The Cute-off

The littlest male in my house is adorable. He makes me laugh so hard--I literally sit around watching him, and cracking up. He runs through the house like a madman, makes funny faces, and pulls crazy pranks, jumping out at me every time I walk past him. 

Seriously, he is the cutest, sweetest, wildest little thing around. I now spend approximately 90% of my time hugging him, and telling him how stinkin' cute he is.

And no, much to his dismay, this little critter is not Mark. It's Fernando!

Mark is usually right there beside me--we are, in fact, co-presidents of the Fernando Fan Club. (Frankie is the only member of the house who refuses to join the club.) Mark praises the kitten's hunting skills, or whips him into a frenzy of spinning orange fuzz with the kitty wand. He is as enamored with Fernando as I am.

Except...occasionally, he is not. Every once in a while, he gets jealous of me hugging and kissing the kitten, and reminds me that boys are, in fact, are just as cute and cuddly as kittens.

"Tell her, Fernando," he prodded the cat last night. Fernando just mewed and struggled to get away.

"C'mon, Fernando," Mark told the squirming kitten. "Let's have a cute-off. Mom, who's cuter, me or Fernando?"

Usually, I'd give the win to Fernando without even thinking about it, but this face...this boy put everything he had into it, including giving me the big puppy dog eyes, which he blinked endearingly, and the protruding bottom lip.

"OK," I admitted. "That kitten is cute, but I think you win this round. Fernando won't even look at the camera!"

And with that, Mark hoisted Fernando into the air, and whooped. He let out a victory cry, still holding the kitten overhead, and danced around the room.

Fernando mewed again, and bit Mark's hands until Mark put him down. He hopped away, still mewing, and swatting at the air. He's used to being the cutest thing in the room, and he did not take kindly to his loss.

Sore loser!

Quite an Endeavour

We had a visitor arriving on Friday, and the whole town was abuzz. The visitor was arriving as many often do, via plane. The difference was this guest rode on the OUTSIDE of the plane, was huge, and while traveling a far distance, this was not as long as its last trip--up to space.

That's right, the space shuttle Endeavour came to Los Angeles, its final resting place, and I was there. (Along with half the city!)

We'd been anticipating the shuttle's arrival all week. By Friday, the town was in a frenzy, and it was all you heard about on the local news. Maps and possible flight paths highlighted each segment. I had a live feed running on my computer, tracking the shuttle's flight around San Francisco and Sacramento.

Finally, around noon, it hit L.A.'s airspace. I could stand it no more--as the crowds on the Santa Monica Pier cheered, I hopped into my car and sped north. The shuttle was coming my way, and I wasn't going to miss it!

Up the 405 I zoomed. The shuttle was headed for Disneyland, and would then bank west toward the beach. It would fly up the coast toward Long Beach, circling the Queen Mary. I knew the Queen Mary would be crowded, so I set my sights a little south, toward Seal Beach.

Exiting at Seal Beach boulevard, I passed the Boeing company, where people filled the street. I took that as a good sign, that the shuttle hadn't passed by yet.

I bypassed the Seal Beach pier, knowing that would also be crowded, and offered little parking. I made my way to the very end of the beach, to a little restaurant called the River's End. It's along the marina, where Seal Beach stops and Long Beach starts.

There was one lone parking space on the street, and I grabbed it. I popped out of the car and raced down to the beach. The beach was crowded, filled with people gazing expectantly into the air. I'd only been there a couple minutes, and I was thinking, "Man, I should've brought my lunch down here!" I thought about walking back to the car to get it when the man beside me yelled, "There it is!"

The whole beach turned in the direction he was pointing. "Where?" shouted half the crowd, and suddenly, I saw it.

