They're everywhere

Because Mark is a little jokester, I'm always on high alert. He likes to jump out and scare me, tease me, or play practical jokes on me.

So at home, I'm always thinking three steps ahead of him. And of course, the best defense is a good offense, so I try to trick or prank him before he can get me.

It's a lot of work, keeping up with a funny pre-teen. But the good news is, once he's off to school, and I'm off to work, I can relax. Let my guard down. Because I'm safe from the practical jokers.

Or am I?

I may re-think that whole "safe at work" scenario after leaving a banana on my desk the other day. I returned to find my banana had a message for me.

I totally cracked up at the message she'd carved in to my snack.

"I can't be held responsible," my co-worker, Frankie (the person, not my cat) said. "You just left it there, and I couldn't help myself."

She was right. I giggled about it all day long, and even brought it home to show Mark. He thought it was hilarious, too.

And now I realize I'm no longer safe, not even at work. It's hard work being surrounded by pranksters!

Um, hello Captain Obvious?

Unlike most growing boys his age, Mark does not eat like a horse. Instead, he eats like a fussy, picky, little pony who'd rather just take a nap.

He insists he is eating enough, but I swear he is not. It's an constant battle in our house, and every day I turn a little bit more into a Jewish mother begging her son to eat.

"Eat more!" I plead with him. "You're so skinny!" I've even thrown "Oy!" into those pleas a few times.

Usually Mark wins the battle, because I'm too exhausted to keep fighting at every. single. meal. (I figure he'll eat when he's finally hungry, right? Which is what happens every night, when I say "bedtime"--it's like ringing the dinner bell.) 

But sometimes, he does things so dumb, so obvious, I have to say something.

Exhibit A:

Nothing says "Don't look inside!" like black electrical tape on your lunch bag.

Of course I opened the bag. And I was not surprised to see the contents--one tiny Hawaiian roll and a pouch of flavored water.

"Seriously?" I asked him, holding the open bag toward him. "Bread and water? Are you on the prison diet?"

"What?" he shrugged. "I'm not hungry at lunch."

"I don't care," I said, in my most loving tone (it only sounded grumpy). "Sometimes you need to eat for fuel. You MUST eat lunch, and it must have more than five calories!" 

He sighed, and trudged across the kitchen as slowly and loudly as he possibly could. With another loud, put-upon sigh, he dropped an apple in to the bag, then looked at me expectantly and irritated, all at the same time.

"Happy??" he sighed.

"Protein," I answered.

He sighed again, and with as little effort as possible, spread the thinnest layer of peanut butter he possibly could on to the roll. He held it up for inspection.

"Seriously?" I asked. I realized I could insist on more peanut butter, but there was already a 95% chance he was going to throw the whole damn roll at camp anyway, so I gave up. 

"Put your lunch in your backpack," I told him, and he trudged-slapped his feet into the dining room.

It was my turn to sigh. And to be glad he's not nearly as sly as he thinks he is. I mean, really--electrical tape? He might as well put neon signs spelling out "LOOK AT ME, I HAVE NO FOOD," it would've been just as effective!

Yes, we are members of that exclusive club...

Yesterday, I was filling out a volunteer application for the Boy Scouts. I was cruising through the questions until I got to this one:

Please list any organizations that you belong to (religious, philanthropy, professional).

I scratched my head for a moment, and thought really hard.

"What organizations do we belong to?" I asked myself, out loud.

"Oh," Mark piped up. "We belong to Coscto!"

I totally laughed at that. 

"You're right," I said. "We do belong to Costco."

I think they were looking more for a work- or church-related connection, but hey, we go to Costco more often than we go to church. So it's no wonder Mark immediately thought of that.

Looks like I may have to get a little more involved in the community...in a non-consumer way.

Hurrah for the red, white and blue

We aren't usually home for the Fourth of July. It was kind of nice to be there this year, especially considering last year's fiasco, when the neighbor kids kept tossing fireworks into our yard and trying to burn my house down.

But the real reason we stayed home was for my niece Gabi. Gabi took up fencing last year, and qualified for nationals this summer. The competition was about 20 minutes from my house, so my brother Scott, sis-in-law Mari and two of their kids came to stay with us. Mari's friend Dawn was also participating at nationals, so she traded private lessons for Gabi for a couple night's lodging. 

