You know I can't live without my radio

I've always loved music. As a little kid, I played it constantly on the record player in my room. In junior high, I moved up to a crackly clock radio, and then a cassette player which I carefully held up to the clock radio to record my own mix tapes.

But the highlight of my music appreciation was when I got my first car. The car itself was super cute, a little maroon Honda, but what I loved best about it was the custom stereo.

It had a cassette player, it was loud, and it was powered solely by me, or whichever passenger I entrusted to monitor it. I could (and did) crank the tunes in that car, a thumping blend of '80s new wave and dance music trailing behind me through the open windows.

But there was one thing my parents forgot to tell me about that car (well, two actually, if you count "Don't forget to change the oil," which lead to disastrous results). They told me to turn my music down so I didn't go deaf, but that was the only consequence they gave for listening to my music too loud. They never said turn it down or I could blow out the speakers. That fact alone may have prompted me to pump down the jam just a bit.

But they didn't, and I didn't, and one day, I learned the definition of mono ("mono" as in the opposite of stereo, not as in the kissing disease). I clicked on my stereo, heard a pop, and then suddenly, Depeche Mode sounded like they were singing from very far away. They were distant, quiet, singing out of only the passenger side speaker.

And that's when I learned my lesson about the fragility of car speakers. Some people would've stashed that in their "Good to know" mental filing cabinets, but I promptly forgot about it. Subsequently, I blew out the speakers in my next three cars.

Which brings us to present day...I'm no longer a teenybopper, as my mom still calls everyone under 20. I have a car, a house, a kid, a sense of responsibility that extends beyond 10 minutes from now. And yet, I still like that music loud.

My son loves music, too. He spends half his time in the car asking me, "Who sings this?" or begging me to change the channel. He does not, however, share my enthusiasm for singing loud and proud.

We roadtripped south for Thanksgiving last week, and I was blaring the radio, as always. My high school boyfriend, George Michael, was singing lead, and I was backing him up like no other. I whooped it up, and shouted at Mark to join along. (I also may have inadvertently given him fodder for his first therapy session as an adult, wherein he explains to his psychologist the deep and irreversible damage I caused by insisting he sing along to "Baby, I'm Your Man." But that's beside the point...)

And there we were, somewhere north of Vista, when I heard it. That unmistakable crackle, and then the volume halved. It was like the music took a seat--one minute it danced throughout the whole car; then, the next minute, it tired out and sat down on the passenger side. I heard the distinctive tinny sound I knew meant bad news.

"Dang it!" I said. "I blew out the speaker." Only this time, I was explaining it to my son, not my  dad.

But the reaction was the same. As though he were channeling my dad, Mark shook his head and tsk-tsked me.

"Man, it's like I'm in high school all over again," I complained. "Hondas have cheap speakers!"

"Or....maybe you listen to your music too loud," Mark said. I shot him the stink eye. All my life I heard, "If it's too loud, you're too old." I looked at Mark and thought, "I didn't know you could also be too young."

So the drive home was a little quieter. We still had plenty of topics to converse about. I suggested it was a lovely time to discuss holiday lists, and which gifts we'd like for Christmas. And ever-so-subtly, I mentioned that if anyone was writing letters to the big guy with the flying reindeer, maybe he could put in a good word for his mom, and how much she'd appreciate a new set of car speakers.

Turkey Day 2011

My parents have had just about enough family time, thankyouverymuch, so this year, they opted for a Hawaiian cruise over Thanksgiving with their offspring. Can't say I blame them, though, and I'm sure they are having a blast on the open seas.

But that didn't mean Thanksgiving, or even Thanksgiving in San Diego, was canceled. Mark and I headed to the family compound, where I gave thanks for having a brother who likes to cook.

When my nieces and nephew greeted us, I was shocked to see the oldest, Nathalie, was the same height as me! It's only been a month or two since I've seen her, but she sure sprouted up during that time. And boy, did she love being as tall as me. She stood next to me every chance she got, and asked me 537 times how tall I was. I kept changing it up just to confuse her.

