13

On Sunday, Mark hit a major milestone...He celebrated his 13th birthday. That's right, he's officially a teenager. (In related news, I'm officially the mom of a teenager--OHMYGOD!!!!! How did that happen??)

Some friends wished Mark a happy birthday, but even more people offered me condolences. You've got a teenager now was the common theme. Brace yourself.

To those people, I say, HA! Anyone who knows Mark knows he's had a snotty teen attitude since he was five. I'm not going to tempt fate by saying, "How much worse could he get?" Instead, I'll just say that my dear son has spent the last eight years lovingly preparing me for his teenage years. (Translation: He's always had an attitude, now he just has an excuse for it.)

But I digress. It was Mark's birthday, and we started the celebration as we always do--with donuts. He scarfed down three before I could even wish him happy birthday.

Mark's kid party is next week--laser tag and pizza with his friends. So this week, we held his family celebration. We invited our family and extended family over for lunch.

It was a perfect day to celebrate outside--sunny and gorgeous. We feasted on deli sandwiches and laughed a lot. Mark chatted a bit during the meal, but was more interested in sending objects flying across the backyard--footballs, basketballs and soccer balls--with his friend Sean and our little friend Corban. Lunch was good, although you had to keep one eye on the lawn to avoid getting hit in the head.

After lunch, we busted out the birthday (cheese)cake, which Mark had requested. Turns out inserting birthday candles into cheesecake results in a cracked cake, but the surface stayed intact long enough for Mark to blow out all his candles. Didn't matter much anyway--we just filled in the cracks with raspberry sauce. (Poor Corban was a bit distressed by all the smoke!)

I bought Mark a funny hat to wear, but forgot to give it to him. I remembered exactly one minute after all the photos were taken.

"Your hat!" I yelled, racing into the house for it.

"Oh yeah," my mom answered. "Go get his dunce cap!"

I reminded her it's a "birthday hat," not a "dunce cap." But it's nice to know I won't be the sole reason he goes into therapy as an adult.

Mark cleaned all the candles off for us, which I appreciated. Then he gave his best "smoking birthday boy" pose, which I didn't appreciate as much.

Then it was the boys' favorite part--time to rip into the gifts. Mark got a lot of cash and gift cards (score!), a cool blue sweatshirt, a Dodger's iTouch case and some Silly Putty. I gave him new skinny jeans, and then we listened to Uncle Brad rant for 20 minutes about how boys should not wear skinny jeans. (It was funny to watch the whole party ignore him!) Mark tried them on, and I was stoked--if it wasn't for skinny jeans, my skinny son would never have pants that fit him!

The boys went back to tossing things around the yard, and the adults slowly said their goodbyes. I wasn't sorry to say goodbye, though, because the party never ended. Instead, it slowly morphed into an Oscars party. That's right, we did as good party goers do--we pulled the leftovers out of the fridge, and started round 2. We watched the red carpet arrivals and the bad speeches, and feasted on a second round of sandwiches, dips and cheesecake.

So, happy birthday, Mark. Thirteen freaked me out a little bit, because of the teenage thing (OK, more because of the being-a-mom-of-a-teenager thing). But I handled it okay, right up until Mark blew out the candles, and my friend John said, "Wow, 13...only three more years till he's driving!" And then I had a bit of a panic attack...

But I survived. Let's just hope I can still say that at the end of Mark's teenage years...

Yeah, seriously Mark, naked people??

Mark's history teacher uses an online forum for questions and answers. The rules are simple: once a week, you must post one question and observation, and you must respond to someone else's post. You have to be positive and respectful, and you must cite your research sources.

Mark left his page up yesterday, and I couldn't help myself. I read through the questions and comments, and overall, I was very impressed by the students' tones. They were very supportive of each other.

Here was Mark's post:

I couldn't stop cracking up after reading this, for a number of reasons.

First of all, I have a refrigerator magnet of the David sculpture. Mark has pointed out numerous times that David is, in fact, buck naked, and did I ever notice that??? Every time he asks me that, the David magnet mysteriously moves to the bottom of the fridge, where apparently it won't offend anyone else's sensitive natures (except maybe the cats).

So it's funny to see Mark suddenly declare David one of the greatest sculptures of all time. (For the record, he's right--I've seen David in person, and it is one of the greatest sculptures ever.)

The second funny part was Daniel's response--to Moises. I give Daniel extra credit for his encouraging words...to Moises. (A+ on subject material reading comprehension, C- for the details, Daniel.)

Third funny part--Parker's response.

Mark, seriously, naked people?