I love having a full house, although my nephew Grant noted one of its shortcomings. He asked me why I only have one bathroom in my house.

"We have two," he bragged. "Grandma and Grandpa even have their own bathroom!" I promised Grant I'd run over to Home Depot and buy another bathroom for his next visit.

Mark loved their visit. He got to abandon summer camp and hang with his cousins for a few days. But as Independence Day arrived, he learned that the fun was over, and it was time to fight.

Well, for Gabi, anyway. Scott, Mari and Dawn left with Gabs at daybreak, to get her registered and ready to fence. I went later on, with two sleepy boys in tow.

Gabs did her best. She got a few good hits in, and while she may not have scored as high as she'd have liked, we were enormously proud of her (and her red-and-white striped sock!). 

And after the competition, it was time to celebrate! Mark and Grant were thrilled when I stopped to buy fireworks, but crestfallen when I told the cashier I wanted some small, not-crazy things like sparklers.

"Awwwwww," they both sighed. Grant tried convincing me to buy a giant box of explosives called the Finale, but I reminded him what a hot mess I am. I'd probably just set myself on fire.

I'm a Dinsdale, which means I don't know how to put out just a little food for a party. I made five pounds of potato salad and two pounds of cucumber salad, and delegated the meat-cooking duties to my brother Scott. He grilled up hot dogs, burgers, steaks, and asked, "How many people are coming to dinner?"

I smiled and said, "Well...just us." Oh, and my brother Smed and his girlfriend, too. Hey, the best part of a big dinner is the leftovers, right?

Actually, for the kids, the fireworks turned out to be the most fun. We'd purchased 12 boxes of sparklers, and the kids were determined to burn them all up as fast as possible. 

However, we soon realized the dang things were misnamed--they should've been called smokers, because that's mostly what they did! The entire yard was full of smoke in mere minutes, but the kids didn't even notice. They were just thrilled to be playing with matches, and lighting stuff on fire.

I also experimented a bit with the sparklers. This is my idea of some real hotcakes!

The kids also got to light up the fountain fireworks we bought. I personally would not have let them (yes, I'm a paranoid mom), but Scott supervised them very closely. And they were so excited to do it.

"Look at mine!" Grant screamed, as the fireworks shot up. "I did that! I lit them! I'm a BEAST!" he shouted, pounding his little chest. Man, was he proud of himself! It was so cute...

There were a couple fireworks shows scheduled in the area. Scott and I debated which one to take the kids to. But while we were talking, the neighborhood lit up. You could see and hear fireworks erupting all over the place. It was pretty awesome--the fireworks were huge, bright, and very close.

"That one's from Disneyland, Dad!" Grant shouted. Scott answered that yes, it was, then shook his head silently when I looked at him. Another burst of colorful lights prompted Grant to yell, "The Finale! Someone's setting off the Finale!" So he got his 4th of July wish after all (and I made it through the holiday unscathed).

The neighborhood pyros showed no signs of slowing down, so finally, we just put the kids to bed. They were exhausted after the long day, and they all smelled a bit smoky, but they were happy.

And I was pretty happy, myself.

He went to Perris

When Mark first joined the Cub Scouts, I bought a tent and a couple sleeping bags. That was enough for a quick overnight camping trip.

But when he joined the Boy Scouts, I went a little crazy. I bought a whole mess of camping supplies, including an air mattress, tarp, chairs, cookware, mess kits, a Dutch oven, and various other gadgets.

So now I'm determined to get my money's worth out of all that gear. I pretty much sign us up for any camping trip that's offered.

A couple weeks ago, we headed out to Perris Lake which, it turns out, is pretty damn hot during the summer. I'd conveniently forgotten how far inland it is. That's probably a good thing, or I would've bailed on the trip (my hatred for hot weather cannot be underestimated).

But I'm glad I didn't. Mark was thrilled there was a lake, and immediately asked to bring his fishing pole. I said yes, and secretly hoped he'd catch something more than a tree this time.

