Mark is always reminding me he's not a little kid anymore. Which is true, but puts him at that awkward stage where people don't know what to buy him for Christmas. He's too old for toys, but too picky about clothes.
So my cousin Kathleen bought him a manly gift pack of Axe body wash and shampoo. Mark took the bottles out and immediately proclaimed he was NOT GOING TO USE THIS.
"Why not?" I asked. "You like manly soaps..."
"Um, yeah," he stammered. "Look what it says!" He held the bottle toward me.
"Really?" he asked, sarcastically. "Kathleen wants me to get dirty?"
I burst out laughing, and couldn't stop for a good 10 minutes.
"And what about this?" he asked, holding up the shampoo bottle.
"Wash, attract, repeat?" he said. "Seriously?"
I couldn't stand it any longer. I texted Kathleen the pictures and Mark's running commentary. She answered back that she never even saw those instructions.
"Oh, crap," she texted. "I got him X-rated body wash!"
Which sent Mark and I over the edge again. We were crying with laughter.
Then Mark dragged the poor kitten into all this.
"What if I wash Fernando with this?" he asked. "Will he attract all the girl cats?" He swiped an imaginary paw and said, "Rawr!"
I was texting Kathleen back when Mark found a written page of instructions for the body wash. As I was typing, he read them aloud.
"Take care when using on sensitive areas," he read. He immediately stopped and said, "You know what 'sensitive areas' are, RIGHT?"
I did, and tried really hard not to look at him. He was horrified that Kathleen had given him this, and that I was laughing about it.
"No," Mark said, putting the bottles down. "Just. NO. I am not using that body wash. EVER." And then he stomped out of the room.
"Well, I guess the gift was a success one way or another," Kathleen texted.
It most certainly was. I could just imagine the conversation in my head, when someone asks Mark about his presents.
"Hey Mark, what was your favorite Christmas gift?" I imagine them asking.
And Mark's answer?
"The X-rated body wash Kathleen gave me!"
Oh yes, it WAS successful, Kathleen. Maybe not in the way you intended, but definitely a hit.
(And no, I still haven't stopped snickering...)
Unlike every other kid in the world, Mark doesn't really understand the whole behaving-before-Christmas idea. Most kids act better at Christmas, but not Mark. As each day rolls closer, his behavior actually gets worse. Seriously, it's a miracle that Mark gets any presents at all on Christmas.
His morning routine also takes a hit. The closer it gets to Christmas vacation, the harder it is to get Mark out of bed for school. He's like a reverse daylight savings time--instead of gaining a minute of daylight each day as the year goes on, Mark loses a minute each morning.
Yesterday was no exception.
"Time to get up," I said at 7:10 a.m., rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "You've got band practice in half an hour."
I reached to turn his radio on and he screeched like a banshee.
"No radio!" he yelled. "Keep it off! I'm getting up, geez!"
I turned silently and walked out of the room. I've been fighting this all month, and I was officially done.
"Give me a minute to wake up!" he spat as I walked away.
Thirty minutes later, I peeked back in the room. He was still in bed, hiding deep under the covers.
"You have class in ten minutes," I said. There was no response.
He knew he was in big trouble, because when I got out of the shower, he was dressed, fed, and making his bed. I didn't say a word.
At 8:30, I finally spoke.
"The umbrella I gave you last week," I said. "Is it still in your backpack?"
"I dunno," he said in his snottiest tone. "Who knows where it is?"
"Hmm," I said. "Do you have a jacket with a hood?"
"THIS is my jacket," he said, tugging at his sweatshirt. Then he realized where this was all heading and he asked, "Aren't you driving me to school?"
"Nope," I said, in my saddest voice. "I was ready to go at 7:10 and 7:40. Now I'm working."
"But it's raining!" he protested.
"I know," I said. "That's why I asked if you had an umbrella or a jacket."
He stared at me angrily for a moment, then grabbed his backpack. He pointed at his sweatshirt again, and repeated, "This is my jacket." He looked out at the rain, then back at me, daring me to let my only child walk to school in the rain.
And that's when I realized the little stinker doesn't know me nearly as well as he thinks he does.
"Have a good day," I told him.
"I will," he said. He glared at me for one more minute, then stomped toward the front door, daring me to let him go out into the rain.
"Wait!" I called.
He stopped and turned, smiling, victorious.
"Take this out with you," I said, handing him the kitchen garbage bag. "It's trash day today."
He stared at me, incredulous, then snatched the bag, turned and this time, really stomped out the door.
And I just smiled, the same way my mom did when bratty 12-year-old me hurled empty threats at her, I'm sure. I watched my darling (but angry) son stomp though the rain to the sidewalk.
"I'll show her!" his angry gait said.
And I just smiled, standing there in the house, warm, dry and trying not to laugh. I thought the same thing as Mark, with a slight twist.
Wow, I thought. He sure showed me.
Mark was chomping on piñata candy at my nephew Johnny's birthday Saturday, when his wiggly molar popped out.
"Hey Mom, I lost my tooth!" he shouted. Before I could fully process what he'd said, he dumped his bag of candy and his tooth into my hands and ran off to the bounce house.
"Gross!" I yelled, when I realized I had a wet tooth in my hand. All the kids around me laughed.
When he got home, Mark spent a good 10 minutes brushing the tooth to dislodge the chocolate. I gagged when I saw that, and kept on walking.
"Look how clean it is, Mom!" he called out to me, but I refused to go anywhere near.
"I don't want to see anything that came out of your body," I told him. "Ever."
"But it's just a tooth," he reasoned.
"Did it come out of your body?" I asked. He nodded, and I said, "Then I don't want to see it."
Moms are supposed to handle anything--it's hard to be a tough mom when you have a sensitive gag reflex.
Before bed, I asked Mark if he put the tooth under his pillow. He said yes, and I was glad I'd double-checked. (He once left a tooth which sat unclaimed for three days until he tearfully told me. I gently reminded him he's got to tell me so I can warn the Tooth Fairy.)
But I was surprised when he ran off to school the next morning without reporting any disappearing teeth or an influx of cash. In fact, I didn't hear anything until dinner that night.
"The Tooth Fairy didn't come last night," he moaned.
I was surprised to hear that.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered, still sad.
"Did you check?"
"Ye--um, no," he admitted.
"Then how do you know?" I asked. "Go check!"