My family likes to eat, so they don't even put up the pretense of letting me cook during the holidays. I came bearing pies instead. My brother Scott took them from me, and told us that we were having a late lunch--my sis-in-law Mary predicted it would be served some time between 2 and 6 p.m. Since even that four-hour window of time was not a guarantee, Scott encouraged us to fill up on appetizers.

I helped Mary a bit in the kitchen, until Scott came in and announced we'd start drinking at noon. I glanced at the clock; it was 12:02.

"Break out the wine!" he said, so we did.

We also busted out the appetizers. My favorite was the bacon-wrapped dates, which I encouraged Mark to try. My niece Gabi also encouraged him, but for a whole different reason.

"Yeah, have a date--it's probably the only date you'll ever have!" she cackled. I'm pretty sure Mark smacked her after that, but I was laughing too hard to reprimand him.

Scott and Mary's friends and their kids also joined us. Their Natalie was not just taller than me--she literally towered above me! And Ethan was unlucky enough to bear a passing resemblance to Mark, so every time I saw a brown-haired boy darting down the hall, I yelled out "Did you test your blood sugar?" or "Did you bolus?" Nine times out of 10, Ethan turned to look at me, confused as to why I kept verbally assaulting him. Mark, however, loved it.

Chris and Hilary also brought their dogs. Moments after they arrived, Bailey, the chocolate lab, jumped into the pool, where she spent the rest of the day. Mary raced past me, calling out, "Oh my God, don't tell your mom about this!" Mom may have been out to sea, but she was there in spirit all weekend, mostly whenever someone was about to do something stupid, and the rest of the family cried out, "Grandma will KILL you if she finds out!" We really do love my Mom, but she keeps us in line even when she's thousands of miles away.

After a brief nap (which may or may not have been wine-induced--I'll never tell), we sat down to an amazing dinner. Kudos to Scott and Mary for such a fabulous feast!

Even better than the food was the company. Our good friend Sasha was in town, and stopped by to visit. We spent the evening laughing until my face literally hurt. At one point, everyone was in the kitchen, talking loudly (yes, you, Scott!) and hurling questions toward poor Sasha, who became completely overwhelmed. I thought she might actually run away, but she's been part of the family long enough, and she overcame it.

With Thanksgiving down, we still had three more days o'fun to fill.We took the kids to Sea World. They'd already been on Tuesday, but it was a gorgeous day so we went again. We took our picture inside a giant snow globe, saw the dolphin show, and watched a real reindeer tear around his pen. We bailed when it looked like he might actually escape or harm the Sea World trainer; I'm not sure my boss would believe me if I called in sick after being mauled by a reindeer.

We joined Sasha's family that evening for Thai food. I was on turkey overload, so I ordered pad Thai.  

"What number spicy, from one to 10?" the waitress asked.

"I dunno, 5?" I answered. I figured halfway up the scale was safe.

But my friend Ann panicked. "I only get 4 1/2!" she warned, so I scaled it down to a 4. Which still burned my mouth--the family cracked up at me and my wussy taste buds, especially when Mark popped in a mouthful with no problem. (Rotten kid can eat fire and not even blink.) But even a burnt tongue was a small price to pay for dinner with some of my favorite peeps.

On Saturday, we hung out with one of my college roommates. I hadn't seen Andrea for a few years, and in that time, she got married, and we both had kids. I was excited to meet her new family, and to introduce Mark (who is not the kid in the picture! That's my nephew--Mark took the photo).

Her family was in town, and did what most San Diego visitors do--they went to Sea World (the other 50% go to the zoo; we have passes there too, so we're covered). Mark and I met up with them there, and brought my nephew Grant for his third trip that week.

The Sea World parking lot is huge, and out of all the parking spaces, I picked the one right next to Andrea! What are the chances?!? We spent a fun day with Andrea and her fam, with Grant leading the way to each exhibit because, he reminded us, he knew where every place was.

"Oh yeah? Where's Rancho Cucamonga?" I asked, so he clarified he knew where everything in Sea World was.