We also purchased the fishing supplies we'd forgotten before--a bobber, weights to sink the line, extra hooks, and bait. (Yes, we bought bait last time. No, we did not bring it. And yes, fish are apparently smart enough to stay away from an unbaited hook.)

Mark was really excited about fishing.

"We can eat the fish for dinner tonight!" he said.

"OK," I answered. "But you have to clean any fish you catch."

"...or we can just release the fish," he said, visibly shuddering at the thought of gutting a fish. "Did you bring any pliers?"

I just stared at him.

"How are we gonna release it if we don't have any pliers to unhook it?" he demanded.

"We're going to ask some nice fisherman nearby," I told him. I know my kid well enough to know that even with pliers, he wasn't going to touch any live fish.

Turns out fishing wasn't our biggest challenge, however. Baiting the hook was. The stinky garlic marshmallows we'd purchased wouldn't stay on the hook. Every time Mark cast his line, we'd see a splash, followed by tiny  neon yellow marshmallows floating by.

I just sighed, but Mark seemed...relieved.

"It's fine," he said. "I'll just practice casting." Which suited us both fine.

On our way back to the campsite, a roadrunner ran right in front of us. I stopped the car so we could watch it flutter along beside us.

"Meep, meep," I said, and Mark giggled.

Upon returning to our site, I noticed the holy roller revival in the campsite next door was still going strong. They were yelling, screaming, and praising God quite loudly. They even had a full live band, complete with electric guitars and a full drum set. Mark wanted to go over and bang around on the drums, but I was afraid he'd end up getting baptized or born again, so I said no. 

Mark was thrilled to find other boys to play with (apparently I'm not an entertaining companion). As I was setting up the hibachi to make dinner, he whizzed by on a bike and called out, "Hi, mom!"

"Does the owner of that bike know you have it?" I called back.

I heard a faint "yes" trailing behind him, and hoped he was telling the truth.

As dusk neared, the heat dissipated. The sun began to set behind the hills, and cast a beautiful soft, glowing light all around us. It was gorgeous.

The campfire, while impressive, was not nearly as hot or large as a typical Boy Scout fire. I was actually glad for that--one time, the dads built the fire so big, you couldn't even roast marshmallows without crying. It was like walking up to a wall of fire to make s'mores, and to be honest, I don't think it should hurt to roast marshmallows.

Mark ate his share of s'mores, as well as my share, and the shares of the three kids sitting next to us. It took all my restraint not to say, "Bolus" each time he popped one in his mouth. I did refrain until about the 15th one, but when I spoke then, I just said, "Enough." He looked directly at me, popped a huge hunk of chocolate into his mouth and then said, "What?!?"

The sugar buzz finally wore off 30 minutes after bedtime. But I swear, that kid was still twitching in his sleep.

It was beautiful and sunny when we woke up, but I could tell it was gonna be a scorcher again. I'd promised Mark another shot at fishing, but he woke up grumpy, with a s'mores hangover. He was so snotty I finally just left him behind, and enjoyed my breakfast with the rest of the group.

We packed up and headed out by mid-morning. It was a short trip, but we still had a blast. I'm starting to get pretty good at this outdoor stuff--well, except for the potential fish gutting, anyway.

I have a feeling I still won't be any good at that, when the opportunity finally does present itself.

I just saved a lot of money on therapy...I found my childhood trauma

Alternate title: This may be my 2012 Christmas card photo.

While browsing through some old family photos, I came across this little gem.

At first glance, you just see a couple of happy cowboys on Christmas morning--my older brothers Scott, on the left, and Tim, right beside him. 

But look closer--toward the middle--and you'll see me, enjoying my very first Christmas.

Yup, I'm the little baby falling out of my infant seat, slowly sinking down in to the carpet.

You always hear about how protective parents are of their firstborn children, and how they ease up with all subsequent babies. For the record, I'm kid #3 (and now I wonder how my younger brother even survived!).

I burst into laughter when I saw it. I showed it to my mom, who laughed just as loudly. 

Then we showed it to my dad, and I asked, "What am I doing in this photo?"

"You're looking at the Christmas tree," he answered. If I had to bet, I'd guess I found the photographer.