He ran off to his room. Two seconds later, I heard him whoop, "Two bucks! All right!"
I just shook my head and thanked God for direct deposit. Because if the money doesn't come directly to him--God forbid there's a middle man--my son may never actually get a paycheck when he grows up.
Mark recently shoved a piece of paper under my nose, with gruff orders to sign it.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Math test," he grunted. "You have to sign it." He waggled a pen at me for emphasis.
But I'm not as naive as Mark believes. I actually like to read papers before I sign them.
"C+?" I said. "Really? You told me yesterday you were ready for this test."
"I was!" he protested. "It's not my fault. There weren't enough questions!"
And that stopped me in my tracks. I'm not good at math, but apparently, Mark's not good at logic.
"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked.
"There were only 9 problems," he explained. "And I missed two, so that's a C+."
I waited.
"And...?" I finally said, breaking the silence.
"And...if there were more questions, I would've got a better grade," Mark said slowly, to his (obviously) idiotic mother.
"It doesn't matter how many questions there are," I told him. "It's the percentage that counts. You got 78% right. Doesn't matter how many questions there are--78% will be always be a C+."
"No," Mark said, his patience straining. "If there were more questions, I would have got a higher grade."
"If you'd gotten all the other questions correct," I said. "But if there were twice as many questions, and you missed twice as many answers, you'd still get 78%."
And there we stood, staring each other down. Stalemate.
He tried again.
"I missed two," Mark explained. "If there were 20 questions, I would've gotten an A."
"But you didn't get an A," I said. I pointed at the paper. "You got a C+." I couldn't figure out how this conversation was going so wrong.
"Just sign it, please," Mark sighed. He was done with me and my little brain, and my illogical questions.
"This is not acceptable," I told him, handing the paper back. "I want to see a better grade next time."
He walked away, stuffing the paper in to his backpack.
"Then tell the teacher to give us more questions," he said.
He shook his head and walked away, clearly wondering how I ever finished middle school, when I was obviously so bad at math.
I'm not sure he's really even studying math at all. I think he was actually practicing Jedi mind tricks on me instead. And I'm pretty sure I failed.
In years past, I've helped Mark write his letter to Santa. This year, he didn't need any help or encouragement; the kid was on it. He made sure his letter got to Santa on time (it hasn't always).
I was glad to see that he'd learned from my prior etiquette lessons.
"You have write a real letter," I'd told him. "It has to be a conversation, with give and take, with questions and observations. You can't just write a gimme-gimme-gimme letter."
He didn't understand that at 5, but he does now. At 12, he realizes it's not cool to just send Santa a list of demands.
Mark was also concerned about some of his friends--specifically, his friend Ty, who's Jewish.
"Ty's getting ripped off," Mark said, admitting later that Ty does get presents for 8 nights during Hannukah, which is pretty cool. But he couldn't figure out how Santa knew to skip Ty's house.
"That's easy," I said. "Jewish kids don't write him letters."
"Not all kids write to Santa," Mark argued.
"You sure about that?" I asked. "You gonna take that chance?"
"No," Mark answered without hesitation.
And so, as in years past, Mark wrote his letter. I'm pretty sure he doesn't believe anymore, but he doesn't want to chance it. Because, you know...what if he really does exist, and Mark didn't say "S'up"?
I read Mark's letter, and was totally cracking up inside. It was so funny I even ignored all the misspelled words, right up until the very end. There it was, right next to the picture of Mark and his cousins, with Nathalie screaming about her favorite boy band, One Direction.
"Seriously?" I screeched, pointing at his signature. "You spelled your own name wrong?"
"No, I didn't," Mark scoffed. Then he looked a little closer, and said, "It's my middle name, that doesn't count!"
I guess not. The letter was funny and had lots of questions. I was willing to overlook a misspelling, and congratulated him on a job well done.
And best of all, he only asked for three things--a new phone with a text keyboard, a hat, and a beanie with a beard and mustache attached.
I think Mark Danil might get what he asked for this year...
The awesome thing about having a tween is that you don't have to teach them anything, because they already know everything.
OK, wait, no, that's the exact opposite of the truth. The truth is, they really don't know anything, but are convinced they do. With each passing year, this illusion grows grander, and they become more convinced it's true. It's like George Costanza said on Seinfeld: "It's not a lie if you believe it."
Mark is no different from his peers in this department. Last night, I was cooking dinner, and called him into the kitchen.
"What are we having?" he asked.
"You're having ribs and cooked carrots," I said. "I'm having chicken noodle soup."
"I don't want soup," he said.
"I know," I said patiently to the boy who never listens. "That's why you're having ribs."
He grunted, "Hmmmm," then asked if he could make ramen soup instead.
"What?" I asked. "No! I made fresh, homemade real food. Healthy food doesn't come in a pre-packaged bag!"
"That came out of a bag," he said, nodding toward the food I was warming up.
"Because I froze it," I reminded him. "It was fresh when I cooked it. Nothing in a bag beats frozen fresh food."
We both cracked up at that. But then I realized he really does need to learn to cook--someday soon he'll go off to college, and I don't want him living off those little ramen packets.
During dinner, I asked what Mark what he wanted to cook. When he
said nothing, I offered up burgers.
"I already know how to cook
burgers," he said, in that pre-teen exasperated tone.
"OK, how about a steak?" I asked. "I'll teach you how
to grill a steak."
"You don't know how to grill a steak," he yelped. "I
tell you how long to cook it! I know how to cook, Mom."
It's true, he does guard his steaks religiously, as I tend to overcook them (seriously, what kind of civilized human eats a still-bloody hunk of meat?).
"I'm just trying
to help," I said. "You have to learn how to cook."
"No, I don't," he snorted. "That's what the Internet is for. The
Internet teaches me everything I need to know."
This time, I scoffed.
"Oh well, then you don't
even need a mom after all," I said. "The Internet can raise
you."
"Whatever," he sniffed. "I'll show you I can cook. I'm gonna make
some ramen noodles."
He went back in to the kitchen, filled a pot with water and turned on the
burner.
"They only take three minutes," I said, helpfully. He just
sighed and said, "I know, Mom. I can read the directions." I could almost see him rolling his eyes in the kitchen.
I stayed in the dining room, finishing my soup, not really paying much attention until
approximately two minutes later when he grumbled, "COOK, noodles!"
