Why I'll never be Mother of the Year

...because I don't care how sick Mark is, I will never, ever, ever use one of these!



Just the picture alone almost makes me vomit. Seriously. I gagged and teared up just showing the picture to Mark. He just shook his head and told me to stop looking at it.

So much for being one of those selfless moms who would do anything for her kids. I would do almost everything, but not quite.

And certainly not if it involves the word "snotsucker."

One last Easter post...

This was the sign that greeted me when I picked Mark up from school last Friday. I am entitling it, "Parent of a diabetic child's WORST NIGHTMARE."


That's right, Mark won a huge jar of fruit-flavored sugar (aka 319 jelly beans). My first instinct was to gasp and skip a heartbeat, but then I realized maybe it wasn't such a bad thing.

Instead of labeling it as giant, dangerous temptation to an 11-year-old with a gnarly sweet tooth, I'm deeming it instead enough sugar to correct 21 low blood sugar episodes.

Mark initially wasn't down with that; he wanted those jelly beans right then and there. But after conning me out of a few immediate jelly beans, and satiating that sweet tooth, he liked the idea just fine.

Especially since he's been having a lot of low blood sugars around bedtime.

"I can eat jelly beans every night before bed," he said dreamily. He smiled widely; not many parents would agree to that.

See, sometimes there is an up side to having diabetes.

Maybe he's African

Last week, Mark's class held try-outs for the annual Bunny Hop.

The Bunny Hop is a relay race comprised of kids from each class who pass a carrot instead of a baton. That team then competes against all the other classes for their grade.

Mark prefers the Turkey Trot in November since it's an individual race, but he tried out for the Bunny Hop anyway. He made the team, and told me all about the trial races. He counted out the top racers, and where they placed during the race.

"I won the first two races," he bragged, explaining that the top six runners each earned a spot on the team. Then his tone turned serious.

"Wyatt was in seventh place, so he 'fell,'" Mark scoffed, raising his hands in air quotes. "He didn't want to lose, so he accidentally fell down."

I could tell by Mark's disgusted tone that relay races are serious business, and I didn't blame Wyatt for staging a fall to save face. Seemed like a lot of pressure to me!

Mark gave me a play by play of each race. I know he's a super fast runner, but as he told the stories, I wondered if his common sense tripped him up during the trial races.

"Did you tie your shoelaces before your race?" I asked. "Or did you run right out of your shoes?" (I've actually seen him do that a lot.)

"No, my laces don't look cool when they're tied," he scoffed, as if I were the dumbest mom in the world.

"Well, then did your shoes fall off?" I pressed.

"No," he answered. "I wasn't wearing them."

"You...what?" I asked. Now I was thoroughly confused.

"I didn't want my shoes to fall off, so I ran in my socks," he said. Then he kicked off his shoes and showed me the proof.





"You ran around the field IN YOUR SOCKS?" I gasped. And ticked another mental box as to how boys are different from girls.

"Yup, and I won!" he reminded me.

And so he did. I wasn't sure whether to scold him, question him further, or just accept it. Ultimately, I just congratulated him on his wins.

"You know, some of the fastest runners are from Africa," I told him. "And they don't wear shoes or socks! They run barefoot during marathons."

I immediately regretted sharing that story with Mark--he'll probably never wear shoes again.

His team didn't fare well in the official hop, but it wasn't due to a lack of shoes. Apparently, one of the kids dropped the carrot, and was scorned by the entire class. Mark shook his head angrily as he shared the story.

Bu then he shook it off, and ran out to the backyard to run some more.

"I've got to practice a lot," he told me somberly. "There's not much time left before the Turkey Trot is here."

I nodded and watched him run off through the house. At least he was still wearing shoes.

Candypalooza

Easter is the second favorite holiday for the children in our family, right after Christmas. I'd like to say it's because they are rejoicing in our Lord's resurrection, but really, it's all about the candy. Easter is just one big cavity of happiness to them.

