sunset was only a few minutes away, we decided to wait and watch the sun go down. It was as beautiful as we'd imagined it would be.
Mark was exhausted from all the running and lifting/throwing rocks. I was just content with such a great afternoon, and grateful at how much fun Mark had.
Kathleen and I thought he'd whine about the steep path, but instead he had embraced and enjoyed it.
"We have to come back here again, Mom," he said sleepily from the back seat.
"We will," I promised. "We will."
Friday, January 22, 2010
Ring, ring
Mark is a certified techno geek. He loves anything with a screen, including (but not limited to) the T.V., his DS, and the computer.
But he prizes one gadget above all -- a cell phone. I'm not sure why, but longing and jealousy fill his heart when he sees another kid with a phone.
"Who would you call if you had a phone?" I frequently ask him.
"My friends," he always answers.
"Your friends have phones?" I ask, and he always shakes his head no. I explain that phones are two-way devices -- someone needs to answer when you call.
"Fine," he says. "Then I'll call you."
Which he already does, I point out, without owning a phone. He calls me from his classroom, from the nurse's office, from kid's club, and once, from the school library. That kid may not know how to add fractions yet, but he can work the school phone system like nobody's business.
I assumed I'd buy him a phone in middle school, when most kids seem to get them. But I'm starting to re-think that, based on the calls he's made during the past few days. Part of me is glad he's so willing to talk, and part of me is annoyed at how many calls I get, and what exactly he's deemed call-worthy.
Here's a sample of our phone conversations from yesterday.
At lunch:
Mark: "Mom, guess what my number is?"
Me: "Um, 100?"
Mark: "Nope!"
Me, waiting for a hint: "OK, 300?"
Mark: "Nope!"
Me, wondering what the point of the conversation is: "Um, 400?"
Mark: "Nope!"
The nurse, who is dying a slow death waiting for this conversation to end: "He's 150, and was happy about it. He just wanted to call and tell you!"
Me: "OK, great. Thanks Mark!"
At kid's club:
Mark: "Mom, I'm 227. What do you want me to do?"
Me: "What you always do when you're high. Correct it!"
While I'm at dinner with friends:
Call comes in from home. I don't answer it in time, but return the call.
Me: "Is there a reason you called?"
Mark: "Nope. Bye!"
During dinner:
Mark: "How do you turn on the T.V. with the remote?"
Me: Five minutes of detailed instructions, culminating in, "Hit the T.V. button, then Power."
At 9 p.m.:
Mark: "Hi Mom, I'm eating something."
Me: "Are you eating because you're low, or because you're hungry?"
Mark: "Because I'm hungry."
Me: "It's 9 o'clock. Go to bed!!"
Mark: "OK."
10 minutes later:
Mark: "Hi, Mom."
Me: "Why are you still awake?"
Mark: "There's lots of thunder and lightning out there."
Me: "Close the blinds, and leave the light on. You'll be fine."
Mark: "When are you coming home?"
Me: "Soon. GO TO BED!"
Like I said, I'm glad he's communicating with me, but at some point, there may be a little too much conversation. And I worry that may increase even more if he's got his own phone and can text me.
But there is definitely an upside to all this. I know that as a teenager, he'll never use the excuse, "Sorry, I should've called you." And I know that if he's ever on the show "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire," I'll probably be his phone-a-friend person.
So at least I've got that to look forward to. But for now, I'm off to answer my cell phone yet again. I'll give you one guess who's calling...
But he prizes one gadget above all -- a cell phone. I'm not sure why, but longing and jealousy fill his heart when he sees another kid with a phone.
"Who would you call if you had a phone?" I frequently ask him.
"My friends," he always answers.
"Your friends have phones?" I ask, and he always shakes his head no. I explain that phones are two-way devices -- someone needs to answer when you call.
"Fine," he says. "Then I'll call you."
Which he already does, I point out, without owning a phone. He calls me from his classroom, from the nurse's office, from kid's club, and once, from the school library. That kid may not know how to add fractions yet, but he can work the school phone system like nobody's business.
I assumed I'd buy him a phone in middle school, when most kids seem to get them. But I'm starting to re-think that, based on the calls he's made during the past few days. Part of me is glad he's so willing to talk, and part of me is annoyed at how many calls I get, and what exactly he's deemed call-worthy.
Here's a sample of our phone conversations from yesterday.
At lunch:
Mark: "Mom, guess what my number is?"
Me: "Um, 100?"
Mark: "Nope!"
Me, waiting for a hint: "OK, 300?"
Mark: "Nope!"
Me, wondering what the point of the conversation is: "Um, 400?"
Mark: "Nope!"
The nurse, who is dying a slow death waiting for this conversation to end: "He's 150, and was happy about it. He just wanted to call and tell you!"
Me: "OK, great. Thanks Mark!"
At kid's club:
Mark: "Mom, I'm 227. What do you want me to do?"
Me: "What you always do when you're high. Correct it!"
While I'm at dinner with friends:
Call comes in from home. I don't answer it in time, but return the call.
Me: "Is there a reason you called?"
Mark: "Nope. Bye!"
During dinner:
Mark: "How do you turn on the T.V. with the remote?"
Me: Five minutes of detailed instructions, culminating in, "Hit the T.V. button, then Power."
