Not-so-open house

Last week was open house at Mark's school. Not only did I get to visit his classrooms, but the evening started off with a jazz band performance.

Mark rocked it during his songs. He's come a long way on the drums, although he still has some work to do in the rock star facial expressions department. On the other hand, he's definitely mastered the bored teenager empty stare.

The jazz band sounded great. The music teacher, Mrs. Saum, is fantastic, both with the kids and with teaching music. I feel so lucky Mark's school has such a great music program.

After the mini concert, it was on to the classrooms.

"Stay with me," I warned Mark, who frequently ignores me and pretends I'm invisible. "Don't walk five steps ahead or behind me. And I don't have ESP, so show me where your classes are."

Mark sighed, looked off in the other direction, and dragged his feet alongside me.

"Don't worry," I whispered. "All the other kids have parents, too--you're not the only one."

This time, he didn't even bother to respond.

We arrived at the first class, health. Mark tried herding me past the teacher (who also teaches P.E.), but I stopped right in front of her and introduced myself. She was sweet, friendly, and encouraged Mark to show me what they'd been learning about.

"Yeah, Mark, show me what you've learned," I said, really loudly. I know they've been studying sex ed (or whatever they call it these days), and I knew Mark wouldn't go anywhere near the board displaying their work.

"Come on, Mom," he growled. He grabbed my elbow and dragged me around the room as fast as he possibly could.

"Happy?" he grunted, pushing me out the door.

"Nice to meet you!" I called back to the teacher.

Next up was Language Arts (we used to call it "English"). A gaggle of girls was gathered around the doorway, and they perked up when they saw Mark.

"Hey Mark, why don't you buy a 'Dimensions'?" they asked, waving the school creative writing magazine in front of him.

"Yeah, Mark, why don't you buy one?" I repeated.

The girls jumped all over that.

"Listen to your mom, Mark!" they cried. "Your mom's right, Mark!" "Your mom's so nice, Mark!"

Mark buried his head in his hands. I realized now why he tries to ignore me. Little snit. So I spent a good five minutes talking to the creative writing/photography students--heck, these were my people!

The English teacher had many accolades for Mark, proclaiming him a deep thinker, with very wise, mature thoughts. That was wonderful to hear--I totally agree. When Mark and I aren't having immature contests or irritating each other, we actually do have very thoughtful conversations.

Every inch of the English room was covered up--there were even things hanging from the ceiling. I reached into the box containing the student folders, and Mark immediately tried to block me.

"Mine's not in there," he said, covering the folders with his hand to prevent me from searching. The box was full, overstuffed even, and not in alphabetical (or any other) order. I just shrugged; he's got a B in the class, so I wasn't that concerned. Besides, the claustrophobic room was closing in on me and I wanted out.

It was on to math next. This class was the exact opposite of English--the walls were covered, but in a very neat, orderly fashion, with white space in between. Everything was perfectly lined up, straight, and nothing fell from the ceiling.

Mark beelined for the box of student folders, but I beat him. These folders were also in perfect order, and I found his right away. I grimaced at the results of the last few tests, and spoke a few minutes with the teacher.

Last up was the yearbook and history teacher. Mark's doing well in both of those classes, so I heard good news there, too.

We wound our way through the campus, stopping for a quick peek at the 7th graders' new garden. It was gorgeous, and made me hungry (it was dinner time). 

 

I congratulated Mark on all the outstanding comments his teachers shared, though he was still busy moping about his math grade.

"Listen, I'm not worried about math," I said. "You'll get it together, or we'll get a tutor. That's just academic--I can teach you that."

Mark looked at me warily.

"Well, someone's who good at math can teach you," I clarified. "But all the other stuff--what a nice kid you are, what a caring kid, what a deep thinker...those aren't just learned responses or something you study hard and memorize. Those go deeper than academics--they tell me what kind of person you are. And I'd rather have that kind of kid than a straight A student any day."

He shrugged. I sighed. I wanted to hug him, but knew that was a mortal sin in a middle school--some other kid might see it.

"Whatever," I said, walking off. "I'm proud of you, and proud of the boy you are, and you can't change my mind."

Mark shrugged again and followed me silently.

"Now let's go," I said, glancing back at the growing salad. "I'm hungry!"

And finally, Mark did something completely contrary to his middle school nature.