We started off the celebration Saturday afternoon, by dyeing our Easter eggs.

I think the kids got more dye on their hands than on the eggs...



My younger nephews, Grant, 6, and Johnny, 4, were more about speed than accuracy. Before Mark finished dyeing his first egg, Johnny had already colored five.

"I'm done!" he announced, as he plunked a dripping egg into the carton. "Now can we have candy?"

The older kids reminded him that the Easter Bunny hadn't even come by yet, so there was no candy. He did not like that answer.

"Then can I color more eggs?" he asked. The kids around him immediately moved their eggs before Johnny swiped them.

My mom spent the afternoon cooking, and we enjoyed a fantastic holiday meal. It was the wrong holiday (we had turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes), but it was tasty none the less.

As bedtime neared, the excitement level ratcheted up. The bigger kids wanted to hide and see the Easter Bunny, and Johnny just wanted to talk. He could care less about the Easter Bunny, he just didn't want to go to sleep.

When I checked on them an hour later, the kids were still awake and giggly. Mark feigned sleep until my niece Gabi exclaimed, "Mark lost his tooth!" And sure enough, when I grabbed his blood sugar test kit, a tiny tooth rolled out instead of his meter.

Mark jumped up to show me the bloody gap. I sent him off to rinse it out, and he peeked at the Easter baskets in the adjoining room.

"Did the Easter Bunny come yet?" he asked.

"Go to bed!" I reprimanded. "It's 10:30! He's never gonna come if you guys don't go to sleep."

And so, finally, late in the night, they slept. Soundly. Until...

...I heard giggles at 6 o'clock the next morning. I heard the little boys cheering and ripping in to their baskets. They were wide awake, and there was no way they'd go back to sleep, especially after consuming half their candy.

I met my sister-in-law Mary in the hallway. She confiscated their baskets and sent them back to their room.

Finally, to the relief of the little boys, the rest of the family woke up. The kids were very excited about their Easter baskets...



...and even more excited about the contents.



We ate breakfast, and sent the children off to dress in their Sunday best. Once they were dressed, I herded them outdoors for the disaster I like to call the family portrait.

Here was the first picture I took:



I then took 72 similar pictures, none of which met the minimum requirements of all kids smiling, all kids facing the right way, and no kids squinting. Johnny was determined to sabotage every picture.






Johnny lost interest in being in any picture, until I started photographing Mary and her kids. Then he wanted to be in the picture.

Unfortunately, he couldn't keep his hands off the feathers in Gabi's hair, so he got booted from the photo shoot.




I found more willing (and less hyper) models in my parents. They didn't squint or give me cheesy smiles--they looked great!



I was riding high after such cooperative models. I felt so confident, I tried shooting portraits of the children again. You can see how well that worked.






By the end, the children were so sick of photos, they actually begged to go to church. We obliged them.

When we returned, Mary and I readied the yard for the annual Easter egg hunt. I tossed my eggs all over the yard, but found Mary being much more creative. She even sent a raft of eggs floating into the pool.




The kids found all the eggs and were eating themselves into their next dental appointment when we sat down to lunch. My mom and brother Scott outdid themselves cooking again. It was an awesome lunch!

I know the candy was the highlight for the kids, but I most enjoyed the company. I spent all my childhood Easters hunting eggs in the backyard, and sharing big celebratory meals with my family. And now, as an adult, I'm grateful to pass that same opportunity on to my son.

Right now, it may just be about the candy. But someday, I hope Mark will treasure these times with our family, and the holiday memories, even more than he does all that chocolate.

Who says software engineers don't have a sense of humor?

The good news: We have an espresso machine at work.

The bad news: It comes with instructions. FOUR PAGES of instructions, in very small type. (See them to the right of the espresso maker?)



But some witty software engineer came up with a better, simpler solution to get your caffeine fix.




After reading the espresso machine instructions, I agree that the second suggestion really is easier and less time-consuming!

Long live the red and white striped vests!

