The Baker is in

I had some overripe bananas in the kitchen, and decided they'd be perfect for some family bonding time.

"Wanna make banana bread?" I asked Mark, who excitedly answered yes. He loves to eat, which means he loves to cook by default.

"OK, what ingredients do we need?" I asked, flipping open my cookbook.

"Um, bananas," Mark answered, grabbing a bunch. He started singing the Rihanna song, changing her name to fit our activity. "Ba-nana...what's my name, ba-nana."

"Good," I said. "What else do we need?"

"Spam," he said, and I did a double-take.

"Banana and Spam bread?" I gagged. "That's GROSS!"

"I meant Pam," he corrected. "For the pan. Not Spam!" We both giggled at that.

"Um, we also need..." He scratched his head. Apparently, he has no idea what's in banana bread.

I gave him the recipe and he collected all the remaining ingredients. He put together the wet ingredients, and got an impromptu lesson on using the hand mixer when he lifted it too high out of the bowl and almost sprayed the whole kitchen in an eggy, sugary coating. Then he set that bowl aside and took great pleasure in mashing the bananas.

"Die, bananas, die!" he cursed them, and I reminded him we weren't really trying to kill anything here.

"You've gotta put a little love in your food," I said, forgetting my audience, who happens to be a rowdy 11-year-boy. He nodded earnestly, then went back to shouting, "Die, bananas!"

"What's next?" I asked.

"The flour," Mark answered. "We have to shift the flour."

"Sift the flour," I corrected.

"Whatever," he replied. "It goes in the flour shifter."

"How much do we need?" I asked.

"One-half cup," he said.

"OK. We're doubling the recipe, so we need twice that much," I reminded him. "What's one-half plus one-half?"

"One-fourth cup," he said, measuring it out. Man, two days off school and his math skills deteriorate!

"No, you have two halves," I said slowly. "If you have put two halves of a circle together, what do they make?"

"Oooooh!" he said, nodding his head. "They make two fourths!"

I sighed.

"It doesn't have to be perfect," Mark reassured me. "We can taste it as we go along and just add stuff. Cooking's not exact."

"But baking is!" I snorted. "You can't improvise with baking like you can with cooking--you have to follow the directions exactly."

"Yeah," he conceded. "Like, if I put in too much baking soda, then the bread will blow up!"

I saw the glee on his face and made a mental note to closely monitor how much baking soda he added.

Once the flour was good and "shifted," we poured in the wet ingredients. Mark mixed it for all of two seconds, until his arm hurt, then he handed the spoon back to me.

"I'm exhausted," he complained. But he found his energy once again upon remembering we had a bag of chocolate chips in the cupboard.

"Let's pour the whole bag in!" he said, licking his lips.

"Just a few," I cautioned. "It's banana bread, not chocolate bread."

He glared at me, and I reminded him that when he grows up, he can make his banana bread however he wants to.

"I will," he said, under his breath. I'm sure his bread will contain all chocolate, and little to no bananas.

We finally finished mixing and filled the loaf pans, putting them in the oven. An hour later, we had two beautifully browned loaves. I'll give you one guess as to which one we lit into first.

"These chocolate chips are soooooo good!" Mark sighed, chocolate smeared on his face. He smiled contentedly.

I smiled, too. And realized the next time we bake, I won't bother with banana bread. I'll skip the middle man and just bake chocolate-chip cookies.

Turns out that's what Mark wanted anyway!

It's not just for smelling good

Mark recently lost his deodorant, which he remembered as we strolled down the deodorant aisle of the grocery store.

"I need a new one," he told me. He sniffed his armpits and grimaced. "I need it BAD!"

"OK," I said. I scanned the shelves for the natural brand without aluminium or other chemicals. Mark searched the other end of the aisle.

"This one!" he shouted triumphantly, holding up a can of Axe body spray. I realized I was losing the battle of the tween-T.V. show advertisers.

"No, that's not age-appropriate," I told him. Then I remembered Edra mocking us when Mark got his first deodorant--it was Old Spice. She insisted it wasn't age-appropriate either, because it leaned toward the other end of the age spectrum.

"That's what old men wear!" she'd chastised me.

