Grammar lesson

Mark's been slacking on his drums a bit lately. He practices regularly, but he plays the same two songs week after week.

Fearing I'll snap if I hear "Beat It" or "Billie Jean" one more time, I strongly encouraged him to pick two new songs. He balked, and said, "But I like those songs."

"I know," I said. "But it's time to learn something new. Go get your iPod--are you going to pick a new song, or am I?"

"I is," he answered, sending grammatical daggers through my heart.

"I am," I corrected. And thanked God school is starting again next week.

"I is," he repeated, so again, I corrected him and said, "I am. Seriously, you sound like an uneducated hick!"

He sighed, and said even more loudly, "No, IYAZ. I want to play the song 'Replay' by Iyaz."

I finally realized he was saying the singer's name, and not the grammatically incorrect "I is." I started laughing and what I said when I finally stopped was, "Oh, sorry! I couldn't understand what the heck you were saying! My apologies."

But what I thought was, "I is sorry..."

How to tell it's time to go back to school...

I've taught Mark the proper way to answer a phone and how to leave a message. He's not always successful; earlier this summer when he called Tyler's house, Tyler's mom answered. Mark asked her to come over to play, and when she told Mark it was Tyler's mom, not Tyler, he sneered, "Yeah, right! Good one, Tyler!" I shrank into the corner and died a little bit from embarrassment.

So when Mark's friend Tyler called yesterday to see if Mark could come over to play, I listened to Tyler's voicemail with interest. (Because it's rude to say I'm trying to see how Mark rates along side his peers in the voicemail department.)

Tyler did great. He was polite, to the point, and even left a timestamp. Sorta.

"Hi Mark," he started. "It's Tyler. I'm calling to see if you can come over to play. It's Wednesday, 2010."

He paused. "Um, I don't know what day is it. I think it's the 8th. [It was the 25th.] Anyway, call me back."

I hung up the phone and giggled a bit. And realized Mark is right where he's supposed to be developmentally.

High roller

The other night, I went to dinner with Mark and my friend Edra. In a moment of generosity, Mark fished around in his pocket, then plunked this down on the table.



"I'll pay," he told us, pointing to his giant wad of 100 bills.

I'd never seen Mark carry any money, let alone enough to stuff in a money clip disguised as a stack of Benjamins. The clip was heavy, made out of a hard plaster, and unwieldy, but hilarious. I couldn't imagine anyone carrying it around for real.

"Where'd you get that?" Edra asked, and he said he found at camp. Mark said that if he ever got mugged, he'd simply toss the money clip in one direction to fool the robber, then run away in the other direction. I said that the thunk it made while crashing on the concrete might tip off the robber that it was a fake, but Mark disagreed.

Mark was on fire that night. He put on his own little comedy show, and was cracking us up. When Edra told him she could read his mind, he said, "Oh yeah? Guess what I'm thinking about now?"

She studied him for a moment, and as she was about to answer, he yelled, "NUTMEG!" I have no idea where that came from! Edra did admit that no, she had no idea that was what he was thinking about.

But at least he was a little more observant of the people around us that night. Usually he doesn't notice anything but his dinner plate, but when the people next to us got up to leave, Mark pointed them out.

"Look, they're doing a conga line!" he said excitedly. He pointed to a tall man who was walking with his hands on his wife's shoulders in front of him.

I smacked myself in the forehead--I'd noticed that couple already.

"They aren't doing a conga line!" I hissed at Mark. "That man is blind!"

I explained he was using the woman to guide him out of the tiny restaurant, and Mark laughed, not the least bit embarrassed.

"Oh!" he said. "Well, how am I supposed to know?"

I'm beginning to think that fancy restaurants and pleasant dinner companions are waaaaay overrated. My own companion may be a little rough around the edges, but he is definitely entertaining.

Well, it is nice to have visitors...

Today's laugh is provided by my nephew Johnny, who reminds me to check the Go-Gurt ingredients. I'm certain they're putting something addictive in those handy little yogurt tubes...

