Mark is always reminding me he's not a little kid anymore. Which is true, but puts him at that awkward stage where people don't know what to buy him for Christmas. He's too old for toys, but too picky about clothes.
So my cousin Kathleen bought him a manly gift pack of Axe body wash and shampoo. Mark took the bottles out and immediately proclaimed he was NOT GOING TO USE THIS.
"Why not?" I asked. "You like manly soaps..."
"Um, yeah," he stammered. "Look what it says!" He held the bottle toward me.
"Really?" he asked, sarcastically. "Kathleen wants me to get dirty?"
I burst out laughing, and couldn't stop for a good 10 minutes.
"And what about this?" he asked, holding up the shampoo bottle.
"Wash, attract, repeat?" he said. "Seriously?"
I couldn't stand it any longer. I texted Kathleen the pictures and Mark's running commentary. She answered back that she never even saw those instructions.
"Oh, crap," she texted. "I got him X-rated body wash!"
Which sent Mark and I over the edge again. We were crying with laughter.
Then Mark dragged the poor kitten into all this.
"What if I wash Fernando with this?" he asked. "Will he attract all the girl cats?" He swiped an imaginary paw and said, "Rawr!"
I was texting Kathleen back when Mark found a written page of instructions for the body wash. As I was typing, he read them aloud.
"Take care when using on sensitive areas," he read. He immediately stopped and said, "You know what 'sensitive areas' are, RIGHT?"
I did, and tried really hard not to look at him. He was horrified that Kathleen had given him this, and that I was laughing about it.
"No," Mark said, putting the bottles down. "Just. NO. I am not using that body wash. EVER." And then he stomped out of the room.
"Well, I guess the gift was a success one way or another," Kathleen texted.
It most certainly was. I could just imagine the conversation in my head, when someone asks Mark about his presents.
"Hey Mark, what was your favorite Christmas gift?" I imagine them asking.
And Mark's answer?
"The X-rated body wash Kathleen gave me!"
Oh yes, it WAS successful, Kathleen. Maybe not in the way you intended, but definitely a hit.
(And no, I still haven't stopped snickering...)
Unlike every other kid in the world, Mark doesn't really understand the whole behaving-before-Christmas idea. Most kids act better at Christmas, but not Mark. As each day rolls closer, his behavior actually gets worse. Seriously, it's a miracle that Mark gets any presents at all on Christmas.
His morning routine also takes a hit. The closer it gets to Christmas vacation, the harder it is to get Mark out of bed for school. He's like a reverse daylight savings time--instead of gaining a minute of daylight each day as the year goes on, Mark loses a minute each morning.
Yesterday was no exception.
"Time to get up," I said at 7:10 a.m., rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "You've got band practice in half an hour."
I reached to turn his radio on and he screeched like a banshee.
"No radio!" he yelled. "Keep it off! I'm getting up, geez!"
I turned silently and walked out of the room. I've been fighting this all month, and I was officially done.
"Give me a minute to wake up!" he spat as I walked away.
Thirty minutes later, I peeked back in the room. He was still in bed, hiding deep under the covers.
"You have class in ten minutes," I said. There was no response.
He knew he was in big trouble, because when I got out of the shower, he was dressed, fed, and making his bed. I didn't say a word.
At 8:30, I finally spoke.
"The umbrella I gave you last week," I said. "Is it still in your backpack?"
"I dunno," he said in his snottiest tone. "Who knows where it is?"
"Hmm," I said. "Do you have a jacket with a hood?"
"THIS is my jacket," he said, tugging at his sweatshirt. Then he realized where this was all heading and he asked, "Aren't you driving me to school?"
"Nope," I said, in my saddest voice. "I was ready to go at 7:10 and 7:40. Now I'm working."
"But it's raining!" he protested.
"I know," I said. "That's why I asked if you had an umbrella or a jacket."
He stared at me angrily for a moment, then grabbed his backpack. He pointed at his sweatshirt again, and repeated, "This is my jacket." He looked out at the rain, then back at me, daring me to let my only child walk to school in the rain.
And that's when I realized the little stinker doesn't know me nearly as well as he thinks he does.
"Have a good day," I told him.
"I will," he said. He glared at me for one more minute, then stomped toward the front door, daring me to let him go out into the rain.