I can't decide whether Parker's in disbelief that a) Michelangelo carved naked people, or b) Mark pointed this out on the public class forum. Either way, it's funny. Especially because, as my mom pointed out, Mark is a little prude, and easily embarrassed by any sort of immodesty. So it's even funnier that he actually pointed this out in front of the whole (virtual) class.

I always felt sorry for teachers for having to grade all that homework. But now...heck, I'm kinda jealous!

This is why I hate diabetes...

Mark and I had a super fun Sunday planned yesterday. We were going to see The Life of Pi in the morning, then go for a long bike ride in the afternoon. In between the ride and a Boy Scout meeting, I was going to make Mark a rib dinner using my Mom's recipe (his favorite). It was going to be an awesome day...until diabetes got involved.

Poor Mark woke up with a super high blood sugar--520! Ack! (He should be 70-120.) He also had ketones, which are bad. He told me all this at 7:45 while I was sleeping, then quietly left my room and whispered, "Don't worry, I already corrected."

When I REALLY woke up an hour later, I made him check again. His blood sugar had skyrocketed even more--now, the meter just read HI. He had large blood ketones, and I started to panic. I always tell Mark that low blood sugars are a more immediate danger than highs, unless you've been high for a while and you have ketones--that leads to diabetic ketoacidosis, where your body is basically poisoning itself with acid. That's when you end up in the hospital. 

And that's what was currently going on with Mark's body.

Now I was wide awake. I got the supplies ready to change Mark's insulin pump set, and we found out why he was so high when the already-loosened old set fell off into Mark's hand.

I put on a the new set, gave Mark a whole lotta insulin and a giant cup of water (to help dilute the ketones), and sat back. The next few hours were gonna get ugly.

Mark re-tested 30 minutes later. He was 542. Still dangerously high, but at least he was coming down.

At 10 a.m., he drank a breakfast shake. He said he felt fine, but I refilled his cup with water, and placed a bucket next to him just in case.

At 11 a.m, he re-tested. 482--still high, but coming down. I felt a little better.

At 11:30, Mark threw up. This was my worst fear, what I'd been dreading--it meant the ketones were winning.

I cleaned Mark up and called for reinforcements--the doctors at the children's hospital. (They always say to call in if the kid throws up even once.)

The doctor explained all the things I did wrong (which I knew, because as soon as I said them out loud, I realized what I SHOULD have done--correct the first high with a syringe, check the set immediately). I kicked myself for being lame, for being human, and I agreed with the doctor--yes, I should set an alarm and wake myself up again at night when he's high, yes, I should be more vigilant, yes, I should...blah blah blah. By the time I hung up, I was kinda mad. I'm doing the best I can here, and this was a fluke. This is not how we typically manage diabetes in our house--what I really wanted to know from the doctor was whether or not to take Mark to the ER.

The doc said to take Mark in if he throws up 2 or 3 more times. 

"I'm taking him in the next time he throws up," I told her and she agreed that was fine. She told me to keep the food light--soup only for now. I hurried off the phone to check on my pale little kid.

He felt a lot better, and when he checked his blood ketones, I knew why--they were all gone. But I didn't trust the meter, and made him re-check. Still gone. Mark's blood sugar was down to 327, and it was the only time I've actually been glad to see a number in the 300s. I breathed a huge sigh, and felt like we might actually beat this.

I half-corrected Mark, as the doctor suggested, so all that rage bolusing I'd done early didn't catch up and actually send him low. And then finally, around 2, he felt well enough to eat something. 

I fed him a bowl of chicken soup.

"Is this canned soup or homemade?" he asked, suspiciously. He was finally acting like himself again.

"Canned," I said, and he looked at me, disbelieving. 

"You won't eat it if I say homemade," I said, and he just shrugged and slurped up the rest of his soup. But as the afternoon wore on, he gradually returned to normal Mark, and eventually, most (but not all) of my worry dissipated.

And now here it is, a day later. I can look back with hindsight at all the things I should have done, but it doesn't really help. What helps now is knowing we overcame it, and that not everything was wasted--Mark got to spend most of the day on his bean bag chair in front of the T.V., which he loved. And he got a bonus day off school for Lincoln's birthday, so he didn't lose his whole weekend.

But I'm not as forgiving. Fine, diabetes, you won this round. I may have slipped up this weekend, but I won't next time. I'm gonna keep on you, and I'm not gonna let up. You may have ruined this Sunday, but that's all I'm giving you. That's all you get. 

Until next time....

The Tooth Fairy lets us down again

About a month ago, Mark lost his tooth. And then, somewhere out in the garage, he lost it again.

"I lost my tooth," he screeched.