We returned home for our next engagement, dinner at the neighbor's house. I was happy because Scott the neighbor, is a chef, and his food did not disappoint. I was also excited to meet Michelle's famous Uncle Bim, who my parents love. He had great stories, and an even better Alabama accent. The conversation slowed down after dinner, though, as Uncle Bim fell asleep at the table. He woke briefly to mention something about his time zone being three hours ahead, but then he fell back asleep. The funniest thing was that it did not slow down dinner in the least--we all kept laughing, drinking wine, and talking. My brother Scott was telling stories, loudly, as he's famous for doing, and it didn't bother Uncle Bim in the least--he actually started snoring.

"He always falls asleep," Scott said later. "He usually blames it on the jet lag."

Sunday was our last day together, which bummed out Mark (he loves his cousins). Mary announced we were going out for breakfast, and I saw the kids move faster than I had all weekend (they really love brekky!). We had a sing-along in the car, switching up the words to all the songs, and singing about how we were sexy and we knew it ("I work out!"). If that mini-van was fueled by giggles, we could've driven on forever.

By the time we packed up our car and headed out, I was exhausted from laughing so much all weekend. I had such a blast with the kids--they're at that age now where they really get it, and they've all got such diverse, hilarious senses of humor, I could just spend my days listening to them and cracking up.

So even though my parents were gone, we still managed to have a pretty awesome Thanksgiving. And I'm still giving thanks now, days later, for being lucky enough to be surrounded by the thing I hold most dear to my heart--my family and friends.

Man, I can't wait until Christmas!

At least I come by it honestly

I've never been good at judging distances. Mark can attest to this, as he sits in the back seat of my car every day, watching me park either on the curb or four feet away from it.

But this morning, I learned it's not my fault--it's hereditary. I got it from my mother, who's also missing the distance gene.

She was telling me about a whale that washed onshore in San Diego.

"It was HUGE!" she exclaimed. "Fifty feet long! It was the length of half a football field!"

"That's fifty yards, not fifty feet," my dad corrected.

"Oh, right," she said. "It was the length of FIVE PEOPLE!"

"Five ten-foot-tall people?" I asked.

She laughed again. "OK, well, it was really big," she said, and we left it at that.

Let's just hope she's never called as a witness in criminal court. Because...well, although she's amusing, she may not be all that helpful.

Track attack

Mark's been waiting since fourth grade to join the middle school track team. So when he found out about team try outs a couple weeks ago, he was thrilled.

He's a pretty fast little guy, so I was excited when he made the team. He was, too.

However, news was somewhat slow to arrive home, and I was never quite sure when practice was, or even what gear Mark needed, if any. I asked if he'd run in his regular shoes, or if he needed special running shoes.

"We don't wear shoes," he answered. "We run in our socks."

I realized the only gear to stock up on was bleach, to get the grass stains out.

But then I found out he did need real track shoes, and they were surprisingly hard to find. Even the salesman at the local running store had a tough time locating any.

"It's not track season," he explained. "I'm not even sure we carry track shoes now."

Lucky for me, he had one pair left--and they were Mark's size! They fit snugly, which meant they'd fit Mark for all of five minutes before he outgrew them. Unluckily for me, they were $50. Which seemed like a lot, considering he only has two weeks left for the season.

"Do you all run the races at the same time?" I asked Mark. "Maybe we can just buy one pair, and you guys can alternate." I found out later Liz had said the same thing. (All moms think alike.)

So, armed with $50 shoes, Mark hit the track again. I'm not sure if he ran any faster, but at least his socks are a little whiter.

Last week, the team started practicing at the local high school, which has a real dirt track like the one they'd race on during meets.

"Was it hard to run so many laps?" I asked. Mark said it was not--the toughest part of practicing was just walking there, wearing his humongous backpack. I reminded him that's part of the conditioning.

And so, with two weeks of training under their belt, the team attended their first meet this weekend. Sean and Mark were very excited.

Sean's parents and I were excited too, until we saw the competition. I'm not sure what the other parents feed their kids, but the other runners were huge. Humongous. Gigantic.

Sean's dad, Denis, pointed to a tall, lanky kid nearby.

"That kid's got a couple inches on me!" said Denis, who is six feet tall himself. Our little sixth-graders looked more like kindergartners racing Olympic athletes.

Sean and Mark told us they were both running one race, the 100-yard sprint. Which Mark loves, since he's a slacker. He likes running, but...you know, not more than a couple laps.