A jet, a HUGE, low-flying plane was coming over the top of the palm trees. There were two fighter jets on either side of it, and they were all coming fast. So fast, I almost didn't get any pictures! I hadn't planned to be here, so my good camera was at home. I tried aiming my camera phone at the sky, but all it saw was sky, and it wouldn't focus. I finally stopped fussing with the camera and LOOK. Just as I looked up, the plane flew directly over me, flashing its massive white belly. It was low, lower than any other plane I've ever been under, about 1500 feet. It roared by me, and all I could think was "Whoa!"

Since I was right under the plane, I couldn't see the piggybacked space shuttle at all. But it turned west toward the Queen Mary, and as it turned, I got a great view of the shuttle atop the plane. It was AWESOME!!

Here's a great shot someone took in Long Beach:

The whole thing lasted about three minutes. I was just in awe--a freakin' SPACE SHUTTLE had just flown by me! And not just any shuttle, the Endeavour, the last shuttle that went up to space. I was really sad to realize this meant the end of the space shuttle program, but wow, at the same time, I just felt, What a rush! I was bummed I didn't get any good photos of it, but was grateful I'd been present enough to put down the camera and just watch it. I may not have committed a good image to film, but I captured an amazing memory that will last me a lifetime.

I watched as the planes grew smaller and smaller, eventually trailing off toward the Queen Mary, and out of sight. I headed back to my car, and was back at work just before my lunch hour ended.

And boy, was that a lunch hour I'll never forget!

I'd *never* have this conversation if I had a daughter...

Yesterday, Mark went to band practice with some older kids. Older, thoughtful kids, I might add, as they provided Mark with protective ear plugs to wear.

We were driving around in the car, and I didn't notice them at first. It was only after I asked Mark a question three different times (while he was sitting next to me) that I noticed something was askew.

I tapped Mark on the shoulder, and he gave me a thumbs up. I repeated my question again, and he smiled and nodded, then asked, in a really loud voice, "AM I TALKING REALLY LOUD?"

"Yes," I said, growing ever more irritated. "What is wrong with you?"

Mark smiled, and fished the ear plugs out of his ears, showing them to me. 

At the next stop light, I turned to see Mark chewing on the ear plugs. I immediately yelled at Mark to take them out of his mouth.

"OK, geez," he snorted. "What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is, they were just jammed inside your ears!" I said. 

"I have A.D.D.," Mark answered, using his favorite new excuse for everything.

"So do I," I answered. "And I never shoved anything in my mouth that was previously in my ears."

He just stared at me, so I clarified.

"Please don't stick anything in any orifice, and then put it in your mouth," I said, as patiently as I could.

"What's an 'orifice'?" Mark asked.

"A hole into your body," I explained. "Your ears, your nostrils, your mouth." I knew to stop while I was ahead.

"What about my fingers?" he asked, wiggling them at me. "They're full of orifices!"

And of course, they were. He showed me the million tiny holes from pricking his fingers during his blood sugar testing multiple times a day. And suddenly, my irritation disappeared, and I just laughed out loud.

"OK," I said, admitting defeat. "Those are okay. You can shove your ear plugs in your finger orifices if they'll fit."

We both laughed. And then I smiled, shook my head, and realized I could only have these kinds of conversations with a boy.

Huh, and I thought the rear rack was handy...

Last weekend, Mark and I rode our bikes at the beach. Unfortunately, my bike is old, and a bit rusty. The front fender rubs against my tire, resulting in not only a loud, obnoxious sound, but decreased bike performance and increased rider frustration. I feel like an old lady pedaling as hard as I can, going nowhere.

It was, I realized, time for a new bike.

My first stop was Walmart, where my brother's girlfriend had purchased a really cute cruiser. I found two I liked. The only way to decide was to test drive them.

The first bike rode kind of rough. As I was pedaling the second bike slowly down the empty end aisle, an employee stopped me, saying I wasn't allowed to ride the bike in the store.

"Is there somewhere else I can ride it?" I asked.

"No," she said. "You can't ride it in here."

"How can I buy a bike if I can't test it out first?" I asked.