"But it has a football theme," I pointed out. "It says NFL on it." She stared at me and shook her head, so I shifted the blame.

"Mark picked it out," I snapped. "He wanted it."

But now Mark was moving into new territory. Besides costing three times as much as the chemical-free brand, it just made me...uncomfortable. I'm not sure why, it made no sense, but I've seen enough ads to know Mark's not their intended target audience.

But Mark's like a rabid attack dog. The minute I say no, he sinks his teeth in and refuses to let go.

"This is the one I want," he said stubbornly. He actually crossed his arms and shut his eyes.

I've learned that fighting Mark is not always the best tactic. Sometimes agreeing with him has better results.

"OK," I shrugged. I held the deodorant over the cart, then stopped for a second. "Except..."

"Except what?" Mark asked.

"Nothing..." I said, shrugging again.

"WHAT??" Mark prodded.

"Well, the girls love this brand," I said. "When you wear it, they won't leave you alone."

"OK, then NO," my little man immediately said. Mark snatched the deodorant out of my hand and pushed the cart out of the aisle. Apparently, he'd seen enough of the ads to know that is exactly what Axe body sprays is selling--the promise of intense female attraction.

That's the last thing he wants now--girls fawning over him. And trust me, I'm going to exploit that fact for as long as I can, because I know it won't last forever.

I snickered to myself. Sometimes it's just better to give in than to fight.

Complacency

It's taken me three weeks to write this, and I still shake when I think about it...

I've become complacent about Mark's diabetes "management." I count carbs and adjust insulin-to-carb ratios in my head. I test Mark's blood sugar late at night while I'm half-asleep, and I dole out juice boxes absentmindedly whenever Mark says, "I feel low." I don't give diabetes any more energy than it deserves, and diabetes doesn't like that.

It likes to be center stage. It likes to be in charge, and when it's not, it turns into a fearsome wild tiger, gnashing its teeth, and baring its claws. It reminds me that diabetes is "manageable" the way a caged tiger in a zoo is manageable; give it food and routine care, and it will mostly behave. But turn your back on it for a second, and it will rip you up, reminding you that it's not some wimpy domestic house cat.

Three weeks ago, that tiger attacked Mark.

It was a routine morning. Mark said he felt low when I tested him, but his blood sugar was an acceptable 97. I pre-bolused him for his breakfast, as I do every morning, and returned to bed.

Thirty minutes later, Mark refused to eat his meal, and started mouthing off at me. I'd only been awake a couple minutes, and I was sick. My patience level was set to low.

Mark refused to listen. He refused breakfast, his morning meds, my suggestions to get dressed. Finally, out of frustration, I called my brother Scott to talk some sense into him.

But Mark wouldn't listen to Scott, either. He laid on the floor and covered his ears.

I still couldn't figure out what was going on. Scott said, "Get some sugar into him right now," and it was like a verbal slap. Of course that was the problem!

I almost burst into tears. How dumb am I? I didn't even think about that, but Mark was probably low. He wasn't acting like himself, and even Scott, 120 miles away, realized it was diabetes-related. I wrestled Mark to the chair, and tested him. His blood sugar was 49--dangerously low.

The verbal assault went into overdrive. Mark went from yelling accusations to just plain shrieking. He turned into the Incredible Hulk--angry, and freakishly strong. I bear hugged him and shot some juice into him, but he spit it out, then flung the juice box across the room.

I tried glucose gel, but he spit that out, too. I even tried candy, but he chucked that across the room. He needed sugar NOW, but I couldn't get it into him.

I knew I needed the big gun--the glucagon. It's an emergency shot that comes with a big needle--it causes the liver to immediately dump all of its sugar into the bloodstream. I've never used it; all I know is that it's a weapon of last resort, and that it will make you vomit.

The Hulk was still in overdrive, trying to knock the glucagon from my hands. I debated calling the paramedics--the kid was really out of control, and I needed help right away. But I knew they wouldn't get there quick enough; the glucagon would work faster. I had to chance it.

And so I shot him. I ran by and stuck him in the arm, then threw him a trash can in case he barfed. He was still shrieking like a madman. I grabbed the phone and dialed 9, then 1, but before I got to the last 1, the shrieking suddenly stopped.

