Lazy boy on a La-Z-Boy

OK, one last post on my lazy son. (But really, it's not my fault...he brings this on himself!)

Mark's latest obsession is with La-Z-Boy recliners. He thinks they are seriously the best invention in the world, and can't understand why I don't have one in our living room. (I don't understand why he thinks he'd ever get to sit in it if we only had ONE.) I haven't even told him about the fancy recliners, which come complete with refrigerated compartments to keep your drinks cold!

Mark he doesn't want just any old recliner, he wants a fancy one. Shanda, my brother's girlfriend, has one that gives neck and back massages. Any time we go to Shanda's, Mark darts directly to that chair, and stays there pretty much the whole time.

My aunt has one, too. You can inflate or deflate the seat and back to give you the perfect lumbar and neck support. It's bigger than Shanda's chair, and it also vibrates. Mark is equally happy in that chair--he even spent the night in it the other day.

"I'm serious, Mom," he told me Sunday, clicking the remote control for my aunt's chair. "I really really REALLY want one. I'm going to save my money and get one."

"Where would you put it?" I asked, curious.

"In my room," Mark answered, dreamily.

"No way," I said. "If you put that chair in your room, you'd never leave your room. I'd never see you again."

"You would, too," he said. "Because the TV's in the living room. Unless..."

I cut him off. "No TVs in your room," I said. Then I reminded him that his cat Frankie would scratch his chair up, or urinate on it (Frankie is one messed-up bad cat.)

"I'll put catnip all around it," Mark answered. "No, better! I'll glue scratching posts all around the bottom, so he can scratch it without ruining it. But I'll have to put it in the living room, then, so he has more room to scratch."

I was silent for a moment, envisioning my ecstatic, near-comatose son relaxing in his massaging recliner. His bad cat was beneath him, going to town on the scratching posts glued to Mark's recliner. It was quite an image.

"No," I said finally. "We actually have guests who visit, and there's no way I could ever explain that chair." I shook my head, trying to rid the image from it, but I couldn't. 

"It's my money," Mark reminded me. "I can buy what I want with it..." And he turned to stomp away, visions of La-Z-Boys filling his head.

Somewhere out there, a trailer park is missing its leader.

It's not JUST for hiking...

The other night, as I put Mark to bed, I noticed something unusual about the hiking pole he'd purchased last summer at the Grand Canyon. It was fully extended, presumably ready for immediate use by any 6' 5" hikers wandering our neighborhood.

I knew Mark hadn't been hiking recently, so I asked him why the pole was extended so far out.

"Oh," he answered vaguely from his bed. "I was using it."

"For what?" I pressed. It was too tall for him to walk with.

"I use it at night," he said. He could see the confused look on my face, so he sighed and asked me to hand the pole to him.

"I don't like to get out of bed," said the world's laziest boy, in the understatement of the decade. "So I just use the hiking pole at bedtime."

And with that, he demonstrated his skills--at being both inventive and...well, pretty darn lazy.

I swear, this kid...when he grows up, he'll either be the most successful inventor ever, or he'll be the laziest grown man still living at home. 

I *think* he's being helpful...

Mark noticed we were down to the last paper cup in the bathroom, and promptly filled the holder back up.

I'm still not sure if he was just being enthusiastic (we will never run out of cups AGAIN!), or if he was being lazy (I will never refill the cups AGAIN!). I suspect it's a little of both.

Either way, we now have a new art installation in the bathroom, affectionately dubbed "The Giant Tower of Paper Cups." However, it sways a bit whenever you take a cup, so I'll probably rename it "The Leaning Tower of Dixie."

And I will monitor Mark verrrrrry closely the next time he unloads the dishwasher. Because while this cup tower is kinda cute, I suspect it might be a bit more dangerous if he were to create a similar tower with our drinking glasses.

Beware of falling apples

You know that saying about how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree? Well, it's certainly true in my family.

Once, when I was in college, my parents sent me money (OK, yes, it was more than once, but humor me). My mom told my dad to send me a check, and apparently, she also told him to include a short note. Because when I opened the envelope, the letter accompanying the check said, "Your mom told me to write something when I sent this, so here it is. Love, Dad."

A man of few words, my pops.

Today, I received a check in the mail from my big brother. Tim thinks just like my dad, but obviously does not solicit advice from his wife, because here's the letter that came with my check:

I guess that other saying is correct--like father, like son.

I want it all, Mommy!