"I know," I said. "You showed me."

"No," he said, more urgently. "I lost it. The bag it was in--I can't find it."

I just sighed. I knew it would turn up eventually, and yesterday, it finally did.

"I'm putting it under my pillow tonight," Mark told me.

"OK," I said.

He cleared his throat, then made sure I gave him eye contact. 

"I said, I'M PUTTING MY TOOTH UNDER MY PILLOW TONIGHT," he repeated. "So the Tooth Fairy knows." 

And then I sighed again. Man, the kid can't remember to pick his clothes up off the floor, but he remembers the ONE TIME the Tooth Fairy forgot to switch out his tooth for cash. For a week. (C'mon, maybe the Tooth Fairy was busy at work, trying to feed and clothe the little ingrate!)

Either way, that "incident" triggered a new policy wherein Mark has to tell me whenever he hides a tooth under his pillow. That way, I can summon the Tooth Fairy, so she won't forget him.

Which was exactly what he was doing now--notifying me. 

But Mark is no dummy. He paused, then asked me, "Um...does the Tooth Fairy have any money on her tonight?"

"How should I know?" I shrugged. Seriously, the kid's almost 13--he knows the deal, but he's not willing to let up on traditions that involve monetary rewards, no matter how unbelievable they are.

So I hugged him and tucked him in, and made a mental note to remind the Tooth Fairy to stop by tonight. I repeated the mental note approximately 573 times, and then promptly  fell asleep on the couch.

This morning, Mark reported that once again, the Tooth Fairy had slighted him.

"She didn't come," he said sadly from his room. "Again..."

Dammit! I thought. How many times is this gonna happen?? And how many more baby teeth does that dang kid have left??

"Are you sure?" I asked, stalling.

"She forgot," he said. I could hear the unspoken judgment in his tone.

I used my go-to Mom defense. "Did you feed the cats yet?" I asked, and when he shook his head, I got angry and said, "Well, what are you waiting for? GO!"

"OK, OK," he muttered. "Geez..."

And the moment he walked away, I hurried into the office, scrambling for whatever cash I could find to make up for that slacker Fairy. Luckily, there was an errant $5 bill stashed away, so I grabbed it. It was 2 1/2 times what the Tooth Fairy usually pays for a tooth, but this wasn't the time to quibble over prices.

I slipped in and out of Mark's room, then called out once again, "Are you SURE she didn't come? Last time you forgot to check."

I watched him walk into his room. He called out, "I didn't forget to ch--hey, she DID come!" He came out of the room waving the five bucks.

And so the day was saved. A little late, perhaps, and cutting it close, but saved none the less. 

I just hope he loses the rest of those dang baby teeth very soon. Because the Tooth Fairy is old and forgetful, and obviously needs to retire.

He's expanding his territory

Mark is like a Tasmanian devil--he whirls through the house in a tornado, stuff flying all over the place in his wake. He walks across my clean living room, and by the time he gets to the other side, there are glasses (for seeing and for drinking), text books, snack wrappers, yo-yos, pillows, clothes, shoes, and cat toys strewn about. It drives me insane.

The kitchen's even worse--he takes out every dish we own, every bit of food from the fridge, cooks himself up a big ol' mess, and then retires to the living room to eat it. It's never occurred to him to return to the kitchen and wash any of those dishes, or put away any of that food.
 
Most of the time, I trail behind, pointing out the messes he leaves in each room, and telling him to pick them up. On my tired days, when I'm not up to arguing, I just put the stuff away myself.

Tiring as all this is, at least I have one single sanctuary to myself--my car. I spend almost as much time in there as I do in my home, so I keep it clean. But lately, Mark's been staking his claim there as well.

Usually it's just a couple things--a backpack, or a snack to eat later. But sometimes, it's more, and it's kind of embarrassing to explain all that stuff when I go to lunch with my friends. 

For example, this is what I pulled out of my car today:

That's right, a pair of shoes, but only one sock. A partial board from a tae kwan do demonstration. A water bottle, a comb, and a balloon. A granola bar. A metal camping bowl (or is it a cup?). And a joker card (which seems appropriate on many different levels). 

Seriously. Is there any doubt at all that I have a 12-year-old boy riding in my car? The good news is that it all makes a decent mobile earthquake kit--I have comfy shoes to walk in, a snack, some water, and a comb so I look good.

I was really annoyed when I emptied out the car. But then, unexpectedly, I had a pang of sadness, a moment of melancholy. I realized that in a few short years (five!), this stuff won't be here, because my kid won't be here. He'll be off to college somewhere, filling his own car with the same old mess--text books, snacks and water bottles, all upgraded to grown-man size.