He smiled. And agreed with me.

Maybe there's still hope after all...

They are Badd

The older Mark gets, the harder it is to discipline him. Time outs aren't as effective as when he was a little guy, and he still doesn't care if I take stuff away from him.

So I have to be much more creative. He doesn't care about things, but he loooooves music.

One day, as I was driving, I noticed him squirming in the back seat and asked what was wrong.

"Please change the station!" he yelled, as though he couldn't hold it in one more second.

I looked at the dial--NPR radio. Apparently, Mark is not a fan.

But NPR isn't on all the time, and regular public radio didn't seem to faze Mark, so I could only torture him with it during the early evening. Plus, Mark finally grew big enough to move up to the front seat, where he could control the radio himself. There are no more plaintive cries of "Change it!!!" Now, he just tears through the playlist himself. 

And then...I got satellite radio.

I love it. Now, not only can I punish Mark with annoying music, I can really tailor it to his mood. When he's only mildly obnoxious, I put on Radio Margaritaville. (He is not a Parrot Head.) When he's a little more snotty, I put on the Broadway Standards station. And when he's REALLY mouthy, I hit him with the hardest thing I've got--Oprah Winfrey's OWN radio station. Boy, does he ever hate that one!

I have so much fun annoying Mark with the radio that now I do it when he's not being naughty. I can almost drive Mark to tears by blasting Norah Jones, and he hates pretty much anything they play on the 80s station.

"Oh, yeah!" I cheered yesterday, when a cheesy 80s song came on. 

"What is this?" Mark scoffed.

"Color Me Badd," I schooled him. "They were bad. All the guys in the band were wanna-bes. There was a George Michael look-alike, a Kenny G lookalike, an Arsenio Hall look-alike, and some weirdo Vanilla Ice wannabe who danced around in overalls with no shirt."

"I don't even know who any of those people are," Mark said. He reached forward to change the song, and I slapped his hand away.

"I did it all for loooooove!" I sang.

Mark clapped his hands over his ears.

"Let me change it!" he cried.

"No," I answered. "I had to listen to these bad songs growing up, so you do, too." 

He grew desperate. "No, I don't have to listen to it," he begged. "You don't, either. Nobody has to listen--we can change the station!"

I stopped singing for a moment--he was right, we didn't have to listen to it. But I saw the desperation, the pleading in his eyes, and I shook my head.

"It's not that bad," I said, and resumed my singing.

"Yes," Mark answered, plugging his ears. "It is that bad."

And he was right. It was bad. But boy, did that kid behave well the rest of the day. All I had to do was rattle my car keys, and he stepped up to help me.

It was awesome.

Pro at life

I never worry that Mark will have low esteem as an adult. This is partially because I try to feed his self esteem by being a loving and encouraging mom, but mostly because he seems to have plenty of it all on his own. 

Yes, the kid is confident. No, he's not afraid to show it.

He proved this once again during dinner last night.

"You finished your homework?" I asked.

"Of course," he answered. "In ten minutes. Because I'm a pro at life."

"You're a...what?"

"Pro at life."

I stared at him. "You know life loves a challenge like that, right? To say you're a pro at life...it's kind of like challenging life to beat you down."

"Nope," he answered. "I've mastered life. I know everything there is--I can do anything in life, and I'm good at it."

"Well, okay, then," I answered. "Empty the dishwasher."

"Already did," he said, then smiled and added, "Pro at life."

"Is the table cleared?" I asked.

"Yep," he said. "Pr--"

"Don't say it," I interrupted. "I know, I know."

"The kitchen is clean!" Mark declared, pointing toward the counters with a flourish. But we apparently have two different ideas of clean, because the counters were still laden with his messes.

I pointed this out, and Mark grumbled.

"You make me do all the work," he groused.

"That's why I got a kid," I said, vocalizing his belief on why people procreate. "So you can do all the chores I don't want to."

"I know, right!" he said, nodding in agreement. 

I looked at him and said, "Do you honestly believe that? That I only got you because I wanted a slave?"

He didn't answer, just raised his eyes as if to say, "Well, DUH."

"You create ten times more work for me, and you do maybe three percent of the work around the house," I said. "You're the worst slave ever."

But Mark wasn't offended. He merely smiled at me, and with a twinkle in his eye, he answered, "Pro at life."