I
giggled and immediately bolted into the kitchen. I peeked over his shoulder at the still pot of water and the brick of ramen noodles swimming in it.
"You know the water has
to boil first, right?" I said. "You don't put the noodles in until
the water's boiling."
"I know!" he said, then, "Wait, what?"
I handed him the strainer, and he
drained the noodles into it. I helped him refill the pot and place it back on
the stove top. Five minutes later, he dropped the soggy brick of disintegrating noodles back into the boiling pot of water.
I walked back to the dining room, but paused first. He
looked up at me, unsure of what was coming, but knowing full well he wouldn't
like it.
"Always boil the water first, before you put any noodles or pasta in," I said. "They won't cook unless the water's already boiling."
Then I smirked, and because I couldn't help myself, I added, "Didn't the Internet teach you
that?"
I didn't have to see the kitchen towel to know it was hurtling
toward me. It hit the counter behind me as I ducked out of the
kitchen.
Guess the Internet still has a few more lessons to impart on my
budding chef.
After one take-out dinner too many, I started cooking again last week. You'd think my son would be overjoyed at the prospect of so many lovingly-prepared homemade dinners, but you would be wrong.
The reasons I like and hate cooking for Mark are exactly the same: he's dead honest. If he likes something, I know it. If he doesn't, I know it, too. I also know when cleans his plate just because he's hungry, not because he loves the food. When I ask, "How was it?" he answers with a side-turned hand wave and an "Eh..."
I don't mind the critiques. The only thing that really irritates me is when I asked for menu ideas and he shrugged.
"If you don't give input on the menu, you can't complain about the meal," I warned him.
"But what if it's really bad?" he asked.
"We aren't there yet," I said. "All I'm doing now is taking suggestions."
The week did not go great. I made a slow-cooker lasagna (bad, for the second time--I'm tossing that recipe); steak and potatoes (not a great cut of meat); Chinese chicken salad (thumbs-up, but this one's always a winner); and butternut squash soup (amazing!). I think the soup was the best thing I made--it was so good I ate it two nights in a row.
Mark, however, offered a different opinion.
"It looks like baby food," he observed.
"It's not baby food!" I answered, defensively. "It's soup. And it's GOOD. I roasted this squash for an hour and a half--it's AWESOME."
He reluctantly tried a spoonful, passing the smallest amount he could through his lips.
"It's not really a soup," he said. "It's more like a sauce."
I pulled my soup bowl back. "It's not a sauce," I groused. "It's soup. And it's good."
He patted my shoulder condescendingly. "It's okay," he said, gently. But he couldn't stop himself, and added, "For a sauce..."
This was my fifth night (in a row!) of cooking, and I was grumpy. I'd made breakfasts, I'd made lunches, and I'd certainly made dinners, all for an unappreciative audience. I was tired of measuring, cooking, and washing dishes, and I was tired of the not-helpful feedback.
"You're on your own for dinner," I told the little food critic. "Eat whatever you can make."
I knew that would make him happy; what I didn't expect was outright glee. This was what he chose:
"I'm having tuna!" he said. "And a croissant." He smacked his lips in anticipation.
He brought his meal to the table. I watched, waiting for him to stuff the croissant with tuna. Instead, he ate the two separately.
"You're not making a sandwich?" I asked.
"No, I like tuna right out of the bowl," he answered. He smiled, then he finished it off, occasionally biting into the croissant.
And there you have it. That right there is why I don't cook--because my kid loves canned fish and Costco croissants. He prefers a de-constructed tuna sandwich to anything I actually cook.
I watched him, smiling and happily enjoying his dinner, and I thought, how can I possibly compete with that?
It was cold and rainy this weekend, but apparently not enough for my friend Michelle and I. We opted for even colder, taking our boys to an exhibit with the underwhelming name "Chill."
Five-year-old Corban was super curious about what we were doing, and kept tugging on Mark's sleeve.
"Where are we going, Mark?" he asked. "What are we gonna do?"
"I don't know," Mark answered truthfully. I hadn't fully explained it to him, because honestly, I wasn't sure what it was myself. All I knew was there were ice sculptures, and maybe a slide.
Corban didn't really care--he was just excited to be out and about. He bounced past a makeshift Candy Cane lane village where we stopped to take photos of the boys. This picture cracked me up, with the giant snow man and palm trees in the background. It's truly a California Christmas pic.
We passed a giant snack bar and holiday shop, and an outdoor skating rink that looked like it was melting a bit in the momentary sun. Finally inside the dome, we crossed under a giant, colorful Ice Kingdom sign and waited patiently in line.
At the end of the line was a booth, where a lady gave us thick blue parkas that swallowed us up. I'd read the exhibition was a frosty 7 degrees, so I was grateful for the parka, even if I did look like a dorky giant Smurf in it.
Then it was time for the moment of truth. The kids pulled the door open, revealing a humongous arctic freezer and a burst of air so cold, I momentarily stopped breathing.
A frozen, colorful world stood before us--there was a green and red welcome ice sculpture in front of us and a giant (like 6 feet tall!) white snowflake to our right. We gasped and immediately started taking pictures, which, it turns out, is impossible to do with gloves on.
We moved into the next room.
"Whoa!" I yelled. Trees with clear and pink lighted leaves adorned the walls, and I ran to touch them, completely oblivious to the "Do not touch" signs. I looked around--there were massive ice sculptures everywhere. There was an ice princess to my left, and a giant, life-sized unicorn to my right (OK, a giant horse-sized sculpture--not sure how big unicorns really are). The unicorn was pulling a prince (also life-size) in a giant swan carriage. They were all made of crystal clear and colored ice blocks, and they were just gorgeous.
I couldn't get over the castle--it must be two or three stories high!
Michelle and I ran around it, squealing, touching every block in every wall of it. Corban joined in, but Mark stood to the side, more impressed by the frozen breath cloud he kept exhaling.
After we'd touched and photographed every tree and sculpture, we moved to the second room, where we screamed some more. This room featured a giant ice block replica of the Queen Mary ship. There was also a blue whale, which spit out a kid while we standing there. Turns out we'd found the little kid's whale ice slide, which Corban couldn't wait to go down.
I expected the boys sliding down together, but Corban popped out all on his own, laughing his head off. Mark followed right after, his demeanor more tweenage boredom than unmitigated glee.