<--Huh, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there really IS a Passover Bunny! 

Somewhere, in a past life, Mark must have been a prince. Not a king, mind you, who ruled his people with wisdom and a strong but fair hand...no, just a prince, who lived in the lap of luxury and thrived, as servants brought him whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.

That's the only explanation I have for him. He's never happy with what he gets, be it candy, TV time, or video games, because he knows somewhere out there, some other kid still has more.

Take Easter, for example. We'll be on vacation this year, so I explained sadly that Mark won't get an Easter basket (I don't think he even believes in the bunny anymore, but he isn't going to turn away a basket full of candy!).

"But don't worry," I told him, playing up the good news. "Because you'll get more than enough chocolate--we'll be in Hershey, Pennsylvania, on Easter!"

Now, any normal kid would whoop and holler with joy at that sentence. Any kid other than Mark, that is.

"What!" he complained. "Rip off!"

"What do you mean, rip-off?" I said, indignantly. "You'll be in the town that chocolate BUILT! Even the street lights are Hershey Kisses!"

Mark was quiet for a moment. I thought he was contemplating this, but I was wrong. He was trying to work his way around it.

"I can just leave a basket here," he said. "The Easter Bunny can fill it up, and I can eat it when I get home."

"Your cats would eat it all," I answered.

"Yeah," he admitted. Then he lit up and said, "Oooooh, how about if I put my basket on the front porch?"

"Then ANTS will get it," I said. "And the candy will melt. Did you miss the part where I said you'll be in Chocolate Town that day??"

"We can bring the baskets with us," he said, hopefully.

"No, Kelley and Rob are Jewish," I said. "They don't have an EASTER Bunny! Plus, it's Passover, so the bunny couldn't bring the good stuff, anyway. It's not kosher."

And before he could ask, I assured him there was no Passover Bunny.

"What if--" he started, but I cut him off. I'd had enough.

"No," I said. "Whatever you are about to say--just, NO. You will be in Hershey, you will not bring a basket, you will eat chocolate, you will be happy about it. End of story." And then I stomped out of the room.

"Geez," I heard Mark mutter in the other room.

I could tell he was already re-writing the whole story in his head, assigning himself the leading role as the Poor Victim Child, and me the role of the Wicked Mother. Someday, I will listen to Mark whine about the year I deprived him an Easter basket, and what an incredibly mean mom I was. He's a good storyteller, and people will actually feel sorry for poor Mark when they hear it.

Until...I whip out a photo of 12-year-old Mark, face smeared with chocolate, standing in front of a sign that says "Welcome to Hershey, PA!" 

I may even have a second picture of Mark the day after, with a chocolate hangover, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, one hand over his upset belly, the other pushing away the huge chocolate bar I'm offering him.

I will say, "Take THAT, my poor, deprived son! THIS was the year with no Easter basket!"

And the Easter spirit will live on.

The return of St. Baldy

St. Patrick's Day means one thing in our household--a bald head! That's right, my dear, philanthropic young son shaved his head for the fourth time in support of kids with cancer (for more info, go to www.stbaldricks.org). I'm so proud of Mark!

This is a big deal because my kid LOVES his hair. He loves it even more since becoming a middle-schooler, which means he spends countless hours in the bathroom brushing his hair, and I spend an equal amount of time yelling at him to clean the hair out of the sink. 

He's tried a few new hairstyles, but his two favorite are what I'll call the Justin Bieber (carefully flipped to one side ad nauseum) or the Dumb and Dumber (all hair brushed forward a la Jim Carrey). He rotates evenly between the two.

So to sacrifice his thick, luscious locks is a big deal. I worried he would bow out at the last moment, but once again, he did not. He came home sporting an almost glowing white head. Everyone who sees him involuntarily runs their hands across his stubbly head--you just can't help it. He looks like a little Army recruit, except way cuter and sweeter.

Besides raising money for cancer research, Mark gets a reward he loves almost as much as his hair: To prevent sunburns, the school lets all the bald kids wear hats to school. This is a dream come true for Mark. He love love loves his baseball hats, so wearing one to school is heaven for him.

The only problem is, he buys the hats when he has hair, and they fit fine. However, they are way too big without hair.

Luckily for Mark, he washed and dried his favorite Dodgers hat earlier this year (he didn't feel lucky at the time). It shrunk in the drier, and he was crushed. 

