I kneed some sympathy

Against every fiber of my being, I've been exercising. Nothing as major as going to the gym, mind you, which requires not only willpower, but also a babysitter; for those of you without kids, babysitters are expensive (but totally worth it. Especially if one of my babysitters is reading this right now.).

Instead, I've been exercising at home, doing all that I can for a tired, single mom who is NOT a morning person (and as such, is completely unmotivated to do anything immediately upon waking--including waking up.)

But motivation is not my only foe. Also working against me is my kid, who a) refuses to go to bed early enough (i.e., before 9:30 p.m.) for me to walk on my treadmill in the garage, and b) is terrified of being alone in the house, even though I have patiently explained 5,893 times that I am just in the garage, a mere 10 feet away from him. (Strangely, this fear is not reciprocal--he has no problem practicing his drums in the garage while I am in the house.)

He remains unconvinced, however, which means I have to get off the treadmill at least 5 times to explain there are no monsters under his bed, or ghosts in the house. The whole thing is just completely...counterproductive.

Anyway...I did finally find a solution--a small pedaling machine that simulates a stationary bike. I can use it indoors and it doesn't take up all the space in my living room. As an added bonus, I can use it while watching TV, and then hide it behind my couch. Folks, we had a winner!

So that's what I've been doing, riding my little fake bike every night, and feeling pretty good about myself. What did not feel good, and in fact, was feeling worse with alarming regularity, was my knee.

And being the hardcore workout nut that I am now, I did what any other athlete in training would do--I ignored the pain. I actually told myself, "No pain, no gain," and then I distracted myself by watching a TV show about hand-fishing for catfish.

Well, my knee didn't like that. It gradually got worse until last week, I couldn't even walk on it. I ditched the tough-guy attitude and purchased a pair of crutches. So much for silently sucking it up.

I thought the crutches might at least garner a little sympathy for my busted knee, but no go. Mark immediately swiped them, and whipped around the house, showing me how much better he was at using crotches. (Not a typo. That's middle school humor at its finest.) The only thing more depressing than having to use crotches--err, crutches--is not being able to because your son is outside hitting tennis balls with them. Or sideswiping you with them in the hallway after yelling, "LOOK OUT!"

Well, maybe the doctor would be sympathetic. Or...maybe not.

He rotated my knee like an old-fashioned radio dial for exactly two seconds before informing me I have runner's knee.

"Except..." he said, giving me a once-over, and realizing I wasn't exactly the runner type. "Well, we won't call it runner's knee in your case."

And that's the first time someone has literally added insult to my injury.

I finally found some sympathy in my boss. He immediately ordered me to stay home a couple days to rest. However, he also asked me numerous carefully-worded questions, and threw in just enough knee-injury lingo to worry me. But the doctor explained it was just a bum kneecap that refused to stay in place, and not an impending arthroscopic knee surgery. (That proclamation was not as re-assuring as I'd hoped--instead, it makes me gag a little bit whenever I walk now, imagining my knee cap floating out of place.)  

And after two long weekends at home, being completely still (something I am not good at), I am tired of it all. I'm ready to climb the walls, if only my knee would let me.  

"This stinks," I lamented to my boss. "You try to get healthy, and instead, you get injured. What's the point of working out if it has the opposite effect?"

"I know," he said. "When you really think about it, nobody ever hurts themselves just sitting on the couch just watching TV."

And sadly, those are the words that rang truest to me. Because, honestly, before I started riding my little bike, all I did was sit on my couch, watching TV. Then I got motivated, got injured, and where did I end up? Yup, back on the couch, watching TV. Except now, I have a busted knee.

Maybe motivation isn't my biggest problem after all. Maybe logic is.

12

A dozen years ago, a brown-haired little baby made his entrance into the world. The doctors probably thought it was a healthy sign that he started crying right away, but I'm telling you now it had nothing to do with health or his new womb-less environment. Oh no, that baby was complaining that his onesie was too baggy ("I want skinny jeans! Waaaah!"), and that he was wearing the same little socks as every other baby in the hospital nursery. Because you know, even at only a few minutes old, all brand-new Mark wanted was some flashy new kicks on his tiny little just-born toes.