Michelle and I ran up the Queen Mary to the adult ice slide. We plopped down on the ice, and raced down the two-lane slide. It was AWESOME! We slid down about 100 feet on our parkas, crashing onto a red carpet, where I was laughing so hard I could barely get up. That was the coolest thing ever.
Mark, the boy with no body fat, was miserable.
"I'm soooooo cold," he whined. "Let's leave!"
We moved on to the third room, Santa's Toyland. This room was much different; the ice was all colored, not clear, and the sculptures looked like they were molded from plastic, not ice.
I just marveled at them all. Mark barely noticed--he shot out of the room after two minutes, tired of freezing his tiny rear off.
Suddenly, I heard Michelle yell, "Corban, NO! No, no, no, no, NO!"
I turned and saw her moving him away from a block of ice level with his face. She looked mortified. I could tell from their body language what almost transpired.
"Did he lick the ice?" I asked, and she answered, "Almost!" We both imagined the tongue-frozen-to-the-pole scene in "A Christmas Story" and cracked up. I commended Michelle on her quick reflexes.
The last room was a massive Nativity scene, set on four or five different islands. The ice people and animals were clear, which lent a very classic, simple touch to the scenes. I wandered around slowly, even though my feet were seriously cold now, until I noticed Michelle and the boys were gone. They couldn't take the cold one second longer.
I left, too, and was hit by a blast of warm air at the exit. It felt like a big, warm hug--seriously the best feeling ever! Michelle and the boys were dancing around, trying to warm up.
"I can't feel my feet!" Mark yelled, and Corban shouted back, "Me neither!"
My glasses didn't adjust quite as quickly to the temperature change.
It took a steaming cup of cocoa to finally warm me up inside, but I eventually did come back to room temperature.
Mark, however, did not. Corban ran off to go tubing down an ice hill, but Mark stayed back. He'd had quite enough of the cold, thankyouverymuch.
I loved our "Chill" day out. It was cold, to be sure, but hey, how often do you get to walk through a frozen castle or race down an ice slide (in Southern California)? That was about as cold a winter as we get here, and I enjoyed all 30 minutes of it.
After our Bigfoot museum fiasco, we moved across the road to Henry Cowell State Park for a picnic and a little hiking among the redwoods.
It was a gorgeous day, and I was really excited to show Mark the majestic redwood trees. I love the redwoods tree; the way they jut right up into the sky so you can't even see the tops of them, and the quiet forest path below. I love how they are so big they actually block out the sunlight, and I love the mysterious, dark lighting the forest takes on as a result. I also love the raised bark along the trees, the way it twists and rises in long, circular patterns, creating little wooden valleys and ridges all along the trees.
But most of all, I love the serenity, that calm, soothing feeling you get when walking among these giant trees. It's humbling to be among nature, especially when its hundred of years old, and towers above you. There's nothing as tranquil as being part of the forest, silent except for the birds, the squirrels, the sound of nature all around. The quiet, the solitude of it all just speaks to me.
However, there's one sure-fire way to ruin all that within moments; bring your 12-year-old hyper son on the day you skipped his ADD medication.
I knew I was in trouble as soon as we started down the path. Tim and Kim had gone to the car for jackets, and I had Mark, Nic and Hannah with me. Hannah and Nic wanted to show me a piece of the oldest tree, but Mark just wanted to bounce around.
"Look up at the trees, Mark," I said, in awe. He just snorted and kept running.
"What's so great about trees?" he shouted back over his shoulder. "I've seen trees before in Big Bear."
"Not redwoods!" I clarified.
"Whatever!" he said. "Trees are trees." And then I heard a new sound in the forest--my heart breaking.
Kim had mentioned that we might see another famous local--banana slugs. Mark had never seen those either, so I was eager to find some and point them out.
"You think they'll really be out?" I asked Kim.
She nodded. "This is the weather they like--cold and damp."
Nic spotted the first one two minutes later. "Banana slug!" he yelled, pointing to a long yellow slug on the ground.
Mark was all over that. Well, over the competition, that is. He didn't care much about seeing the slugs, he just wanted to find them before Nic did. The two boys ran off, staring at the ground, trying to spot banana slugs first.
"Hey, look up at the trees!" Tim yelled at them. He turned and said to me, "I brought them here to see the redwoods, and they're running through the forest looking at the ground." Yeah, pretty much on par for those two boys.
Besides slugs, we also saw a couple deer grazing in the forest, and some trees with amazing gold-colored leaves that looked like they were lit up and glowing. The trees reached through the openings between the redwood trunks, reaching up for the patches of sunlight streaming through. Hannah and I tried taking pictures, but couldn't capture the beauty in our tiny little phones.
We rounded a corner in the path, and came across a guy playing a funny little guitar and singing train songs from the 1800s. In the distance, we could hear an actual train, with its horn blaring and the steam engine puffing. It almost sounded fake, the ch-ch-ch-ing of the wheels on the track as the guy sang along.
The giant tree had a slight opening, which the kids dove into. Hannah climbed in first, followed by Nic and Mark, and pretty son, all three of them were inside the humongous tree. They were having a blast in there, swallowed up by the tree. I couldn't see them, but I could hear their giggles.
The kids clambered out of the tree, and we finished our hike. We heard the train again, but never actually saw it. At one point, it was puffing, setting off these loud clanging noises, and Mark stood in the forest, pretending to be shot with each loud bang. Even in the middle of the most beautiful place, he's crazy.
We came to the end of the path, where I tried unsuccessfully to steer Mark into the visitor's center.
"I didn't come here to learn," he said, dismissively.
"You asked what's so great about the redwoods," I said. "Go in there, and you'll find out." He ran off instead.
We passed by the gift shop, which he was interested in. I didn't buy anything, but was sorely tempted when I saw a great t-shirt bearing the phrase "May the forest be with you."
But we weren't finished yet; we sill had another appointment, at the Mystery Spot. None of us were actually sure what that even was, but I'd seen bumper stickers forever, and I'd always been curious. Kim was equally excited; she'd grown up in San Jose, and had never been. It was a first for all of us!
We waited in the tiny courtyard for our tour to start. There was also a gift store here, but I held off on buying anything, although there were approximately one million yellow and black souvenirs advertising the Mystery Spot.
"You didn't buy anything?" Tim asked.
I shook my head no. "I'm gonna wait till after," I said. "Until I know what the Mystery Spot actually is. Because what if I buy something and then I end up hating the Mystery Spot?"