At 9 p.m.:
Mark: "Hi Mom, I'm eating something."
Me: "Are you eating because you're low, or because you're hungry?"
Mark: "Because I'm hungry."
Me: "It's 9 o'clock. Go to bed!!"
Mark: "OK."
10 minutes later:
Mark: "Hi, Mom."
Me: "Why are you still awake?"
Mark: "There's lots of thunder and lightning out there."
Me: "Close the blinds, and leave the light on. You'll be fine."
Mark: "When are you coming home?"
Me: "Soon. GO TO BED!"
Like I said, I'm glad he's communicating with me, but at some point, there may be a little too much conversation. And I worry that may increase even more if he's got his own phone and can text me.
But there is definitely an upside to all this. I know that as a teenager, he'll never use the excuse, "Sorry, I should've called you." And I know that if he's ever on the show "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire," I'll probably be his phone-a-friend person.
So at least I've got that to look forward to. But for now, I'm off to answer my cell phone yet again. I'll give you one guess who's calling...
Thursday, January 21, 2010
He's eco friendly
Mark's decided to do his part for the environment by recycling more. But as usual, his motivation is more about personal gain than doing good.
The recycling he had in mind was not cans or newspapers, but rather clothes. School clothes, to be exact. Which I discovered while doing laundry yesterday.
I dumped out Mark's hamper in search of blue school pants, and came up empty-handed. There should've been at least one pair of pants in there.
"Did you wear dirty clothes to school today?" I asked him during dinner.
He vigorously denied it. "They're all blue," he explained, pointing at his pants. "They all look the same."
"So where's yesterday's uniform?" I persisted.
He thought really hard, and when he couldn't come up with a good answer, he got defensive instead. "It doesn't matter!" he told me, exasperated.
"It does matter!" I said. "It's gross!"
Mark sighed loudly. He just doesn't understand my obsession of all things clean -- clothes, bodies, bedrooms, etc.
I changed my tact a bit. "Seriously, is it that hard to just put the clothes in the hamper?" I asked. "The hamper is literally in front of where you change."
"Yeah, but I have to get in bed, which is all the way in the other direction," he told me.
"You can't take two steps back to the bed?"
"No, because I don't walk to my bed -- I jump. And if I jump from the hamper, I'll hit the bedpost." He simulated a diving, then crashing, motion toward his bed.
And then I realized I was arguing with a 9-year-old. A 9-year-old who believes diving into bed is perfectly normal.
I realized how ridiculous the whole conversation was. I opened my mouth again, to ask how he got to the hamper to put the shoes and clothes hangers I also found in there. Instead, I thought better of it, closed my mouth, and cut my losses.
"Just try a little harder, would you?" I asked.
Mark smiled and nodded. He thought the discussion was over thanks to his mad logic skills, whereas I thought it was more akin to arguing with my cat. There really was no point to it.
Or was there?...Training the cat to put the clothes in the hamper wasn't such a bad idea after all. I bet I'd be more successful than training the boy to do it.
The recycling he had in mind was not cans or newspapers, but rather clothes. School clothes, to be exact. Which I discovered while doing laundry yesterday.
I dumped out Mark's hamper in search of blue school pants, and came up empty-handed. There should've been at least one pair of pants in there.
"Did you wear dirty clothes to school today?" I asked him during dinner.
He vigorously denied it. "They're all blue," he explained, pointing at his pants. "They all look the same."
"So where's yesterday's uniform?" I persisted.
He thought really hard, and when he couldn't come up with a good answer, he got defensive instead. "It doesn't matter!" he told me, exasperated.
"It does matter!" I said. "It's gross!"
Mark sighed loudly. He just doesn't understand my obsession of all things clean -- clothes, bodies, bedrooms, etc.
I changed my tact a bit. "Seriously, is it that hard to just put the clothes in the hamper?" I asked. "The hamper is literally in front of where you change."
"Yeah, but I have to get in bed, which is all the way in the other direction," he told me.
"You can't take two steps back to the bed?"
"No, because I don't walk to my bed -- I jump. And if I jump from the hamper, I'll hit the bedpost." He simulated a diving, then crashing, motion toward his bed.
And then I realized I was arguing with a 9-year-old. A 9-year-old who believes diving into bed is perfectly normal.
I realized how ridiculous the whole conversation was. I opened my mouth again, to ask how he got to the hamper to put the shoes and clothes hangers I also found in there. Instead, I thought better of it, closed my mouth, and cut my losses.
"Just try a little harder, would you?" I asked.
Mark smiled and nodded. He thought the discussion was over thanks to his mad logic skills, whereas I thought it was more akin to arguing with my cat. There really was no point to it.
Or was there?...Training the cat to put the clothes in the hamper wasn't such a bad idea after all. I bet I'd be more successful than training the boy to do it.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Grateful
Mark's Cub Scout den has been working on their Communicator badge. They even had guest speakers at the last meeting, people who spoke a different language. They were two women who were deaf, and spoke sign language.
I was a little worried at first because hey, we're talking about 9-year-old boys here. Ten of 'em. Squirrely, unfocused, crazy little boys who'd rather be roughhousing and playing some new kind of attack ninja game I've never seen before. So yeah, I was a little concerned they'd have a hard time sitting still and being polite to guest speakers. Especially guest speakers who required a translator.