"Wait!" I called.
He stopped and turned, smiling, victorious.
"Take this out with you," I said, handing him the kitchen garbage bag. "It's trash day today."
He stared at me, incredulous, then snatched the bag, turned and this time, really stomped out the door.
And I just smiled, the same way my mom did when bratty 12-year-old me hurled empty threats at her, I'm sure. I watched my darling (but angry) son stomp though the rain to the sidewalk.
"I'll show her!" his angry gait said.
And I just smiled, standing there in the house, warm, dry and trying not to laugh. I thought the same thing as Mark, with a slight twist.
Wow, I thought. He sure showed me.
Mark was chomping on piñata candy at my nephew Johnny's birthday Saturday, when his wiggly molar popped out.
"Hey Mom, I lost my tooth!" he shouted. Before I could fully process what he'd said, he dumped his bag of candy and his tooth into my hands and ran off to the bounce house.
"Gross!" I yelled, when I realized I had a wet tooth in my hand. All the kids around me laughed.
When he got home, Mark spent a good 10 minutes brushing the tooth to dislodge the chocolate. I gagged when I saw that, and kept on walking.
"Look how clean it is, Mom!" he called out to me, but I refused to go anywhere near.
"I don't want to see anything that came out of your body," I told him. "Ever."
"But it's just a tooth," he reasoned.
"Did it come out of your body?" I asked. He nodded, and I said, "Then I don't want to see it."
Moms are supposed to handle anything--it's hard to be a tough mom when you have a sensitive gag reflex.
Before bed, I asked Mark if he put the tooth under his pillow. He said yes, and I was glad I'd double-checked. (He once left a tooth which sat unclaimed for three days until he tearfully told me. I gently reminded him he's got to tell me so I can warn the Tooth Fairy.)
But I was surprised when he ran off to school the next morning without reporting any disappearing teeth or an influx of cash. In fact, I didn't hear anything until dinner that night.
"The Tooth Fairy didn't come last night," he moaned.
I was surprised to hear that.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered, still sad.
"Did you check?"
"Ye--um, no," he admitted.
"Then how do you know?" I asked. "Go check!"
He ran off to his room. Two seconds later, I heard him whoop, "Two bucks! All right!"
I just shook my head and thanked God for direct deposit. Because if the money doesn't come directly to him--God forbid there's a middle man--my son may never actually get a paycheck when he grows up.
Mark recently shoved a piece of paper under my nose, with gruff orders to sign it.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Math test," he grunted. "You have to sign it." He waggled a pen at me for emphasis.
But I'm not as naive as Mark believes. I actually like to read papers before I sign them.
"C+?" I said. "Really? You told me yesterday you were ready for this test."
"I was!" he protested. "It's not my fault. There weren't enough questions!"
And that stopped me in my tracks. I'm not good at math, but apparently, Mark's not good at logic.
"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked.
"There were only 9 problems," he explained. "And I missed two, so that's a C+."
I waited.
"And...?" I finally said, breaking the silence.
"And...if there were more questions, I would've got a better grade," Mark said slowly, to his (obviously) idiotic mother.
"It doesn't matter how many questions there are," I told him. "It's the percentage that counts. You got 78% right. Doesn't matter how many questions there are--78% will be always be a C+."
"No," Mark said, his patience straining. "If there were more questions, I would have got a higher grade."
"If you'd gotten all the other questions correct," I said. "But if there were twice as many questions, and you missed twice as many answers, you'd still get 78%."
And there we stood, staring each other down. Stalemate.
He tried again.
"I missed two," Mark explained. "If there were 20 questions, I would've gotten an A."
"But you didn't get an A," I said. I pointed at the paper. "You got a C+." I couldn't figure out how this conversation was going so wrong.
"Just sign it, please," Mark sighed. He was done with me and my little brain, and my illogical questions.
"This is not acceptable," I told him, handing the paper back. "I want to see a better grade next time."
He walked away, stuffing the paper in to his backpack.
"Then tell the teacher to give us more questions," he said.
He shook his head and walked away, clearly wondering how I ever finished middle school, when I was obviously so bad at math.
I'm not sure he's really even studying math at all. I think he was actually practicing Jedi mind tricks on me instead. And I'm pretty sure I failed.
