My a-ha moment

I really love Oprah (no last name necessary). I find her inspiring, and motivating. Which made yesterday, the day of her last talk show, a very sad day indeed.

I haven't watched the very last show yet--not quite ready to say goodbye to my television friend. But I did watch the last couple shows prior to that, as everyone shared their own personal Oprah moments. I thought it only fitting to say goodbye to Oprah by sharing my moment as well.

It was a long time ago, probably 15 or 16 years ago. I was an eager young 20-something, and I'd just returned from a whirlwind year living in Washington D.C. I thought I could do anything (as long as the weather was nice. Which it wasn't in D.C. Which is why I was back in L.A.).

Oprah was on a mission to make America skinnier, so she was holding 5k walks all over the country. When I saw a date for Los Angeles flash onscreen, I flipped out. I signed up as quick as I could, with the hope of meeting my idol.

I even convinced my friends Wende and Stacy to join me. They are avid walkers, and fellow Oprah fans.

They day dawned bright and early in Griffith Park, and we were off. I was full of enthusiasm, and I was excited to walk. For all of about 30 minutes, that is. After the first or second mile, I slowed down considerably. I also slowed down Wende and Stacy, who put up with my whining and dragging feet longer than anyone should have to. I finally told them to go on without me--I knew I could finish the walk, just not at their speed-walker pace.

And so I enjoyed my stroll. It was a beautiful day, the park was filled with happy people, and life was good. My feet hurt a bit, but there was no one to complain to, so I sucked it up and kept walking.

At the end of the walk, I saw Wende and Stacy waiting for me. They were so awesome! They could have completed the race, but instead, they waited by the finish line so we could all walk in together.

Which is exactly what I was planning to do. Until...

I saw her. Oprah. The one and only Oprah, standing on a platform, cheering on everyone as they finished.

Suddenly, my exhaustion disappeared, and my second wind kicked in. It was Oprah! And I was just steps away from meeting her!

My sense of grace disappeared the same moment my exhaustion did. Wende and Stacy, who were so sweet to wait for me, watched as I raced past them, beating them both to the finish line. So much for one for all and all for one. (Sorry, girls!)

I wasn't planning to be so rude. I think my attention deficit disorder just kicked in, and when I saw Oprah, that's all I could focus on.

I made my way to the platform, determined to shake Oprah's hand. I was one among many; the crowd was huge around me, and growing bigger every minute. Oprah was amazing, laughing and shaking hands with everyone, but her bodyguard was a different story.

He was huge. Enormous! He must've been 6' 5" and weighed 350 pounds--all of it muscle! He kept the crowd moving--"Let's go, ladies!" he warned in a deep voice, "Keep it going!"

I couldn't get close, and the bodyguard moved in toward me, to help me along. He was daunting, but I was gonna get my moment. I dodged him, yelping, "I want to shake Oprah's hand!" He didn't care what I wanted, and kept trying to move me forward. Suddenly, the crowd parted, and I darted in.

There was Oprah. In person. Shaking my hand. Making my whole year.

I said something to her, but now, all these years later, I can't remember what it was. I think it was more substantial than what I said when I met my musical idol Jimmy Buffett ("Hi, Jimmy!"). I think I thanked her for being such an inspiration, and for making such difference in so many people's lives, including mine.

Or maybe that's what I planned to say, and really, I just said, "Hi, Oprah!" then giggled like a giddy little girl. That scenario is also quite plausible!

In the end, it doesn't matter much what I said. What does matter is how I felt, and how I've carried that feeling with me all these years. I'm still inspired by Oprah, still trying to make a difference in the world like she does. I haven't lived my life as large and inspirationally as Oprah, so I need to get crackin'.

But on that day, in Griffith Park, I took her positive message to heart and vowed to give it life however I could.

And not even a giant, muscle-bound, 350-pound bodyguard could stop me.

Family feud

There was a war waging in my house last night, and it had to do with picking the new American Idol.