Yes, it's true, my little man turned 12 on Friday. He's one year closer to being a teenager, which puts the fear of God in me, and one year closer to being a genuine, certified grown man, which scares me even more. But I'm trying not to focus on all that; instead, I'm clinging to the last few moments of him as my little boy.

On Friday, Mark jumped out of bed early, happily, but not because of my cheerful birthday wishes. He was dressed two minutes later, eager to claim his annual birthday donut breakfast.

This year he wasn't satisfied with just a donut or two; he convinced me to buy enough to feed his entire fourth-period math class.

"Thirty-six kids," he told me. "Plus Mr. Estrada. He looooves donuts."

And that's how my diabetic child ended up at school with two giant pink boxes full of donuts, while I drove off envisioning every worst-case high blood sugar scenario. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, I hyperventilated. I was determined to let Mark celebrate his birthday with junk food just like any other non-diabetic kid, but try as I might, I couldn't fully do it. He called me throughout the day, and each time, I ever-so-casually suggested he test his blood sugar and correct any highs.

Dinner was a little easier in that the kid was craving protein. By easier, I mean on his blood sugar, not my wallet. I've lucked out the past few years, because little kid Mark always insisted on gross but cheap food for his birthday dinner. (Six-year-old Mark chose KFC, and my entire loving family filled a KFC and pretended to really enjoy it for Mark's sake. Four years later, Mark tried to blame the whole fiasco on me, to which I replied, "No. Just...no. Not one single person who was at that meal choose it willingly. That was pure love right there--for you, not for fried chicken!")

So this year, my mom convinced big-kid Mark to aim a little higher, gastronomically speaking. He took up her challenge--he choose filet mignon. Which cost a lot more than last year's Taco Bell feast, but I didn't mind. I was just glad to have a dinner that wasn't accompanied by tiny plastic condiment packages.

Dessert was even better than dinner. Mark picked this restaurant for the sugary delights. We'd been there for my mom's birthday, and he couldn't wait to return for the fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (It also had marshmallow fluff in it.)

Because we couldn't decide on either the cookie monster or the fried PB&J, we got both. And because there were six of us, and some people who didn't want to share, we actually got TWO of each. I'm pretty sure Mark wasn't the only one with high blood sugars after these babies were served!

Mark left the restaurant full and happy. I left the restaurant trailing behind him, wondering when he'd gotten so tall, and how the heck the last six years have passed so quickly. Seems like just yesterday he was flying around in a Superman costume, batting down the pinata with all his little friends. Now some of those friends tower above me, and Mark's not all that far behind them.

Happy birthday, my 12-year-old son. I can't wait to celebrate many dozens more with you...

The saddest game in the world

Mark and his friends have a new game they're obsessed with. It's called Quest, and it's a game about life. The object is to roll a pair of dice, and keep moving up in the world, keep bettering your station. Everybody starts out at the same level, as a hobo with $5 and a twig, and hopefully rolls their way up to multi-bazillionaire. But the game isn't just about money, it's ultimately about power--and that power usually results in destroying the entire world.

After a quick argument about which college degree was higher (associate vs. bachelor's), the boys jumped into a lightning-speed round. They rolled the dice, quickly progressing through high school and on to college. Mark kept rolling low numbers, and the others yelled out sympathetically with him.

"Ooooh!" Josh said. "Well, you're going to college, but you don't get a scholarship."

"Dang it!" Mark said.

Dan rolled next, and also got a low number.

"You get a job at McDonald's," Josh declared, bumming Dan out.

"I want a better job!" Dan exclaimed. "I want a better salary!"

"You can't," Sean told him. "This economy sucks. Nobody gets a raise."

Then Sean rolled, and his number gave him medical issues.

"You have high cholesterol!" Mark yelled, a bit too gleefully. "SUPER high cholesterol! You're gonna stroke out!"

This was beginning to sound more like real-life than an imaginary game...it was starting to bum me out.

Josh was up next, and he rolled a high number. He cheered loudly, while everyone else groaned. "Yeah!" Josh yelled. "I work in technology--I'm gonna be RICH!"

He laughed at the other boys, who punched him and reminded him that technology actually has a lot of layoffs.