Turns out, I had no worries. Not only did the boys sit politely, they were actually very attentive. For an HOUR. It was seriously the longest I've ever seen them sit still before! (And trust me, they start wiggling at the first sign the activity might be boring -- I've been in front of them, I know firsthand!)
They asked the guests tons of questions, some of which made sense ("How old were you when you found out you were deaf?") and some that did not ("Which desk is yours?" Mark asked. I'd mistakenly told him the speakers were elementary students. They were actually friends of a Cub Scout's mom.). But throughout it all, they were genuinely interested in what the women had to say, and not just because we told them to be.
But both women said something that's stuck with me ever since. It still makes me sad, two weeks later, just thinking about it. One of the women said her parents refused to teach her sign language because they wanted her to speak. They sent her to school to learn to read lips, which she did. They refused to learn sign language, too. In fact, it wasn't until the woman went to college -- at 18! --that she learned to sign. She said the whole world opened up for her. Suddenly, she could communicate quickly with other people, and she wasn't missing words or phrases any more.
The other woman nodded in agreement. Her family didn't learn either. She spoke of the weekly family gatherings when everyone would burst into laughter over some funny comment. She would ask her mom, "What did they say?" and the mom would say, "I'll tell you later." She said after a while, she'd go off to another room to read a book or watch T.V., tired of missing out.
I couldn't imagine my family -- singularly or as a whole -- dismissing the need to communicate with me. And what was worse, when I asked Liz, the teacher hosting the meeting, about it later, she said it's not that unusual. She said probably 90% of the families don't ever learn sign language.
I seriously almost burst into tears at that point. I just couldn't imagine the loneliness and isolation these poor women felt growing up, or that their families would just dismiss them so easily.
But more than that, it made me feel incredibly lucky. When I first got Mark, I knew nothing about dia betes. I'd done a little research, but reading a few Internet sites and actually living with the disease are two completely separate things.
No one in my family knew much about it either. But when I asked if anyone would be interested in attending a caregiver's class to learn, almost 10 sets of hands shot up immediately.
And the rest of my family and friends have learned over the four years I've had Mark. They all know the basics, what his number should/shouldn't be, and how to treat him if he's high or low. They tell him to test his blood sugar and give himself insulin before he eats, and I've heard every one of them ask him how many carbs are in whatever's he's eating. They all know to take his meter when he goes off somewhere with them, and they all have juice or glucose tabs present to feed him when he's low. They may not be expert carb counters, but they can all estimate, and they have cell phones to call me whenever they need an answer.
I was about to apologize for bragging about how great my family is. But I won't apologize; instead, I will humbly thank them. If you're reading this blog, then you know us well, and at some point, you've asked Mark yourself, "Did you test? Did you bolus?"
I am beyond thankful and humbled to have such a wonderful circle of family and friends. Because last week, I learned not everyone does. Not everyone has a family willing to make a little extra effort, to learn to communicate with family members who are different, to learn how to keep each other safe and happy.
But I do. And for that, I am immensely grateful. More than I even have words for...
I was a little worried at first because hey, we're talking about 9-year-old boys here. Ten of 'em. Squirrely, unfocused, crazy little boys who'd rather be roughhousing and playing some new kind of attack ninja game I've never seen before. So yeah, I was a little concerned they'd have a hard time sitting still and being polite to guest speakers. Especially guest speakers who required a translator.
Turns out, I had no worries. Not only did the boys sit politely, they were actually very attentive. For an HOUR. It was seriously the longest I've ever seen them sit still before! (And trust me, they start wiggling at the first sign the activity might be boring -- I've been in front of them, I know firsthand!)
They asked the guests tons of questions, some of which made sense ("How old were you when you found out you were deaf?") and some that did not ("Which desk is yours?" Mark asked. I'd mistakenly told him the speakers were elementary students. They were actually friends of a Cub Scout's mom.). But throughout it all, they were genuinely interested in what the women had to say, and not just because we told them to be.
But both women said something that's stuck with me ever since. It still makes me sad, two weeks later, just thinking about it. One of the women said her parents refused to teach her sign language because they wanted her to speak. They sent her to school to learn to read lips, which she did. They refused to learn sign language, too. In fact, it wasn't until the woman went to college -- at 18! --that she learned to sign. She said the whole world opened up for her. Suddenly, she could communicate quickly with other people, and she wasn't missing words or phrases any more.
The other woman nodded in agreement. Her family didn't learn either. She spoke of the weekly family gatherings when everyone would burst into laughter over some funny comment. She would ask her mom, "What did they say?" and the mom would say, "I'll tell you later." She said after a while, she'd go off to another room to read a book or watch T.V., tired of missing out.
I couldn't imagine my family -- singularly or as a whole -- dismissing the need to communicate with me. And what was worse, when I asked Liz, the teacher hosting the meeting, about it later, she said it's not that unusual. She said probably 90% of the families don't ever learn sign language.
I seriously almost burst into tears at that point. I just couldn't imagine the loneliness and isolation these poor women felt growing up, or that their families would just dismiss them so easily.
But more than that, it made me feel incredibly lucky. When I first got Mark, I knew nothing about dia betes. I'd done a little research, but reading a few Internet sites and actually living with the disease are two completely separate things.