I looked at Mark. He went from screaming to an eerie silence in about a minute. He smiled at me and said, "I love you, Mommy." And then he started inhaling all the food on the table.

He downed his breakfast shake in two gulps, and stuffed the candy into his mouth. He yelled, "I need a turkey sandwich NOW!" candy falling from his mouth, and I snapped into gear.

It was amazing to watch him come back to normal. As soon as the food and glucagon hit his bloodstream, he calmed down. He was shivering and cold, and wanted a warm shower. I agreed, but stood just outside the door the whole time. The adrenaline and fear rampaged through my veins, and it felt like we'd just narrowly escaped a major medical emergency. I couldn't stop shaking or crying.

The good thing is, Mark didn't remember any of it--he blacked out during the whole episode. His blood sugar came back up, and he danced around the house playfully. I kept him home another 90 minutes, until he begged me to take him to school so he wouldn't miss recess. I finally did, but not until I'd hugged him about 500 times.

"You scared me to death," I told him. "I'm going to hug you and kiss you 175 times a day for the next month, and you're just gonna suck it up. You scared me that much!"

And to his credit, he agreed. I kissed him 20 times after that.

The hardest thing I've ever done was to let him walk off to class that day. I wasn't gonna be there to keep him safe, to protect him. Hell, I hadn't even been able to protect him that morning when he was in my care! I know what to do, I've trained and prepared for it, and still, it took my brother's voice to slap me into it. I almost broke down thinking what would've happened if he'd gone that low at school, or after school. Or even when he's 16 or 20 or 25, and taller and stronger than me. Who will stop the Incredible Hulk then???

But I couldn't think like that...it was too overwhelming. So instead, I steadied myself, took a deep breath and dried my tears. I shifted the car into drive, and went to work, where I couldn't do anything but worry about my kid all day long.

I'm beginning to realize now that as a mom, that worry never does go away...

My little bald hero

I usually treat Mark like a little kid simply because...well, he is a little kid. But sometimes, he reminds me by his actions that he's much wiser than I give him credit for.

Last week, Mark participated in his third St. Baldrick's day, to raise money and fight childhood cancer. He voluntarily gave up the thing he treasures most besides his purple skinny jeans--his hair. That's right, he stepped up on stage and let someone shave his head. As in bald. As in...gone.

The before picture. Enjoying a few last precious moments with his hair.

The after picture. He realizes what he really just did--buh-bye hair!

He even had to work to get his head shaved. I signed him up, but didn't know I had to turn in a parent signature. So at first, they denied Mark, and he called me in tears. But we got it worked out, and soon after, he joined the throngs of baldies who couldn't stop rubbing their newly-shorn heads.

I was a few minutes late, and missed seeing Mark get shaved. I was bummed, but then I looked around the schoolyard, where more than 100 other bald people were walking around, and I couldn't help smiling. It was really inspiring to see all these people step up and give so publicly. Not just give money, but give themselves--I mean, really, hair is important to people, and shaving it all off is pretty selfless.

Anyway, for Mark, it was a big deal for a few minutes. He helped raise money, he got to be onstage with his friends, and he'll get to wear his favorite baseball cap to school for the next few weeks.

But for me, it was a much bigger deal. It was a chance to see my son think of others, to act compassionately, and to think beyond himself.

And it's a chance for me to remember what a wonderful, thoughtful kid he is, and how lucky I am that I get to raise him.

I recently took Mark to the doctor for a routine check-up. It was then he learned firsthand that information can be not only dangerous, but sometimes downright embarrassing as well.

I took Mark in to get a tuberculosis test for camp. He was not happy about it, and fretted the whole time about the impending shot.

"You get shots all the time," I told him. "How can you be scared of this one?"

"Is it as big as the flu shot needle?" he asked anxiously. "Is it gonna hurt?"

"It's gonna feel like a needle in your arm," I answered. "It'll hurt for a minute, then it'll be over."

He decided not to think about. To distract himself, he perused a stack of informative brochures, selecting one with a graphic image on the front.

"Lawn mowers!" he said. He started to read the brochure out loud.

