My model son

We frequently attend events sponsored by the PADRE Foundation, a non-profit group supporting children with diabetes and their families. PADRE pays for the events by raising money in a yearly fashion show. This year, I decided Mark is old enough to give back to the group that has already given us so much.

"You wanna be in a fashion show?" I asked, showing him the postcard announcement.

"No," he immediately scoffed.

"You get to keep the clothes," I said casually.

"OK, then yes," he answered, just as quickly. "What kind of clothes?"

"I dunno," I said. "Kids clothes?"

The lure of free clothes did it--he was in. (Mark sells out easily.) And like most of Mark's extracurricular activities, it meant I was in, too.

Our first obligation was a photo shoot. The team wanted a head shot and an action shot, something that promoted this year's theme of Defying the Limits. Mark couldn't wait.

"I'm gonna bring my scooter!" he yelled. "And my yo-yo. And my baseball uniform. And my trophies. And my..."

"Hey, hey!" I said. "Let's defy the limits against diabetes, not against the space in my car."

The photo shoot was running late when we got there, and my son engaged in less-than-model behavior. I could tell he's an amateur, because most professional models ignore food, but the first thing Mark did on arrival was scarf down four protein bars.

"What?" he asked, as I watched him down the first three. "I'm hungry!"

I didn't say anything, and he didn't either until he'd finished.

"Ooooh, my belly!" he complained, rubbing his full stomach. I just shook my head.

I had a packet of papers to fill out, mostly waivers to sign. A few asked for Mark's clothing size, which I thought was silly, since the show is four months away, and he'll invariably grow a whole size by then. It also wanted to know his hobbies, which Mark told me were "Football, basketball, sports and scootering."

"Oh, and awesomeness," he added. So I wrote that my humble son excelled in sports and awesomeness.

It was fun to see how all the other kids with diabetes defied their limits. There was one kid in a karate uniform, one in a soccer uniform, and one in an apron. Her sister wore a pair of boxing gloves, and we giggled as she smiled sweetly for the camera.

"She should look mean," Mark observed. "Boxers don't smile!"

There was a girl who looked like a rock star, and another girl who asked what her talent was, besides looking cool.

"I'm a singer," she answered.

"Oh, cool! How are you gonna show that in the pictures?"

The future rock star held up a microphone. It conveyed the message perfectly.

My favorite kid was wearing a wetsuit instead of a sports uniform. She was also lugging an eight-foot long giant whale float, which cracked me up--it was twice as big as she was! Later on, she left it propped with its nose against the wall. I nudged Mark and whispered, "Looks like the whale's on a time out!"

During the parents meeting, I learned that my commitments included monthly meetings, taking Mark to a final fitting, and forking out a lot of money for the chance to see my son work the catwalk for 30 whole seconds.

While I was nervously adding up the costs in my head, the mom in charge told us the benefits of participating. The biggest one was giving the kids a support group, and the chance to be around other kids with diabetes.

"That time is really important for them," she said. "It makes them realize they are normal."

I nudged Mark again. "Hear that? She thinks you're normal!" He didn't think it was as funny as I did.

Mark was pulled from the meeting early, to be interviewed on video. I have no idea what he said, and truth be told, I'm a little afraid. Uncensored Mark has a fifty-fifty chance of being either hilarious or wildly inappropriate.

But whatever. I just keep reminding myself it's for a great cause, because honestly, I am grateful for the PADRE Foundation and all their support. They excel at awesomeness even more than Mark does.

Why do you think?

My son is cute as a button. That is the good news.

The bad news is that sometimes he is not as logical as he is cute.

This became abundantly clear as we fixed dinner together the other night. I was prepping the meat, and gave Mark veggie duty.

"Pop those frozen veggies in the microwave," I told him, so he did.

While they were cooking, he stared at the box.

"Why is this guy smiling so much?" he asked, pointing to the box.

"Because he's the Jolly Green Giant!" I answered.

"Oh. And why's he so big?" Mark asked next.

It was my turn to stare.

"Because he's the Jolly Green GIANT," I answered again, a little more slowly. "Giants are...you know...BIG."

I waited for Mark to ask why he was green, but thankfully, he did not. I guess those logic skills finally kicked in.

I guess I should count my blessings. That's the longest conversation we've ever had about vegetables. Or, for that fact, giants.