No one in my family knew much about it either. But when I asked if anyone would be interested in attending a caregiver's class to learn, almost 10 sets of hands shot up immediately.
And the rest of my family and friends have learned over the four years I've had Mark. They all know the basics, what his number should/shouldn't be, and how to treat him if he's high or low. They tell him to test his blood sugar and give himself insulin before he eats, and I've heard every one of them ask him how many carbs are in whatever's he's eating. They all know to take his meter when he goes off somewhere with them, and they all have juice or glucose tabs present to feed him when he's low. They may not be expert carb counters, but they can all estimate, and they have cell phones to call me whenever they need an answer.
I was about to apologize for bragging about how great my family is. But I won't apologize; instead, I will humbly thank them. If you're reading this blog, then you know us well, and at some point, you've asked Mark yourself, "Did you test? Did you bolus?"
I am beyond thankful and humbled to have such a wonderful circle of family and friends. Because last week, I learned not everyone does. Not everyone has a family willing to make a little extra effort, to learn to communicate with family members who are different, to learn how to keep each other safe and happy.
But I do. And for that, I am immensely grateful. More than I even have words for...
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Thanks for that info
Yesterday was a holiday for most of the world, including Mark's school. I, however, did not get the day off. While I pondered how to stave off Mark's boredom, my mom very generously offered to drive up and watch him.
Mark loves our family, so he was thrilled. Not as thrilled as he would've been to watch T.V. all day while I worked at home, but still pretty excited.
Because I didn't have to take Mark to school or drive to work, I got to sleep in late, which was also a little bonus. But as I passed Mark's room, I was surprised to see he was still sleeping, too.
I stopped ever so briefly to smile at how sweet he looked asleep. I moved silently away from the door, and then heard him announce, "In case you're wondering if I'm still asleep, I'm not. I got up earlier, but Grandma sent me back to bed."
I poked my head back through the doorway. "She did?" I asked.
"Yup," he answered, crawling out of bed. He put on his slippers and slid past me with a gigantic sigh.
The whole scenario just struck me funny; I couldn't help giggling.
"You sent him back to bed?" I asked my mom.
She nodded. "It wasn't a punishment," she explained. "It's just cold and rainy, and he's got the day off. I thought he'd want to sleep in."
I watched him walk silently to the T.V. and grab the remote. Within seconds, cartoon voices filled the air.
And it was then I realized sleeping in is only a gift if you're an adult. For anybody under 10, it's complete torture because it separates you from the cartoons. In fact, it's more than tortuous, it's downright cruel.
Luckily, Mark's a tough kid and can survive the occasional bout of cruelty. Turns out the anti-dote to cartoon deprivation is quite simple; an hour and a half of uninterrupted viewing, in pajamas, all wrapped up tight in a warm blanket.
Mark loves our family, so he was thrilled. Not as thrilled as he would've been to watch T.V. all day while I worked at home, but still pretty excited.
Because I didn't have to take Mark to school or drive to work, I got to sleep in late, which was also a little bonus. But as I passed Mark's room, I was surprised to see he was still sleeping, too.
I stopped ever so briefly to smile at how sweet he looked asleep. I moved silently away from the door, and then heard him announce, "In case you're wondering if I'm still asleep, I'm not. I got up earlier, but Grandma sent me back to bed."
I poked my head back through the doorway. "She did?" I asked.
"Yup," he answered, crawling out of bed. He put on his slippers and slid past me with a gigantic sigh.
The whole scenario just struck me funny; I couldn't help giggling.
"You sent him back to bed?" I asked my mom.
She nodded. "It wasn't a punishment," she explained. "It's just cold and rainy, and he's got the day off. I thought he'd want to sleep in."
I watched him walk silently to the T.V. and grab the remote. Within seconds, cartoon voices filled the air.
And it was then I realized sleeping in is only a gift if you're an adult. For anybody under 10, it's complete torture because it separates you from the cartoons. In fact, it's more than tortuous, it's downright cruel.
Luckily, Mark's a tough kid and can survive the occasional bout of cruelty. Turns out the anti-dote to cartoon deprivation is quite simple; an hour and a half of uninterrupted viewing, in pajamas, all wrapped up tight in a warm blanket.
If only the rest of life's problems could be fixed so easily...
Friday, January 15, 2010
They grow up so fast
Last night was Mark's end-of-the-season soccer pizza party. It was pretty much the same as any other pizza party -- kids hopped up on caffeine, begging for quarters and sprinting frantically from video game to video game.
This particular joint also had a pool table in the middle of the room, so there was the added bonus that at some point during the evening, you were probably gonna get smacked by a 9-year-old brandishing a pool cue.
But the best machine wasn't even electronic. It was one of those grocery store type deals, where you put in a couple quarters, turn the knob, and out pops a cheap little prize in a plastic bubble. The prizes for this particular machine were stick-on mustaches.
The boys LOVED that! Within minutes, the entire soccer team was sporting mustaches. I couldn't stop laughing at how silly they looked. They all walked up to collect their trophies, and stood very seriously while the coach said something nice about them -- the whole time wearing their new facial hair. It was even funnier because by some strange coincidence, the boys all ended up with mustaches that perfectly matched their sandy-brown hair -- so they looked even more realistic!