"The power lawn mower is one of the most dangerous tools around the home," he read. "Each year, 68,000 people are injured by power mowers. More than 9,000 of them are children. Older children and adolescents are most often hurt while cutting lawns as chores or as a way to earn money."

He lit up at the last sentence.

"Money?" he said. "Hey Mom, if I cut the lawn, will you pay me for it?"

"Not after hearing that," I said. "I like you with all your limbs attached."

"Children under 16 years should not be allowed to use ride-on mowers," he read, ignoring me. "Do not allow children to ride as passengers on ride-on mowers."

He stopped and pointed excitedly at the ride-on mower. An adult was pictured riding it, with a small child hanging on precariously behind him. The danger the picture implied was completely lost on Mark.

"Mom, check it out!" he said. "Can we get a mower like that? It would be so cool to ride!"

I glanced at him. "Do you understood any of what you just read?" I asked. Before he could answer, we were called in to see the doctor.

The doctor has three small examination rooms. Mark's favorites, in order, are: The room with the poster of ear infection photos, the room with the childhood disease photographs, and the room with the chart of vaccinations and the ages kids should get them.

Mark likes the ear infection room best because the photos gross me out. He describes the photos in detail while I gag. He also likes the poster of the childhood diseases; he quizzes me about them constantly ("Quick, Mom--which one is scarlet fever? Measles?").

Mark was disappointed (and I was thrilled) to get the vaccination chart room. No disgusting pictures here, but there was a whole new set of brochures to choose from.

"Your child has ADHD," Mark read, dismissing it quickly. "Uh, so what!?"

"Your baby won't sleep, something about girls, boring, boring, boring," he said, flipping past them all. He finally picked one.

"This one is about boys," he read. "I'll read this one to you."

I stifled a giggle--the brochure was called "Puberty in Boys." This would be interesting.

Mark browsed through the brochure, looking for a section to read to me, before turning three different shades of red.

"Um, yeah, OK, you do not wanna hear this," he told me. He paused briefly on a page, then shouted, "What? That's DISGUSTING!" He tossed the brochure aside.

But he couldn't help himself, and picked it back up. "OK," he said, "Here's something we can talk about--let's learn how to shave."

"We can talk about all of it," I reminded him. "It's not disgusting, it's called 'growing up.' It happens to everyone."

He shivered. He is not gonna make any of these talks go easily.

"Fine," I answered with a sigh. "Let's talk about shaving."

"Nah," Mark answered. "I changed my mind. I'm gonna grow a beard as soon as I can. I don't want some razor that close to my throat!"

And that's when the doctor walked in. Mark tossed the brochure away as quickly as possible, embarrassed, and I stifled another giggle.

Turns out the tuberculosis shot was not the most traumatic part of Mark's visit after all.

Camp Run-amok-a

Mark's favorite part of summer is going off to camp. He loves diabetes camp, because he doesn't have to bathe or make his bed all week. He also has easy access to diet sodas and a swimming pool, which he loves immensely (I swear, he's part fish).

I love diabetes camp because Mark goes off for a week like any other kid, and I don't worry about him at all (and coming just a few days after the scariest low he's ever had, that's saying a LOT). It's the one place I don't ever worry about him, because the staff includes doctors and nurses, and all the counselors have diabetes, too. I know he's well-cared for, and I am thankful he's in good hands.

So Mark was thrilled when a brochure for winter camp arrived in the mail. He was even more excited when a storm the weekend before dumped a ton of new snow on the ground.

I was less thrilled, because my sprouting son just outgrew both his snow boots and pants. (And I left them at my brother's cabin in Big Bear--otherwise, I would've crammed him into them, and told him to suck it up.) So off we went to buy him new pants and boots.

I would've settled for just snow boots...except there were none! Outside the window of the sporting goods stores, I could see snow-capped mountains. Inside, I was surrounded by flip-flops and bikinis. I really hate how stores sell clothing a full season ahead of time.

I finally found a store that not only had snow gear, but had it at a killer clearance price. I bought Mark snow boots and pants approximately two sizes too big, because if he outgrows it again before next fall, I'm going to be ticked!

Adding to the thrill of winter camp was that Mark also got to miss a day of school (this trip kept getting better!).

We met up at the bottom of the mountain with all his cabin mates, including their new mascot Rufus.