"No way," Josh told them. "I work at a good company. Technology is cool--I'm gonna use it to make your heart explode!" (An empty threat, I realized, since Mark's high cholesterol would probably do the same thing much faster and cheaper than Josh's high-falutin technology.)

I wanted to laugh, but it was seriously the saddest, most depressing game ever. It didn't even sound like a game, it just sounded like real life.

But thankfully, before it all got too depressing, the boys switched it up a bit. They started hooting and goading each other. With his next roll, Sean took first place. He clearly had no use for a bad economy or high cholesterol--he was thinking much bigger.

"I'm on Mars," he proclaimed. "I'm sending the moon crashing into Earth to kill you all."

The other boys protested.

"But you'll die then, too," Dan reasoned.

"No I won't, because I'm on Mars," Sean reminded him. "But you're all dead! I win! YEAH!!" He jumped up, cheering victoriously.

And as crazy as that was, I cheered, too. Because really, who wants to die from something as mundane as a stroke, when you can go out in a blaze of colliding planets and moons? It may be far-fetched, but the real-life scenarios were so real, it was depressing. Like the boys, I preferred the quick (if violent) collision instead of my heart just exploding from high cholesterol or technology.

Because they have the right idea...why simply stroke out, if you can go big, and take the whole universe with you?

But panicking is my forté

Somethin' Shiny isn't just the name of this blog--it's a way of life for me. Case in point...

I recently had an optometry appointment. While in the restroom, I noticed something hilarious--a giant pair of glasses. The little angel on my shoulder gently told me not to touch, but the little devil on my other shoulder poked me with a pitchfork and screamed, "PHOTO OP!"

You can clearly see who won.

While I was giggling and taking pics, someone knocked on the door. My smile immediately disappeared, and I realized I must've been in there for awhile if people were knocking.

I ripped off the glasses and placed them precariously back in their giant case. Then I grabbed the bathroom door handle and pushed down on it.

Which immediately sent me into a panic, because...nothing happened. Well, I mean, something happened--the handle jiggled, but didn't open. I'd locked myself in the bathroom!

"OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod," I muttered furiously. "You're such an idiot!!" I could just picture my mom standing beside the little angel on my shoulder. They were both shaking their heads like, "We told you NOT to mess around in here!"

Maybe I was just freaking out. "Don't panic," I whispered to myself. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and tried the handle again, slowly.

Still locked.

I could hear someone on the other side of the door, but couldn't make out the words. Maybe they were talking to someone else outside the bathroom.

They weren't. There was a gentle knock, as I tried once again, as quietly as I could, to free myself.

I heard the muffled voice say something else. Suddenly, I heard a click! and the door cautiously swung open. There was the equally embarrassed optometrist, key in hand, apologizing profusely. Apparently, the door has issues, because she showed me a little trick, popping the handle up and then jiggling it just so to unlock it.

Whatever. I silently cursed the big, shiny glasses on the storage cabinet, and my own ADD, which couldn't resist such a silly prop. And then I turned to the optometrist, nodding, and said, "Ooooh!" like I'd been messing with the handle for a long time, and not really playing with the silly giant glasses.

Whatever. All I know is next time I have an optometry appointment, I'm going to the bathroom before I get to my appointment.

And I'll only wear my own glasses...
           

Um, yeah, you missed the whole point

I was watching House Hunters the other night, which featured a single mom and her young son.

The son reminded me a lot of Mark. Like Mark, he was about 12 years old, with shaggy hair and glasses. He was opinionated, and not afraid to comment on each house; again, that reminded me of Mark.

But the similarities ended there. This kid was a tad smarmy--he had a huge vocabulary, and a healthy sense of entitlement. He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted in a house, but he certainly knew what he didn't want. One bedroom had an en suite bathroom, which Mark would kill for, but the kid deemed the sink too small. The kid was mad there was only one sink ("My current bathroom has a double sink!") but the real deal-breaker was the vanity, which only had cabinets.

"No drawers!" the kid screamed, literally tugging at his hair. "How will I live without drawers? I NEED DRAWERS!!"

("Are you kidding me?" Mark asked when I told him that. He just gasped when I shook my head no.)

"The kid was so obnoxious," I told Mark. "He acted like an adult. But he was glad to see a basketball hoop in a neighboring yard, because, as he said, 'That means people my age live there.'"