"You can't ride it here," she repeated yet again, as though I hadn't heard her the other two times.

I immediately dismounted and left the bike in the aisle. I refuse to give my money to stores with horrible customer service, and this was pretty bad.

My next stop was where I should have started in the first place--my beloved Target. They had the same bike, but in a deep blue, which I liked even better than the pale yellow at Walmart.

I like the women's bike, since I'm short, but all they had left were the men's bike. However, the seat was low enough that I could climb aboard without too much trouble. Within minutes, and with Mark acting as my lookout, I was zooming down the aisles at Target.

"I'll take it!" I told Mark. He then showed me the boy's section and tried convincing me to buy him a bike as well. I reminded him he'd gotten TWO new bikes in the past six years, and that my rusty bike at home was going on 20 years. Besides, I'm waiting for his next growth spurt, so I'm not buying him a new bike he'll outgrow in the next year.

We wheeled the bike out to my car, and realized they were both the same color (guess I'm in a blue mood these days). As we were loading the bike, I noticed a weird metal fixture on the front fork. I knelt down to inspect it.

"Hey, my bike has a bottle opener!" I called to Mark.

That totally cracked me up. I'd made a list of must-haves for my bike--a place for my water bottle, phone and Mark's meter; a rear rack; backpedal brakes; single gear coaster bike. Bottle opener was not on my list--don't think I've ever drank beer while riding my bike, but hey, guess there's always a first time for everything!

I recalled a concert in the park last month, when my brother Smed had called, asking me to bring a bottle opener. I realized now if I'd had this bike, I'd already have an opener with me!

So there you go...not only do I have a shiny new bike, I also have a new portable bar. Kinda defeats the purpose I bought it for--exercise--but what it lacks in practicality, it makes up for in humor.

Anyone up for a bike ride? Or a beer?  Or BOTH? ;-)

We will never forget...

Another September 11th, and another feeling of loss, and sadness. I remember the strange, shocking day 11 years ago. I remember the unbelievable live image of the towers falling. I remember calling my dad, who couldn't comprehend what I meant by "The Tower just collapsed!" I remember acknowledging the secretary when I got to work, both of us teary and unable to talk--we just nodded, as if to say, "I know. It hurts." 

I remember the silence afterwards, as all the airplanes were ordered out of the sky--I never realized how loud planes are, until I couldn't hear them at all for days on end. I remember my sweet, oblivious little niece Nathalie, who turned 3 the next day, and how we all pretended to laugh and enjoy her birthday pizza dinner because nobody could describe the intense pain we really felt; nobody could describe the profound loss we'd suffered as a nation the day before. Explain it to a three-year-old? Heck, we couldn't even understand it ourselves.

It's been very strange contemplating and reliving all this again, so many years later. And this year, especially, feels like I'm opening a wound again, because it's the first year that Mark understands, really, what happened that day. He always knew about it generally, but only in a comic-book kinda way--there were bad guys who attacked us, and killed lots of good guys. (I always kept it very vague, because he was a little boy and I didn't want to scare him.)

But this year was different in that it wasn't just anonymous good guys, or generic, faceless bad guys. We watched a TV special about the firemen and police officers who rushed in to help, and talked about the heroes in Pennsylvania who crashed their own plane to sacrifice themselves, and save countless others. 

For the first time, Mark really grasped what happened, and how big it all really was. He saw how random life is--how you can just go to work one day, like you always do, or get on a plane, and that's it. He finally pieced together the words he'd heard about before--World Trade Center, terrorists, planes, Osama bin Laden--and he saw how they were all connected (and he realized why, exactly, my mom and I were so moved and emotional when we visited the 9/11 memorial at the Pentagon this spring). It hit him kinda hard.

It was sad to see him go through all that, and to lose a bit of my innocent, trusting, baby boy.  But it was also kinda cool to see him grasp and process it, and to see how it affected him. Mark learned the world isn't full of random bad guys (like storm troopers in Star Wars) but very specific bad guys, and he understood why it was such a big deal that the U.S. killed Osama bin Laden. 