Turns out, they also ran a 440 yard relay. Liz and I prayed that there was at least one other kid between Sean and Mark, and that they wouldn't hand the baton off to each other. Because they spend so much time together, they act like brothers, getting along great half the time, and driving each other insane the other half. Liz and I knew there was a 50/50 chance they'd get along that morning, and successfully pass the baton without dropping it (or throwing it at each another--a more likely scenario).

But we didn't need to worry. They did great--Sean took off like a shot, passed the baton to Mark uneventfully, and away Mark went.

They didn't win, or place, but they were exceedingly proud of themselves, and we parents were equally proud.

The 100-yard sprint was last. Sean and Mark were in separate races, but they each raced 6 lanes full of giants in their respective races. I am not kidding--this is just one of the kids Mark raced against:

Seriously, I think that kid was old enough to shave before the race. He might have driven himself to the track meet, too.

Mark and Sean put in a great effort. They didn't care where they ranked, they were just happy to be in the meet.

Later on, my friend Edra asked Mark how he did.

"Great!" Mark replied, enthusiastically.

"You did?" she asked. "Awesome! What place did you come in?" She was expecting to hear second or third, maybe even first.

"Second to last," Mark said, proudly adding, "I didn't come in last."

I congratulated him again on his performance, saying I was impressed by how much he's learned in two weeks.

"What I liked best of all was your effort," I praised. "I could see you were giving it 100%."

"Not really," Mark corrected. "I only gave about 90%. Maybe 95."

I just looked at him. The parenting books never prepared me for having such a brutally honest kid.

"You only gave 90%?" I asked. "What happened to the other 10%?"

"Aaah, why waste it?" he answered. "I figured 90, maybe 95% was good enough. Which it was--because I didn't come in last." 

"No, you didn't," I agreed. And then I sighed, because that really is the measure of athletic success to my child--not necessarily winning, just not coming in last. Or running that far.

I've already crossed Mark's chances at an academic scholarship off the list--now it seems his chances for a track scholarship have dwindled as well...by at least 90 to 95%.

Oh well. Mark still has drums--and Sean still has saxophone. We'll just have to focus on music scholarships instead. Or maybe a college with a track team that only runs short-distance sprints.

My efforts at raising a gentleman are wildly unsuccessful

Mark and I were discussing solar energy last night for a school report. He asked me what the opposite of sunshine was, and I answered, "Moonshine."

A few days previous, we'd had another discussion, about middle school hijinks. Apparently, my moonshine comment reminded Mark of that discussion, and one prank in particular, and he shouted out, "Hey mom, look at the moonshine!"

Before I could process those words, I turned, and was immediately accosted by the sight of my son's bare bottom. That's right, I got mooned by my own kid.

I was equally mortified and amused. It was so wrong, and I knew as a parent I should have acted more...parent-like. You know, like an adult. But the truth is, I share my middle-schooler's sense of humor, and instead of reprimanding him, I immediately burst into laughter.

Which was bad, because it totally encouraged him.

"What's that?" he asked, though I'd said nothing. "It's only a half moon?" He slid his pajamas bottoms down on one side, revealing half of his bare bottom.

I slapped my hands over my eyes, imploring him to stop, but he yelled, "Or is it only a quarter moon?" He was laughing too hard by this point to actually show me much, and for that, I am grateful.

"Stop!" I wheezed. "Put that thing away, I don't wanna see it!"

Finally, when we'd both stopped laughing, I smacked him playfully, and said, "Stop traumatizing me!"

I also pointed out that this is the difference between boys and girls.

"This never would've happened if I'd had a daughter," I said. (OK, there's an off chance it still might've happened, but the chances are MUCH smaller.) "I should've held out for a girl!"

But Mark just brushed off my comments. "Whatever," he said. He walked out of the room, and as he passed me, he gave me one last view.

"Quarter moon!" he whispered, then hightailed it out of there.

I am ashamed to admit that reduced me to giggles once again. Maybe I did get the right kid after all...

You can tell he's raised by a woman if...