Presidential knowledge

What I love most about my 10-year-old son is his confidence. In Mark's own opinion, he's an expert in just about anything important or interesting.

Like the President of the United States, for example. He had to write a short descriptive paragraph about someone or something, and he chose the President.

I knew it was going to be an awesome paragraph as soon as he started it.

"Hey Mom, how do you spell 'Barack Obama'?" he called out to me.

"Just like it sounds!" I yelled back.

I could hear him spelling it out loud. "B-A-R-A-K O-B-M-A," he said.

"There's a C in Barack," I told him. "And Obama is exactly like it sounds--O-ba-ma."

"That's what I said," he told me, voice dripping with condescension.

He started in on the second paragraph. "Barack Obama was the first African-American President," Mark read. "He's got a wife and two kids."

He paused for a moment, thinking. He then followed that up with, "Ummm...that's it, I guess."

"Two sentences is not a paragraph," I reminded him. "What else do you know about the President?"

"I don't know," Mark shrugged. "He owns the White House?"

I sighed. This was going to be a long discussion.

"He lives in the White House, he doesn't own it," I explained. "You don't know anything else about Obama? Come on, you went to his inauguration, you've gotta know something!"

Mark shrugged.

"One more sentence," I ordered. "Where's he from?"

"I dunno."

"I'll give you a hint: He was a Senator from a state you have friends in."

Mark lit up. "Oh, Maine!" he answered.

"No!"

"Arizona?"

I shook my head.

"Florida?" he asked, hopefully.

"Try again."

He thought long and hard, then asked, "Big Bear?"

"No, the President is not from Big Bear!" I said, stifling a giggle.

"I give up," he said. "I don't have any other friends anywhere."

"Yes, you do," I chided him.

"Oh!" he said suddenly. He started writing furiously, then looked up with a smile. I was glad he'd finally thought of our friends the Brunks in Illinois.

"'Obama lives in the White House in D.C.' Done!" he said.

I sighed. "I thought you were gonna write where he was from," I said.

"I don't know where he's from," Mark said. He closed his notebook, and said, "You said one more sentence, so I'm done."

I wonder if this is the same process other Presidential biographers follow when they write.

Campfire confessional

I am currently re-training my hand to write the year 2011 on my checks, and I've pinned up my new wall calendar. The calendar which, incidentally, reminded me it's time to sign Mark up for diabetes camp.

It's weird to think about something six or seven months away, but space is limited and the camps fill up fast. So last night I went to the camp Web site and started completing the endless applications.

Mark was very excited--he loves sleep-away camp, and would spend his whole summer there if I could afford it. He was disappointed to see there were no consecutive week camps for his age group this year--last year, he went for two weeks, and it was the best fortnight of his life (mostly because he didn't ever change his clothes or make his bed).

He kept looking over my shoulder, and when I got to the section about money for the camp store, he started jumping around like an angry monkey.

"Thirty dollars!" he shouted as I moved the mouse toward the $25 button. "Come on, give me $30 for the store!"

"What do you buy at the store?" I asked.

"You know...diet sodas, Slim Jims, sunflower seeds," he answered.

"But you don't like Slim Jims," I said. I thought about it, then asked, "How much do sodas cost?"

"Like, 50 cents," he said.

"You're gonna buy 60 cans of soda in 6 days?" I asked. That seemed like a lot, even for a kid away at camp.

"No!" he sighed, like I am an idiot. "I only drink one or two a day. But I buy a bunch and use them for stuff with my friends."

That sounded...curious.

"What kind of stuff?"

"You know," he explained. "Challenges. Like, if they hop like a bunny for five minutes, or do 500 push-ups in a row, then I give them a soda."

"You're daring other kids to do stuff for SODAS?" I roared.

He realized it didn't sound good, and tried to back pedal.

"We all do it," he said. "Kids dare me to do stuff, too, and give me sodas."

I shook my head. "So basically," I said, "you're telling me you're all wasting our hard-earned money on stupid dares?"

"Yes!" he answered happily, relieved that I got it. I got it, all right, but I didn't like it.

"Hmmm," I said. I moused right past the $30 button, and past the $25 button I'd originally planned to check. Instead, I kept going until I found $15, and I clicked that one instead.