When I was a little kid, my family spent every birthday or special event at an ice cream parlor called Farrell's. Farrell's was the most awesome place in the world, because of the following reasons:

• It was an ice cream parlor. (Yum, ice cream sundaes!)
• The exit was a candy store. (Yum, sugar!)
• There was a piano that played songs--on its own! It used scrolls, but no pianist.
• It was loud.

Let me explain that last bullet. You might think loud as in, "My, there are a lot of families here, and their children are excitable and speaking in loud voices." No, that is not the kind of loud I mean. I'm talking about sirens blaring and the chaos that ensued after they started wailing.

Every kid who grew up in Southern California knew what those sirens meant. We knew that as soon as the sirens started, we'd better put down our spoons, and pull our feet out of the aisles. Because momentarily, the place would be filled with running waiters.

The waiters dashed through the restaurant, over booths, through the different rooms. One waiter carried a big bass drum, pounding it violently, and two other waiters carried a stretcher on their shoulders. The stretcher held a gigantic bowl of ice cream (30 scoops!), and every kind of topping you could imagine. It was also filled with little plastic choking hazards--er, animals. And every kid from Southern California knows what this delicious monstrosity was called--the Zoo.



We never got the Zoo. I witnessed it descending on other families, and wished more than anything to be invited to a party where some lucky birthday boy or girl celebrated with a Zoo. But it never happened. What did happen was that I grew up, and Farrell's went out of business. My dream died a quiet little death as the last player-piano stopped playing, and the siren was silenced forever...

Until...this past weekend!!! A friend mentioned Farrell's, and that one had returned to Southern California. I couldn't get my smartphone to work fast enough. And then I found it, an hour away, but still in the state. Farrell's lives! And so did my Zoo dream.

I immediately texted my brother Smed, who shared my dream. He was equally excited beyond belief.

And so, this past weekend, we made it happen. We loaded the car with our family and friends, and drove an hour to relive our youth. And yes, my friends, we got the Zoo!!!




We got there early, to avoid the Saturday night crowd we imagined would fill the place. We looked over the menu, and my brother pointed out one menu item which was not part of our childhood memories--beer! Yes, you can order beer at Farrell's--the day kept getting better and better.



Everyone but Mark and I ordered dinner, a choice I knew they would regret.

"You aren't eating dinner?" my cousin Kathleen asked me.

"I'm having THE ZOO for dinner!" I answered.

"But you aren't eating dinner first?" my friend Edra asked. Obviously, they were unclear on the whole reason for coming here!

"I'm eating THE ZOO for dinner!" I yelled. (It really is loud in there!)

"What about Mark?" our friend Shanda asked.

"He's eating the Zoo, too!" I said. Seriously, people, we didn't come for the food--we came for the ice cream!

But then the guilt set in, and I kinda felt like a bad mom feeding Mark only ice cream. I made him order an appetizer we could split, and he chose mozzarella sticks. So yes, I had beer, fried cheese and ice cream for dinner.

Luckily, we got a waiter who was happy to fulfill our Zoo dreams.

"Are there any ice cream flavors you don't want?" he asked helpfully, taking our order.

"No!" Smed and I both shouted.

"Any toppings you don't want? We have pineapple, cherry, chocolate--"

Smed and I cut him off. "We want it all!" Smed answered. I smiled at him--we were both thinking the same exact thing--we wanted everything the Zoos of our childhood contained, whether we liked it or not! If it was on the Zoo then, it better be on our Zoo now!

Our awesome waiter conned the staff into not one, but two, laps around the restaurant with our Zoo. He screamed a whole story about Christopher Columbus sailing the ocean with ice cream, or some other nonsense, but I couldn't focus on his words. The minute that siren went off, Smed and I jumped out of our seats, cameras ready.

Our Zoo! I waited a long time for this...

They made it a lot harder to choke on the plastic animals.

Childhood dreams fulfilled!! Oh yeah, and our kids liked it, too.