But more importantly, Mark learned the world is also full of heroes--police officers, firemen, all of the troops that serve and protect us each and every day. His respect for all of them grew, and he just...got it. Sure, life is random and bad things happen--but he also learned how amazing it is that when good people respond, step up, and help, without expecting anything in return. It was a lesson that no matter how big the bad, there is always a bigger good to counteract it.

I'm glad I was there to talk Mark through it all, and more importantly, I'm glad his new kitten Fernando was there as well. Because even with all my explanations and reassurances, it was a big, heavy, sad story. The kind that sticks with you, especially if you're just a 12-year-old kid. So I was glad that afterwards, when Mark went off to bed, he had a sweet, loving, fuzzy little kitten to take to bed with him, to remind him of the good things in life, and to comfort him while he fitfully drifted off to sleep.

I could have used a sweet, loving kitten myself.

It's the most wonderful day of the yeeeeaaaaaarrrr...

Mark returned to school last week, a few weeks after his cousins and seemingly every other kid in California.

I thought he'd be bummed about it, but he was actually pretty excited.

"You want to go to school?" I asked, astounded.

"I want to see my friends again," he clarified. I nodded; this, I could understand.

He woke up easily the first day, dressed and was ready to go an hour early. Clearly, someone had switched out my kid during the night.

One thing he wasn't ready to do, however, was say goodbye to his kitten, even for just a few hours.

"Kitty!" he yelled, as the little orange fuzzball darted around his feet. Mark scooped him up and scratched his ears, then repeated this about 50 times. Fernando purred each time; clearly, this would be a long day apart for both boys.

"Where did my boy go?"

Mark grabbed his new backpack, obsessively brushed his freshly-cut hair to the side, and made himself the same exact lunch he ate every day last year. He was ready.

His friend Sean arrived. Before they left for school, I positioned them on the front porch, and made them hold up seven fingers, corresponding to their new grade. (I do this every year--don't know what I'm gonna do when they start 11th grade!)

They humored me for a few minutes, even getting into it and making silly faces. Then a group of their friends passed by the house, and they immediately froze up, nodding at the other boys coolly. This is the epitome of middle school; it's all fun and games until someone sees you having fun with your mom.

"Bye," the boys shouted, collecting their bags, and running for the sidewalk.

"Mark!" I called out, sternly. He sighed, turned and dragged his feet slowly back to me. 

"Have a good day," I whispered to him. I hugged him, gave him a quick kiss, and sent him on his way.

Mark had a great first day, although I'm still not quite sure what he did.

"How were your classes?" I asked during dinner.

"Fine," he said.

"Did you find them all okay?" I pushed.

"Yup."

"What's your favorite class so far?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, school just started."

"How are the other boys? Anyone do anything exciting over the summer?" I pressed.

"I. Don't. Know." he sighed, ending the conversation. "I don't ask those kinds of questions."

I stopped talking, and just looked at him, questioningly.

"Seriously, Mom, we don't talk about that stuff," he said.

Suddenly, I realized what it really means to live in the now; it's to live like a 7th grade boy, not worrying about the future (full of looming homework deadlines) or the past (what my friends did last summer--that's sooo last week). If you really want to live in the moment, talk to a 7th grader during dinner. You will learn that being present means just one thing--discussing only what's relevant at that very moment, like why we aren't
having pizza for dinner. All the other nonsense is tuned out, stocked away, unimportant.  

And so ended our meaningful conversation about the first day of school. Later on, Mark mentioned band, and that he was a little nervous about being the drummer. He also mentioned, fleetingly, in passing, and without further elaboration, that he might try out for the school's flag football team. I just nodded, knowing this was all the information I was going to get today, and mentally stored these little informational nuggets away.

Sigh...my friend Jill is right. Motherhood is not for sissies.