"What?" Mark screeched. "$15? That's NOTHING!"

"Well, then you'll just have to hop like a bunny," I told him. "Or do 500 push-ups."

Sometimes, it just doesn't pay to be honest.

Lessons in etiquette

I often say I'm raising a man, not a little boy (Mark's already an expert in acting like a little boy). I'm constantly teaching and reinforcing manners, so he'll know how to act like a gentleman.

This weekend, we had some impromptu refresher courses. The first was when we dropped my cousin Kathleen off at home.

"What are you waiting for?" Mark asked, as soon as she'd left the car.

"I'm waiting for her to get inside safely," I told him. "Always make sure your friends go inside before you drive off. And when you pick someone up, go to the door--you never honk for them from the road!"

He knew exactly what I was talking about.

"I don't even like girls," he mumbled.

"Well, when you do, and you go on dates, go to the door," I said.

The second lesson came when Mark and I entered a restaurant. He raced to the door, then cut me off to get in first. I stopped in my tracks and cleared my throat--he knows to hold the door open for a lady.

He turned around and asked, "What?"

I gestured to the door, then to myself, and he sighed. He came back outside, and held the door open.

"Fine, GO!" he groused, pushing me inside. I'm pretty sure this is not quite how I've taught him.

Later on, as we drove home, some idiot cut me off in the car. He then changed lanes and sped off, tires squealing.

"What a jerk," I told Mark. "Here's another piece of advice. That kind of driving does not impress girls. They might not say they're scared, but they are. So don't drive fast like that!"

"I don't like girls," he reminded me. But I've been watching re-runs of the Millionaire Matchmaker, and I was ready to impart some wisdom.

"When you go on a date, who pays?" I asked.

He sighed and answered, "The man."

"Good job!" I said. "How often does he pay?"

"Always," Mark answered.

He was on a roll, so I decided to test him a bit.

"What if she takes out her wallet and offers to put in money?" I asked. "What do you say then?"

I was expecting him to say "no thanks," but instead he shrugged and answered, "OK, if you really want to."

I looked at him in the rear view mirror.

"What?" he asked. I shook my head.

Looks like the lessons will continue...

It's a People thing

I take umbrage at the term "single parent," because while technically it's true, it diminishes my role. I'm not a single parent, I'm a double-parent, both Mom and Dad. In my home, I do all the work, but I only get half the credit.

Most of the time, I do a pretty good job raising Mark on my own. But let's face it, there are some times that I am an inadequate parent, not because of anything I did wrong, simply because of genetics. Gender differences. The fact that males and females are wired differently, and no matter how hard I try, I'm just never gonna be interested in monster trucks or weaponry any more than Mark is interested in talking about his feelings. ("I'm a guy," he chides me constantly. "We talk about video games, yo-yos, and sports--not about what we did over the weekend!")

But the truth is, he hangs out with me and my friends a whole lot, and as a result, he's become a big fan of both gossip and the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

I do try to balance out all the feminine influence by also encouraging Mark's natural male tendencies. I watched both Transformers movies with him (cars, robots and guns!), and when we watch America's Funniest Home Videos, I no longer fast-forward through the segments featuring baseball bats and soccer balls to the groin area (he loves those clips). I also turn a blind eye to his burping contests, as long as we're home and there are no easily offended people around.

But the other day, I realized maybe I need to try a bit harder, to give a little more time to nurturing both his feminine and masculine sides. This realization occurred during a Katy Perry song, when she was singing about being like a firework.

"Do you think she wrote this song for Russell?" Mark asked from the back seat.

Oh no, you din't, was the first thought that popped into my head. But what I said out loud was, "Russell who?"

I knew Mark would answer correctly, but I asked anyway.

"Russell Brand," he answered. "Her husband."

I looked at him in the rear view mirror for a long minute. There's no reason a 10-year-old boy should know who Katy Perry is married to.

"What?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.

"How do you know who she's married to?" I asked him. Don't say it, I begged silently. Please don't say it. But he did.

"People magazine," he answered, then flashed a huge, toothy grin at me.

And so I had to act, and quickly. I had to counteract the damage of being surrounded by too many females, and I had to give Mark a little guy time.

So I dropped him off at my brother Smed's house, where they engaged in a massive Nerf dart gun war. By the time I picked him up, he was exhausted and happy, and I no longer felt like I was depriving Mark of a male influence.