In years past, I've helped Mark write his letter to Santa. This year, he didn't need any help or encouragement; the kid was on it. He made sure his letter got to Santa on time (it hasn't always).
I was glad to see that he'd learned from my prior etiquette lessons.
"You have write a real letter," I'd told him. "It has to be a conversation, with give and take, with questions and observations. You can't just write a gimme-gimme-gimme letter."
He didn't understand that at 5, but he does now. At 12, he realizes it's not cool to just send Santa a list of demands.
Mark was also concerned about some of his friends--specifically, his friend Ty, who's Jewish.
"Ty's getting ripped off," Mark said, admitting later that Ty does get presents for 8 nights during Hannukah, which is pretty cool. But he couldn't figure out how Santa knew to skip Ty's house.
"That's easy," I said. "Jewish kids don't write him letters."
"Not all kids write to Santa," Mark argued.
"You sure about that?" I asked. "You gonna take that chance?"
"No," Mark answered without hesitation.
And so, as in years past, Mark wrote his letter. I'm pretty sure he doesn't believe anymore, but he doesn't want to chance it. Because, you know...what if he really does exist, and Mark didn't say "S'up"?
I read Mark's letter, and was totally cracking up inside. It was so funny I even ignored all the misspelled words, right up until the very end. There it was, right next to the picture of Mark and his cousins, with Nathalie screaming about her favorite boy band, One Direction.
"Seriously?" I screeched, pointing at his signature. "You spelled your own name wrong?"
"No, I didn't," Mark scoffed. Then he looked a little closer, and said, "It's my middle name, that doesn't count!"
I guess not. The letter was funny and had lots of questions. I was willing to overlook a misspelling, and congratulated him on a job well done.
And best of all, he only asked for three things--a new phone with a text keyboard, a hat, and a beanie with a beard and mustache attached.
I think Mark Danil might get what he asked for this year...
The awesome thing about having a tween is that you don't have to teach them anything, because they already know everything.
OK, wait, no, that's the exact opposite of the truth. The truth is, they really don't know anything, but are convinced they do. With each passing year, this illusion grows grander, and they become more convinced it's true. It's like George Costanza said on Seinfeld: "It's not a lie if you believe it."
Mark is no different from his peers in this department. Last night, I was cooking dinner, and called him into the kitchen.
"What are we having?" he asked.
"You're having ribs and cooked carrots," I said. "I'm having chicken noodle soup."
"I don't want soup," he said.
"I know," I said patiently to the boy who never listens. "That's why you're having ribs."
He grunted, "Hmmmm," then asked if he could make ramen soup instead.
"What?" I asked. "No! I made fresh, homemade real food. Healthy food doesn't come in a pre-packaged bag!"
"That came out of a bag," he said, nodding toward the food I was warming up.
"Because I froze it," I reminded him. "It was fresh when I cooked it. Nothing in a bag beats frozen fresh food."
We both cracked up at that. But then I realized he really does need to learn to cook--someday soon he'll go off to college, and I don't want him living off those little ramen packets.
During dinner, I asked what Mark what he wanted to cook. When he
said nothing, I offered up burgers.
"I already know how to cook
burgers," he said, in that pre-teen exasperated tone.
"OK, how about a steak?" I asked. "I'll teach you how
to grill a steak."
"You don't know how to grill a steak," he yelped. "I
tell you how long to cook it! I know how to cook, Mom."
It's true, he does guard his steaks religiously, as I tend to overcook them (seriously, what kind of civilized human eats a still-bloody hunk of meat?).
"I'm just trying
to help," I said. "You have to learn how to cook."
"No, I don't," he snorted. "That's what the Internet is for. The
Internet teaches me everything I need to know."
This time, I scoffed.
"Oh well, then you don't
even need a mom after all," I said. "The Internet can raise
you."
"Whatever," he sniffed. "I'll show you I can cook. I'm gonna make
some ramen noodles."
He went back in to the kitchen, filled a pot with water and turned on the
burner.
"They only take three minutes," I said, helpfully. He just
sighed and said, "I know, Mom. I can read the directions." I could almost see him rolling his eyes in the kitchen.
I stayed in the dining room, finishing my soup, not really paying much attention until
approximately two minutes later when he grumbled, "COOK, noodles!"