The aftermath, aka Sometimes childhood dreams kick your butt.
I told them not to order dinner!!

It turned out to be the coolest night. I joked about how old we were now, that a big Saturday night out was whooping it up in an ice cream parlor, instead of a bar.

The kids were all jacked up on a sugar high. Corban and Johnny were running all over the place, and Corban's dad took turns spinning both little boys around in circles. They were laughing wildly, until suddenly, Corban was vomiting instead. Yup, right there in the middle of the restaurant, he upchucked all his sundae. Turns out our grown-up Saturday night ended the same way as many of our bar-going Saturday nights after all!

We made a quick exit after that. We were full, and completely overstimulated by all the screaming waiters, sirens, and drums. But we were also happy beyond belief.

Giant cat toy

What's more fun to play with than a cherished and hard-earned Cub Scout Arrow of Light? As my very, very Bad Cats pointed out recently, nothing!

Until yesterday, the arrow was safely displayed in the dining room so visitors could fawn appropriately. Well, someone did, indeed, notice it. But instead of fawning, he realized it looked like a pretty good toy.

I blamed Frankie, the original Bad Cat, who's responsible for most of the cat-inflicted damage in our home. But mid-way through my scolding, I noticed a set of glowing eyes lurking in the background, waiting for another chance at the precious arrow (or more specifically, the irresistible feathers at the end of the arrow). Elvis!



I chased Elvis off and returned the arrow to its place of honor. I went to the kitchen, but when I returned, the arrow was back on the floor. Frankie, who'd never even noticed the arrow before, was ready to pounce on it.

The arrow has been moved to a new place of honor in Mark's room. His walls are getting painted next week, so I'll hold off nailing it into the wall until then.

Let's just hope the dang cats can hold off, too...

Falling star

Mark is a rabid Dodgers fan, and I am not. His favorite player up until last year was Manny Ramirez; mine was not.

"He's a cheater," I told Mark. "He takes drugs to play better. That's cheating."

And because I didn't watch my words, I had to explain the drugs were actually steroids, not street drugs, but that didn't make them any better. I also explained steroids harm your body just as much as street drugs, and they take away the sporting aspect of baseball.

"You think Hank Aaron took steroids to make him hit farther?" I asked. "What about Babe Ruth? Jackie Robinson? No, they played fairly, using their own strength. They didn't take shortcuts."

Then Ramirez was traded away from the Dodgers, ending our debate. Until last week...

"Your favorite player retired from baseball today," I told Mark, the day the news broke.

"Manny?" he asked. "Why?"

"He had a drug test, and it came back with an 'issue,'" I said.

Mark nodded, knowingly. "Oh," he said. "More asteroids?"

Took me a minute to realize what he meant, then I started giggling.

"Yup, he tested positive for asteroids," I said.

I've heard of baseball stars, but that was the first time I'd ever heard of baseball asteroids.

MacGyver Junior

Mark loves bandages. He likes the regular adhesive strip bandages you put on tiny cuts, but what he really loves are the long, gauzy bandages you wrap around a sprained ankle.

"I sprain my ankle a lot," he told me. "Maybe I need to go to the doctor."

"Or maybe you just need to tie your shoes," I said. I've noticed that since he's worn his laces untied in the name of being cool, the ankle "injuries" have increased tenfold.

The school nurse's bandage supply must be running low, because Mark brought home at least three or four in the past two weeks. I couldn't tell if he just likes the attention/sympathy he gets when he's wearing them, or if he's wearing them as a fashion statement. Yesterday, while doing laundry, I got my answer when I saw this:



Definitely a fashion statement.

That's right, the bandages support more than just ankles--they also support skinny jeans two sizes too big. You know, the pair Mark swears fit perfectly. And it doesn't matter that he has at least five decent belts, he chose to MacGyver his pants into some sort of pirate outfit using this raggedly old bandage to keep them up.

I'm going to look at this in a more positive light. Maybe I have a future clothes designer on my hands, and this is one of his signature designs.