Eventually, our tour was called, and our tour guide, Prema, introduced himself. He was maybe 16 or 17 years old, but had a great personality and was super funny. We laughed the first 10 minutes of the tour, and we hadn't even moved from our starting point.
Prema lead us up to the spot, which turned out to be a slanted house much like the one I'd seen in Calico. "Uh oh," my brain said, because that hadn't turned out so well. But I gave it my best shot, watching Prema use his level to prove the house was straight, even though it slanted in every direction. He rolled a pool ball up a board, and then Kim's Chapstick, and even some water. It was a trip.
We went inside the house, and that's when the trouble really started--my brain went lopsided, and upside down, and eventually a little nauseous. I watched everyone lean the exact opposite way they should have, and it just messed with my head. Prema encouraged me to walk down the sloping floor toward him, but I declined. Instead, I ended up shoving my way out toward the exit, past the next tour group, gasping for air. Yes, it was a little melodramatic, but the sloping house seriously made me carsick! It was weird...
But I could still hear Prema and his jokes outside. I could hear Mark and Nic laughing, and I knew they were all having a good time. Kim eventually made her way toward me; the house was messing with her head, too.
So I spent most of my time outside the mystery zone, but that was fine. The jokes were funny, Prema was funny, and I knew the kids were having a good time. And hey, I even got a free bumper sticker at the end.
Our tour ended, and we headed out to the car, pretty much spent. It was a busy day--Bigfoot museum, redwoods, and Mystery Spot, and we still had a 30 minute drive back home. But it was a good day, and we returned exhausted, happy, laughing and grateful for the fun times we spent with our family.
I love a good roadside attraction/oddity, and I appreciate any kind of eclectic museum, especially one run by an equally eccentric proprietor. So when my brother Tim suggested a visit to the Bigfoot Museum in Santa Cruz, I was all over it.
Let me preface this by saying it wasn't the first visit for Tim's family. They are huge fans of the cable TV show "Finding Bigfoot," and know an alarming amount of Sasquatch facts. Tim dropped the phrase "the Patterson-Gimlin film" into conversation numerous times, as though I knew what that meant.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I finally admitted.
"The famous film," he sighed. "The one of Bigfoot walking."
I began to worry about my brother.
I also worried about my nephew, Nic, when he demonstrated how Sasquatches communicate with each other by pounding a giant branch on a tree.
"The Sasquatches always answer back on the show," my niece Hannah said, matter-of-factly.
The "museum" was the size of my bedroom, and U-shaped. We entered one side of the room, then turned a wall and walk back down the other side, where the "curator" stood, eagerly waiting to discuss Bigfoot with us.
The place was AWESOME--every inch was covered with photos, newspaper clippings, magazine covers, action figures. If it was about Bigfoot, it was here. You could even buy giant plaster Bigfoot footprints for $25.
A giant stuffed Bigfoot was propped up on the floor, and I made Hannah sit and take photos with it. We were still giggling with the stuffed 'Squatch when everyone else went into the second room.
From our room, I heard the curator talking to Mark. He asked a question, and Mark answered, "I don't know," in a guilty tone, which was apparently the wrong answer. The curator scolded him, saying "That's the difference between science and faith."
When I turned the corner, Nic was deeply engrossed in the Patterson-Gimlin film, watching an endless loop of Bigfoot walking. Kim was staring at the wall, and Tim was hiding behind the corner, entranced by a huge map. Mark stood in the middle of the room, looking lost.
I smiled at the old coot curator leaning on the counter. He looked like an old-time miner, with a white beard, plaid shirt and suspenders. He was still talking, loudly and kind of angry. I listened for a moment, but was totally distracted by the weird vibe in the room. No one was talking back to the curator, or asking questions--and this group is usually FULL of questions.
I looked at my family members--I wasn't imagining it, they were all avoiding eye contact with the old coot.
I realized they were totally ignoring the crazy guy, which surprised me. We hadn't just stumbled upon this place accidentally; we'd come here on purpose, specifically to embrace the crazy. And now they were ignoring it?
I waited a couple minutes, until I couldn't take it anymore. I broke the uncomfortable silence, asking the difference between a Sasquatch and Bigfoot.
"Bigfoot is just a nickname for the Sasquatches," the curator said gruffly, like I was an idiot. "Sasquatches aren't animals, they're feral humans. And when the government realizes that, they won't bestow an endangered species status on them, they'll have to give them what the rest of us already have as humans: Constitutional rights."
And...action! Game on! This was what'd I'd come for--conspiracy theories and feral humans! I glanced at Tim with a twinkle in my eye, but he looked away, absorbed in the giant wall map.
Seriously? I thought. No reaction to FERAL HUMANS??
No one else reacted, either. Clearly, I was on my own here.
"Ummm...is there more than one Bigfoot?" I asked. (Yes, my questions were lame, but I hadn't planned on carrying the whole conversation myself!)
"Well, duh, YEAH," the curator scoffed. "They have parents--of course there's more than one, or how else are they gonna breed? If there was just one, they'd die out!"
He sighed at my stupidity. Then he regaled us with tales of his recent trip north, which someone had sponsored.
"They paid for my rental car and gas," he said, proudly, as though being sponsored made the research legitimate.
Again, I looked to Tim, but still, no reaction. ("I wanna sponsor an expedition," I told Tim later. "What'll that cost, like a hundred bucks? I'll rent him a car, then I'll have bragging rights forever--remember the time I sponsored a Bigfoot research trip?")
The conversation lulled and died again.
"Um...what do they eat?" I asked. Obviously, no one else was gonna jump in here.
"Sasquatches hide in the forest, out of sight," the curator said, ignoring my question. "But builders have seen them. The 'Squatches come into their camps and break the levers on their tractors and their equipment, so they can't do any work."
Mischievous feral humans breaking stuff--I glanced around again, pleading, but no one would take the crazy bait.
The curator proclaimed that a famous researcher, Melba Ketchum, just finished years of DNA testing and concluded that Sasquatches are, indeed, real and part human (and part FERAL!).
"She found human DNA," he said. "She's going to release her findings soon. She already put something on Facebook about it, but I haven't had a chance to look at it yet."
("He didn't have time?" Tim said, later. "What else does he have to do??"")