Rufus, a 7-month-old bulldog, was so ugly, he was adorable. He became a little less cute when he lifted his leg and tried to wet my shoes. His owner yanked him away just in time.

I was looking forward to a child-free weekend, and a wine-tasting trip with my friends. But the universe had other plans for us, though--all three of us got sick. Instead of traipsing the hills of Malibu with glasses of viognier, we all spent it locked in our homes, nursing colds and watching T.V. Sometimes life is just cruel.

Mark's weekend was much better. He arrived home a little miffed, because the counselors made all the kids shower before leaving. He was also a little mad about a couple camp activities--in one, they built a tower of marshmallows, and in another, they decorated cupcakes. And then they didn't get to eat either!

"What'd they do with the cupcakes?" I asked, confused.

"I dunno!" Mark shouted (he's very passionate about his sweets). "Probably threw 'em away!"

"That's just mean," I said. Kids with diabetes already have food issues--you can't give them sweets and not let them eat it. That's the whole reason for having insulin pumps! Bolus them for the food, or don't hand it out at all.

But Mark outsmarted them.

"I licked all the frosting off my cupcake, then frosted it again," he told me proudly.

"Did you bolus for the carbs?" I asked.

"I didn't have to," he said, still proud. "It was whipped cream frosting--there weren't even any carbs in it!"

I smiled. He's obviously been paying attention all these years, even when he pretends not to.

But Mark's anger was short-lived. He loved the snow, staying up late, and the sodas. He liked playing with Rufus, and staging snowball fights. He loved being independent, and eventually, after much prodding, he even admitted to missing his mom a little bit.

"I REALLY missed my cat, too!" the little stinker said. It's nice to rank right up there with the cat.

He even managed to bring all his clothes home (which doesn't always happen), including his new snow pants.

"Oh, but they're all wet," he warned me.

"How come?" I asked. I thought the point of snow pants was that they don't get wet and uncomfortable.

"They're a little big," he reminded me. "The snow went down my pants!"

And I decided that was just enough information for me. I hung the pants out to dry, and ended the conversation right there.

So even if he didn't get to eat the marshmallows or cupcakes, he still had a blast.

Wet pants and all...

Whose party???

Mark hit another milestone yesterday. He was invited to, and excited to attend, a birthday party.

For a girl. A girl who is not related to him, and therefore, not obligated to invite him to her birthday.

Ack!!! That's right, my (newly) 11-year-old (my baby!) is now attending co-ed birthday parties. And yes, ladies and gentlemen, that's me, Overprotective Mom, in the corner, having a series of tiny little heart attacks.

It started out with a simple piece of notebook paper Mark jammed into my hand when I picked him up from school. "Come to my party!" it read.

"A party!" I squealed (I love parties).

And then I kept reading...it was signed Emily.

I cleared my throat. "Who's Emily?" I asked ever-so-casually.

"A girl...a friend," Mark answered.

"A girlfriend?" I replied in the most immature voice possible. I watched a million microexpressions (mostly embarrassment and disgust) flash across Mark's face, and I mentally kicked myself for being such an idiot.

I immediately recovered. "I'm sorry," I told Mark. "I'll behave. So, she's in your class?"

"Yup," Mark sighed, relieved I wasn't going to torture him about girls. "We're going to see the movie 'Rango'! And Brandon's going, too."

So maybe I didn't have to worry after all. He really just wanted to go to the movies, and play with his guy friends, not flirt with girls. At least, that's the story I'm going with...

Mark had a blast at the party. When I arrived to pick him up, the boys were busy throwing baby avocados around the backyard while the girls watched on, giggling. I chatted with Emily's dad for a few minutes. He looked a little shell shocked.

"This was a big birthday," he told me. "First time she's ever invited boys."

"How'd you survive?" I asked.

He chuckled a bit and whispered, "It was so funny--they all got their pizza, and then the boys sat at one table, and all the girls sat at the other table. They didn't want to be too close!"

I giggled. Some things never change.

In the end, all the kids had a blast. They loved the movie, they loved the party, and Mark talked about it all the way home. He seemed very mature about it all.