Or maybe I'm just wasting my money on belts. From now on, I'll just buy packages of gauze bandages instead of belts from now on. They are much more versatile than belts, and serve many different purposes.

See, I'm inspired already...Thanks, MacGyver.

Did I earn a merit badge, too?

This weekend, Mark went on his first Boy Scout camping trip. Which meant I also went on my first Boy Scout camping trip.

I was a little nervous. First of all, I've only camped once since college. I am old now, and less inclined to think of sleeping on the ground as an adventure.

Secondly, when camping in college, we always packed beer first. Anything after that was incidental or a nice surprise ("Oh, sleeping bags! That was a good idea! Who packed those?"). I'm an adult now, so alcohol is no longer the number-one priority like it was for my college self. But now I'd have to actually learn how to pack for a real camping trip.

I packed, all right. And wondered if maybe I'd overpacked. Because this was how many bags I had, and only two of them were Mark's:





Mind you, this was an overnight camping trip. Here in the city, close to provisions. We weren't even in the desert or mountains, or some other remote location. I have no idea how we'll pack any more gear in my little car for an extended trip.

We arrived at the Boy Scout camp, and the boys went to work setting up. I went to lunch with my friend Liz (I told you, this was city camping!).

I returned to set up my tent, and immediately ran into problems. The little O rings with the tent stakes wouldn't stick in the mud. The stakes were only about an inch long, which didn't seem to work. My tent also wouldn't stand up after I threaded the poles through, so I jammed the pole ends into the dirt for stability. It didn't work.

The troop leader sent over four Scouts, who figured out what was wrong in about 30 seconds.

"You put these little rings into the tent poles," one boy told me. "But they're all full of dirt--that's weird."

It wasn't the last time that weekend a Boy Scout would prove smarter than me.

"Um...well, that's my fault," I stammered. "I...kinda...shoved the poles into the mud." God bless those Scouts, not one of them laughed. They patiently dug the caked-in dirt out.

They got my tent all set up. My home-away-from home looked pretty good.




"Did you bring a mat?" the troop leader asked, and I nodded. I didn't tell him it was actually a queen-size air mattress.

Unfortunately, my air pump was powered by the cigarette lighter in my car. Which was parked about 300 yards away. I'd have to pump it up in the parking lot and sneak it back to my tent. I inflated the mattress, and realized there was no way I could discreetly deliver it to the tent. I slung it on my back, and refused to make eye contact with any Scouts. I didn't fool anyone.

"Roughing it tonight, huh?" one of the Scout leaders asked with a smile on his face.

"I'm still new to this," I answered. I was making quite the impression on the Scouts.

The boys spent the afternoon completing activities. I took advantage of our location and the busy schedule and went to get a haircut. When I came back, I asked if I could help out. The troop master shook his head, and told me the boys run the camp, so they'd be cooking. I was beginning to like Scout camp.

The boys did, in fact, run the camp and meals, and did a great job at both. The new Scouts learned a lot, and the older Scouts were very patient teaching them.

Dinner time rolled around. The Scouts cut up potatoes, onions, carrots, and bell peppers. Then they put them in a foil packet, slopped on some raw hamburger, and folded them up into "hobo pockets." The name seemed especially fitting, since we were camping right next to the railroad tracks.

Mark made the newbie mistake of putting too much hamburger in, shaped like a big meatball. He added his pocket to the others balanced precariously over the fire, but it took almost an hour for his pocket to fully cook. .

"It's like food Jenga!" one Scout observed, as he carefully pulled a pocket from the bottom of the pile. Everyone groaned as another pocket fell into the fire.

Next up was the campfire. We were treated to Dutch-oven cobbler (fantastic!) and skits that went on forever, and sometimes ended without a punchline. We solemnly retired a few old flags, which flamed up pretty high and freaked us out a bit.

Finally, we retired to our tents. I slept great on my air mattress.