And then, suddenly, unknowingly, Tim broke the spell. He said the magic words, "that show, Finding Bigfoot," and the curator immediately thawed, dropping his attitude and warming his tone.
"I know those guys," he said. "We go on research expeditions together." He pulled out an autographed postcard of the cast, and Hannah appeared out of nowhere to admire it.
"Hannah loves Bobo," Tim said, and though I had no idea what that meant, the curator did, and laughed. (Bobo's one of the stars on the show, and one of the curator's friends.)
And that's all it took. The weird vibe immediately disappeared. The curator lost his haughty tone. Tim asked about the wolf pictures scattered about, and the curator explained that Sasquatches fed the wolves who followed them.
"That's actually how humans domesticated dogs as companions," Tim said, and suddenly, they were best friends.
I just stared at Tim. I wasn't sure where this guy had been, but I'd been waiting for him!
When we left 15 minutes later, everyone was fast friends. I bought a magnet, we said goodbye, and I stopped to take a picture comparing the size of my foot with Bigfoot's.
But when I got to the mini-van, the whole family was yelling and laughing at the same time. Mark was apologizing, somewhat defensively, and kept repeating, "Well, how was I supposed to know??"
Turns out Mark, the boy with no filters, walked into the second room, watched approximately three seconds of the famous Bigfoot film and yelled out, "It's just a guy in a suit!"
To which the curator--the man who has dedicated his life, his vacations and and his museum to showcasing Bigfoot--lost it, and launched into a defensive tirade about how Sasquatches are real, and not a hoax.
"Mark opened his big mouth, and the rest of us got an angry lecture for the next half hour," Tim said. "That's why we were ignoring him. You totally missed the whole thing!"
I burst into laughter--now it all made sense! The carefully averted eyes, the uncomfortable silence...and I was not at all shocked that my dear, beloved son was the cause of it.
"Nice," I told Mark. "Maybe next year we'll go to Roswell, and you can tell them aliens aren't real, either."
It was totally a case of the emperor not wearing any clothes. OF COURSE the rest of us thought it was just a guy in a suit, but no one else actually SAID IT OUT LOUD. Even Nic and Hannah knew not to poke the bear (or feral human?), especially in his own museum. But apparently, we forgot to warn Mark.
Even Nic, who's the same age as Mark, knew better. He said, "In our minds, we all screamed" when Mark blurted that out. Even Nic knew that would enrage the old coot.
And so, unbeknownst to me or Hannah, they all got an extra special lecture courtesy of Mark's sassy mouth.
"This is one of those stories that was miserable to live through," Tim said. ""I wanted to punch Mark in the head so hard! But now, I'm gonna laugh about it forever."
And that's exactly what we did--we laughed about it all that day, all that night, and for the rest of the weekend. We haven't stopped laughing about it yet.
It pretty much amused all of us to no end--amused everybody except the old coot running the museum. Turns out, he doesn't find Mark nearly as funny as we do.
Oh, and two days after we got home, I saw this on msnbc.com! I sent it to Tim, who was really impressed and said, "And you heard it first at the Bigfoot museum!!!" I can only wonder what other priceless secrets we might've learned had Mark kept his mouth shut...
There's only one good thing about not being able to cook: no one expects me to on holidays. Even if I wanted to, they won't let me; putting me in the kitchen on a food-related holiday is akin to putting me in the Super Bowl after half a season playing Pop Warner football. So instead, I am routinely assigned to bring the rolls, the pies and/or the wine.
To be honest, I don't really mind. My mom and all my brothers are excellent cooks; I'd rather just enjoy the fruits of their labor and wash all the dishes afterwards.
This year, Thanksgiving was in San Jose, at my brother Tim's house. My parents stayed home and slummed it with us this year (they ran off to Hawaii last year). We missed the San Diego part of the family, but still managed to pack in a whole lot of fun in San Jose.
The San Jose crowd are an early-to-bed, early-to-rise crowd. Like the Army, they get more done in the morning than I get done the rest of the day. By the time I woke up on Thanksgiving, Tim and the kids were leaving for a turkey trot, and Kim was outside raking up leaves. Apparently, this was not going to be an idle holiday.
It was also Kim's birthday, and she wanted to ride bikes to celebrate. We rode over to the turkey trot, but got there just as the party was ending, and everyone was going home. Which was sad, but even more sad was the fact they were out of coffee. But it didn't slow us down; we just biked over to Starbuck's, where we ran into half the town of Willow Glen (seriously, Tim and Kim know everyone who lives there!).
My parents had arrived by the time we got home. After a round of hugs and hellos, everyone settled into the living room. Kim's dad Bill and his wife Carol were driving in from Redding, so we snacked and watched a Star Wars marathon while we waited for them. Mark and my nephew Nic were wild men, rotating between pillow fights in Nic's room and rousing soccer matches in the front yard.
Finally, it was turkey time! Chef Tim prepared a fantastic bird this year, and Mark got to carve it up.
Platters of food went around the table, and everyone served themselves. It wasn't until the dishes stopped passing that I noticed an absence.
"Where are the vegetables?" I asked Tim, staring down at my carb-laden plate.
"There are none!" Tim proclaimed loudly. He refused to make any, saying it's just filler. I thought of my brother Smed, who refused to let any vegetable (even a single green bean!) onto his plate, because he wanted to fill up only on meat and potatoes. I just smiled; seemed my family was all together, if only in spirit.
The meal was fabulous. Kim got a little bit ripped off, sharing her birthday with Thanksgiving, but Tim tried his best to make it a dual celebration.
After pie, the adults sat around the table chatting. The boys migrated outside again, and Hannah and I watched TV for a bit. She was cracking me up; she's a dangerous mix of both Dinsdale and Vincent, which makes for a lethally funny sense of humor. She got in a few really good cracks at me, and I just laughed, upholding the family motto of "It's okay to be mean, as long as it's funny." I also resorted to calling her Snarky Girl the rest of the weekend.
No one felt like fighting the shopping crowds the next day--the closest we got was mocking the Wal-mart campers on the news Thanksgiving night. Instead, we all sat around watching the movie "Big" and then travelled to nearby Campbell to visit an urban chicken store. Kim's all into getting some chickens, and I just cracked up--seems I'm visiting a lot of chicken and feed stores on my vacations these days! ;-)
There was also a toy store next door. Hannah and the boys ran off to that, and we eventually followed. It was a pretty cool store, and I especially liked the Santa and elf cut-out in front.