Wish I could say the same for me and Emily's dad. I'm glad everything went well, but to be honest with you...I'm not ready for Mark to hit the boy/girl stuff yet!

Voicemail

I am fortunate to work at home sometimes, a fact I do not always share with my son. Because when he does know I'm at home, I get phone calls like these, which kept beeping in while I was on a phone meeting for work.

9:24 a.m.: "Hi Mom, this is Mark. So, um, I forgot my homework at home. Can you bring it to class? Unless you're in the shower...or at the grocery store. Then can you bring it afterwards?"

9:27 a.m.: "Hi Mom, my mistake. I DO have my homework. So, um, yeah. So, get out of the shower as soon as you can. So, bye."

9:31 a.m.: "Mom, I spaced again, I DID lose my homework. So, bye. Yeah, homework."

I found his homework, and double-checked his name was on it so I could leave it in the school office. It definitely had a name on it--Matt.

So at least Matt will be happy when I bring it to school. Mark, on the other hand, will still be looking for his homework.

He's fine

I'd like to say I am a sensitive, touchy-feely mom who raises my son with gentle words and loving encouragement. That I am more about discussing feelings and emotions than about strict punishment, threats or bribes.

But that would be a lie.

The truth is, I am my parents' child. The only discussions we had during punishment growing up was who was gonna smack the kids, my mom or my dad. The only time-outs we got were when my dad was removing his belt to smack us with it.

My mom could, and did yell, but she was also the master of inflicting massive pain by silently digging her sharp fingernails into our arms when we acted up in church. She never even missed a note during the hymns; she simply held the song book with one hand, and while singing about God's love, dug into our arms with the other. We knew better than to protest; the more you wiggled or cried, "Ow!," the deeper she dug in. Some people came away from church with inspirational, spiritual messages; we came away nervous, a bit jumpy, with broken skin.

Those were my parenting role models. Unfortunately, their lessons stuck with me, and except for physically inflicting pain, it turns out my parenting style is almost identical to theirs. I've tried unsuccessfully to be a more sensitive, loving parent, less screaming and more talking, but as my brother Scott always says, "I never yell the first time; I only yell the third time I ask you to do something."

But this is a different time than when I grew up. I don't spank my kid, and I'm more about consequences (good and bad) than about punishment. But I can't help it; I am a yeller. And sometimes I worry my yelling will hurt my delicate little boy. I worry that I'm not being sensitive enough, that he's going to come out damaged or with low self-esteem.

But after the other day, I'm not so worried anymore.

Mark brought home a test with a perfect score, and I seized the opportunity to praise him. I wanted to build him up, so I said how proud I was of his good work.

"Yeah, I did awesome," he agreed. "I'm awesome!"

"Um, yeah, you are," I answered. "And I'm glad to see you've got such a high self-esteem!"

"I totally do," he said. "I'm not one of those jackwagons with low-self esteem. I have tons of self-confidence. I ROCK!"

I stifled a giggle. I have no idea where he learned that word. But I'm glad to see that maybe he's not as delicate as I thought. His self-esteem is about as healthy as you can get without turning into a complete jackwagon.

Turns out he's fine. And turns out maybe I'm not doing such a bad job, either.

Blue and Gold

A couple weekends ago, Mark came to a bridge, and he crossed it.

It wasn't just any bridge--it was the bridge to Boy Scouts, where my little boy took one more giant leap toward growing up. My only consolation is that this activity still has the word "Boy" in it, so I can pretend for at least a few more years that he's still my little guy.

It was actually a two-night process. The first night, he and his Webelo patrol officially became Boy Scouts at the big pack meeting. As the younger scouts looked on, Mark and the other Webelos crossed over the bridge, and were met by Boy Scouts. The Scouts removed the Webelos' neckerchiefs, and replaced them with a spiffy new green Troop 120 neckerchief. As the crowd roared, the Webelos saluted and melted into the troop of Boy Scouts.

I walked Mark up to the stage, then watched him walk up the stairs alone. I'd like to say that when Mark's turn came, he addressed it with all the respect and dignity the moment deserved. But you know Mark, and as he always says, "That's not my style." Where most of the boys walked solemnly across (one boy even stopped mid-way to reflect on his experiences), Mark instead threw his arms in the air, raised the roof, and bobbed across the bridge. He nodded his head as though he were a rock star, which he kind of was, because everyone laughed. He loved it.