"I'm not looking at the tree," I corrected him. "I'm sliding out of the baby seat!"

"Oh," he said, looking closer. "Huh."

I planned to use the photo as leverage, a guilt-inducing tactic toward my parents ("Hey Mom, remember that time you let me fall out of my baby seat?"). Unfortunately, it didn't work, because my parents are completely immune to guilt.

"What do you want from us?" my mom asked, shrugging. "You survived, didn't you?"

Yes, Mom, I did. But is that really the level we were shooting for here, bare minimum? Basic survival? Is the fact that I'm happy, healthy, and well-adjusted just a fluke?

Whatever. Parenting skills were obviously more lax when I was a baby (my mom was probably off sipping vodka tonics while my dad photographed his gun-totin' sons). Some people might actually be mad about finding a photo like this...but I can't stop laughing at it!   

I'm not being mean, I just really love to yell

Many times a day, I ask Mark to complete household tasks. I am very specific in these requests, leaving no room for confusion. 

"Put your dishes in the dishwasher" becomes "Please take that glass to the sink, rinse it out, put it in the dishwasher, then close the dishwasher." "Take a shower" becomes "Take a shower, wash with soap, shampoo your hair, dry your body with a towel, pick your clothes up off the floor, and clean up the bathroom when you're done."

Because I go in to this level of detail, I've been accused of micro-managing Mark. I'm not trying to micro-manage him--I just want him to put his damn dishes in the dishwasher without me asking him 50 times in a row.

But because the micro-manager accusation stung a little, I've tried to back off. I dropped Mark off at a Boy Scout meeting the other day 15 minutes early and reminded him to go pick up the merit badge booklets he'd need for camp the next day.

What I thought as I dropped him off was this: "Please pick up the books. All of the books. Every last one on the list, even if you don't think you need it (you DO need it). They're in the back of the gym, by the door. Pick them up tonight. Keep them with you during the meeting. Remember to bring them home, then remember to take the appropriate books to camp tomorrow. Please remember to do all of this, because there will not be another opportunity to get the books before camp."

But I bit my tongue. Instead of saying all that, I just said: "Don't forget your merit badge books."

Mark sighed a big, dramatic sigh, rolled his eyes disgustedly in the way that only pre-teens can, slammed the door and called back, "I WILL. Geez..." Then he stomped away.

He was waiting outside when I returned an hour later, hands completely empty. This time, I let out the dramatic sigh.

"You've got the books?" I asked casually, as he climbed in to the car.

"Oh, they weren't there," he said. "The kid didn't bring them today."

I was staring out the windshield while he said this, and as the words came out of his mouth, a boy walked directly in front of the car. He was dragging along two wheeled milk crates full of..you guessed it...merit badge books.

I wanted to point this out to Mark in a calm, even voice, and remark on the irony of his statement. But before I could help it, I reverted to Micro-Manager Mom and screeched, "THEY'RE RIGHT THERE!"

Mark, in his usual form, started to argue with me, but I stopped him short.

"Books," I yelled. "Now! Go!"
 

And so he did. He jumped out of the car and raced toward the kid. Whose mother was not happy to wait while Mark searched the stacks for the 17 different books he needed.She reminded him the books were at every meeting in the back of the room. He opened his mouth to tell her he didn't know that, but he saw the look on my face and wisely shut his mouth.

Maybe I do micro-manage. Maybe it is too much--it's certainly too much for me. But there's a reason I do it, as Mark proves time after time. I'd much rather spend my time (and words) on more interesting subjects or discussions, but for now, this is my life.

So please, if I ask you to do something very specific (such as go to dinner. At 6:15. At E.J. Malloy's. On the patio. At a table. By the heater. After you've washed your hands and tested your blood sugar. And wiped the blood on a napkin, not licked it off your finger. And stop sighing, because yes, this is annoying the heck out of me, too.), don't judge me too harshly.

I don't think you're an idiot who can't follow directions. I just have a 12-year-old at home who only listens to every other word I say, and only if those words are "candy," "cookies," or "Wii."

Which is probably why one of my favorite words also has the word micro in it it--micro-brewery. Trust me, there's a direct correlation there.