Our next excursion was to the panaderia for Mexican sweet bread. Along the way, we passed giant inflatable crab--I'm serious, this thing must've been at least one story high and probably twenty feet long.
"Holy crab!" Mark yelled from the back seat. I said, "Mark..." in a warning tone, and then burst into laughter. Kim reminded me of the funny motto, and I agreed, just felt like I had to give a little show of parental guidance.
Kim took us for another bike ride that afternoon. It was a nice mixture of mellow laziness, leftover food and exercise--the perfect day!
We made lots of fun of that giant crab, even talking it all up to my dad. But the funny thing is. later on that evening, we were stumped on where to go for dinner, and ended up going...you guessed it...to the seafood restaurant with the giant crab! (My family is so easy to sway.)
The food was okay, but the tools on the table were better. Mark immediately tied on a lobster bib, and then he and Nic started pounding each other with wooden mallets. It was funny for about two seconds, until they started pounding on the table.
It was just nice to hang with the family, and to be somewhere different. And even though it wasn't all that far away, it felt like it. We've had an extended summer in our part of California, and while that's pretty nice, I was really missing autumn. Turns out I found it in San Jose--all the trees were golden, red and purple. So it really felt like a fall Thanksgiving, with crisp air and gorgeous fall colors all around.
All in all, it was a wonderful couple of days.
I love music--any kind, all kinds, as long as it has a good beat or thoughtful lyrics, I'm in.
Because I've been a fan my whole life, I know a lot of music; I can sing just about any song that plays on the radio. And sing I do, loudly, proudly, way out of tune. What I lack in talent, I make up for in volume.
But what I don't always know are the words to those songs. Maybe it's from hearing loss due to blaring my radio for too many teenage years. More likely, it's due to my short attention span; I don't always listen carefully, and my mind wanders a lot. Whatever the case, I never get the words right. My friend Vicki says I know all the songs, and none of the words.
But hey, no big deal. I don't take it personally when people correct me. In fact, it's usually pretty funny to hear what the real lyrics are compared to whatever the heck I've been singing.
Well, usually it's funny. It wasn't as funny when Mark recently corrected me.
I was singing along to "Starships" by Nicki Minaj. Mark was singing, too, until the chorus, when he suddenly grew very quiet.
"Starships were meant to fly-y-y, hands up and touch the sky-y-y," I sang. "Let's do this one more ti-i-ime, can't stop...I ain't even trying to get this!"
And that broke Mark's silence. He burst into laughter.
"You know those aren't the words, right?" he asked, in a truly condescending voice.
"I know the words," I snorted. "I just sang them, didn't I?"
He smiled slyly. "Oh, so then you know she's saying a really bad word, right?"
"Yes, I know she--wait, what?" I said, glancing at him in the rear view mirror. My mind raced through the lyrics, but came up blank. "What'd she say?"
He smile grew even bigger.
"What'd she SAY?" I asked again.
"She said, 'Higher than..." He paused, clearing his throat. I just looked at him.
"'Higher than a...M...F..er," he finally choked out.
I almost crashed the car--I'd been singing this song for MONTHS. With Mark in the car. With my window rolled down. At the top of my lungs, with a goofy smile on my face.
"No, she said, 'I ain't even trying to get that,'" I clarified.
"Um, no, she didn't," he snickered. "And by the way...that doesn't even make sense."
The chorus came on again then, and as I listened, I realized he was right. It was mostly bleeped out, but once I heard it, I couldn't unhear it.
"Oh my God!" I cried. "Seriously? Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I thought you knew," he said. He was trying really hard not to laugh at me.
I immediately flipped the station.
"And besides," I asked, "how do you even know those words?"
"I go to middle school," he said. "I know more than you think."
And that's the exact moment my brain shut down. Obscenities, precocious tweens, I couldn't take any more. It wasn't enough to flip the station--I turned the radio off.
"Hey!" Mark yelled. He didn't like being punished for Nicki Minaj's potty mouth.
"Fine," I said. I turned the radio back on, but put it on NPR. If I couldn't keep profanity off the airwaves, then I'd only play public radio.
And that was when I realized I'd done something even worse than wrong-singing obscenities...I'd turned into my parents.
"Oh, for the love of Pete!" I yelled, out loud, fully cementing the transformation. Mark just looked at me quizzically.
"Never mind," I said. I couldn't say I suddenly feel very old...he already enough ammo to insult me with.
Sigh...I tried hard to be the cool mom who knows all the current songs on the radio...but in the end, I'm really just another middle-aged, overprotective mom who's shocked that young kids are singing bad words (and that her young son knows those words).
And I ain't even tryin' to get that...
Mark loves video games. I'm sorry, that doesn't quite convey the intensity of his true feelings--I meant, Mark LOVES LOVES LOVES video games.
The only thing Mark loves more than playing video games by himself is playing video games with someone slightly less good at them than he is. He likes the challenge of competing against someone else, but only if he wins. (Yes, I know...we're working on that.)
But he doesn't like playing against people who never play video games, because it takes him out of the trance he slips into when playing. He has to stop, explain the rules, and endlessly show them how to use the controllers. I know how he gets because I am one of those beginners that irritate the heck out of him--I can barely spell out my name with the controllers, let alone pass a football or hit a baseball.
Today, Mark was playing against his friends. Sean plays at the same level as Mark, but he was home sick. Josh would rather play on his iPhone and tune out the other three boys. Dan is a good gamer, but he's also the younger brother, so he never gets to play--Sean and Mark always hog the game.
Mark and Dan were deep into a basketball game this morning when I realized Mark had not finished his chores. I reminded him nicely and he totally ignored me, so I stood directly in front and reminded him a little less nicely.
"I'm in the middle of the game!" he screeched, motioning at me to move.
"Give the controller to Josh," I said. "He can play for you while you're gone."
Mark threw the controller to Josh with instructions not to mess up.
"He doesn't even know how to play basketball!" Dan laughed.
Josh just scoffed. "I totally got this," he said. "Watch--touchdown!"
Mark looked at me as if I'd kicked a puppy.
"Seriously?" he asked.
"It's just a game," I said. "The faster you go, the faster you'll get back to it."
He started to stomp down the hall veeeeeerrrry slowly in protest, until Dan screamed "YEAH!" Mark saw an imminent loss in his future and it sent him running.