And suddenly, the Boy Scout cup/bowl and the other stuff didn't irritate me anymore. They're markers, proof of his age, just like the Legos that used to live in the bathtub when Mark was 6. And someday soon, just like the Legos, all this stuff will disappear, and I'll actually miss this mess, and the little boy who made it. 

Sigh...I'm off to hug my little rugrat before he grows any more.

Batter up! Wait, no...

Mark's been on numerous sports teams over the years. He's played basketball, soccer, baseball, and even track. As a mom, I've spent numerous hours shivering in the cold night air, hungry, trying to read in the dark, watching Mark play basketball, soccer, baseball and track.

It's not my favorite thing to do, and truth be told, the long practices during dinner time make me grumpy. But Mark loves it. So I suck it up, spend lots of money on equipment he outgrows after one season and drive him everywhere he needs to be.

This winter, he wanted to run track, so I didn't sign him up for any other sports. I signed him up for flag football in the spring instead, and of course, that's when I found out track is now a spring sport, too. For a few minutes, I actually hoped (for my sake) Mark WOULDN'T make the track team, but of course he did (and I was glad, for his sake). So now he's running track after school and playing flag football at the same time. (And somehow doing his homework in between all that.)

I was just thankful it couldn't get any busier--until Mark came home and told me, "Oh, school soccer team tryouts are next week."

That's when I almost started crying. 

But I'm trying to take it a day at a time. Monday was the first night of football, and Mark was so excited. But he was excited in that middle-schooler boy way, where it comes off more as indifference than actual excitement.

"First day of practice!" I said, as we drove to the field. "This will be fun!"

"Uh...sure," Mark said, shrugging.

That was the last time he acknowledged me that night. As soon as we got on the field, he ran away. I watched the other kids appear, grab their belts and flags, and run off. 

I signaled to Mark to come get his flags, but he just looked the other way. I waited patiently until he came to my side of the field, and pointed toward the bag with the belts in it, but he waved me off.

"Not now, Mom," he said, through gritted teeth.

So I shrugged and went back to my book. A few minutes later, the game stopped because Mark had to go get his flags.

Next up was running and catching. I watched Mark fumble a few balls, and reminded him to cradle the ball, like I show him when we practice together. He didn't even bother to answer, just stared straight ahead, no doubt wishing me to the cornfield.

I gave up and starting talking to one of the other moms. We laughed and joked during the whole practice.

"Mark's wishing I would just go away and stop talking to him," I told her.

She just laughed. "Yeah, because none of the other kids have moms here, either," she said sarcastically, nodding at all the nearby moms. "And those moms aren't telling them the same things."

I knew we were going to get along just fine.

She looked at her watch and wondered when Coach was going to end practice.

"Doesn't he notice we're the only ones left out here?" she said. She was right--I glanced around. All the other teams were gone.

We got our answer a few minutes later. At precisely 8 p.m., all the lights surrounding the field shut off. Apparently, practice was over.

"He can keep his flags," the other mom told me, nodding at Mark's belt. "Take them home and cut the belt down until it fits him. Then, burn the edges where you cut it, so it doesn't unravel."

"Thanks!" I answered. She'd given me all sorts of helpful advice already.

Mark ran over to the team bag and dumped his belt and flags in it.

"Bring them back," I told him. "They go home with you."

"No, they don't," he said. Before I could open my mouth again, he growled, "It's fine, Mom. I don't need them."

Ah, the joys of a mouthy tweener. I gave up, but the boy next to him didn't.

"Take 'em home, dude," he said. "Cut them down to size, then burn the edges. You keep 'em all season."

Mark stomped over to get his flags, grudgingly.

"Good practice," the coach told the boys. "Same time next week...We'll practice until--" he glanced around the dark field. "--until 7:50, I guess."

And so Mark finished his first football practice. He was tired and hungry, but happy. I was happy, too, but for a completely different reason--it was warm inside my car. I reminded myself to bring gloves to the next practice, and to spend less time trying to talk to my ungrateful young son.

It may be a loooooong season...
 

Warning: Imminent scars ahead

As I noted in an earlier post, Mark recently started shaving (unbeknownst to me). I only found out when he admitted he'd used MY razor.

"I need my own shaver," Mark whined. His peach fuzz was barely visible, but his pride was puffed up and easy to see. This wasn't just about shaving, this was about becoming a man.

I sighed. I couldn't say no without hurting his feelings or stifling his manliness. And so I agreed, but with one condition.

"Uncle Brad will teach you how to shave," I told him. I thought he'd like that (male bonding time! No worrywart moms telling him what to do!), but he waved me off, insisting he already knows how.