Johnny is three, and while already a Go-Gurt fan, he couldn't believe you could possibly make them any better. That is, until Mark introduced him to frozen Go-Gurts. Johnny's eyes lit up on his first taste, and he immediately raced home to freeze his own box.

He liked them sooooo much he insisted on eating one, then two, every time he came to my house. He ate so many, my brother Brad told him, "Don't eat all of Auntie Heather's Go-Gurts!" I guess Brad told him more than once, because the next time Johnny came over, I offered him one. Johnny just looked at me and said, apologetically, "I don't wanna eat all your Go-Gurts, Auntie Heather."

I assured him that it was okay, and that I can always buy more. He gobbled that frozen Go-Gurt up before I could finish the sentence!

A few days later, my sis-in-law Mary was driving the boys to school and camp. Johnny proudly told Mary how he had a whole box of Go-Gurts at home. Then he sent Mary into a fit of laughter when he told her, "I'm gonna eat all of Auntie Heather's Go-Gurts, and then I'm gonna go to my house and visit mine. Auntie Mary, do you want to come to my house and visit my Go-Gurts?"

He's a little stinker...

The Village is working

I love the old adage that it takes a village to raise a child. My child in particular is a wild banshee in need of more guidance and discipline than I alone can provide, and so I am grateful for backup from my village.

Last night, Mark was commenting on the village members.

"I like it better when I get in trouble with Grandma than when I do with Edra," he said, speaking about one of my best friends (who also runs a before/after school center for kids).

This surprised me -- I'd always assumed Grandma was the biggest, baddest threat around.

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Because," Mark said thoughtfully. "When I get in trouble with Grandma, she yells at me, but then she has a good laugh about it later. Edra just yells at me and then says all proud, 'Man, I gave that Mark some gooooood discipline.'"

I burst into laughter.

"She doesn't have a good laugh about it later?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No, she's proud of how well she disciplined me!"

I laughed again, as did Edra when I told her what he'd said. She loved it.

And I love my village -- all the parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, friends, aunties and uncles who tell it like it is, and shape my son into a well-rounded, nice kid. Keep on with your discipline and bad selves--it's working!

Yeah, that's what they mean

I rarely pay attention to the parental ratings for television shows. Instead, I rely solely on my own personal code of Do I really want my child to watch this program?

I use common sense when deciding what Mark can and cannot watch. Shows with violence, nudity, cursing or smarmy pre-teens sassing their parents are automatically disqualified.

Pretty much anything on HBO is out, while everything on HGTV is allowed. (Allowed, though just barely tolerated. But Mark's so addicted to TV that he'd rather watch a House Hunters marathon than actually turn the set off.)

However, my method is not perfect. Sometimes shows slip by me that seem innocuous, and yet, cross over into that gray area.

For example, Top Chef. On the surface, it's just a cooking competition. But its competitors are grown adults who, I've noticed with alarming regularity, smoke and curse. I don't always remember that, until I'm watching it with Mark.

On a recent episode, the chefs were vying for a cash prize. One earnest young man confided that if he won the $20,000, he'd donate it to an orphanage in Thailand that took in children afflicted with HIV. Another chef smirked, and proudly confessed he would blow it all on an eight-ball and hookers.

Please...I begged, silently. Please don't ask... I steadfastly refused to make eye contact with my 10-year-old son seated next to me.

But of course, he did ask. "What are eight-balls and hookers?" he said, looking directly at me.

"It has to do with pool," I answered immediately. "You know, like when you play pool and sink the eight-ball." I mimed shooting in a ball with a pool cue.

He nodded. "Ohhh."

Home-free, I thought.

"And what are hookers?" he asked.

Or maybe not...

"For fishing," I answered. I simulated casting a fishing line, then reeled it back in. "You know, when you hook a fish."

I was terrified he would ask how the two things were related, but luckily, he accepted my answers and moved on.

And I immediately made a mental note to cross Top Chef off the list of approved TV shows.

Mr. Generous

Mark's having a blast at camp this week. His group is traveling to all sorts of fun places, and today's big adventure was to an Angels game.

I sent him off with 20 bucks and a firm reminder that he was to eat a proper lunch. I told him I have eyes watching his every move (I lied) and I would know if he feasted on only ice cream, cotton candy and diet soda.