I awoke early the next morning to boys yelling, "Wake up, Scouts! Time to get up!"

I waited a few minutes for Mark to call me on the walkie-talkie and tell me his blood sugar number, but he never did. I got up to find him.

I approached the group, and was greeted by the Troop leaders. One offered me a cup of espresso (ooh, fancy camping!), which I gladly accepted. I looked around for Mark, and another leader told me to put my blinders on.

I didn't understand at first, until I saw this:




That's right, s'mores for breakfast! Breakfast of champions. I just smiled. I wasn't going to be the buzzkill mom who ruined the camping trip by lecturing them about nutrition.

I still didn't see Mark, and I had my suspicions on why not. I approached his tent, and saw this:



That's right, my slacker kid was still in bed. I told him to check his blood sugar and get up. Then I told him he was missing out on s'mores for breakfast, and how often does he get those?

Even that didn't motivate him. I sent a couple of his friends to wake him up. Jonah stood at the tent and politely tried to convince him out of bed. Sean handed me his marshmallow skewer and ran to jump on Mark. I could see the tent shaking from the commotion, but still no Mark.

I went to the tent and dragged Mark out. I dumped him out of his sleeping bag, and we were laughing uncontrollably...until the Troop leader appeared, and quietly but firmly told Mark his mother shouldn't have to drag him out of bed. He told Mark to get up and get dressed, which Mark did immediately. I mumbled "Sorry," and went back to my side of camp, where I wouldn't be a bad influence any more.

The boys made a second breakfast of pancakes and Dutch-oven french toast. (I got a Dutch oven for Christmas, and can't wait to try out some of these recipes!) The boys broke down camp afterwards, and although the Troop leaders offered up volunteers to break down my tent, I did it myself. I like a challenge, and putting the tent back into its tiny little bag was a good one. It beat me last time we went camping, but I wasn't going to let it beat me this time--I made it fit!





All in all, I have to say Scout camping was pretty fun. I'm looking at it as a dry-run, a chance to see what I need or don't need for next time. Here's what I came up with:

• More blankets/jackets. The wind was chilling, and I will remember next time that the outdoors are cold.
• I need a mess kit for myself. Mark did not want to share his with me, and only lent me a spoon and bowl when I threatened him with cleaning the cat litter box for he next six months.
• Mark needs a metal mess kit. Putting a flaming hot hobo pocket on a plastic plate--not a good idea.

• I may need a smaller sleeping bag, since my warm, fluffy one filled half the gigantic duffel bag above.
• I definitely need a battery-operated air mattress pump so I can discreetly inflate my mattress inside my tent. I'm glad the Scouts enjoy roughing it, but this Diva needs her beauty rest.

All in all, it was a blast. The Troop leaders were so friendly, and really welcomed me. They were as patient with me as the older Scouts were of the younger Scouts.

As the lone female, I tried my best to stay out of the activity and just be an observer, not an intrusive mom. And even though I offered to help, the leaders made it clear the boys were to do all the work. So I got to spend the afternoon reading, relaxing, and enjoying the camp. I could definitely get used to that!

I'm actually kinda looking forward to the next trip...

Just hit snooze

To say that Mark and I aren't morning people is a bit of an understatement. Well, actually, that's not 100% percent accurate--Mark pops out of bed at 7 a.m. just fine on weekends to play Wii. It's just the other five days a week he has trouble with.

Most weekday mornings at our house are a big grumpfest. They go a little like this.

Mark's alarm goes off. I can hear it through the monitor in my room.

Me, internal thought: Dammit. Maybe he'll turn it off.

He does not turn it off. Three minutes later, the clock radio in my room also goes off, and now Ryan Seacrest is annoying me from two different rooms. Reluctantly, I drag myself out of bed.

"Mark, time to get up."

No movement from Mark's bed.

"MARK, time to get UP."

Slight movement, still no acknowledgment. I groan.

"MARK, TIME TO GET UP NOW!"

The groaning comes from Mark this time.