My cousin Kathleen, Mark and I have been watching all season long, although I lost interest once my favorite, Casey, was eliminated. I still watched with Mark, cheering on his favorite, James. But when James also got the boot, I was out for good.

Kathleen, however, has been cheering for Scotty the whole time. To say she was thrilled he made it to the finals is an understatement.

Mark and I were livid. And so, approximately 3700 times last night, Mark reminded me to vote for Lauren when the phone lines opened.

He even wrote me a reminder on the bathroom mirror:



However, he was so antsy, he actually grabbed the phone at 8:59 p.m. to start calling. Kathleen read him the phone number, but he was so excited, he couldn't focus, and kept writing it down wrong. Finally, she gave him Scotty's number, and I swatted him on the head.

"If he wins, it's your fault!" I warned him.

Mark ran off to grab another pen, and Kathleen hid the phone from him. She turned it on so that when Mark grabbed the other phone, he wouldn't be able to dial out.

Which is exactly what happened. Mark went apoplectic, yelling that the phone wouldn't work. He heard Kathleen snickering in the other room, and when she announced she'd texted in 20 times already for Scotty, Mark almost lost it. He knew Kathleen was involved, but couldn't figure out how, and knew he'd get in trouble if he copped an attitude.

"I was trying to call in," he told me. "Until Kathleen ruined it for everyone..."

Mark refused to put the phone down, even after I sent him to brush his teeth.



I joined in with my cell phone, helping him call for a good 20 minutes. Finally, I realized it would be an ugly next morning if that kid didn't get to sleep soon.

I put him to bed, but he was too wound up to sleep. As soon as I went into the living room, I heard his voice in the baby monitor.

"Don't forget to vote for Lauren!" he reminded me. As though I'd forgotten in the 30-second walk out there.

Kathleen got her revenge on him. She erased his "Vote for Lorn" message and replaced it with her own new message:



Mark woke up late at night to go to the bathroom. He was 95% asleep still, and I didn't think he'd notice the sign, but he did. When I put him back to bed, I noticed that he'd replaced it with another "Vote for Lorn" message.

So no matter what happens in tonight's finale, at least one person in my house will be thrilled.

And the other one will be heartbroken. Or maybe just really mad!

Problem solving

Mark's only in fifth grade, but he's already fretting about high school.

"Did you know that if you're in the band in high school, they call you a band geek?" he asked. I could see he was having second thoughts about joining the drum line.

I nodded my head, and answered, "Yeah, you know who else was a band geek? Jon Bon Jovi! Paul McCartney! Lady Gaga! Every millionaire rock star out there was probably a band geek."

He looked at me, unconvinced.

"What, you think rock stars don't play instruments until they're famous?" I asked. "Of course not, they learn when they're kids. And how do they get good at it?"

"Practice," Mark sighed. Practice is his least favorite part about playing drums.

"That's right," I said. "And where do they practice?"

"In band," Mark answered. Correct again!

Then I realized maybe I was missing the point here. I was indignant about my kid being called a band geek, when he was actually still years away from joining the band.

This isn't about drums, I thought. It's about being teased. So I tried a different tact. It was self-esteem building time--a little boost now would go a long way in high school.

"How would you feel if someone called you a band geek?" I asked, channeling my own internal Dr. Phil.

"I'd smack 'em with my drum sticks," Mark answered.

I'd hoped for a more...verbal...answer. I suggested some possible comebacks.

"Tell them you're a rock star in the making," I said. "Say, 'I might not look like it now, but someday, I'll be a famous rock star.' Tell them every famous musician started somewhere, and this is where you're starting."

I was prepared to keep going, to keep feeding him politically-correct answers, but he looked at me doubtfully and rolled his eyes.

"What?" I asked. "You don't like my answers?"

"I like mine better," Mark said. "I'm just gonna smack them with my drum sticks. That'll stop 'em, trust me."

He had me there. One good hit would shut me up.

I sighed. "So you're saying even though I'm giving you all these peaceful answers, even though I'm building up your self-esteem, you'd still resort to violence instead?"