Even Mark managed to get one fairly close to his hair color. His was a little shorter than the other kids, and looked more like a fuzzy black caterpillar. I was worried he might look a little like Hitler when he put his on, but was relieved to see that was not the case.
Here he is showing off his soccer trophy (yay, B.P. Bombers! First place in their division!):
And here's a close-up:
We had to make a quick stop at the grocery store on our way home. Mark stopped more than a few people in their tracks -- one guy even commented that he was a little young for facial hair.
"He's actually a lot older than he looks," I replied, and Mark and I giggled.
Mark then stuck the mustache to his forehead, connecting his eyebrows. "Unibrow!" he yelled, and suddenly, we got much stranger looks from the other shoppers.
Ahhh...seems like just yesterday my little Mark was a clean-shaven, boyish 9-year-old.
This particular joint also had a pool table in the middle of the room, so there was the added bonus that at some point during the evening, you were probably gonna get smacked by a 9-year-old brandishing a pool cue.
But the best machine wasn't even electronic. It was one of those grocery store type deals, where you put in a couple quarters, turn the knob, and out pops a cheap little prize in a plastic bubble. The prizes for this particular machine were stick-on mustaches.
The boys LOVED that! Within minutes, the entire soccer team was sporting mustaches. I couldn't stop laughing at how silly they looked. They all walked up to collect their trophies, and stood very seriously while the coach said something nice about them -- the whole time wearing their new facial hair. It was even funnier because by some strange coincidence, the boys all ended up with mustaches that perfectly matched their sandy-brown hair -- so they looked even more realistic!
Even Mark managed to get one fairly close to his hair color. His was a little shorter than the other kids, and looked more like a fuzzy black caterpillar. I was worried he might look a little like Hitler when he put his on, but was relieved to see that was not the case.
Here he is showing off his soccer trophy (yay, B.P. Bombers! First place in their division!):
And here's a close-up:
We had to make a quick stop at the grocery store on our way home. Mark stopped more than a few people in their tracks -- one guy even commented that he was a little young for facial hair.
"He's actually a lot older than he looks," I replied, and Mark and I giggled.
Mark then stuck the mustache to his forehead, connecting his eyebrows. "Unibrow!" he yelled, and suddenly, we got much stranger looks from the other shoppers.
Ahhh...seems like just yesterday my little Mark was a clean-shaven, boyish 9-year-old.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Hi kettle, this is the pot. You're black!
Today's spelling lesson comes under the category of "People Who Live in Glass Houses...."
I found this little gem in Mark's homework folder. Right beside it was the most asom spelling of "awesome."
(I can't help it, I'm a writer by trade...these things get to me!)
I found this little gem in Mark's homework folder. Right beside it was the most asom spelling of "awesome."
(I can't help it, I'm a writer by trade...these things get to me!)
Monday, January 11, 2010
Eau de Man
Mark has a surprising new favorite grooming item. It's a gift he picked during a white elephant exchange, and he hasn't stopped using it since.
The gift in question is a small bottle of body spray called "Elixir Green." It says "Barber" on the label, so I'm assuming it's for men, but it's filled with a spray reminiscent of noble firs. That's right, my son has a new body spray that makes him smell like a Christmas tree.
He LOVES his new body spray. It's even replaced his previous favorite personal hygiene item, a tiny stick of roll-on deodorant. (Which he didn't need. He just liked feeling grown up when he used it.)
Now, every morning, Mark spritzes himself. When he jumped into bed this morning, I was overtaken by the smell.
"Wow, that smells...strong," I observed. "How much did you put on?"
"Not much," he answered. "Just a couple sprays under each armpit." He lifted one so I could smell.
I choked a bit, then pointed out it will last longer if he just uses one quick spray instead.
"No way!" he answered, and climbed out of bed, offended.
Apparently, his love for the body spray is infectious. He reported last week that his friend Kyle convinced his mom to buy some, too.
"Now we both use body spray!" Mark reported. He added that his other friends are getting some, too.
I was a little worried about this whole obsession with body sprays and 9-year-old boys. It doesn't seem like something that should even be on their radar, and I wondered if my precocious little boy was growing up too quickly. But I breathed a sigh of relief when I finally realized why he is obsessed.
"You really like your spray, huh?" I asked Mark.
"Yup!" he answered. "I wear it every day now so I don't have to shower. It's GREAT!"
Which made me smile. And realize that if he's using it to get out of bathing, then I have no worries. He's exactly on track, developmentally.
And he's gonna be sad when he realizes body spray, as wonderful as it seems, does not replace a good old fashioned shower. In fact, sometimes, when he gets a little trigger-happy with that spray bottle, it actually results in showering more, not less, often.
The gift in question is a small bottle of body spray called "Elixir Green." It says "Barber" on the label, so I'm assuming it's for men, but it's filled with a spray reminiscent of noble firs. That's right, my son has a new body spray that makes him smell like a Christmas tree.
He LOVES his new body spray. It's even replaced his previous favorite personal hygiene item, a tiny stick of roll-on deodorant. (Which he didn't need. He just liked feeling grown up when he used it.)
Now, every morning, Mark spritzes himself. When he jumped into bed this morning, I was overtaken by the smell.