I wasn't all that worried about it until I actually went shopping. Five minutes in the razor aisle convinced me that the shaving industry is gunning for Mark's jugular, intent on shredding up my son's sweet little baby face.

The razors weren't just singular blades. Sure, there were some cheapy disposable blades, but I knew Mark would refuse them. He doesn't want plastic blades, he wants a REAL razor, a man's razor.

However...the men of America are apparently all Grizzly Adams types, with thick, coarse beards that will choke a singular blade. These were some of my choices:

Seriously, MACH 3?? TURBO? I had many problems with this, the main ones being THREE blades seem like overkill for a little peach fuzz, and the fact that we're at Mach 3 right out of the starting gate. You wouldn't give a kid a Ferrari the first time he ever drove a car--where's the razor blade equivalent of a nice, safe sedan?? I don't want Mach 3, I want speed bumps (slow down!) and safety bumpers.

The second blade wasn't much better.

Just like that, we're at five blades. FIVE BLADES. America, what is wrong with you? We can't balance the national budget, but we (and by we, I mean MEN) can grow facial hair thick enough to warrant a five-blade attack? Why not machetes? I think I cut myself through the packaging. 

I was beginning to despair. I like my kid's face! I'd like him to keep it intact for maybe a few more years. I'm not looking for a visit to the ER or the blood bank. I don't want him to disfigure himself or earn a "Scarface" nickname. I just want to gently walk my son across the next threshold toward manhood, with his self-esteem and facial skin intact.
 
I finally gave up and purchased a twin-blade razor I thought looked safe enough. But I still wasn't convinced. I called my friend Kelley to lament, and she stopped me with, "Why don't you just get him an electric shaver?"

YES! Genius Kelley. Not only would it eliminate facial grating, Mark would love it because it's an electric gadget (and I wouldn't have to buy expensive replacement blades once a week as Mark tore through them). Kelley for the win!

I searched around online and found an inexpensive shaver that came highly recommended for teens with thin hair. (Sorry, Grizzly Adams.) It's compact, washable, and has a safety cover so you can't even see any razor blades. I let out a huge sigh of relief--Scarface has left the building!

It may not seem like a banner day at my house, but today will forever be known as the Day I Saved Mark's Face.

That's why it's LOST

Mark needed a stencil set to complete his history project, and went into a full-fledged panic when he couldn't find it.

"Go look in your cubbies," I said, pointing to his bedroom. "It's probably in there."

"No, it's not," he cried. "It's LOST!"

"I know," I said patiently. "That's why you should look for it. It isn't gonna show up on its own."

"But...it's lost," he repeated, like I'm an idiot.

"I...KNOW!" I said. "If you want to find it, you have to look for it!" 

Somehow, the conversation stalled. It was like we were speaking different languages-- Mark just stared at me, wondering why we were still talking about this when clearly, the stencil was lost, never to reappear again, and I just stared at Mark, thinking, "Why aren't you looking for it?"

I realized this wasn't an isolated incident. Mark doesn't listen to me, let alone do anything I ask him to do. He proved as much last night, when he spilled spaghetti sauce all over his P.E. shorts. 

"They're fine," he said, wiping the sauce off with his hands (which he then smeared on his shirt). "Nobody washes their P.E. clothes anyway." 

And suddenly, I was grateful I don't teach P.E. to a bunch of stinky middle schoolers.

Further proof came this morning, when I asked Mark if he'd packed clean P.E. shorts in his backpack.

"Yes," he called back, in the tone he always uses to appease me.

"They're in the clean clothes basket in the garage," I reminded him.

"I already got them," he said.

"Good job," I called back. Pause. "You know I'm going to check, right?"

"I know," he answered. Pause. Then I heard the feet scurrying down the hall, and the garage door swinging open. A moment later, it slammed shut again, and he called out, "I found them!" He sounded very pleased with himself.

Of course you did, I thought to myself. Because I told you exactly where to find them! 

But I held my tongue. I'd spent all this time telling Mark where his stuff was, and I didn't need to--in the end, he took care of it. He drew pictures without the stencils, and he had clean clothes for P.E. He survived. I didn't need to put so much energy into all the yelling. 

I realized victory is not always saying I told you so--sometimes, it's just a means to an end, getting positive results for whatever task I asked the kid to do. And if that means shutting my mouth and letting him take credit for the final results, so be it. The mission was accomplished either way.

And then I realized something else.

I spent all this time yelling to get my point across, and my lesson totally backfired on me! 

Dang it...I hate it when that happens.