It was very sweet, poignant, and comical all at once, just like my kid. I started to get a little teary until Mark raced past me and my congratulatory hug, eager to get out to the customary post-meeting cookies and punch.

But the next night was the even bigger celebration--the Blue and Gold dinner. The boys crossed the bridge again, but this time they earned their Arrow of Light instead of a neckerchief.

To earn the Arrow of Light, Mark and his buddies completed numerous activities over the past two years. Mark learned all about first aid, showmanship, nature, woodworking, and properly using tools, just to name a few. He planned emergency escape routes and worked on a bike. He made a Pinewood Derby car and learned about computers.

The boys filled their Webelos ribbon with pins, offering up endless amusement to their parents as they did it. They rightfully earned their Arrows of Light, and we were all thrilled to celebrate!

My whole family came up to the dinner. They feasted on tacos, and congratulated Mark. Smed lectured Mark on wearing his uniform properly, and Scott teased him good-naturedly. My nieces and nephews ran wild with the Cub Scouts, chasing balloons through the gym.



My mom seemed pre-occupied with where she would sit, but I couldn't figure out why until she finally asked, "Where are they going to shoot the arrows?"

I pointed to the stage. "The man stands behind the boys and shoots the arrows into that haystack as they cross," I told her.

She immediately looked relieved. Turns out she thought the boys were going to shoot arrows through the gym. I assured her she was safe; the archer was a grown man with good aim.

At one point, Mark and his friend Kyler turned and ran from one end of the gym to the the other, weaving through the tables and zipping dangerously past diners shifting their plates out of the way. I was mortified, but also getting a cold, and couldn't yell at Mark to stop.

So I did what my mother would do...I shot him the evil eye, and willed him to stop running. And from across the gym, he felt that look boring into his back, because suddenly, he turned, stopped on a dime, and raised his hands up in his trademark "What?!?" gesture.

I pointed my index finger straight at him, then turned and waved it in a "come here RIGHT NOW" movement. And he did! He actually walked across the gym, head down, and apologized. Not only did he apologize, but Kyler came over and did, too! They walked away like the little gentlemen they are being trained to become, and I giggled to myself, then rushed off to tell my Mom I'd stopped Mark running from all the way across the gym--silently! She was so proud.

Then it was time for the ceremony to begin. Mark's patrol leader said some very nice words, congratulating the boys on their hard work. The boys all crossed the stage to light candles in the Arrow of Light symbol. The patrol leader called all the parents up on stage, to receive an Arrow of Light pin for our contributions (i.e., driving the boys to all the meetings). Mark whispered something frantically as I walked up, but I couldn't understand him. It sounded like "Grandma wouldn't even let me cough!" which didn't make much sense, since my mom was safely ensconced among all the other family members.

And then came the big moment. Each boy walked up to the microphone, and had his moment.

"My name is Mark, and I've earned the Arrow of Light," said one brown-haired little scout in glasses, of whom I am particularly fond. I'll admit, I teared up a bit at that, and even more so as he solemnly walked across the bridge. Behind him, the archer shot the arrow, and then Greg, the patrol leader, met Mark on the other side of the bridge, hand extended. They shook the secret Cub Scout handshake, smiled at me and my camera, and then Mark took his place with the other scouts. I was one proud mama.



The ceremony ended with the traditional candy lei, which the boys loved, and gift bags. Mark also received his arrow, and treated it with the utmost respect it commanded.



"I'm so proud of you!" I told him for the 720th time that night. "But I'm a little surprised you walked across the bridge so seriously."

"Grandma wouldn't let me!" he immediately shouted. "She was staring right at me, and she shook her finger right before I crossed. She shook it when I coughed, too--she wouldn't even let me cough!"

And suddenly, I understood what he was trying to tell me on stage. My mom is a super-proud, super-loving grandma, but she doesn't tolerate misbehaving children. I bit my tongue, stifling a giggle, and realized the apple didn't fall far from the matriarchal tree in our family.

Before I could even get back to the table, the massive cakes had been cut and doled out. All the children except Gabi were covered in frosting and chasing the balloons even more frantically. They were riding a serious sugar high.