"Yup," he said. Now he was smiling. "Bet they won't expect that from a band geek!"

And then I smiled with him. Turns out, he has plenty of self-confidence already.

Rocket Man

Over the weekend, Mark and I went on an outing with some new friends. Two were single parents like myself, and the other two were the kids they'd each adopted.

For me, it was pretty cool to meet other adults who shared my road to parenthood. Mark also liked meeting kids like him, who were adopted and old enough to remember it. He was even more thrilled to find the two boys were his age (he was worried they'd be little kids).

Mark did great. He's not always comfortable starting conversations with new people, but people with a good fashion sense are a different story. He asked Tyler if he'd gotten new shoes since we last saw him, and complimented Tyler's dad on his watch. I giggled to myself, knowing most boys wouldn't have noticed either the shoes or watch.

We went to the open house event at the Jet Propulsion Lab, which is responsible for building and sending unmanned rocket ships into outer space.

The boys are still getting to know each other, so there were some awkward moments. Most notably was the one in which girls were brought up. The two 10-year-olds proudly named the girls they had crushes on, but poor Mark turned a deep shade of red. The boys tried baiting him into naming a girl, but Mark just shrugged them off.

I commended him later on how well he handled the situation.

"I know it was uncomfortable for you," I said. "But you did a great job of just changing the subject."

"It was hard," he admitted. "And when Connor kept saying, 'What's her name, what's her name?' I almost said, 'Your mom.'"

And now I was the bright red, awkward person.

"Oh my god, I would have KILLED you!" I blurted out.

I probably should've answered in a more appropriate, touchy-feely way, but I was mortified at how that scenario would've played out. Thank God Mark used that moment to display his new-found sense of discretion.

But the day turned out well despite the potential for disaster. We went into the control center, where the rocket scientists send commands to the rockets. We went to a hands-on exhibit, where the boys shot paper rockets, played on a computer, and checked out 3-D pictures. They liked the infrared camera best of all--the pictures of them in all their heat-sensing colors was so cool! (That's Mark with his mouth open.)




We stopped for lunch, which the boys ate only because they couldn't wait to get to dessert--astronaut ice cream! It turned out to be a weird freeze-dried ice cream sandwich, which was chalky but light and airy in your hand. Once you put it into your mouth, it rehydrated, which was kinda weird.

Mark really liked his, although he didn't quite understand which part to eat at first.



We visited a few more stations, and took pictures of the boys on Mars (okay, a Mars background). It was a pretty fun day.

Even if it almost included a disastrous "Your mom" joke.

The Mad Scientist

This month, in lieu of a book report, Mark's class is creating science experiments.

Mark first announced this about five weeks ago. That's also when our understanding of the project diverged; I thought that was a good time frame in which to research and complete the project. Mark saw it as a lengthy reprieve from book reports, and time to enjoy himself.

I gently reminded him during spring break the deadline was approaching, and once again encouraged him to start working. He announced that he loved having time off from school.

By Monday, I was done being subtle or encouraging.

"Your science experiment is due next week," I said. "If you need any supplies, tell me now, because I will not be shopping for them last minute on Sunday night."

Mark responded with various excuses on why he couldn't create the shopping list, including:

• He was working on this experiment with his friend, Matthew.
• Matthew was at Kid's Club.
• Therefore, Mark could not call Matthew or come up with a shopping list.

"Aren't the supplies in the book?" I asked. Mark nodded.

"Don't you have the book?" I also asked. The light bulb went off in Mark's head, and he raced to get the book.

I will spare you the details of the next hour, but it started in more patient prodding (me), then ended in yelling (also me), a temper tantrum (Mark), and finally a phone call (from the equally beloved and feared Grandma). Even my Dad got in on the call, giving his two cents worth. Although we didn't accomplish much scientifically, I still felt better after they'd talked to Mark (parenting is a group effort in my family).

By dinner time, Mark had a shopping list, as well as a list of the components making up his project. This included a hypothesis statement, an acknowledgment, a description of the experiment, and a results statement.