But when he called at lunch, he just wanted the carb counts for a hot dog and diet soda. I kept waiting for a second call about Cracker Jack or ice cream, but it never came.

"How was the game?" I asked when I picked him up.

"Good!" he answered. He handed me his remaining five dollars and said, "My friend didn't have any money, so I bought him some Cracker Jacks."

He bit his lip and looked at me expectantly. I dunno what he thought I was gonna do (probably yell at him for spending my money), so I confused him by smiling.

"That was very nice," I said. "I bet he was really happy."

Mark immediately perked up and said, "He was happy. Very happy!" He grinned.

And then the floodgates opened. "I also bought him some ice cream," Mark confessed. "And I bought this other girl some cotton candy."

"You did?" Now I was the confused one. "Did you have enough money for all that?"

"Yup!" he answered.

I shrugged. "Well, then you must've been very popular today."

"I was!" he said. He smiled again, and felt very proud of himself.

"Well, it was really nice of you to be so generous," I said. I kept my tone and words upbeat and happy. But truth be told, I was a little scared--images of Mark in college popped in to my head. I could see him buying pizza for everybody, and a little later on, buying rounds of drinks for all his friends. I realized for the first time that textbooks and class fees may not be the most expensive part of Mark's college experience. Apparently, I should be saving enough to feed not only Mark, but all his friends as well.

But if that's the cost of raising a generous, friendly kid...I think it's a bargain.

I know because I CAN READ!

My son is exceptionally cute, hilariously funny, and usually fairly intelligent. As his mother, I say that with complete bias, but if you ask my mom, or any of Mark's other family members, I'm pretty sure they'll agree.

However...his intelligence, like his listening, is definitely selective. I'm afraid I've passed on my "Duh" gene to him somehow, tipping the scales one step closer to nurture in the nature vs. nurture argument.

We were driving home from the farmer's market this weekend, and I noticed the car in front of me littered with bumper stickers. Four of them said "I love my Irish Setter" and the other three had pictures and names Irish Setters. It was fairly obnoxious.

"Wow, the people in front of us really like Irish Setters," I observed sarcastically.

"Where?" Mark asked. He craned his neck to see what I was looking at.

"The car in front of us," I said. I pointed at all the stickers.

But my observant son still didn't get it. "How can you tell?" he asked.

I read each sticker out loud to him. "See, there are seven clues," I said. "Look at all the pictures of the dogs."

And finally the light bulb went on.

"Ooooh!" he said, nodding his head. And then he frowned, and asked, "But how do you know those are Irish Setters?"

I snorted and looked to see if he was being serious.

"A lucky guess," I answered.

And then the light turned green. I accelerated, and drove as far away as possible from that conversation. Because while my car idled aimlessly at the light, Mark's brain did the same.

The triumphant return

Yesterday, Mark came home from camp. He'd been gone 12 days, longer than I've ever been away from him, and I was very excited about his return.

When I went to pick him up, Mark wasn't there yet, but his luggage was.

I picked out his duffel bag among all the other bags. We'd stuffed his sleeping bag into a white trash bag, so that one took a while longer to find (I wasn't the only mom to utilize kitchen garbage bags as luggage).

As I loaded the bags into my car, Mark's shoe tumbled out. I stuffed it back in the bag, where I noticed not only its mate, but his back-up shoes as well. I sighed, fearing that my child was riding the bus barefoot.

Luckily, he had on flip-flops as he stepped off the bus. He also had a giant scab on his chin--apparently, he misjudged the depth of the pool, and scraped it. (I giggled as I remembered discussing the same injury with a friend over happy hour this week. Although she may have been a wee bit...impaired...when she scraped her own chin.)

After collecting his blood sugar logs and group picture, I searched nervously, looking for Mark. He takes notoriously bad photos, and I expected to see him with eyes closed like last year, or eyes closed and mouth open, like the year before. He was making a really weird face, but he smiled and said, "Hey, at least my eyes are open!"

"Whose shirt is that?" I asked, pointing at his photo.