And then I lost it, laughing really loudly. It's true--he really is a pro at life. He's the one kicking back while I do all the other chores--maybe I need to stop working so hard and take a few lessons from him instead.

But as of now...I'm declaring myself to be a semi-pro. Because the official "Pro at Life" title is already taken at our house.

That's not the REAL Easter Bunny

Last weekend, Mark and I were strolling through the mall when we saw a giant Easter Bunny.

He had his own little hut and a personal photographer. Little kids were lined up to sit on his lap and take a picture with him.

"Come on, Mark, let's take your picture!" I said. I didn't think he'd go for it (he's 13 and too cool for that now), but his reason surprised me.

"No," Mark said. "I don't want my picture with him. Bunnies don't wear glasses!"

That stopped me in my tracks. "What?" I asked.

"Look at him," Mark said, pointing to the giant bunny. "When have you ever seen a rabbit wearing glasses? That's right...NEVER!"

I was silent. Finally, after a little thought, I said, "Glasses, huh? So you're on board with the story of a giant bunny hopping across the country delivering candy to little kids? And you're okay with the same bunny hiding colored chicken eggs in the backyard? But the part of the story you don't believe is...the glasses?"

"Yup," Mark said, confidently walking away.

And so I followed. I never did get his photo with the big bunny, but it wasn't because Mark no longer believes in him.

He only believes in an Easter Bunny with perfect vision.

Attitudes of gratitude

Work has been really stressful lately, which is usually Mark's cue to kick up at home. Most kids would get out of the way of an insane yelling, screaming mother tearing her hair out, but then again, Mark's not most kids.

Instead of laying low, he pushes my buttons. He debates every word that comes out of my mouth, even the ones like, "Go. TO. BED. NOW!!!!!" He takes that phrase literally, assuming that since I never said to get OUT of bed the following morning, he should just stay there.

"I can't just wake up in one minute!" he yells, when I literally pull him out of bed. He makes this statement after 45 minutes of his clock radio playing music, 35 minutes of me telling him to get up, 15 minutes of the cat nagging him for breakfast, and 27 minutes of him saying, "I'm up," and me arguing that, "Eyes open is not up. Out of bed, dressed and fed is UP."

"Funny," I answer, recalling his 6:45 wake up over the weekend. "You didn't have any trouble Saturday morning!"

I've tried everything, including a squirt bottle, a hyperactive giant kitten, and an obnoxious, pounding alarm clock. I've let him sleep in and miss class, figuring that might put the fear of God (or his music teacher) in him, but he completely missed the point, and thanked me for letting him sleep in (subtlety is not his strong suit).

I no longer care if he gets out of bed on time; I'm actually more concerned that I'm going to stroke out from all the stress.

Yesterday, while Mark was at football practice, I tried walking it off. I'd read somewhere that the happiest people are the ones who practice gratitude. So as I walked the first lap, I thought of all the things I'm grateful for in my life.

I am grateful I don't have more kids.

I am grateful I didn't strangle Mark today.

I am grateful that Mark is a football field away from me.

I am grateful to have a job. (That was as positive as I could be about work.)

I want wine.

That's not gratitude, I reprimanded myself.

OK, I answered. I am grateful for wine. I should have brought some with me on this walk. By the second lap, I'd unclenched my teeth and fists.

I am grateful I'm not at work right now.

I'm grateful for Daylight Savings time.

I'm grateful for beer. I should've brought a beer with me.

Try again, I told myself.

By the third lap, I'd stopped hyperventilating.

I'm grateful for my wonderful family.

I'm grateful for book club.

I'm grateful we drink wine at book club.

There was a definite theme to my gratitude, but I didn't care. As I rounded the fourth lap, I realized the constant dizziness and nausea I've been feeling all week was dissipating. I was grateful for that.

I'd only planned to walk four laps, but it took me six before I started feeling human again. By the time I finished walking, I could actually breathe calmly, appreciate the setting sun, and laugh with one of the other football moms. I was almost back to myself.

On the way home, I flipped the radio to a new station I'd found that plays all acoustic music. It's awesome.

"Do you listen to this station on the drive home from work?" Mark asked.

"No," I said. "I just found it. Why?"

"Well, maybe you should," he said. "Maybe it will make you calm."

"You know what would make me calm?" I asked. "Having a kid that does what I ask! THAT would go a long to making me calm." Suddenly, I could feel my face burning bright red again.