Yesterday, I asked if he'd worked any more on the project. He proudly answered yes.

"That's great!" I said enthusiastically. "What did you do?"

"I wrote a whole bunch of stuff," Mark said. I asked what he'd written.

"I wrote the acknowledgement," he said, proudly. "I wrote my thank yous."

I actually stopped the car when he said that.

"But nobody's helped you yet!" I exclaimed. "Who did you thank? And for what?"

"I thanked you," he said. "Because I know you're gonna help me. And I thanked Matthew, since he's working on the experiment with me. I wrote really good acknowledgements."

I sighed. I aimed my car toward home, and drove.

Mark may not have a science experiment to turn in next week, but he will definitely have a thank you section for the people who helped him.

Helped him create nothing, that is. And somehow, in his head, that is progress, one step closer to being done with his experiment.

Meanwhile, I am conducting my own experiment. It involves the various stress-reducing methods and affirmations I can employ to keep myself from strangling a certain 11-year-old boy.

A Mother's Day to remember

My life has been kind of hectic lately. Is it wrong to admit that all I wanted for Mother's Day was to sleep in late?

My wonderful son, however, had other plans for me. I slept soundly until 6:50 a.m., when I heard his alarm go off. I thought he'd forgotten to turn it off over the weekend.

Then, I didn't hear another sound until almost an hour and a half later, when my door opened, and a voice called out, "Happy Mother's Day!" And there was my boy, bearing a tray with breakfast in bed.

He made me quite a feast--a really large omelette and peanut butter toast. With whip cream on it. And Thin Mints. (He has a way with garnish!)




"You even got a bonus omelette!" he pointed out. "See, I cooked that little one in the single-egg pan!"

He was very excited to serve it to me, and asked if he, too, could have toast with peanut butter and Thin Mints. I offered him one of mine, but he wanted his own.

I dug into my omelette. It was...well-done. And not necessarily your standard omelette. It was more of a three-inch thick fried egg than a fluffy omelette.

"Wow, you did a good job cooking this," I commented.

"Yup!" Mark answered. "I cracked all the eggs in there one by one so it would cook right. And then I filled it with cheese!" He beamed proudly at me.

My cousin, who'd witnessed the event, told me later he put half a bag of cheese in there. She couldn't stop snickering, watching me eat my egg-a-licious breakfast. She only stopped when I loudly offered to share it with her.

Mark and I enjoyed our feast and talked about our plans for the day. We decided on a picnic and hike, and to invite our friend Edra along with us.

"Too bad she's not here to share your breakfast!" Mark said, sadly. I agreed.

I ate as much as I could, then tried discreetly to take my leftovers into the kitchen. Mark was surprised at how little I'd eaten.

"It was really, really good," I praised him. "But I usually only eat an egg and a half. This is a lot of eggs!"

"Well, you can save it for tomorrow," he said.

"Great idea!" I answered.

My second Mother's Day surprise came when I entered the kitchen. Here's what I saw:



"You used SIX EGGS?" I gasped.

"Well, five. I dropped one on the floor. But not on your new cabinets," he added quickly. He said it so fast and with such conviction that I cried a little inside, knowing he'd done exactly that.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to the goopy pale liquid.

"Pancakes," Mark said. "They didn't turn out so well."

There were three frying pans on the stove, one of which was glistening.

"What's all this?" I asked, running a finger through the pan.

"Oh, butter," Mark explained. "I melted a whole stick of butter in there, but then the pancake mix got too runny. It turned into one giant pancake. And it was so skinny!"

I bit my lip. He was so earnest, and had worked so hard. The food turned my stomach a little, but it completely warmed my heart. He'd tried so hard, and I loved him for it. (Coincidentally, I realized he must feel the same way when I cook for him! He is just as kind and complimentary on my food; I never realized it was so...not good.)