Josh must've been losing by a lot, because when Mark returned, he just snorted and walked to the game console. Josh wasn't even paying attention--he was on the couch attacking Dan.
"Settle down," I told them, and they grabbed for the controllers again.
"Hey, this looks like soccer," Dan said, totally confused.
"Because it is soccer," Mark replied. "I changed the game."
Mark sighed. I decided to put him out of his misery.
"Time for school, guys," I said. Mark threw down his controller, turned off the game and was out the front door before I even finished that sentence. It was the fastest I'd ever seen him leave for school.
"Have a good day at school!" I told Josh and Dan as they left. They gave me a thumbs up.
I'm pretty sure I know exactly where Mark will be when I get home today--in his beanbag chair in front of the TV, all by himself. And he'll be the happiest kid alive.
Touchdown!
Disclaimer: I'm a parent to a child with Type 1 diabetes, and his opinions may differ radically from mine. (But maybe not...these things do annoy him, too.) Anyway, just wanted to point out these are my opinions as a parent, not as a person living with Type 1 diabetes.
Today is World Diabetes Day! I don't usually call attention to it, but I've been bombarded by lots of comments lately that just make me mad.
But being mad is no good, so instead, I'll use those comments as an opportunity to dispel some myths, and teach people instead. Maybe the next time you get the chance to discuss diabetes, you'll think about this and have a little more compassion (and a little less judgment) when talking to people living with diabetes.
(Also, I could get into a big ol' discussion about the differences between Type 1 and Type 2, but really, what does that matter? Living with diabetes is hard no matter what type you have.)
1. My son didn't get diabetes from eating too many candy bars.
His diabetes is an autoimmune disease--he got it from drawing the short stick in the gene pool. When he was two years old, his body actually waged a war against itself, attacking and destroying the beta cells that make the insulin Mark needs to regulate his blood sugar.
That war broke his pancreas--it doesn't work, and there's nothing Mark did or ate that ruined it. He's not an undisciplined sugar addict--he's actually a survivor, a warrior. Hold your head high, Mark--you have a lazy pancreas, but an iron will (and an external pancreas you carry in your pocket)!
Oh, and by the way...statements like "he ate too much candy" just make you sound like a righteous, grumpy old man yelling at the neighborhood kids to get off his lawn. Seriously.
2. He can't have sugar.
Sugar is just a carb. Almost everything you eat has carbs, and eventually turns to sugar when you digest it. Even stuff that's good for you--fruit, milk, bread, pasta. (Would you deny a non-diabetic kid an apple or banana?)
Telling Mark not to eat sugar is only looking at diabetes like a short-term problem. It's not about what he should or should not eat right now; it's about the big picture, establishing good eating habits for a lifetime, not just for this meal. Mark eats like we all should eat: healthy, balanced meals, with occasional treats.
What Mark needs is understanding, not a lecture from the food police. As his mom, I appreciate you checking to see if he can eat something--I know that's coming from a good place, from your concern over his health. I appreciate that.
But you wouldn't want everyone telling your mom every single thing you ate; neither does Mark. He knows how to count carbs, how to bolus insulin for his meals. Reminding him to do that is much more helpful than asking him if he's "allowed to eat that."
3. Sometimes he DOES need sugar.
When Mark has been really active, or gets too much insulin, his blood sugar goes low, which is dangerous. It means he needs sugar RIGHT NOW. Usually it's a juice box or glucose tablets, but sometimes it's whatever is close by. That might be soda, or hard candy.
What Mark needs at that moment is...sugar.
And what I need to do is make sure his blood sugar is going back up to range. While I appreciate your concern for Mark's health, what he needs to do is to eat or drink--not to be lectured on why sugar is bad for people with diabetes, or if it's a good idea to give him sugary drinks.
Sugar, is in fact, sometimes the remedy, not the enemy.
4. He's not going to "grow out of it."
His pancreas is broken, period. It's never going to start up again when he grows up, if he eats better or loses weight. The only thing that'll make it go away is a cure, something I pray will happen in Mark's lifetime.
And no, insulin is not a cure. A new insulin-producing pancreas is a cure; but in the meantime, external insulin is kind of like duct tape; it's just a temporary fix.
5. I'm sorry about your grandma/grandpa/aunt/uncle/elderly relative. But please stop scaring my kid.
I'm sorry that someone you know or love has diabetes. And I'm more sorry that they lost a limb, appendage, or their eyesight to it.
But I'm most sorry you're telling these stories to or in front of Mark. Stories of lost body parts do not help or motivate him. He's a little kid--it scares him. And it shames him, because the underlying message of your story is not, "Wow, diabetes sucks," it's really, "You are gonna get your leg cut off if you don't take care of yourself."
Mark doesn't think long-term about diabetes--that's my job. I teach him how to manage his diabetes now so that he can take those good practices forward into adulthood with him. Mark knows about diabetes complications, probably waaaaaaaay better than you ever will, because he experiences them (on a smaller scale) every day. But cut him some slack, he's only 12, and he's just trying to get through middle school--with all his limbs.
Many people do have complications because of diabetes (including losing limbs), but it's not guaranteed to happen. Let Mark and I worry about the long-term stuff.
6. Yeah, he doesn't like needles, either.
I know; you hate needles, and you could never prick your fingers five or six times a day. But maybe you could keep that thought to yourself while Mark's checking his blood sugar. Because guess what? Mark hates needles, too! You should see him freak out every year when I mention the flu shot. He's not using needles or pricking his fingers because he wants to; he does it because he has to. It's not a luxury for him; it's not something he can ignore because he doesn't like needles. No one likes needles.
But Mark takes care of business every day, whether he likes it or not, and I'm pretty damn proud of him. Sometimes he makes mistakes, sometimes I make mistakes, but we're doing the very best we can. And what we really need is support, not judgment.
So that's it. Those are the most common stupid things people say OUT LOUD when they realize Mark has diabetes. I don't want to limit people's questions, I just want them to take the shame and blame out before they ask them.
I don't mind questions. I WANT to teach you about diabetes, especially if it makes Mark safer when he's in your care. So ask away...just use a little respect. Because even though I do kid around about about it sometimes, diabetes isn't just a joke or a punch-line to me.
For more information about diabetes, visit these web sites:
World Diabetes Day
JDRF
American Diabetes Association