Mark just stared at me.

"He didn't say KIDS--he said 'people my age'!" I explained.

Mark just shook his head. "What a weirdo," he said.

I nodded.

"But then the mom started talking, and I could see where the kid got it from," I said. Mark looked at me questioningly.

"She was just as annoying!" I said.

He simply raised his eyebrows, then raised his hands out, and said, "Well, that's to be expected."

Now I was puzzled.

"What does that mean?" I asked--then it hit me. "Wait, it means you're not surprised? Because moms are SUPPOSED to be annoying?"

"Well..." he said, confirming my hunch.

"Moms aren't annoying!" I yelled. He just raised his eyebrows again.

"Not all moms are," I grumbled. "And if they are, it's because their kids drive them to it."

Mark just shrugged; he remained unconvinced.

And maybe I take back that comment about Mark not being smarmy...

Academic pride

Six years ago, while walking little kindergartner Mark to school, we passed a car adorned with blue stickers. "My child was student of the month" read one; "My child made the honor roll" read another. I pointed at the stickers and told Mark, "I want those."

At the time, he smiled and nodded, eager to please, but unaware of what those stickers meant. He promptly ran off to cause mayhem, apparently, because I never did get either sticker. (To be fair, I realize now I set Mark up to fail with the student of the month sticker; he's a great kid. He's also a class clown, and I've found from experience that's not who the teachers ever choose.)

I eventually gave up hope on the honor roll sticker, too, and instead focused my energy on nagging Mark into the best grades he could get. This year, Mark buckled down, and did his part. And so, last week, when I opened his report card, I almost fainted. He got four As, two Bs, and a C. It was his best report card EVER!

I did the happy dance right then and there, and repeated it when Mark came home. I kissed him a million times and told him how proud I was. I'm pretty sure he was going to say "Thanks, Mom, I owe it all to you," (just kidding) but he got distracted and instead added up how much money I owe him instead. (Yes, I bribed him with cold, hard cash. Yes, it's wrong. Kinda. No, wait, it's completely not wrong, because it totally worked. So to all you naysayers and parenting experts, I will quote Mark, and tell you, "IN YOUR FACE!" OK, wait, no, that's immature. I take it back. Sorry.)

I didn't think I could be any happier with Mr. Mark, until we were driving in the car this weekend.

"Oh yeah," Mark said out of nowhere. "I made the honor roll."

I almost crashed the car. "You WHAT???" I screamed. "And you're just now telling me?"

He pointed to the car in front of us, bearing one of the famous stickers. "That car just reminded me of it," he said.

And so, the happy dance went in to overdrive. Mark, an HONOR STUDENT! Me, mother of an honor student. Unbelievable!

Mark also received an invitation to a luncheon. I glanced at it, then asked why the school was having a rock n roll lunch.

"No, it's for HONOR roll," Mark corrected. "Not rock n roll!"

To be honest, I find it more believable he'd be invited to a rock n roll lunch. But hey, honor roll's pretty spiffy, too.

The only downside is that I realized I'm not putting nearly enough money into Mark's college fund. I've always insisted he's going to college, and that it's a non-negotiable. But today, with all this honor roll business, it looks like it really might happen. And I'm gonna have to pay for it!

But I don't mind, it'll be the best money I ever spent. And heck, now that he really is going to college, I have a new goal for Mark--hello, scholarship!

Super powers

Mark and his friends were quizzing each other on which super power they'd choose if they could have just one.

Mark's answer was immediate. "Invisibility!" he shouted.

But Sean quickly shot him down. "No, you can't do anything with invisibility," he said. "You're just...invisible."

Josh answered next, saying he wanted intangibility. I stared at him just as blankly as the kids did, until he explained, "I want to be intangible and just float through things." He moved his hand like an ocean wave cutting through the air. (And I realized this room of 11-years-olds is smarter than I am!)

I recognized Sean's answer, though, because I'd been helping Mark study for his science test. Sean had studied, too, because he said, "I want the power of conduction, because then I'd be PURE HEAT!"