He shrugged. "I dunno--it was in my laundry, so I just wore it."

Mark couldn't wait to tell me all about camp. I peppered him with questions, and he was uncharacteristically chatty. He raved about the food (ribs, steak, burgers, breakfast cereal), the store where he bought diet sodas every day ("I'm gonna miss those sodas!" he lamented), the pool where he scraped his chin, and the bear they all saw traipse by his cabin. He told me about the 8-mile-hike they went on, and when I asked how long that took, he answered, "About 20 minutes."

He told me about all the sports he played, and the snacks (beef jerky!) he ate every night before bed. He described the overnighter where they camped outside on a tarp, but did not eat snack (bears like beef jerky). He talked about the arts and crafts, and groused about the drink choices at dinner every night (milk or water). Then he smiled and told me he'd figured out where they kept the Crystal Light, and how he'd filled up his cup with that instead.

He was filthy, so I asked when he'd last taken a shower. He said he took one the night before, then he bragged that he'd only taken two showers the entire time.

"You only took TWO?" I gasped. "Including the one last night?"

"Yep," he answered. "And only because the counselor made me." I can only imagine how smelly that cabin was, with a bunch of sweaty 10-year-old boys running around!

He told me the staff had done his laundry during the weekend, including his sleeping bag. I was relieved to hear that, considering he'd only showered once during the two weeks, and once the night before he came home. I put the sleeping bag outside to air out, but it may go directly into the trash if it doesn't freshen up a bit.

Mark talked a bit about the kids in his cabin, including Andreas, who came from South America. Mark, of the overflowing closets and crammed to capacity under-bed, insisted that his cabin mates were slobs. And then he uttered words I never imagined him saying in a million years...

"I was the clean freak in our cabin," he said, quite seriously. He shuddered at the thought of his cabin, and I shuddered even more. If my kid was the cleanest one there, then I don't ever want to go to camp.

He was exhausted, but hungry, so we stopped for lunch on the way home. We walked right past an ice cream store, and he remarked that, "I don't know why, but for some reason, I want ice cream."

"I bet," I answered. Then I hugged him and said again how glad I was he was home.

"Me too," he said. "Maybe we should celebrate with some ice cream." And then he nudged me toward the ice cream store!

So I was glad to see some things don't change. He had a blast at camp, and I had a blast at Mommy Camp while he was gone. I exhausted myself and the friends who went out me every night while he was gone (big props to Kathleen and Edra for humoring me during Mommy Camp!). And I'm sure he exhausted the camp counselors during his stay. But we were both home, happy, and glad to see each other.

Until next summer...

The Chef is in

I'm not much of a cook. I know it, I own it, I shrug it off.

That fact never bothered me in my carefree pre-kid days, when sometimes dinner consisted of a tuna sandwich or even the occasional Pop-Tart (I love Pop-Tarts). But when I became a mother, I felt like I had to step up the meal preparations in order to raise a healthy child who appreciated healthy food (but he likes Pop-Tarts, too). My friend Jill, and the fact my son has diabetes, really drove home the importance of good, well-balanced meals (which apparently do NOT contain Pop-Tarts).

And so now I cook. Kinda. Well, quasi-cook. I can deliver a mean bowl of pasta (with red sauce--counts as a veggie, no?). I also sneak a couple handfuls of veggies in there to ratchet up the healthiness. I can barbecue pretty well, and again, a couple handfuls of frozen veggies or an ear of summer corn go a long way as side dishes to my sometimes-charred proteins.

But all in all, I thought I was doing an okay job of serving up some good, healthy family dinners. And even if the food wasn't always five-star, I reasoned that equally important was the opportunity to share a meal and share our days together as a family, sitting together at a table, and not in front of the T.V.

Until...

Until my mom started coming up to watch my son. It started a couple summers ago. She came to watch him during the gaps between summer camp ending and school starting. And she put my whole notion of cooking to shame, as she served up some amazing meals. She swore most of the ingredients came from my pantry, fridge, and freezer, but since she never once served us Pop-Tarts, I had my doubts.