I recently made an effort to a) conserve my expensive girly body wash, which Mark uses like it's water, and b) save Mark from future embarrassment in the locker room ("Hey, dude, are you using night-blooming jasmine body gel?"). I decided to buy Mark his very own man-centric scented body wash. 

It was a hard choice. The men's soap aisle is very different from the women's--most products are single-purpose shampoo/body washes, which made me giggle because that little fact singularly defines the difference between men and women. (You'd have a hard--no, impossible!--time selling a hybrid shampoo/body wash to any woman I know!)

The alternative was the Axe product line, which markets itself not as soap, but as animal magnetism in a bottle, guaranteed to make you irresistible to women. That is not the goal for my darling 11-year-old boy.

So, after studying each and every bottle on the shelf, I settled on this one:

I handed Mark the bottle ever-so-casually.

"This is for you," I said. "I mean, if you want to start using body wash made for men..."

I could see his little chest swell with pride. He puffed up, and in his deepest voice, replied, "Heck yeah, I do!" He held the bottle, and strutted around the room.

"I have MAN soap!" he bellowed proudly.

And then he stopped, fretting. He turned the bottle over, searching the label, and voiced a question only a boy without a father would ask.

"Will it still keep my skin soft?" he asked.

I assured him it would ("See, it's made by Dove soap"). And then I realized I still have much work to do.

I just had to ask...

Anything important--notes, reminders, dates--goes on my bathroom mirror.

I write them there using a dry erase marker, because it's the only place in the house I can't misplace. I've spent numerous hours searching for post-it notes and shopping lists, but I've never once misplaced my mirror.

Mark also enjoys leaving notes on the mirror, like this one:

That's right, apparently, I'm a Cowboy Mom. I had a few questions about this, which I addressed on the board.

(In case you can't read the chicken scratch I call writing, I asked if I had freckles, or just really bad acne. Then I signed it "CowGIRL Mom.")

He replied right away the next morning. His answer?

"They WERE freckles until you said that. Now it's bad acne. Nice pimples, Mom."

I think it was all said out of love, but I'm not 100% sure.

Cleaning house

Mark and I have been arguing a lot lately about picking up the house. Well, actually, maybe arguing isn't the correct description--what I really mean is, I've been yelling at Mark to put his stuff away, and he has been soundly ignoring me.

Case in point: His yo-yo. I swore that if I saw that thing lying around the house one more time, I would throw it away. This is not an empty threat.

However, Mark managed to one-up me. He did put his yo-yo away...sort of. At least, he moved it from the dining room table and from his bedroom floor, and hung it up.

My issue was not that he hung it up; it was more with where he hung it up:

That's right, the light switch in the bathroom. Not exactly where I was hoping he would put it away, but at least it's not on the floor.

Sigh...I lose again, on a technicality.

Size matters

I made a quick stop at the grocery store the other day. As Mark headed for the shopping carts, I said, "I'm only getting a couple things."

"You don't need a cart?" he repeated.

"Nope," I said.

"OK, I'll get something that just holds a few things," he said. I meant to get a basket, but this is what he returned with:

Note to self: Be more specific next time. On the plus side, I couldn't possibly lose him in the store, since his cart had a very nice "Customer in training" flag waving from it.

Let's Dance

Friday was Mark's first-ever school dance. He and his friends were really excited.

I freaked out. He's still my baby, and I'm not ready to release him to the gaggle of fawning pre-teen girls out there yet. (See, that's my maternal side kicking in--only a mother assumes tweener girls are fighting to dance with my son.)

But I gave him five bucks and told him to have fun. My cousin Kathleen offered to teach him some new dance moves.

"Um, no thanks," he immediately replied.

"Come on," she told him. "I'll come to the dance and watch you. What time does it start?"

"Four o'clock," he answered.

"No, that's when it ends," I corrected. "It starts at 2:20."

"Nope, starts at four," he said. "Show up then, Kathleen."

He scooted out of the room before the conversation could get any more uncomfortable. Kathleen and I broke into giggles. It was fun to torture him the way he always tortures us.

I really did want to go, and see the dance for myself. But I stopped myself--even though it would be all kinds of awesome to show up with my camera, and take a bazillion pictures, I realized I'm not that kind of mom. I put his emotional growth ahead of my amusement, and stayed home.