"Wow, that smells...strong," I observed. "How much did you put on?"
"Not much," he answered. "Just a couple sprays under each armpit." He lifted one so I could smell.
I choked a bit, then pointed out it will last longer if he just uses one quick spray instead.
"No way!" he answered, and climbed out of bed, offended.
Apparently, his love for the body spray is infectious. He reported last week that his friend Kyle convinced his mom to buy some, too.
"Now we both use body spray!" Mark reported. He added that his other friends are getting some, too.
I was a little worried about this whole obsession with body sprays and 9-year-old boys. It doesn't seem like something that should even be on their radar, and I wondered if my precocious little boy was growing up too quickly. But I breathed a sigh of relief when I finally realized why he is obsessed.
"You really like your spray, huh?" I asked Mark.
"Yup!" he answered. "I wear it every day now so I don't have to shower. It's GREAT!"
Which made me smile. And realize that if he's using it to get out of bathing, then I have no worries. He's exactly on track, developmentally.
And he's gonna be sad when he realizes body spray, as wonderful as it seems, does not replace a good old fashioned shower. In fact, sometimes, when he gets a little trigger-happy with that spray bottle, it actually results in showering more, not less, often.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
What we did over Christmas break--Santa Barbara chapter
Mark's in the fourth grade, and anyone who lives in California knows exactly what that means -- a California Mission report. That's right, they learn all about the illustrious Father Junipero Serra and his "mission" in life.
I figured instead of just reading about the missions, we'd actually go visit one. Mark picked the Santa Barbara mission, and so, with our friend Edra in tow, we headed north.
It was a gorgeous day -- bright, sunny, and hot. The drive up the coast was gorgeous, and the air seemed crisper with each mile. We made good time, arriving at the mission shortly before noon.
The church was beautiful -- real adobe bricks with pinkish columns.
Mark posed excitedly in front with Father Serra. Then he wandered around the front path pointing and asking what everything was.
"See that over there?" I replied. "It's called a sign. It will tell you everything you need to know." He seemed genuinely surprised to learn that.
We bought tickets for a self-guided tour. It was very pretty, and very well-preserved so that you could really imagine the mission back in its heyday. We toured the gardens, the cemetery and the chapel, as well as the kitchens. We also saw a cool model of the whole mission and a bunch of tools they used for farming.
Mark seemed pretty impressed. He ran around the whole mission taking pictures with his camera. I was just glad he was interested; I was afraid we'd driven two hours to have him run through the entire mission in five minutes. But he paced himself, and really enjoyed it. He even read some of the signs, and asked about the Indians and Father Serra.
And for those of you who know me well, you'll be impressed that I practiced great restraint as far as the mission's history. I never once uttered the phrases "free labor," "indentured slaves," "forced dependence," or "His real mission was converting all the heathens." I wanted to, trust me, but I went along with the propaganda that Father Serra was kind and helpful to all those poor little Indians who couldn't possibly fend for themselves before he arrived to save them. <\rant>
Anyway, we had a good time touring the mission. Afterwards, we headed for the marina, where we enjoyed lunch overlooking both the bay and the beautiful Santa Barbara mountains.
I figured instead of just reading about the missions, we'd actually go visit one. Mark picked the Santa Barbara mission, and so, with our friend Edra in tow, we headed north.
It was a gorgeous day -- bright, sunny, and hot. The drive up the coast was gorgeous, and the air seemed crisper with each mile. We made good time, arriving at the mission shortly before noon.
The church was beautiful -- real adobe bricks with pinkish columns.
Mark posed excitedly in front with Father Serra. Then he wandered around the front path pointing and asking what everything was.
"See that over there?" I replied. "It's called a sign. It will tell you everything you need to know." He seemed genuinely surprised to learn that.
We bought tickets for a self-guided tour. It was very pretty, and very well-preserved so that you could really imagine the mission back in its heyday. We toured the gardens, the cemetery and the chapel, as well as the kitchens. We also saw a cool model of the whole mission and a bunch of tools they used for farming.
Mark seemed pretty impressed. He ran around the whole mission taking pictures with his camera. I was just glad he was interested; I was afraid we'd driven two hours to have him run through the entire mission in five minutes. But he paced himself, and really enjoyed it. He even read some of the signs, and asked about the Indians and Father Serra.
Anyway, we had a good time touring the mission. Afterwards, we headed for the marina, where we enjoyed lunch overlooking both the bay and the beautiful Santa Barbara mountains.
But Mark's favorite part were the rocks in the marina, which were literally crawling with rock crabs. He counted two sea stars, and 70 (yes, 70!) little crabs skittering over the rocks.
After lunch we checked into our hotel. I was thrilled because not only was it previously named after my mom (the Hotel Virginia), it was also right across the street from the Santa Barbara Brewery. I love a good local brewpub!
The hotel was half a block from the main drag, State Street. We decided to check it out, and as we rounded the corner, we were delighted to see the street had been blocked off and overtaken by a farmer's market. So even though we'd just finished lunch, we wandered around sampling all sorts of wonderful local delicacies. We also made our way through the stores, including a spiffy outdoor Indian market and my favorite, an Italian pottery shop.