But now, it's just a tad bit too big on his bald head--I thought it looked fine, but what do I know? I'm just a dumb, fashioned-challenged mom, and I have no idea what is sick anymore (hey, come on, give it up for my correct use of "sick." Although I probably lose cred for having to point out that I'm up--or is it down?--with the current slang terms.)

Mark decided to forgo ALL baseball hats, opting instead for his second favorite hat: a beanie. He's quite proud of this one:

I have to hand it to him, the kid knows how to make a statement. He wore the hat all day yesterday, and everyone who saw him laughed and complimented him on his fancy green Kermit the Frog hat.

That's right, cuz it's sick.

This is why some mothers eat their young

In the last few weeks, I've found my tweezers in increasingly strange places around the house. These places include, but are not limited to, Mark's bookcase, Mark's bed, the dining room, the living room, and littered about the bathroom. I don't remove tweezers from the bathroom, so I knew the culprit leaving them out.

But Mark seemed genuinely surprised when I asked about the tweezers.

"I'm not using them," he immediately replied.

"Of course you are," I said. "I'm not taking them out, so that just leaves you."

"I haven't used them," he repeated, and my mom radar cranked a bit higher. Something not right, it said. I stared at him intensely, which made him nervous, and prompted another denial.

"Why would I use them?" he asked nervously, refusing to make eye contact.

"I don't know," I said, growing increasingly more suspicious. "That's what I'm trying to find out."

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence. I finally broke it by reminding Mark that I knew he was using the tweezers, and the longer he lied about it, the madder I would get.

"I'm not mad that you used them," I said. "But I'm getting super mad that you're lying straight to my face."

He finally looked at me, and realized all hell was about to break loose. He sighed and looked like he was about to cry, which worried me more than a little.

"What the hell are you using my tweezers for?" I asked.

He sniffled, and finally admitted it. "Toe jam," he said glumly, and I involuntarily gagged.

"TOE JAM?!?" I exploded. "You used my tweezers for your TOE JAM!" My eyes started watering, and the gagging increased (I have a sensitive stomach, and imagining toe jam on my tweezers was not helping).

"I didn't know how else to get rid of it!" he explained, as I raced past him toward the bathroom.

"You know what gets rid of toe jam?" I thundered. "Soap, water and a washcloth! Geez...I put those things near my FACE." And the gagging resumed...

My sister-in-law Mary was hysterical when I told her the story. "Ewwww! You'll have to sanitize them!" she said, but I just shook my head.

"I already threw them all out, " I said. "There's not enough sanitizer in the world to ever make me use those again."

"Well, at least it's your own kid," she said. "It's easier to take when it's your own kid."

I shook my head again. "No, not easier," I told her. "I don't care if it is my own kid...he's a gross, grubby kid using my tweezers to clean his toe jam! It doesn't make it any less disgusting!"

She laughed. And, eventually, so did I (though I still gag a little recalling it now).

It's a reminder on just how specific you have to be with kids, and how you pretty much have to lock up anything you don't EVER want them to touch (that list is growing). I tried to think of a rule to institute so this would never happen again, but I was at a loss. I could say don't ever use my tweezers ever again, but that's not specific enough for Mark--he would certainly justify using something else--my comb? my toothbrush?--under the defense that I did not specifically say he couldn't touch those.

So when I calmed down enough to be semi-rational, I simply said, "You are not to touch anything that ever touches my body. I am not going to name all those things, but you are to think hard about it from now on. If there's even the most remote chance it may touch my body--ever!--you are not to touch it, or clean yourself or anything else with it. You are not to even look at it. Are. We. Clear?"

He nodded his sad little head, then plopped himself dramatically into bed. He rolled over toward the wall, snuffled, and pulled the covers over his head.

"You are not the victim here!" I shouted, turning off his bedroom light, and stomping out of his room.

Sigh...I'm not sure I, or my grooming tools (or even my son, for that matter!) will survive my grubby's son's childhood.

It's a...book!

I'm all for education, and the basic R's--readin', ritin' and 'rithmetic. But only for other kids...or, maybe for my kid, but only as long as he doesn't bring that stuff home to the house!

I know these subjects will eventually help Mark somewhere down the line, but in the short-term, they're killing me.

He just finished a six-week "literacy project," which is a fancy term for a big ol' book report.

We started off a bit rough, when I asked Mark which book he was going to read.

"I wonder if I can do my report on this," he said hopefully, holding up The Big Book of Why.

"No," I answered. "It has to be a chapter book. You know, a story with a beginning, middle and end."