I took a final look at the spilled batter, the empty shells, the butter-filled pan, and the heap of raw-egg-soaked towels on the counter. Then I smiled at Mark and said, "You know what I like best about Mother's Day? That I don't have to do the dishes!"

I kissed him on the head and walked out. He groaned a little, but bless his little heart, he didn't complain. He washed every single dish.

And what better present could I get than that?

Mom's Muffin Morning

"It's Mom's Muffin Morning!" my darling son exclaimed today. For a moment, I was touched by his thoughtfulness, until I realized he was excited because there'd be donuts. (He'd sell his soul for a donut.)

But the morning's event went swimmingly, much smoother than in years past. My friend Liz complimented Mark, saying, "I can't believe he stayed with you the whole time!"

I smiled, recalling the last muffin day fiasco. To avoid a repeat, I'd prepped Mark intensely before we even left the house.

"What are we celebrating?" I asked.

"You," he sighed. He started to roll his eyes, then noticed the steely silence in the room. "You!" he repeated, more enthusiastically.

"And why am I taking time off work today?" I grilled.

"To have breakfast," he said.

"With...?"

"Me," he answered. He's learned it's easier to suffer through an hour-long breakfast than a whole weekend of angry consequences for ignoring me in public.

"Good," I said. "And of course, the penalty for misbehaving or running off during breakfast is...?"

"I know, I know," he sighed again. "Penalty of death. Eat breakfast with you or die. I know!"

And so we went off to celebrate. Mark acted wonderfully, and was a perfect little gentleman. My heart swelled two sizes with pride.

After breakfast, we visited his classroom. Mark pushed his way past all the tables, and ended up at a solitary desk at the front of the room. It was right next to the teacher, pushed up against (and facing) the chalk board. I immediately smiled, because I knew exactly what that meant.

"Let me guess, you got moved again for talking during class?" I asked.

"Some girl was talking to me," Mark frowned. (He always gets moved because someone else was talking.)

"You better stop talking," I told him. "Or your next stop is outside!"

We watched a video of kids singing "You Lift Me Up," by Josh Groban, and then a montage of teacher's photos with their moms. My tough exterior melted, leaving behind a gushy, teary mess. As tough and strict as I try to be, I'm a sucker for emotional moments like that.

The teacher had the kids introduce their moms and say what they like about them. Mark went first.

"That's my mom," Mark said, pointing to me.

"What's her name?" the teacher prompted.

"Uh...Heather?" Mark said.

"And what do you like to do with your mom?" he asked.

"Play catch with the football," Mark answered. I giggled inside, because the football's too big for my little hand, and it wobbles uncontrollably when I throw it...which is probably why Mark likes playing catch with me, because it's funny!

The next activity was painting spirals using cool-colored paints. Mark and I worked together, creating an elaborate spiral, and I noted how relaxing it was to paint.

"Kind of like coloring, huh?" Mark said. I nodded--I never realized how calming it is to color with crayons until I got Mark!

The last activity was poetry. The kids all read poems they'd written for their moms, using the letters in their mom's name. Cue the tears, because they were filled with love and sweetness, proclaiming their undying love and gratitude to their moms, each of whom were deemed "the best mom in the whole wide world."

I couldn't wait to hear Mark's, but he was reluctant. He shook his head, whispering he'd read it at home. But I had to go to work, and I wanted to hear it! Finally, slowly, he stood and read it.

It wasn't as sentimental as some, but I loved it anyway. And I loved the toothy grinning sun accompanying it.



That's right, people. I do take it to the hoops! (Whatever that means.) But not sure I'm am as happy to be easy as pie... ;-)

Towels are for sissies

Mark and I have many heated debates over the correct usage of bath towels.

I hold the traditional view that towels are best used to dry your body after showering, and should be hung up to dry afterwards. Mark maintains a totally different view; namely, that towels are simply bath accessories, completely irrelevant to drying yourself off, and are properly stored in a heap on the floor. We can't seem to agree or comprehend the other's differing opinion on this.