Edra had read about a fondue restaurant and suggested we skip dinner in favor of dessert there. Mark and I were all for that plan, so we headed over there. Unfortunately, they were short-staffed, which meant an hour long wait for a table.
Poor Mark, who eats like a horse, couldn't make it that long without sustenance. We found a little outdoor cafe and fed him dinner and his mood improved instantly.
The fondue was fantastic! We ordered a pot of melted milk chocolate and actually gasped aloud at the plates accompanying it. They were loaded with sliced bananas and strawberries (my favorite), brownie bites, rice krispie treats, cheesecake and graham-cracker covered marshmallows. My brain started smoking when I tried adding up the carbs for Mark -- I finally told him, "Just bolus for 100 carbs," and vowed to check his blood sugar in two hours.
By the time we rolled back into the hotel, we were full, exhausted and completely happy.
When we awoke the next morning, we were glad we visited the mission when we did. A gentle rain was falling outside, so we picked an indoor activity -- visiting the Museum of Art.
It was a lovely little museum. A roomful of ancient marble statues greeted us. We passed through there to a room of paintings. I was amazed to see some really notable names in there -- a Chagall among them. Mark raced through the room with a cursory glance, and bolted for the next room.
I reigned him back -- he's a very hands-on boy, and I didn't want him knocking anything down. Edra and I imparted everything we knew about art on him. First Edra explained how the pictures look different depending on where you stand. She had him look close up and then slowly walk back away from it. We pointed out the different layers of paint on the pictures -- some had thick, thick layers while others had thin coatings. And when I saw works from my very favorite painting, Monet, I shared a story about him.
Mark listened intently as first, but then his eyes started glazing over. Another woman walked by with her two kids, also explaining about the pictures.
"See," I said, prodding Mark. "You're not the only kid learning about stuff." He just rolled his eyes at me.
We spent almost three hours in there. Mark's favorite part was the gift store, where he spent 45 minutes playing with little mechanical wind up toys.
It was getting late, so we he headed back home. We'd only been gone a day, but we packed so much fun in, it felt like much longer. We returned home with new Mission facts, tons of pictures, good memories, and a vow to return soon to partake in Santa Barbara's magical beauty once again.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
What we did over Christmas break--San Diego chapter
We were mad travelling fools over the winter break. After Tucson, we returned to San Diego to celebrate Christmas with the family.
We usually reserve the day after Christmas to celebrate my niece Hannah's birthday (happy belated birthday, Hannah!). But since Hannah and her family weren't in town this year, we opted for the zoo instead.
We usually reserve the day after Christmas to celebrate my niece Hannah's birthday (happy belated birthday, Hannah!). But since Hannah and her family weren't in town this year, we opted for the zoo instead.
The plan was to meet up with Scott and Mary's friend Donna at the zoo. Donna and her husband Josh were bringing their two daughters. They also brought Josh's sister, her son, and a couple other little nephews. That's right, we ended up at the zoo the day after Christmas with NINE kids! (They outnumbered us adults -- there were only 7 of us.)
I would best describe my day as an elaborate text scavenger hunt. My brother Scott seized the first opportunity he had to ditch us. He followed part of the group to the orangutan exhibit, and was nice enough to text me and tell me to meet him there. Of course, try herding 6 kids quickly through the zoo -- it's virtually impossible. We didn't even make it past the flamingos. They ooohed and ahhed at the pink birds, but as soon as they marvelled over the ducks, I moved them along.
"No fawning over ducks," I told them. "Save that for the tigers!"
It's been a long time since I've been to the zoo, and I ended up lost on some crazy path. We did come across this great photo op, however:
By the time I reached the end of the path, Scott had texted me three more times. I was two feet from the orangutan exhibit when he texted that he was now at the pandas.
So it was off to the pandas. Then the next text came in.
"Pandas too crowded. Going to the elephants."
Before I could even relay the message, the next text came in.
"Panda line moving fast. GET HERE QUICK!"
So it was off to the pandas after all. We had to shepherd the kids through an aviary and down three flights of stairs, all of which provided endless distractions. We got to the pandas just as Scott and Josh were at the front.
I'd like to say the pandas were beautiful and amazing. They were pretty, but they were also sleeping lazily in the trees above, facing away from us. I couldn't believe I'd rushed around the whole zoo to get a rare glimpse of a panda butt.
It was unusually cold for San Diego, so Mary and I stopped to get some hot coffee. The operative word here is "stop," something Scott refused to do. He grabbed all the kids but Mark and ran off. I knew I'd get a destination text momentarily.
"Take walkway up to elephant exhibit," it read.
Unfortunately, we took the wrong walkway and ended up back at the aviary. We had to re-trace our path down the three flights of stairs, this time holding two cups of hot coffee each. Mark was mad his cousins were off having fun without him. But I was having a good time laughing with my sister-in-law about my crazy brother.
We finally found the right walkway and ended up by the lions. I was a little nervous about a graphic picture of a lion with his tail raised that warned "Lions can spray 7-10 feet."
"Gross!" I told Mark. "It's bad enough when Frankie sprays. Can you imagine getting sprayed by a big ol' lion?"
We quickly moved away from that exhibit.
We finally found Scott and family by the elephants. He assured us that the lions were in their little cave, and we should go see them.