He and his friend Sean returned home full of excitement. I thought it was because they had such a great time, but it was really because they had to go to the bathroom really bad.

"Why didn't you go there?" I asked.

"Because they locked us in!" Mark shouted. "They wouldn't let us leave the cafeteria!"

"Not even to use the bathroom?" I said.

They both shook their heads. "Once you were there, you couldn't leave," they answered in unison. I figured this was a safety measure, so they didn't have kids roaming the school yard.

"How was it?" I asked, and again, in unison, they answered, "Fine."

I pushed a little more. Finally, they answered all my questions: It was fine. Everybody danced. There was food. Sean borrowed two bucks from Josh to get pizza. Mark didn't eat anything, because the free food was bad.

"No, it wasn't," Sean interrupted. "They had Doritos. And Oreos."

"I don't like Oreos," Mark said.

I knew this was a lie, but I let it go.

"And did you dance?" I asked. I left the end of that sentence--"...with a girl?"--unspoken.

"We all danced," Mark said. And then both boys ran outside, thus ending the inquisition.

That's all I could get out of them, and I shared it all with Liz, Sean's mom, when she arrived. 

The only part I left out was Mark's injury. He told me about it a couple hours later.

"Ow," he said, shifting in his bean bag.

When I asked what's wrong, he said, "I jacked up my neck."

"In PE?" I asked.

"No, at the dance," he answered.

"Oh no, did you fall?" I asked. (He's a hyperactive dancer.)

"No," he said. "I whipped my hair back and forth a little too hard. I hate that Willow Smith!"

And though I tried, I could not stifle my laugh. Leave it to Mark to injure himself in a hair-whipping mishap.

But other than that, the dance was a big success. Mark can't wait for the next one, though he's promising to wear some protective gear just in case. Which makes me smile, because that guarantees I won't have to worry about the tween girls fighting to dance with Mark--who'll be sitting in the corner with a neck brace on.

Sound the trumpet

The other day, I had a five-minute gap in child care. My friend Liz picked up Mark, along with her son Sean, and dropped them off at my house.

I told Liz I was 8 minutes from home--I was about to exit the freeway. She agreed to leave the boys at the house, and because they aren't toddlers and I was close, we both felt okay with our decision.

Until...I called the house. I'd just hung up with Liz, and called to tell Mark to start his homework. But no one answered. I called three times. I began to sweat a little, then yelled at myself for being such a worry-wort. They probably just went outside to play in the backyard, I reasoned, or they were too lazy to get up from the Wii and bean bag chair to answer. (They are obsessed with a skateboarding video game, in which they spend all their time crashing and competing to see who can break the most bones in their body. At the end of each crash, a legend shows all the broken bones in red.) 

Anyway, I didn't worry too long, because I turned the corner and was home. I opened the door, saw the two boys parked in front of the Wii, and exhaled a big sigh of relief.

Until...I saw this:

"What's the trumpet doing on the table?" I asked, perplexed.

Mark didn't even look up from the T.V. "Oh, Sean and I wanted to play together."

Confused silence on my part.

"I wanted to play my trumpet while Sean played his saxophone," Mark clarified.

I didn't want to ask the next question. I already knew the answer, which worried me. But I couldn't help myself--the words came out on their own.

"How'd you get the trumpet down?" I asked. It was on the highest shelf possible, behind three levels of precariously placed chairs, boxes and other junk in the disaster that is my garage. I'm nervous climbing up that high on the ladder, and instinct told me Mark didn't bother with a ladder.

"I climbed," he answered, confirming my fears. 

I instantly pictured him scurrying up the shelves in the garage, which was similar to climbing an oversized Jenga game. I pictured him tumbling backwards in slow motion, and the image culminated in a busted head on a busted boy with a trumpet splayed out from its case on top of his chest. And the next image was a video screen of all Mark's broken bones in red.

I shook my head to erase those images. I reminded myself the boys, inexplicably, were safe and whole.

Liz couldn't believe the story either, when I told her.

"I sat outside the house for five minutes!" she exclaimed.

"I know!" I said. "And I was home two minutes after that. They worked so quickly."