I dunno, maybe Mark's subscribing to some uber eco-friendly point of view. Maybe he thinks washing and drying all those towels is ruining the ozone layer or something. He prefers to ignore his towel and just air dry off after showers.

But yesterday, he took it to whole new level. I heard him turn off the shower, then didn't hear anything else for a good 10 minutes. I wasn't worried until the 15 minute mark, when the silence continued (anyone who knows kids also knows silence = trouble).

I knocked on the door.

"You okay in there?" I asked.

"Yes!" he gasped. I could hear him breathing heavily, and I freaked out. I busted the door open, expecting to see him lying on the floor in the throes of an evil low blood sugar or bleeding uncontrollably from some bath-incurred injury.

Instead, he stood there, wearing nothing but a big grin, his little chest heaving up and down.

"Are you all right?" I asked again. I was more worried about his mental health now.

"Yup!" he gasped again. "I dried my whole body using just air! Look!" And before I could answer, he started jumping up and down.

"I didn't even need a towel," he exclaimed, proudly. "I dried myself off doing jumping jacks!"

I stood there, unsure what to do. Then, slowly, I backed out of the bathroom and shut the door.

Because, as my niece Nathalie once wisely remarked, "There are just some things you can't ever un-see."

Salesman of the year

I was uncharacteristically inspired to do a massive spring cleaning recently. I cleared out closets, shelves, and drawers, and ended up with a bunch of stuff I had no use or space for. (How did all that stuff fit in my little house??)

I declared an imminent garage sale, and my friends Edra and Kathleen applauded and joined me. (I owe them both a huge debt of gratitude and thanks for their help, as I personally would've just dumped all the junk off at Goodwill.)

Mark wanted in on the action, too. He cleaned his room, filling boxes with old toys and books he's outgrown. He remembered my niece Gabi selling cookies during a garage sale, so Friday night, he revved up the oven, baking and bagging dozens of cookies.

While we dragged out our stuff to sell, Mark set up a TV tray and a bowl of cookies. He drew a sign and even enlisted a decorative stuffed koala to help set the tone. He donned a red glittery hat. He later taped a "Cookies for Sale" sign to the front of it.



We did pretty good selling our goods, but Mark made a killing on those cookies! I'd told him that no one can resist a cute kid selling cookies, and boy, was I right. He made about $20 selling those sugary delights.

Sunday rolled around, and we pulled the boxes out for one last try. Business was dismally slow, which we attributed to church attendance. Mark didn't even bother pulling out the remaining cookies--he brought out his scooter instead.

Kathleen figured if he was gonna ride up and down the street, we might as well use it to our advantage. So I created a homemade sandwich board sign, cutting up a paper grocery bag vest for him. I wrote the words "Yard sale" in red marker, and instructed him to go drum up some business.




Once again, he proved his worth by doing just that!

He got a few cars to actually stop. I was surprised and amused to see the other people he got to stop, too--most of the traffic were people out on bike rides and morning walks. I sold an old suitcase to one guy, who hopped back on his bike and rode away, carrying it alongside his bike.

Mark decided to kick things up another notch. He traded his Brooklyn Dodgers hat for a gold glittery hat (not sure why he has so many glittery hats). I cut out an arrow, which he then decorated.



He wanted to stand on the corner and direct traffic, but there was another garage sale sign there, and I was afraid he would guide them there instead.


So instead, he stood in the middle divider of our road. It's a big green strip of grass, and he could direct both sides of traffic toward our house. He did an awesome job! People really slowed down to see him, and he even got a few honks and waves.


"Matthew's mom just drove by!" he shouted. I gave him a thumbs up.

We really didn't make much money that day, but I didn't care. For me, watching Mark drum up up customers was totally worth getting up early.

But the best feeling of all was when we called it quits and loaded up all the leftover boxes into Edra's car. We drove it to Goodwill, and said goodbye. Then I returned home to my newly-clean house and rejoiced in the huge empty space where the boxes had been.

I sighed, and smiled, glad to be one step further removed from a feature role on the TV show Hoarders.