It was during this time that Mark learned meals do not consist solely of one entree--they may also include other food on the plate (I explained these were called side dishes, and they complimented the entree). My mom actually served an entree with two, sometimes three side dishes (she explained to Mark that no, it doesn't matter what I say, bread is not a side dish). For a while, I felt a little guilty that the only home-cooked meals my son would ever remember would be my mom's.

But now my mom's returned. She's been coming up to watch my nephew, and her fan base has grown. She used to cook for Mark and I, but now my brother and nephew have joined in. And my cousin Kathleen, who regrets her own childhood meal memories, has become my mom's biggest fan. She and her boyfriend also make regular appearances whenever my mom comes up.

It's kinda sad how much we all appreciate my mom's good cooking. Just the mention that she's coming up to my house gets all of us drooling. My cousin's even started putting in requests, which my mom happily fulfills.

All of which makes me feel a little less pathetic. Because at the end of it all, I may be washing more dishes than I serve, but who cares? Turns out, I'm not the only fan of mom's cooking--I've got a lot of company. Just peer inside the window any time my mom is there, and you'll see I'm not alone. :-)

VBS

I'm not a particularly religious person. I've only seen the inside of a church once this year (hello, Easter), and I probably won't see it again until Christmas.

But my nephew goes to a church pre-school, and I dropped him off there last week. Mark helped me herd him through the courtyard and in to the classroom (he's tiny but quick). As we passed through the gates, Mark pointed at a sign and asked what VBS is.

"It stands for 'vacation Bible school,'" I told him.

He raised his eyebrows and said, "Doesn't sound like much of a vacation to me."

I gently reminded him that he had, indeed, attended Bible school once, when he was five. And he liked it so much, he tried to get saved.

I hadn't meant to send him there. I sent him to daycare, and found out as I was leaving that he was going on a field trip. For the entire week.

I was livid--I was paying the babysitter an outrageous sum, because no one else wanted to take on the challenge of a "medically fragile" kid. (I've learned needles freak people out, especially when they have to jab one in a squirrelly little kid.) I was not happy she was sending him off to learn religion; that was my job to teach, if I felt so inclined.

But since I didn't have any other childcare, I sucked it up. It's not like I had to go myself.

Except that I did, on the last night. I picked Mark up at the church, where I realized that between the bouncy tent and the free-flowing pizza slices, I'd never get him outta there. And before I could catch him, I was being ushered into the church for some service.

Mark sat up front with the other kids from daycare, and I hid in the back row, trying not to yawn too obviously. I sat through the service, and barely perked up until the end, when they asked for volunteers to come up and receive a blessing.

"Anyone can come up!" they announced. "All you need is some love in your heart, and the desire to be born again, to rid yourself of sin!"

No one was biting, so I scanned the crowd for Mark. I wanted to make a quick, discreet exit. Unfortunately, my plan immediately failed, as I heard the pastor plead for volunteers, and saw a group rise and head toward the pulpit.

They had linked arms, and were calling out, "I wanna be saved! I want Jesus in my heart!" The church applauded them, encouraging them on, which only emboldened them, and made them yell louder. It was all pretty amusing, until suddenly I realized that there in the middle of them all, was my five-year-old son. My about-to-be-born-again son. I needed to be born again, too, when I saw that, since my heart stopped right then and there.

I don't know who raced toward the pulpit faster, me or the babysitter, once she realized all her charges were about to be saved. She quickly guided the group out a side door, where I met up with Mark.

"How wonderful!" a man called out to me. "What a wonderful young man you're raising up in the spirit!" He raised a Bible and smiled big, and I knew the sales pitch was coming, and I had to get out of there quick. I searched for a way out to the car, but there were smiling volunteers all around the courtyard. It would take a miracle from God to get me outta there.

"Thanks," I said, racing past him. "He is a good kid!" And I waved away brochures and lollipops he offered in exchange for saving my soul back in the church. I yanked Mark away, knowing he'd immediately sell his soul for a lollipop.

And so, last week, when Mark mentioned VBS, I reminded him that he'd had his chance. And that he wasn't likely to get another one...unless, of course, the volunteers at Johnny's school were as quick on their toes as Johnny was.