He frowned for a moment, then brightened up. "I'll read Scat!" he exclaimed.

"Didn't you read that in class last year?" I asked.

"Yeah!" he said. "That'll save a lot of time--I won't have to read it again."

"You're missing the whole point of this, aren't you?" I said. I patiently explained that he had to read a new book for each report. That news did not go over well.

Amidst great protest, Mark finally settled on The Skull of Truth by Bruce Coville. He was not happy about it, but all the copies of Scat were checked out of the library, so he had no choice.

We were also at odds about the rest of the process. We read the first five chapters together, but then Mark wanted to read (pretend to read) on his own. Three weeks into the project, I asked how much he'd read. He answered none. He also forgot what happened in the first five chapters.

"Get in your room and start over!" I yelled. "You have to read one chapter--I'm going to quiz you in half an hour."

Thirty minutes later, he sidled into the room and tossed the book to me. I started grilling him on who the main character was, what happened in Chapter 1, etc.

"I don't know," he said sullenly. "I didn't read that chapter."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "I told you to read Chapter 1!"

"No," he corrected. "You said to read a chapter--so I read Chapter 2."

Why be linear, when you can jump all over a book? Plot and order are overrated, anyway. I just sighed. This was going to be a looooooong project.

Mark finally finished the book in the fifth week. I'd made him write a summary of each chapter as he went along, hoping that would speed his memory and writing time when it came to the actual report. He did a great job. He also created a map of the universal theme, and connected idea bubbles to it with at least seven different ideas.

Under my careful observation, he researched the author.

"No Wikipedia, right?" I said. I reminded him it's unreliable because anybody (including 11-year-old boys named Mark) could change the information. (I once asked his cousin where Mark was, and she answered, "He's changing facts on Wikipedia.")

By Friday, we had the bones to the entire report. All Mark had to do was write the final draft. It was a struggle to get there, with Mark fighting me every bit of the way. To get this project complete, I needed to bring in the big guns.

"Grandma's gonna help you write this up," I said. He looked terrified and pleased all at the same time (a totally appropriate response).

With her help, he wrote the book report and most of the biography. It took them most of the day.

"He's almost done!" my mom said. "He just has to re-write it in his best writing."

"I want to type it up!" Mark said.

"NOW you're an overachiever?" I asked. "Now you want to put in extra effort?"

We hit another obstacle when Mark got sick Saturday. He was still home sick on Monday, but he spent the entire day working on the report.

"Good thing I stayed home today," he said. "Now I can get this report done!"

I reminded him he was home because he was sick, not to meet his deadline.

The only big glitch was when I realized Mark had left out the info about the book's universal theme. We'd worked on that for two hours the previous week. I asked if he remembered what the theme was.

"Relationships," he answered.

"No!" I said. "It's TRUTH! Remember the bubble map we worked on for two hours?"

"Grandma said it's relationships," he muttered, and I snapped.

"Then go call Grandma and write that up!" I yelled. That convinced him--he mumbled, "Fine, it's truth."

When he'd typed that up, I asked what lesson he'd learned from the book.

"That telling the truth gets you in trouble," he said. "So don't tell the truth." 

I sighed again, and tried my best not to cry.

"No, it's about how lying hurts people, but also how you have to be careful with the truth," I reminded him. Then I just waved the white flag in the air, and told him to type something--anything--up.

I didn't think it would happen, but by 10 p.m. Monday night, he finished. The report looked great.

Mark admired his poster board with the report, biography, word search, and illustrated character analysis. He saw a book report--I saw six weeks of blood, sweat and tears, and a slew of new gray hairs on my head.

"That was easy," he said.

I just looked at him--easy was not the word I'd have chosen. But I took a deep breath and realized it didn't really matter--the report was done, which was the important thing.
People don't judge victories by the hard-fought battles, they judge it by who won the overall war.

And today, Mark won the war on literacy. Barely, but he did.

Whatever. I'm good with that.

The (No) Slumber Party

Mark decided to have a low-key birthday party this year. Instead of a big blow-out, he opted for his first slumber party. (And for the record, the words "sleep" and "slumber" should never preface "party" when referring to pre-teens. Because honestly, the last thing on their minds was sleeping!)

Mark was excited about having his friends for a sleep-over, and I was excited for him. I have a lot of great slumber party memories from my childhood, and am glad he'll have some now, too (even though there won't be any bras to freeze when the first kid falls asleep).