I
giggled and immediately bolted into the kitchen. I peeked over his shoulder at the still pot of water and the brick of ramen noodles swimming in it.
"You know the water has
to boil first, right?" I said. "You don't put the noodles in until
the water's boiling."
"I know!" he said, then, "Wait, what?"
I handed him the strainer, and he
drained the noodles into it. I helped him refill the pot and place it back on
the stove top. Five minutes later, he dropped the soggy brick of disintegrating noodles back into the boiling pot of water.
I walked back to the dining room, but paused first. He
looked up at me, unsure of what was coming, but knowing full well he wouldn't
like it.
"Always boil the water first, before you put any noodles or pasta in," I said. "They won't cook unless the water's already boiling."
Then I smirked, and because I couldn't help myself, I added, "Didn't the Internet teach you
that?"
I didn't have to see the kitchen towel to know it was hurtling
toward me. It hit the counter behind me as I ducked out of the
kitchen.
Guess the Internet still has a few more lessons to impart on my
budding chef.
After one take-out dinner too many, I started cooking again last week. You'd think my son would be overjoyed at the prospect of so many lovingly-prepared homemade dinners, but you would be wrong.
The reasons I like and hate cooking for Mark are exactly the same: he's dead honest. If he likes something, I know it. If he doesn't, I know it, too. I also know when cleans his plate just because he's hungry, not because he loves the food. When I ask, "How was it?" he answers with a side-turned hand wave and an "Eh..."
I don't mind the critiques. The only thing that really irritates me is when I asked for menu ideas and he shrugged.
"If you don't give input on the menu, you can't complain about the meal," I warned him.
"But what if it's really bad?" he asked.
"We aren't there yet," I said. "All I'm doing now is taking suggestions."
The week did not go great. I made a slow-cooker lasagna (bad, for the second time--I'm tossing that recipe); steak and potatoes (not a great cut of meat); Chinese chicken salad (thumbs-up, but this one's always a winner); and butternut squash soup (amazing!). I think the soup was the best thing I made--it was so good I ate it two nights in a row.
Mark, however, offered a different opinion.
"It looks like baby food," he observed.
"It's not baby food!" I answered, defensively. "It's soup. And it's GOOD. I roasted this squash for an hour and a half--it's AWESOME."
He reluctantly tried a spoonful, passing the smallest amount he could through his lips.
"It's not really a soup," he said. "It's more like a sauce."
I pulled my soup bowl back. "It's not a sauce," I groused. "It's soup. And it's good."
He patted my shoulder condescendingly. "It's okay," he said, gently. But he couldn't stop himself, and added, "For a sauce..."
This was my fifth night (in a row!) of cooking, and I was grumpy. I'd made breakfasts, I'd made lunches, and I'd certainly made dinners, all for an unappreciative audience. I was tired of measuring, cooking, and washing dishes, and I was tired of the not-helpful feedback.
"You're on your own for dinner," I told the little food critic. "Eat whatever you can make."
I knew that would make him happy; what I didn't expect was outright glee. This was what he chose:
"I'm having tuna!" he said. "And a croissant." He smacked his lips in anticipation.
He brought his meal to the table. I watched, waiting for him to stuff the croissant with tuna. Instead, he ate the two separately.
"You're not making a sandwich?" I asked.
"No, I like tuna right out of the bowl," he answered. He smiled, then he finished it off, occasionally biting into the croissant.
And there you have it. That right there is why I don't cook--because my kid loves canned fish and Costco croissants. He prefers a de-constructed tuna sandwich to anything I actually cook.
I watched him, smiling and happily enjoying his dinner, and I thought, how can I possibly compete with that?
It was cold and rainy this weekend, but apparently not enough for my friend Michelle and I. We opted for even colder, taking our boys to an exhibit with the underwhelming name "Chill."
Five-year-old Corban was super curious about what we were doing, and kept tugging on Mark's sleeve.
"Where are we going, Mark?" he asked. "What are we gonna do?"
"I don't know," Mark answered truthfully. I hadn't fully explained it to him, because honestly, I wasn't sure what it was myself. All I knew was there were ice sculptures, and maybe a slide.