Dan couldn't decide whether he wanted to fly or run in super speed, but finally settled on flying. This brought on another furious debate of whether flying was really a super power or not. Half the group argued it was, while the other half insisted that the super power was really transportation as a whole, and not just one mode of it.

"Flying isn't a super power," Sean said. "You just need a cape to fly."

"Super speed is way better," Josh reasoned, "because you can get anywhere you want immediately."

"No way," Mark argued. "Flying is better, because you can't run over the oceans."

"Yeah, but you could if you were super fast," Sean said. His comment was then refuted by the observation that only Jesus could walk on water, and he didn't need super speed to do it.

I was fascinated by it all. I loved the reasoning behind all their comments, and I loved watching the wheels turn as they thought about their rebuttals, and formed their opinions. I realized that maybe Mark wasn't the only kid in the room destined to become a lawyer. Better yet, I finally saw that all his back talk and argumentative nature might actually serve him well someday--maybe he'll work for a prestigious think tank, or be a professor at some elite college. Heck, maybe he'll even use that big brain to find the cure to diabetes.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Because these kids are big thinkers, so I will be, too. I'm hoping that when they grow up, they'll use their (super) powers for good.

I'm not ready for this yet

Mark has always been quite the charmer, especially if there's something he wants. He can turn on the charm and work a room like nobody's business.

He was so dang cute when he was little, with mile-long eyelashes and chubby cheeks you couldn't help pinching. People would fight to hand him cookies, candy, stickers, you name it. It was hilarious to watch.

Well, Mark's older now. His face has leaned out, but he still has those killer lashes. He wears glasses now, which make him look more serious, more mature, but when he smiles, you can still see the sweet little boy inside. I think he's still adorable (even with his hacked up hair), but hey, I'm biased.

I'm not surprised he can still turn on the charm--what I'm surprised about is who he's turning it on for. His target audience has changed, and is now skewing toward a much younger crowd.

That's right, I'm talking about girls. The same girls he ignore until last month. And while I know, intellectually, this is all age-appropriate, emotionally, I'm freaking out a bit.

Case in point: I recently sent Mark to diabetes camp. When he returned home, Mark dumped out his bag. His name tag fell out, too, and I noticed it had been altered a bit.

Some girl's phone number! I remembered a girl hugging Mark goodbye when we left, and asked if it was her number.

"Nope," Mark simply said, and left it at that.

And now, his cell phone has been buzzing off the hook with text messages. Ninety percent of the messages are from the same three classmates--all girls.

"You've been getting a lot of text messages lately," I observed, and he just shrugged.

"Mostly from girls, huh?" I prodded. Another shrug; then, nothing.

The ironic thing is, Mark's super nosy and jealous whenever I mention guys, even if I'm just talking about my boyfriend George Clooney, or my husband Harry Connick Jr. He gets all mad, wrinkling up his nose and growling--yes, growling--when I even say their names.

I've been waiting years to get back at him. I tease that when he gets his first girlfriend, I'm going to growl at her and give her the stink eye, just like Mark always does. But now that the girls are actually REAL, and texting, it's not quite as funny. Now I just want to growl in general, not at Mark or the girls, but at life, and how quickly my little guy is growing up.

Sigh...I knew this day would come, and I'm glad he's being a little gentleman about it. But seriously...I. AM. NOT. READY. FOR. THIS. 

 

(Mom-induced) Bad hair day

Mark's school hosts a benefit each year to help St. Baldrick's cure childhood cancer. Students raise money and shave their heads in unity with kids who lose their hair from chemotherapy.

We have a standing agreement: If Mark participates, he skips all haircuts between January and St. Baldrick's in March. He hates haircuts, so this is a big incentive for him. I hate that he looks like a floppy-haired Beatle for three months, especially in his birthday pictures, but I want him to participate, so I suck it up. However, it does kill me inside a little bit each time he flips his increasingly thick mop-top to the side, a la Justin Bieber.

Well, this year presented a new challenge. Mark's also participating in a fashion show, to raise money for diabetes research. He needed head shots which go in the program, and are displayed on a giant screen during the event dinner. I found myself in a parenting dilemma--how to keep my anti-haircut pledge to Mark and still make my shaggy-headed boy presentable for the fashion show photos? I worked through a thousand scenarios in my head, but none ended in a good compromise.