"I shouldn't have said anything," Mark mumbled. Then he made his best decision all week and shut up.

I exhaled, and started all over.

I am grateful for wine, I thought.

I am grateful for beer.

I am grateful that I have 12 beers at home, but only one kid...

Sigh...I see a lot more laps in my future.

He's a little unclear on the concept

Mark was very excited to play sports this spring. I asked which one to sign him up for.

He mulled it over for a moment, then said decisively, "Flag football."

"Not soccer?" I asked. I was surprised--he'd been talking about soccer a lot lately, and watching all the international games on TV.

"Nope," he answered. "Football."

So football it was.

The first practice was a little tough. The coach spent most of it yelling at Mark, who ran around the field confused, always three steps behind where he should be. 

"He even yelled at me when I did things right," Mark said. 

Mark's a negotiator--when you tell him to turn left, he wants to discuss why it's better to turn right. It surprised nobody but Mark that coaches don't take well to that.

"You have to do what he says," I told Mark. "He's been coaching a lot longer than you've been playing. He knows what he's doing--just listen to him."

Mark responded, "Hmph."

After a few more practices, he seemed to get a little better.

"You like football now?" I asked and Mark nodded.

"But I still like soccer better," he clarified. 

I sighed. Somehow I knew the answer would be reversed if I'd asked him on a soccer field instead.

At the first game, Mark's enthusiasm went up again. Coach was passing out jerseys, and Mark grabbed at this jersey, beating out two other Adult Small size kids.

"Yes!" he shouted triumphantly. "I got number 10!" 

I remembered my brother Tim talking about jersey numbers when he played football, and how he always picked his favorite players' numbers.

"Cool!" I said. "Who wears number 10?" 

"My favorite player," Mark smiled. "Rooney."

I sighed. "Isn't Rooney a soccer player?" 

"Yup," Mark said. "Manchester United RULES!" He put his jersey on, smoothed it out, and ran off, whooping.

So the good news is, he's a little more excited to play football now. 

The bad news is, it's the wrong kind of football. 

Mark's fuzzy brother

Last summer, we adopted the tiniest, most adorable kitten. He was so little, he actually fit in my hand. 

Well, times have changed and our little baby's morphed into a giant cat. I call him Baby Huey, because he's roughly the size of a small dog, but still acts like a baby. (Which, technically, he is--he's a seven-month-old baby trapped in an NFL player-size body.) 

He's still awfully cute, though. He's very playful, and turns everything into a toy to bat across the room--even inappropriate things, like Mark's diabetes supplies.

He's also got good manners, most of the time. 

OK, who am I kidding? He has terrible manners, and will jump right onto the table to steal your food or the straw from your drink (his new favorite toy).

He's also independent--like most babies his age, he's learning to feed himself.

OK, the truth is, our giant Fernando has grown into a freakishly large, mischievous cat. He's naughty, fearless and literally takes your breath away when you're relaxing on the couch and he hurls himself onto your belly. But in just a few short months, he's become an indispensible part of our family, and we love him anyway.

Well, most of us do...

 

Some of us (names and breeds to remain anonymous) still think he's a hyperactive little pest.

Yay...?

We received a brochure for diabetes summer camp in the mail the other day. I'd already signed Mark up, so I just tossed the brochure aside.

But Mark found it, and brought it to me, all excited.

"Mom, I'm on the cover!" he said, pointing at one of the many faces.

"That's awesome!" I said. "Let me see."

Mark tapped the bottom corner, and sure enough there he was!

Unfortunately, as soon as I saw him, my smile and excitement disappeared. Because yes, there was Mark, in bold, bright colors, for everyone to see. There, amidst all the other happy, smiling faces, was Mark--giving his patented goofball face.

Sigh...so, the good news--Mark made the cover of the summer camp brochure. The bad news? He was being himself. 

I just gave myself a palm to the forehead (d'oh!) but Mark thought it was hilarious. Luckily, we both have a pretty good sense of humor, so where this potentially could've been a PR disaster, it instead turns into just another funny Mark picture.

13, part 2

Last week was Mark's real birthday--this weekend was his kid birthday party.