They were very cool to look at. But I felt really bad for them -- people were packed up against the glass, snapping endless pictures of them. The cave was dark, so with every picture, a flash popped, and the poor lions seized a little from the sudden light. It was like watching the paparazzi attack; it didn't seem very "king of the jungle" at all.
The kids were begging to go on the skyfari ride, so that's where we headed next. I have a very healthy fear of heights, and a son with a sick sense of humor, so the last place I wanted to be was in a tiny car in the air with him swinging it around. I reluctantly agreed to go provided I could also take my niece Nathalie (who wouldn't swing). Mark promised not to make any jarring movements only because Nathalie begged him not to; apparently, my motherly fears held no weight with him.
But I had the last laugh. As soon as the skyfari car rocked into the air, Mark turned to mush. He gripped onto the bar in the middle with all his might. I broke into a cold sweat, which didn't help much when Nathalie, then Mark, started freaking out.
"I'm scared!" Nathalie shouted.
"We're gonna die!" Mark shouted.
"I know!" I almost shouted.
Then I remembered I was the adult and was supposed to be the calming influence. They were not helping any, let me tell you. I finally calmed them down, and by the time we reached the other side of the zoo, Mark was half-heartedly threatening to rock the car again.
By then, we'd had enough. I was thankful I'd bought annual passes, because the zoo was so crowded, and frankly, I was tired of chasing after Scott all day long. I promised Mark we'd return soon.
All the craziness didn't deter the kids, though. They still had a blast, and even posed for a very good picture:
I wonder if the zookeepers even realized four little monkeys had escaped...
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
What we did over Christmas break--Tucson chapter
We spent some of our Christmas vacation visiting the Gludts in Tucson. Prior to them moving there, I'd never actually been to Tucson; after they moved there, I didn't have much interest in visiting Arizona. But I do love my friends, and so I visited. And I have to say, each time we've gone, the Gludts have shown us some pretty cool sights; now I really look forward to our trips.
This trip was no exception. I was excited to see Rob, Kelley and the little Romster. He has gotten so dang cute! He's also a funny little kid, and like most other kids, took an immediate liking to Mark. (Mark's like a rock star when it comes to little kids.)
Each morning, Romi greeted me with a smile and a little grunt. He'd point to our room, and I realized he was asking where my famous son was.
"He's still sleeping, Romi," I'd tell him. "Go wake him up!
And Romi would scamper off to pull the sheets from Mark's bed. Even Mark could not withstand the attacks of an active 20-month-old. It's hard to be grumpy when someone so happy wakes you up.
This trip was no exception. I was excited to see Rob, Kelley and the little Romster. He has gotten so dang cute! He's also a funny little kid, and like most other kids, took an immediate liking to Mark. (Mark's like a rock star when it comes to little kids.)
Each morning, Romi greeted me with a smile and a little grunt. He'd point to our room, and I realized he was asking where my famous son was.
"He's still sleeping, Romi," I'd tell him. "Go wake him up!
And Romi would scamper off to pull the sheets from Mark's bed. Even Mark could not withstand the attacks of an active 20-month-old. It's hard to be grumpy when someone so happy wakes you up.
Romi's favorite activity was waking Mark up every morning.Considering their age difference (8 years), Mark and Romi got along great. This is partially due to Mark's obsession with other kids' toys (he'll play with anything, even toddler toys) and Romi's laid-back personality. Romi may not speak much yet, but he had no trouble telling Mark what he wanted -- and most of the time, he wanted Mark to push him around the house on his little bike.
The boys played very well together. Kelley always plans cool stuff for us to see. This time, she chose the miniatures museum, which had a conspicuously large front entrance. However, there was also a little bitty miniature entrance off to the side.
The entrance to the miniatures museum was surprisingly large. The plan started with breakfast at a local diner called Gus Balon's, which is famous for its enormous cinnamon rolls. We split two rolls, and it was still waaaaay too much to finish.
We ate cinnamon rolls as big as our heads.
We also scarfed down the rest of our breakfast as quickly as we could, as we had a small table and a squirmy toddler with us. The food was really good, though; Kelley even raved about her oatmeal, which came with about a quarter cube of butter in it, and a side order of cinnamon sugar.
"This is the only place I know of that can make oatmeal unhealthy!" Kelley exclaimed.
After breakfast, we headed out to another museum. The Gludts had never been there, and were not sure how good it would be. They were still a little gun shy from the miniatures museum.
Romi picked this time to nap, so Rob, Mark and I went into the museum. It was sooooo cool! It was filled with all these amazing formerly-alive stuffed animals, which sounds creepier than it actually was. It took Mark and I an hour just to get halfway through it.
The coolest room was filled with every kind of goat, deer and bear imaginable. Kelley and Romi joined us, and we sat on a huge sofa admiring the giant posed animals. Of course, just looking was not enough to keep the boys amused.
The boys dug the animals--especially the fierce ones.After a while, the boys lost interest in the animals. Instead, they decided to wrestle all along the floor, which was kinda funny.
It was more fun to wrestle than look at stuffed animals.
We had a lot of fun--and I'm not lion!
Our last day was spent celebrating Kelley's birthday. Sadly, we had to leave the Gludts and return to San Diego and the Land of Christmas. But don't worry, Gludts, we'll be back to Tucson soon enough!
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