I bet dual-parent families never worry about stuff like that!

Fashion faux pas

Mark is a bit of a fashionista (fashionisto?). He has very strong opinions about what clothes he will and won't wear, and once he's made up his mind, that's it. No amount of begging, cajoling, or threatening will sway him.

For most of the year, it's not a problem. Mark's school requires uniforms, and though he grumbles about it, he does (mostly) adhere to the dress code.

Where we really run into problems are in the off season. Say, winter break, for example.

Mark had a recent growth spurt, and one morning during winter break, he realized none of his pants fit. Well, none of the pants he would wear, anyway, which number exactly two pair. Two pair of skinny jeans, one of which has become too skinny for him to even button. So really, he had one pair of pants, complete with torn knees, to wear for any and all occasions.

He does have eight other pairs of pants he has never worn, and four pairs of pants he wore once but swore he would never wear again. They are all brand-new, brand-name pants that any other boy would simply wear because they were clean and within arm's reach. Mark, clearly, is not one of those boys.

"They just aren't my style," he told me when I offered them up again.

"It's raining," I reminded him. "Are you going to wear shorts and be cold? Is that your style?"

"It's not raining that hard," he told me. "And it's not that cold. I'll wear a big sweatshirt."

And so he did. For the first day. And he shivered for most of it.

The second day, he was a little more creative. He came out of his room wearing his white baseball pants and his Dodgers jersey. He looked a little out of place, but at least the outfit made sense together.

By the third day, he was scraping rock bottom. He came out of his room wearing a t-shirt and his gray baseball pants. The outfit did not match, and worse, it didn't make sense. He just looked kinda...weird. I turned my head so he couldn't see me stifling a laugh.

"Did Mark have a baseball game this morning?" my friend Liz asked when she saw him.

"Nope," I answered. "His skinny jeans are dirty and he wouldn't wear any other pants."

Liz did not stifle her laughter.

By the end of the week, it was getting pretty pathetic. Mark wouldn't give in or give up on the skinny jeans. He even went so far as to do laundry, so he could wear them again. That's right, my 10-year-old son sorted, washed, dried and folded his clothes, just so he could wear that same damned pair of skinny jeans again.

And then the drought ended. Christmas morning came, and with it, new skinny jeans. A pair of black and a pair of purple jeans, in the appropriate sizes. Just for good measure, I bought him two more pairs at the after-Christmas sales. And even my friend Monica bought him a pair for Christmas.

"So he won't have to wear his baseball pants out in public again," she said, as I turned about five shades of red.

And all was right in Mark's world again. He had skinny jeans galore, and he was once again a happy boy. My son no longer looked like a poor little ragamuffin, so I was pretty happy, too.

Right up until yesterday, when he left his room wearing his old, too-small gray skinny jeans. The ones he refused to wear pre-Christmas because they were too tight. Suddenly, he had rekindled his love affair with them, and refused to take them off.

My first instinct was to throw my head back and roar, and scream that this was exactly the type of scenario that will be the death of me yet. To yell that I have seen Mark's future, and it is bleak--in fact, it involves him in a coffin, wearing those very same jeans, with imprints of my hands around his tiny little neck.

But instead of stroking out, I took a deep, calming breath. I explained that the skinny jeans no longer fit, and had been suitably replaced. And then I said if he didn't hand them over to me right then and there, he would suffer a punishment worse than death.

"Really, Mom?" he goaded. "Worse than death?"

"Yup," I answered. "If you don't take them off right now, I will throw out your new purple skinny jeans. You will never see them again."

He gasped--he had just seen the future, too, and it was worse than death.

I walked out of the room with significantly higher blood pressure, but at least I had those damned jeans in my hand, thereby ending the great skinny jean debate.

At least, until the next growth spurt.

Had a holly, jolly Christmas

Christmas is a time of quiet reflection, and of spending quality time with the family. Unfortunately, what I realized over this Christmas vacation is that it's nearly impossible to do both with my family. Turns out my family is LOUD. Don't know why I never realized that before, but it's true. (I know it's also hard to believe that I, the queen of quiet, hail from a loud family.)