It was a laser tag party, which meant I invited Mark's closest friends to run around a 7,000 square foot warehouse shooting each other with laser guns. I've spent approximately eight years now telling Mark not to aim his laser pointer cat toy at anybody--then, yesterday, I turned him and all his buddies loose with explicit directions to do exactly that.

Granted, I did tell them not to aim at anybody's eyes, but with the all the chaos, it was hard not to.

But let me back up a bit...

When the boys met up at the laser tag place, they were excited. They were high on adrenaline and excitement, and they took it out on their surroundings, bouncing, jumping and crashing into each other.

They lined up to check in, standing behind another birthday party made up of seven- and eight-year-old girls. The girls were dressed in pastel leggings, striped shirts, and an abundance of flowery hair clips. They were holding hands and telling stories. I realized they were going to get eaten up by my rambunctious group of boys.

"You're competing against a bunch of girls!" I whispered to the boys. They erupted into cheers, and one boy shouted, "Let's kick some little girl butts!" Ironically, that was the same boy who later found himself surrounded by a circle of the little girls.

"They just kept shooting me!" he told us, shaking his head. "They stood all around me yelling, 'Shoot him!' It was AWFUL!"

I laughed at the image of those sweet little girls exacting their revenge for a good two hours.

At check-in, each boy received an access device, which looked like a giant plastic key chain. They promptly ran around the lobby attaching their devices to every outlet or metal bolt sticking out of the wall. I even caught one boy trying to wedge it into the soda machine.

The next step was rules, which included no running (yeah, right) no covering your targets (yeah, right, even more) and playing fairly. The little girls had lots of questions, such as can you have teams, and how do you put your name into your gun? The squirming boys had only one question--when do we start? (They did eventually embrace the teamwork plan, though, when they all agreed to ambush birthday boy Mark.)

And then they released us into the maze. Like I said, it was 7,000 square feet, two stories tall, a series of angled jet black shelters trimmed in colorful glowing neon paint. The place was filled with black lights and fog, giving it an eerie feeling. There were also mirrors and floors with partial fenced gaps, so you could shoot up or down through them. I wondered if the mirrors would reflect the lasers, but I never successfully dinged anybody using the old smoke and mirrors trick.

The kids started shooting each other the minute the door opened, but two minutes later, they were scattered all over the place. It was fun to chase them down.

Each contestant picked a funny name for the competition. One of the boys, Jonah, chose a hilarious name and announced himself each time he shot me.

"Here comes Princess Buttercup!" he'd yell, and then barrage me in lasers. He shot me more than anyone else did, mostly because I started laughing so hard every time he yelled out Princess Buttercup.

It was a blast. After 15 minutes of chasing down the boys (and more than a few little girls--who proved much tougher than they looked), the game ended. The boys were still giddy, and now sweaty.

I thought I'd done all right, but according to my score card...not so much.  

That's right, I had a bad girl name (Mama Mayhem), but did not have the aim to back it up.  I came in 15th place overall.
 

I passed on the second game to set up the party room. By the time the boys came out from the second round, I'd set up the pizzas, drinks and awesome cake my friend Kimberly baked for Mark, who requested a soccer ball. I loved the chocolate sprinkles she used for the black squares, and the green frosting around the bottom that looked like grass blades. And it was super yummy!

With their boundless energy, I was nervous about hosting seven 12- and 13-year-old boys on my own. But they were great--inhaling pizza as they compared scores, and laughing as Josh tried to eat an entire blood orange (unpeeled) without using his hands. 

 

There was only one scary moment, when I realized the lighter for the candles was missing--and found three boys trying to light all 13 candles on one half-slice of cake. (Fine, I admit it--after my initial freak out, I lit the candles for them to see what would happen.)

We sang happy birthday to Mark, watched him open his gifts (all cash and cards--he was stoked). Then, sufficiently sugared up on cake and soda, I turned the boys loose on the arcade. After being hit by a flying air hockey puck (I was nowhere near the game!), hit by a basketball (I was nowhere near the hoop), and returning four stolen Foosballs, I finally put those boys in the car and drove them home.

As the boys in the back seat laughed hysterically over pictures in my People magazine, poor Mark, who was fighting a cold, drifted off to sleep. I felt bad that he felt so bad, but then he smiled in his sleep. And I didn't feel nearly so bad--because even sick, I knew Mark had a blast celebrating his foray into teenhood.

And that was a pretty great thing to see.