I finally lost it the day before the photo shoot. Mark had developed a blinking tic, due to his hair continuously falling into his eyes, and it triggered me. I took a deep breath, grabbed a pair of scissors, and ordered Mark into the kitchen.

He screamed when he saw the scissors.

"I'm not gonna stab you!" I said, but he burst into tears anyway.

"Don't cut my hair!" he screamed. I realized he'd actually prefer me stabbing him.

"I'm just trimming your bangs," I said, gruffly. "So I can see your eyes in the photos."

Mark hung his head, and let the tears flow freely. He refused to lift up his head so I could cut in a straight line. I cut as fast as I could, to quickly end our misery.

"There," I said, smoothing his hair. "Looks good. Still long, but out of your eyes."

Mark snorted, then ran off to the bathroom. He slammed the door, and stayed there for half an hour.

He was still pouting when we arrived at the photo shoot the next night. As Mark ran off, I silently congratulated myself on my restraint, and on not hacking Mark's hair to pieces.

Until...Mark ran his hand through his hair.

I watched in horror as he pushed his mop-top to the side, revealing a huuuuge gap in his hairline. He went from having a floppy bowl cut to looking like someone carved out a half-rectangle in his hair. It was beyond bad--it was horrific.

The photographer saw it at the exact same moment I did. Before I could yell a slow-motion "Stop!" at Mark, she turned to me, confused. I saw a micro-expression of fear flash across her face. It was like she saw a werewolf coming straight for her.

She turned back to Mark, struggling for words. She finally settled on, "Oooh, um...why don't you go fix your hair in the mirror, Mark?"

"It's fine," Mark assured her. He smiled, completely unaware, ready for the next shot.

The photographer looked at me again, and I turned five shades of red. I motioned wildly at Mark to come over.

"It's FINE, Mom!" he hissed, holding his ground. I grabbed him and propped him in front of the mirror, where he immediately realized how not fine it really was.

He also turned bright red. I thought he might cry, but he pulled himself together quickly. "You ruined my hair!" he cried, but I was already smoothing it down and assuring him it was okay. He was not convinced.

Somehow, we made it work. (I say that without having seen a single shot yet.) Even through his seething anger, Mark put on a good face, and the photographer seemed happy. Mark, however, was not.

And now, a week later, Mark's hair looks just fine. Well, fine enough, I guess, as long as he doesn't push it off to the side. He still hasn't forgiven me, not even when I offered to take him in to the barber to fix it.

I'm actually grateful he refused the barber...because now I don't have to lie and say Mark gave himself that bad haircut. Instead, I just have to bide my time until I hear the St. Baldrick's hair clippers fire up, and remove the last shred of evidence.

Only then will I (and Mark) breathe easy...

I can('t) hear you

My son Mark rarely listens to anything I say. I know this because I often find myself in auto mode, repeating things like "Please pick up your floor" 50 times in a row. I swear, some mornings I actually wake up mumbling, "Turn off your alarm" or "What was your number?"  before I've even opened my eyes.

Mark insists this is patently incorrect, and that he does, in fact, not only hear me, but that also he responds with lightning fast speed.

"What!" I exclaimed when he refuted my claims yet again. "You sooooo do NOT listen to me!"

"I do, too," he huffed, and walked away in protest. His indignation was not only misplaced, but hilarious.

And now, after a recent breakfast, I have proof Mark does not listen.

He'd put a bagel in the toaster for breakfast, and was dancing around and singing while he waited for it to cook.

"There's cream cheese in the fridge," I called out to him, helpfully.

"OK," he answered, but he kept on singing.

I heard the toaster pop, and then Mark rooting around in the fridge.

I heard the knife scraping on his bagel, and from the living room, I watched Mark bite into his breakfast.

Which was then immediately followed by Mark spitting out his bagel, and wiping furiously at his tongue. I had no idea what was going on.

"Um..." Mark said, hesitantly. "Do...um, do a lot of people put sour cream on their bagels?"

I had an immediate reaction of my own--I burst into laughter.

"No," I replied. "Most of them put cream cheese on their bagels!"