We spent Christmas at my parent's house in San Diego, and it was loads of fun. For the first time in years and years, my family actually got to sit inside the actual church for Christmas Eve mass, instead of the bingo hall. We went to a later mass, 8:30, which we were finally able to do, because all the kids are old enough to stay up a little later now. Even my nephew, Johnny, who just turned four. He was a big hit during mass, singing "Go Tell It On the Mountain" at the top of his lungs, and playing with a handful of (unlit) candles. It's hard to be mad at a disruptive little kid when he's that cute.

Say "cheese!" Or in Johnny's case, "Cheesy grin!"

My poor mom was sick, so this is the most we saw of her.

Mark woke me early by opening the door and, with a grunt, throwing a giant blue bean bag straight at me.

"Look what Santa brought me!" he shouted.

"Cool," I answered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. It turned out to be a very popular gift--a bit of a kid magnet. They couldn't keep off of it.

Room for one more.

I heard excited voices in the room next door. Christmas morning had arrived, and soon enough, it was a blur of frenzied children and wrapping paper flying through the air.

Mark got the things he wanted most, including purple skinny jeans. My brothers proceeded to mock them (they are a really bright purple), but Mark just shrugged it off. (I love that about him!) He also got a super cool Jeep seat belt buckle belt from Seth and Sasha, which held up his tad-bit-too-big purple pants.

"Tuck your shirt in so people can see the belt," I told him.

"That's not really my style," he answered back.

"What's the point of wearing a cool belt if no one can see it?" I asked

He answered, "Uh, to hold up my pants?" and I had to admit he was right.

Purple skinny jeans and one happy boy!

The big hit of the day were the Nerf guns. All the kids got them, and the house went from flying gift wrapping to flying Nerf bullets. You couldn't walk anywhere in the house without getting shot--my dad even unloaded a whole magazine on me. My brother Smed set up Johnny and Grant's buckets of soldiers all along the couch, and all the boys (Smed included) took turns strafing the couch. It was a bit unnerving.

My nieces both got new phones. 10-year-old Gabi proceeded to send me approximately 147 text messages within the first hour, most of them while sitting right next to me. She wasn't at all interested in the phone's calling capabilities, and I'm predicting she'll get carpal tunnel in her wrists by age 12.

We ate a big holiday meal, which was excellent, and then went over to visit our friends, the Fera-Schanes. We took the kids, who were delighted when Sasha asked if they wanted to be filmed. (She's a grad student in children's programming.) I'm not sure what exactly was taped, but I could hear them bouncing and shrieking in the room next door.

I was in San Diego for the long haul during my brothers' overlapping visits. On Sunday, my sis-in-law Mary and I took our kids to the zoo. They liked the tour bus ride through the park, although the only animal that really interested them was a man dressed as an elf.

"Hi, elf!" Gabi yelled at him, which Grant thought was hilarious. Soon, they were both yelling, "Hi, elf! Bye, elf!" and completely missed the bears on the other side of the bus.

It was cold and gray, and the kids begged for something hot to drink. We bought them hot cocoa, which unfortunately, seemed to be missing a key ingredient--cocoa.

"It tastes like brown water," Nathalie observed. I immediately set mine down--the last thing I wanted to do was drink brown water at the zoo! Mark followed suit, but Gabi and Grant finished theirs, and spent the rest of the afternoon on a sugar high. Gabi decided to take pictures with her new phone and promptly filled up the memory card taking pictures of the signs at the koala exhibit. (I don't think she photographed any live koalas, just the signs.)

On Monday, my brother Tim and his family came to town. They love Coronado, so we piled into a couple cars and drove over to the dog beach at sunset. The colors were amazing, and even though it was chilly, the kids had a blast at the beach.










On Tuesday, we all went to Sea World. The kids spent most of the day getting soaked, by dolphins, Shamu and even the roaring rapids ride.








Tim managed to catch Grant at some point and tie his sweatshirt into a knot. It was pretty hard to convince Grant to go anywhere near Tim after that.



By Wednesday, it was raining once again, and we were trapped indoors with all the little hooligans. I decided that it was time for us to go, so Mark and I packed up all our gifts and stuffed them into the car. I was really worried the giant bean bag wouldn't fit, but we poked, prodded and pushed it until it did.

And then we piled into the tiny space left in the car and drove off, happy but tired. And Mark was already talking about what he wants for next Christmas!