"I don't wanna," he grouses.

"Me neither," I answer. "But it's time anyway. Get outta bed!"

He complies, but the battle is only half battle over. The other half begins--convincing Mark to do the same chores he does every other morning, but still seems to surprise him each day.

Mark: "I made my bed yesterday!"

Me: "Make it again."

Mark: "I picked up my floor last night!"

Me: "Pick it up again."

Funny, I never hear similar arguments on weekends. I imagine they'd go like this:

Mark: "I watched T.V. yesterday!"

Me: "So what? Go watch it again."

It got to the point that our mornings were so negative, we had a talk about it. Then we talked about it again 300 more times. Mark even began writing himself a daily reminder on the bathroom mirror:

Finally, we both agreed to work on the cranky factor so that we could start our days a little nicer. I also moved Mark's bedtime a half-hour earlier, and declared he must eat breakfast immediately upon waking. The results from that were nothing short of miraculous.

Now, instead of a grumpy kid, I have the exact opposite: Mr. Sunshine. Every morning, it's "Good morning, Mom! I love you Mom! Gimme a hug Mom! I LOVE YOU!! Wanna play?"

I didn't think there was anything worse that having two grouchy people in the morning. Turns out, it's waaaaay worse to have only one, and worst of all, to be that one. The only thing more irritating than a grumpy kid is an overly-happy one bouncing throughout the house before I'm fully awake or ingesting coffee.

Mark's still writing his daily "No grumpyness" reminder, but I don't think it's for him anymore. I think there's only one way to fix this new situation: put myself to bed a half-hour earlier, and eat my breakfast upon waking up, too.

Otherwise, I may choke out the new little happy morning person in my house.

Might choke Arty, but it ain't gonna choke Stymie

They say dinner is the most important meal as far as family bonding. It's the time when families come together, share their day, and leave the table physically and emotionally refueled.

Obviously, the people who make those claims haven't had dinner at my house. Because I also come away from my table laughing.

I knew I was in for trouble as soon as I sat down for dinner the other night. Mark appeared at the table looking like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. He sat, smoothed his place setting, then noticed me watching him.



"What?!" he asked, as though I eat dinner with Ninja Turtles every night.

"Nothing," I answered. "Can you pass the salt, Karate Kid?"

"I'm not hungry," Mark said. Then he tucked into his dinner like it was his last.

He attacked the giant artichoke he'd picked out the night before. I selected one half the size, but Mark slapped my hand away and grabbed the biggest artichoke I've ever seen.

"This one!" he yelled. "Buy me this one!"

"I don't think that will even fit in the pot," I told him, but he wouldn't be swayed. We ended up with a two-pound artichoke which, in fact, did not fit in the pot I tried cooking it in. I figured it would take him two nights to eat that gigantic 'choke.

He dug into that monster happily, tugging off the leaves until only the suggestion of an artichoke remained. I cleaned the fuzzy parts off, and he polished off the artichoke heart, dripping butter onto the table.

"Oh my god," he moaned at the end. "I shouldn't have eaten that much..." He eyed the artichoke carcass and groaned.



He lay his head on the table for a bit, pointed at my dinner and asked, "How can you eat all that?"

"All what?" I asked. "I didn't devour my weight in artichokes like some people."

"It was...so...good," he said, like those were his dying words. "But why did you give me so much?"

"Drink your milk," I replied, which prompted the second act of his one-man-show.

"I'm so fullllllll," he grumbled. I smiled, and he sat up instantly. "Unless there's dessert..." he said. He smiled, trying to charm me in case there really was dessert.

"There's no dessert," I answered. "I don't want you to explode."

He resumed his complaining, and I gently reminded him about moderation, and how all good things come in that.

Not that I minded all that much. I mean, really, before Mark, I'd rarely seen a child willingly eat vegetables, let alone gorge himself on them. So I count my blessings (like having a child who really likes veggies) in whatever crazy, distorted way they appear.