So we packed up our stuff, and I bid Pack 206 a sad farewell. I'm not too sad, because I know I'll see most of the parents at Boy Scouts, as their boys move up. But still, Mark spent three fun years with the pack, and he loved every minute of it.



But as they say, onwards and upwards. Mark's thrilled to be a Boy Scout. "Now we aren't gonna the big kids in the pack anymore," he told me. "Now I'm just gonna be a little fish in the big pond."

But he smiled when he said it, and I knew it didn't bother him the least bit.

Toof two

It's raining teeth in my house.

The dentist told Mark he wouldn't lose any of his molars until he was 11. Sure enough, on the eve of his 11th birthday, Mark took a bite of his dinner, and spit out a tooth.

"It's a silver one!" he rejoiced. "I think you get more for metal teeth than for regular ones."

I smiled, neither confirming nor denying this fact. I love Mark's complete faith in the Tooth Fairy and her sliding scale.

I thought Mark would immediately hide the tooth under his pillow, but he had other plans for it. Scientific plans.

"I'm gonna stick it in a glass of milk," he told me. "To see if it makes the tooth cleaner."

He did precisely that, then stood over it, watching. I think he expected to see it whiten right away.

"Nope," he concluded after three minutes. "Milk doesn't work. Now I'm gonna make holes in it."

"You're what?" I gasped. He was reaching into the fridge for a can of Diet Sprite.

"I'm gonna make cavities, and show all the kids at school how bad soda is for them" said my little Diet Coke addict. I pointed out he might have better results if he used a soda with sugar in it.

And so he did. He worried he might walk by and be tempted to drink the Dr Pepper housing his tooth, so he wrote himself a little note.



This time his patience lasted a little longer. He left it overnight, racing to it first thing in the morning.

"Ewww gross!" was the first thing I heard the next morning. I awoke to him dangling a tiny brown tooth in my face. It was enough to make me want to stop drinking soda!

He bagged up the tooth and took it to school. Where he promptly lost it. And remembered two minutes before bedtime.

"My tooth!" he yelled, as I tucked him into bed. "The Tooth Fairy will still come even if I lost my tooth, right?"

"You lost your tooth?" I asked. "Where?"

"At school," he said. "Somewhere in my classroom."

I realized that teachers are most certainly under appreciated.

I thought the tooth issue was over until a couple mornings later. Mark awoke, and said sleepily, "I wonder if the Tooth Fairy came."

A full panic overtook me, and I said, "What do you mean?"

"I found my tooth," he explained. "I put it under my pillow last night."

...without telling your mom!

"Let's go!" I said. I'm the master of redirect, so I used a gruff voice, and ordered him to go eat breakfast. He complied, and I hurried for my wallet to help out the Tooth Fairy, who hadn't been properly notified.

Turns out all my rushing around was for nought, because Mark is the master of being easily distracted. He never went back to his pillow, not until three days later, after the housekeepers once again changed his sheets.

"Hey look, a dollar!" he screeched. "You think Molly Maids left it?"

"I think the Tooth Fairy left it," I sighed. "From the other night, when you left your tooth there." My son is cute, but sometimes a bit scatterbrained.

In the end, it all worked out. The tooth taught us numerous valuable lessons, including:

• Milk, despite its color, is not a whitener.
• Soda is bad for you.
• The Tooth Fairy requires adequate notice.
• Molly Maids is a very trustworthy service, even if they are probably a bit curious as to why Mark keeps hiding money under his pillow.

Memories...

I've been absently staring at this Lego warship in the shower for days.




Suddenly, yesterday, I was struck by a bout of sadness with the realization that someday, perhaps even someday soon, there won't be any more Legos in the shower.

Never thought I'd be glad to see my nighttime nemesis go (try stepping on a Lego at night, in the dark, barefoot. Or barefoot in the shower. Hello, excruciating pain!). But now that they are going, I'm kinda sad.

My little guy is growing up at an alarming rate, and Legos are becoming an endangered species in our house. I think this lone ship, and the fact that he received nary a Lego set at his latest birthday, signals an impending goodbye to childhood.

Not sure I like this...