Because Mark's friends are super busy, we had a staggered arrival. Jonah arrived first. He and Mark played in the backyard until Sean arrived, then they jumped out and scared Sean half to death. The three of them played until dinner arrived, when I realized I was a little optimistic in my pizza order. (Apparently, I'd invited the only three growing boys in America who do not eat like they're starving).

Next up was the birthday cake. Mark opted for his very favorite, German chocolate, from his favorite bakery. Bad host that he is, he was thrilled to learn Sean and Jonah don't like German chocolate, and that he'd get the entire cake to himself. (And I thought I was an optimist...) Sean and Jonah made do with ice cream and Thin Mints, and soon enough, they were all sufficiently hopped up on the sugar of their choice.

And with that much energy, there was only one thing to attack...the video games! Mark has a Wii, which I bought so he could be active while playing games, and so I could feel less guilty about using a video game console as an electronic babysitter. Well, Mark foiled that plan by picking out the least-active games, like skateboarding and Sonic the Hedgehog, who does all the running for Mark. Within minutes, the boys were jumping around the room like maniacs, and I escaped to the other end of the house.

Sean went off to a jazz concert with his dad, and was replaced by Tristan, who was in a play earlier that evening. (Snow White--Tristin played the Huntsman, the "manliest character in the play!" he proudly told me.) Sean returned, then Jonah left. It was like a carousel of rotating kids. The cast of players kept changing, but the noise level in the room never did.

I started the bedtime ritual around 11 p.m., which pretty much meant nothing. There were three boys left, and it was kind of like being in a room with velociraptors. I'd tell them to go to bed, and then one would slink off to the side. Then I'd turn to face him, and the other two boys divided and moved around the room. They'd just silently plop onto the nearest couch, never looking up; no eye contact, just staring down at their iTouches. I turned around the place, constantly telling one boy or another to go to bed, and all the while, Sonic laughed at my futile attempts and kept pounding innocent little creatures onscreen. I finally pulled the plug, literally, until the Wii went dead, and the boys could no longer ignore me.

They hit Mark's room around 11:30. And then, it was like the last scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, when Indiana Jones tells everyone not to open their eyes, not to look at what was going on NO MATTER WHAT. I heard crazy, savage noises from Mark's room. I flinched a lot, but forced myself to stay put. Some noises I recognized (sports trophies falling), some were indistinct crashes immediately followed by giggling.

"Stay out," I told myself, and then repeated it. They were in Mark's domain now; if he didn't mind them trashing his room, I didn't mind. It took all my restraint NOT to go in there and tell them to settle down. But hey, it was Mark's party, and I wasn't about to ruin it, unless they really were in imminent danger (which I minimized by hiding all the matches, lighters and anything flammable).

They were still going strong at 12:30, then 12:45. I fell asleep on the couch in the living room (still heard crashing in the room), but when I awoke at 1:30, it was finally quiet. Eerily quiet. I tiptoed down the hallway, and frowned--why was the light in my room on?

And then I saw him--the birthday boy, in his sleeping bag. He'd given up on getting any shut-eye in his room, and had moved to my room instead. He was fast asleep on my floor, and looked so sweet and innocent, angelic almost--nothing like the crazed madman jumping on the couch three hours earlier. I couldn't help kissing his forehead, and whispering "Goodnight."

Mark was up before 7, but I warned him not to wake the other boys yet. I knew it was only a matter of time before my sleep-deprived child melted down, and I hoped to keep the meltdown number to just one boy, if I could.

Mark hesitated, then realized the longer they slept, the more time he got to play the Wii alone. He let them sleep.

But tween boys have incredibly sensitive hearing. They may not be able to hear you the 50 times you ask them to make their beds or brush their teeth, but they can distinguish the faint bing! of a video game from miles away. There was a slight rustling in the other room, and then two sleepy boys emerged, wiggling their thumbs in a pre-game warm-up.

So the second round of the video game marathon ensued. The boys paused briefly to go for donuts, then returned to battling Mario Brothers until their parents came to pick them up. I enjoyed coffee and the Sunday paper in the other room, and realized there really is no better sound in the whole world than kids laughing.

Mark was sad when the boys finally left, but he sighed deeply, and said happily, "That was fun." He had a slew of new gift cards, the Wii, and an entire German chocolate cake (minus the piece he ate the night before) all to himself. 

It was a good day, indeed. And an even better birthday!