Mark frowned. "Then why did you tell me--"

I pointed my finger at him and shushed him, Dog Whisperer style. "Shhh!" I hissed. "I said cream cheese, not sour cream. You. Were. Not. Listening."

And then I walked away. Because sometimes, with evidence that strong, you don't have to beat a point into the ground. Sometimes stubborn boys just have to learn their lessons the hard way...with their other senses.

Memo from the Office of the Woefully Underappreciated

Last night at dinner, I was so tired I literally could have laid my head on the table and fallen asleep. All that prevented me were the good manners my mom pounded into my head growing up.

My own son, however, has yet to learn those manners. He just looked at me curiously and asked why I was so sleepy.

"Long day at work," I answered.

He nodded. Then, in a voice dripping in sarcasm, he said, "Typing makes you tired, huh?"

And THAT woke me up. My lovely young son reduces my entire daily life down to...typing.

"Typing, huh?" I replied.

Suddenly, I felt like I was in a movie, and the past 10 hours whizzed by in a series of flashbacks. I saw myself rousing an unwilling child from bed; feeding that kid; nagging him to get ready for school; asking repeatedly if he had his drumsticks/homework/phone/meter/lunch; ensuring he and his three friends left for school on time; doing laundry; running the dishwasher; making his endocrinology appointment; fighting with the pharmacy about his insulin; talking to the school nurse; reserving a hotel room for his fashion show; driving to work; going to three meetings; completing all of my work; stopping for gas; fighting rush hour home; checking in on my mom and a friend by phone; making dinner; washing the dishes; giving an impromptu lesson on the importance of being honest and honorable; and getting ready to drive Mark to his drum lesson. And those are just the things I remember doing.

"My job is a lot more than just typing," I told him. "I spent my day managing my work life, my personal life and YOUR personal life, which, it turns out, is a lot of work. And that is why I'm tired, not because of typing."

Maybe it was the angry, crazed look in my eyes, or the defensive tone of my voice. Maybe he realized how condescending he had sounded. For a moment, Mark's sense of self-preservation kicked in, and I thought he might actually live to see his next birthday.

Until he opened his mouth again and said, "You don't have to manage my life. I can do it all myself."

And, scratch the self-preservation.

His comment triggered another flashback. It was me, two days ago, arriving after school to pick Mark up--except he was nowhere around. I asked his friend Sean where Mark was, and Sean waved vaguely at the school playground.

"Mark's out there somewhere, looking for his P.E. clothes," he said. "He lost them again."

Obviously, Mark was right. He most certainly can manage his own life. Maybe not successfully, but he does manage.

I simply stood up from the table, and cleared my dishes, because it would be harder to choke Mark out if my hands were full and I was in another room.

"I love you," I called back to him. "And when you grow up, I hope you have six children just as wonderful as you are."

I could feel him staring in my direction, confused, sure that was an insult but unsure exactly how.

I know that feeling well. It's how I felt when my own mom wished the same thing on me as a child.

And now, all these years later, I finally know what she meant by it!

Why 11-year-olds shouldn't have phones

Mark's friends were at the house the other day. As they were leaving for school, Josh's cell phone rang.

"Oooooh, it's from Washington!" Josh said, excitedly. His brother Dan asked, "Why is Washington calling you?"

Josh just answered his phone. He listened to the caller quietly for a moment before speaking. 

"I'm only 11 years old," he said. "I don't think I'm eligible."

But apparently his age did not dissuade the caller. "I probably would," Josh said into the phone, "if I had any money. But I don't. I'm a kid!"

The other boys were listening intently to the conversation. Just as Josh opened his mouth to say something else, Sean screamed at the phone.

"Put your pants back on!" Sean shouted, and the room full of boys erupted into giggles.

It did the trick. The caller quickly hung up on a still-giggling Josh.

"Who was it?" Dan asked.

"I don't know," Josh answered. "He wanted me to give money to the homeless. I told him I probably would, but I'm just a kid. I don't have any money!" 

"Then what did he say?" Dan pressed.

"Nothing," Josh answered, snickering. "Sean scared him!"

I just smiled. I always ignore the phone when I see a toll-free number on the caller ID, but now I realize I've got a better option. From now on, I'm letting Mark answer all the robocalls.

It might not amuse the telemarketers, but it'll sure crack me up.