Corban didn't really care--he was just excited to be out and about. He bounced past a makeshift Candy Cane lane village where we stopped to take photos of the boys. This picture cracked me up, with the giant snow man and palm trees in the background. It's truly a California Christmas pic.
We passed a giant snack bar and holiday shop, and an outdoor skating rink that looked like it was melting a bit in the momentary sun. Finally inside the dome, we crossed under a giant, colorful Ice Kingdom sign and waited patiently in line.
At the end of the line was a booth, where a lady gave us thick blue parkas that swallowed us up. I'd read the exhibition was a frosty 7 degrees, so I was grateful for the parka, even if I did look like a dorky giant Smurf in it.
Then it was time for the moment of truth. The kids pulled the door open, revealing a humongous arctic freezer and a burst of air so cold, I momentarily stopped breathing.
A frozen, colorful world stood before us--there was a green and red welcome ice sculpture in front of us and a giant (like 6 feet tall!) white snowflake to our right. We gasped and immediately started taking pictures, which, it turns out, is impossible to do with gloves on.
We moved into the next room.
"Whoa!" I yelled. Trees with clear and pink lighted leaves adorned the walls, and I ran to touch them, completely oblivious to the "Do not touch" signs. I looked around--there were massive ice sculptures everywhere. There was an ice princess to my left, and a giant, life-sized unicorn to my right (OK, a giant horse-sized sculpture--not sure how big unicorns really are). The unicorn was pulling a prince (also life-size) in a giant swan carriage. They were all made of crystal clear and colored ice blocks, and they were just gorgeous.
I couldn't get over the castle--it must be two or three stories high!
Michelle and I ran around it, squealing, touching every block in every wall of it. Corban joined in, but Mark stood to the side, more impressed by the frozen breath cloud he kept exhaling.
After we'd touched and photographed every tree and sculpture, we moved to the second room, where we screamed some more. This room featured a giant ice block replica of the Queen Mary ship. There was also a blue whale, which spit out a kid while we standing there. Turns out we'd found the little kid's whale ice slide, which Corban couldn't wait to go down.
I expected the boys sliding down together, but Corban popped out all on his own, laughing his head off. Mark followed right after, his demeanor more tweenage boredom than unmitigated glee.
Michelle and I ran up the Queen Mary to the adult ice slide. We plopped down on the ice, and raced down the two-lane slide. It was AWESOME! We slid down about 100 feet on our parkas, crashing onto a red carpet, where I was laughing so hard I could barely get up. That was the coolest thing ever.
Mark, the boy with no body fat, was miserable.
"I'm soooooo cold," he whined. "Let's leave!"
We moved on to the third room, Santa's Toyland. This room was much different; the ice was all colored, not clear, and the sculptures looked like they were molded from plastic, not ice.
I just marveled at them all. Mark barely noticed--he shot out of the room after two minutes, tired of freezing his tiny rear off.
Suddenly, I heard Michelle yell, "Corban, NO! No, no, no, no, NO!"
I turned and saw her moving him away from a block of ice level with his face. She looked mortified. I could tell from their body language what almost transpired.
"Did he lick the ice?" I asked, and she answered, "Almost!" We both imagined the tongue-frozen-to-the-pole scene in "A Christmas Story" and cracked up. I commended Michelle on her quick reflexes.
The last room was a massive Nativity scene, set on four or five different islands. The ice people and animals were clear, which lent a very classic, simple touch to the scenes. I wandered around slowly, even though my feet were seriously cold now, until I noticed Michelle and the boys were gone. They couldn't take the cold one second longer.
I left, too, and was hit by a blast of warm air at the exit. It felt like a big, warm hug--seriously the best feeling ever! Michelle and the boys were dancing around, trying to warm up.
"I can't feel my feet!" Mark yelled, and Corban shouted back, "Me neither!"
My glasses didn't adjust quite as quickly to the temperature change.
It took a steaming cup of cocoa to finally warm me up inside, but I eventually did come back to room temperature.
Mark, however, did not. Corban ran off to go tubing down an ice hill, but Mark stayed back. He'd had quite enough of the cold, thankyouverymuch.
I loved our "Chill" day out. It was cold, to be sure, but hey, how often do you get to walk through a frozen castle or race down an ice slide (in Southern California)? That was about as cold a winter as we get here, and I enjoyed all 30 minutes of it.