Travelling circus

Being a Boy Scout mom is almost as fun as being a Cub Scout mom, and it's equally entertaining.

Mark had a troop meeting last night. He was very excited to go, and I stuck around so I didn't miss any info about the new Scout outing next weekend.

The adult Scout leader welcomed the boys and gave them all sorts of information. He told them about upcoming trips, including white water rafting, which he sold as being super fun, mostly because the boys were almost guaranteed to fall out of the raft and into the river at some point. He promised there would be water fights, and they'd shoot each other in the face the whole time with squirt guns. And oh yeah, he added, the river would be ice cold, so they had that going for them.

He wasn't exaggerating about ice cold river water, because the next thing he brought up was how they'd wear wetsuits to keep them warm. And with the thought of being pelted by ice cold water to the face, I was out of the rafting trip.

The next adventure they discussed was the weeklong camping trip in the redwoods, which actually sounded like fun. They'll drive to San Francisco and camp by the bay the first night.
The next day, they'll take BART into town and ride the streetcars, go to Ghiradelli Square and walk to Chinatown.

"Yeah!" one of the young Scout leaders interrupted. "And just so you know, guys, you can buy a Samurai sword in Chinatown for only TEN BUCKS!"

The room immediately burst into simultaneous cheers (from the boys) and groans (from the parents). One of the moms reassured us that that the boy was actually trying to inspire the other Scouts, and not just freak out the parents. I remained unconvinced.

And with that, the informational portion of the meeting was over. The boys jumped out of their seats, and began doing...I don't know what. Two boys began jumping over the chairs, while another did an impressive Roger Rabbit dance.

The older boys stood in a circle discussing something, and shoving each other, while our younger boys, also in a circle, knocked each others' hats off.

"I'm waiting for them to start the toe-stomping game," I whispered to my friend Liz, who nodded in agreement. She noticed the boys each had a piece of paper.

"Are they supposed to be doing some activity?" she asked. "Are those the instructions?"

I wasn't sure, but a moment later, an older Scout rounded up our boys and herded them outside. Liz and I watched as a group of older boys outside grabbed on to a rope. We thought they might be doing a tug of war, but then saw they were forming a giant circle with it.

I noticed some other parents completing paperwork. I realized those were probably permission slips for the new Scout outing, and asked if we should complete them as well.

"Yes," the mom in charge told me. I waited for her to hand us the slips, but she said the boys had them. We realized those were the papers the boys were holding earlier. Liz and I also realized at the same moment what condition the papers would now be in.

"Let's go get the papers before they lose them," she said, and we hurried outdoors.

The Scouts were in full swing with the rope activity. And I literally mean full swing, because as we left the auditorium, Liz almost got clocked by a group of them flying toward her with their rope circle.

We braved the blacktop, heading toward our boys, and I realized that a) we were the only parents out there not in uniform, and b) we were the only women out there.

This fact did not go unnoticed. The adult Troop leader intercepted us ("Moms trying to ruin the fun at 11 o'clock!"), but we told him we just wanted the permission slips from the boys. He let us pass.

I was surprised to find our boys still had the permission slips. I was not surprised by the condition they were in. Mark reached into his pocket and tossed this to me.



The other slips were folded up tightly or equally crumpled. We couldn't help but laugh. We completed the forms and turned them in, and the woman in charge laughed just as hard as we did when she received them.

The meeting ended shortly after that, and to Mark's dismay, there were no cookies, like after Cub Scouts.

"What, no snickity snack?" he cried. I shook my head sadly.

"Rip-off," he grumbled, forgetting he'd just spent 90 minutes having a blast.

During the ride home, I asked him what the rope activity was all about.

"I have no idea," he confessed. "I really don't! They told us to hold the rope, and then half of us let go. And the other half fell down! It was HILARIOUS!" He couldn't help snickering at that.

So, he had no idea what was happening, but he had fun. Turns out, Scout meetings are pretty much like any other day for Mark.