We both shook our heads. Turns out no matter how well we know these two boys, we will never really understand them. Or what motivates them, other than an impromptu brass band jam session.

I have no idea how fear-nothing boys live long enough to grow into men. I just hope that the guardian angels who help do that keep buzzing around Mark and Sean for a long time to come.

Pane and suffering

Mark, my mom and I had returned from a long bike ride this weekend, and two out of three of us were tired. The youngest family member claimed fatigue, but as soon as our neighbor Caden knocked on the door, Mark's energy returned.

The boys ran out back to play. My mom and I put ourselves on time outs, and curled up onto the couches in the living room, where we could hear the boys playing basketball, then scooters, then finally, baseball.

"That soft ball is mine," Caden called out, which Mark immediately refuted.

"It is, too!" Caden repeated; again, Mark answered it was not.

I sighed, and sent Mark a mental message: If I have to get off the couch and come settle this, you will regret it.

Mark called out, "Fine, let's just play with this baseball, then." I congratulated myself on my strong mental telepathy.

But my bliss was short lived. Caden insisted the baseball was too hard, and Mark, once again, took the opposite view. Finally, one of them caved. I didn't hear who, but I heard them tossing the ball back and forth, and the bickering was replaced by more playful tones.

I settled back into the couch with my book. I was glad resolution had won out, and the threat of my services was no longer required.

Until...we heard a crash. A loud, piercing, unmistakable crash, that sounded exactly like what it was--glass shattering into a million tiny pieces. Somewhere nearby, a window was no longer whole, and for the slightest moment, impossibly optimistic, I thought maybe it had nothing to do with the two boys out back.

My optimism disappeared almost immediately. "Dammit," I said, and my mom and I went running.

Mark and Caden were standing in the yard, mouths agape, fear all over their faces. They couldn't even talk--Mark simply pointed to the neighbor's house.

I pulled a chair over to the wall and climbed up. My suspicions were confirmed--the neighbor's patio window was, indeed, in pieces everywhere.

My neighbor, a super sweet little old lady, never answers her door, so I called to break the news to her. She met us out back by the patio, and if Mark was afraid she'd be angry, that fear quickly subsided. Her first reaction was to hug Mark and ask if he was okay.

"He's such a good boy," she told my mom, who agreed. Even after this fiasco, she thought Mark could do no wrong.
 

I headed back to my house for a broom and dust pan to clean up the mess. I ran into Caden, who'd been standing at the edge of the yard, clearly still shaken. He's the nicest little kid in the world; he never gets in trouble, and I could see this was too much for him to take. Eyes big as frisbees, he saw me, gulped, then turned and ran home. It was the last time I saw Caden that afternoon!

Contrary to Caden's fears, I wasn't mad. I knew they were just playing around, and that it was an accident, with no malice intended. I congratulated Mark on completing this rite of passage.

"I think every boy in the world breaks a neighbor's window at some point," I told him. "Good job, now you got that out of the way!" I could see him begin to breathe again, visibly relieved.

We cleaned up the mess, and eventually, let our little neighbor get back to her afternoon, after profusely apologizing repeatedly. I thanked God for understanding neighbors, homeowner's insurance, and the fact that no one got hurt.

But just to be on the safe side, I promptly went out and bought a lifetime supply of Wiffle balls. Mark's disappointed he can't hit them as far as the hard baseball, but after one long, steely glance from me, he clarified that "it's okay, who needs to hit that far anyway??" 

I agreed, and reminded him that one window is an accident covered by insurance; but any further broken windows would be covered by Mark and his allowance. He just nodded, and unwrapped a brand new Wiffle ball.

A very a-peeling Halloween

Yesterday was the day Mark lives for all year long--Halloween, or as he likes to think of it, the Night of Endless Candy.

Some kids use this night to live out the scariest forms of themselves, donning gory masks or creepy costumes. Mark opted instead for a brighter, more cheerful costume; he dressed as a banana.

And of course, I can't refuse a funny photo op, so I begged him to take this picture of him eating one of his tiny brethren. He agreed, but not before sighing loudly, turning to his friend Sean, and saying, "Sean, see what I have to put up with?" That only made me giggle more.

He's a banana cannibal--a banana-bal!

But if you think one banana is funny, a whole bunch is even funnier! That's right, not one but TWO of Mark's friends also went as bananas!

A trio of bananas under the banana tree

The Barnetts were kind enough to host a pre-candy dinner. Kimmi did a fantastic job decorating the table and room, which we parents loved, but went woefully under appreciated by the kids. They tore through the room and out to the backyard, where they lit upon the giant trampolines, and morphed into a bunch of flying bananas and one laughing werewolf (sans mask). 

It's like a flying fruit salad.

We finally convinced the kids to eat by reminding them that the sooner they ate, the sooner they could hit the streets. They gobbled down their food, and raced back out to the trampolines.

Eventually, we herded them out front for photos. Which was a little bit insane, considering we had a dozen kids, none of them willing to smile, or even look at the camera, at the same time (Mark refused to look up for any of the group shots). It was pretty funny to see them all--besides the three bananas, there were a couple werewolves, a couple rock stars, a couple creepy-masked creatures, a prince and princess of Denmark, and Thing 1 from the Cat in the Hat (we picked up Thing 2 later on).

We finally started our trek through the streets in search of sugar. The first two houses were jackpots, handing out full-size candy bars.

The kids ran house to house, the gaggle of parents trailing behind, shouting, "Remember to say thank you!" The streets were pretty empty--occasionally, we ran into smaller groups of kids, but not many. Our kids hit up all the houses with lights on, at one point fracturing into two smaller groups--the younger boys running ahead of the 8th graders.

The kids ran into some pretty funny sights along the way. The bananas tried to avoid this guy--Justin actually ran away screaming, which was hilarious. We had to stop and take a picture with him.

A banana's worst nightmare!

We also came across a couple very cool graveyards. I've gotta hand it to the grave keepers, they did some excellent work here.




There was another house a few blocks down with a haunted maze. The kids totally dug it, proclaiming it waaaay scarier than the haunted maze at Calico a couple weeks back (high praise, indeed). As we were leaving, some kind of weird skeleton dog guy crawled out. Very cool!

The kids cracked us up--there was no method to their candy-collecting madness. As kids, we used to run up one side of the street, cross over, and then run up the other side. If a house was dark, you didn't even slow down. There was free candy to be had out there, and only a few precious hours to collect it all. We didn't waste a single second of it.

But our kids walked at a much slower, decidedly unhurried pace. They trick or treated at one house, then crossed over to the other side of the street. They'd hit up a house there, then cross back over. Their zig-zagging confused us, and eventually, the adults simply walked down the middle of the street. One little kid even tired out, and wanted to go home, which baffled my friend Liz.

"I've never heard of a kid wanting to go home early!" she gasped, and I nodded, equally shocked.

But it didn't matter, the kids all got more than enough, and had a blast. Bags full, they headed back to the Barnetts, popping fun-sized candy bars into their mouths the whole time.

Back at the house, they immediately dumped their booty on to the floor, and the wheeling and dealing began. The boys furiously began calling out candy names, yelling, "I'll give you all my lollipops for your Three Musketeers!" and "Who has M&Ms?" Justin wanted Reese's Peanut Butter Cups; Jonah wanted Jolly Ranchers, Sean wanted Now & Laters, and Mark wanted anything, provided it was full-size. It was hilarious to watch the seious bartering.

Finally, all the trading done, the boys stuffed some sugary goodness into their mouths, and ran back outside to--where else?--the trampolines. (On the way home, Mark declared he's now saving for a giant trampoline.)

After some cajoling and the lure of visiting a haunted house, the boys finally jumped off. Mark was exhausted, and opted not to go to the haunted house, and after all that walking, I was fine with that decision.

And so I took my tired little banana home. I worry every year that all the candy will send his blood sugar super high, but in fact, thanks to all the walking and excitement, he always goes low instead. This year was no exception. So after some orange juice and a quick shower (trampolines make you sweaty!), he was off to bed, hopefully not dreaming of the graveyards and haunted tunnels we'd just seen.

Thanks to the Barnetts, Kochs, and McKees for another great Halloween!