Poetic (in)justice

When I announced I was adopting a child, people heaped praise on me. They'd squeal with excitement, hug me, and scream, "Good for you!" We'd smile at each other for a moment, and then, quietly, seriously, almost like they couldn't help themselves, they'd add, "Being a mom is hard work."

I knew parenting was hard--I just underestimated how hard. I assumed everyone meant it was physically hard work--i.e., catering to a small, demanding child's every need (and there are many!) 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

What no one ever told me is that, in reality, 99% of the hard work is not even physical--it's mental.

Take, for example, the conversation regarding what will henceforth be known as the "Poetry project." Mark's assignment was to write, type up and print a series of poems for English class. (See, I already flunked the project by referring to it as "English" class, not "Language Arts.")

Mark swore it was ready to turn in. 

I asked again Wednesday morning, and was assured--again--the project was complete.

That afternoon, I arrived on campus for the school sports award ceremony. Mark immediately ran to my side, and asked, "After this, can you take me to Staples? I need to get--"

"Whoa!" I said, holding my hands up defensively. "How about 'Hi, Mom, nice to see you?'"

"Sorry," he said. "I just don't want to forget..."

The ceremony started, and we hushed up. But halfway through the ceremony, I received an email and saw that Mark's English grade had dropped TWO FULL LETTERS. Two! Overnight. The night after a certain poetry project was due.

Mark was lucky the email arrived during the ceremony--it gave me time to cool down, thereby saving his little life.

As we walked out to the car, I shared the grades with Mark.

"That's what I was trying to tell you," he said. "I need to go to Staples and get some magenta ink."

"For what?" I asked, exasperated.

"So I can print my pictures."

I stared at him blankly.

"The pictures for my poetry project," he explained, slowly.

"You finished the project," I reminded him.

"I know."

"You turned it in," I said.

"I know."

"So it was complete and you turned it in?" I repeated.

"YES," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Why are you rolling your eyes at me?" I asked. "And why are we still talking about this if you already turned it in?"

"There wasn't any magenta ink," he said, and I swear, my head almost exploded, spurting magenta ink instead of blood.

And then I stopped. He'd never admit he turned in an incomplete project, and he'd never understand why, exactly, this whole conversation was frustrating me so. Bless his hyper-focused little brain, he was like a drowning man refusing to admit his lifeboat was ripped and sinking. ("It's not sinking, Mom, I just like to swim!")

I could watch him go under, or I could toss him a life preserver and walk away. I opted for the latter choice, but only because I was preserving something else--the little bit of sanity I have left.
 
Turns out I worried needlessly. As always, everything worked out for Mark. I refused to buy more ink, but he found an extra cartridge at home (where it'd been all weekend). He turned in his pictures and brought his grade back up a full letter. He still doesn't understand my panic any more than I understand his, but that may always be the case.

Although, if you really think about it, maybe his excuses weren't really that far off topic after all. He wasn't lying, exactly, he was just using...poetic license.

And because it's Mark, I'm sure he'll get extra credit for that.

Light as a feather

We don't have a scale at home, but really, who needs one? The only one interested in how much he weighs is Mark, and thanks to our car, I can tell you his weight within a tenth of a pound.

He weighs 80 pounds, give or take an ounce.

I have a totally scientific method for weighing him--I use the passenger seat air bag light as my guide. The light displays "Air bag on" when anyone over 80 pounds sits there. If the passenger weighs less than 80 pounds, the air bag goes off.

Seems simple enough, but that danged thing is sensitive. Seriously. I've actually watched Mark shift in his seat and the air bag went off--like just shifting was enough exercise to lose a couple ounces. I've also seen Mark turn off the air bag simply by sighing or sneezing.

Now it's a running joke in our family..."You didn't eat enough lunch," I'll tell Mark, when the air bag is off. "Eat a cookie."

Or "The air bag just went on because I picked up your magazine," he'll say. 

The air bag stays on more during winter, when he wears a jacket. Mind you, this is Southern California--we're not talking heavy winter coats here, usually just windbreakers.

It happened again yesterday. When he got into the car, Mark sadly pointed out the air bag was off.

"You need to eat more," I told him. "Turn that air bag on!"

Ten minutes into our drive, Mark fell asleep. He awoke with a yawn when the car stopped, then pointed at the dashboard.

"The air bag went on!" I exclaimed. "It was off when I started the car."

"Well, yeah," Mark said. "Because I was sleeping."

"How does that affect the air bag light?" I asked.

He just smirked at me. "Duh," he said. "I weigh more when I'm sleeping."

"You...what?" I stuttered.

"I'm dead weight when I sleep," he answered. He demonstrated by slumping back into his seat. Sure enough, the air bag light turned on.

And I said...nothing. Because, honestly, how do you argue with that?

Gotcha!

Mark was being a prickly pear, sassing me and just generally being obnoxious. I gave him a couple of warnings, and still he persisted. I finally took away the one thing he loves more than life itself.

"That's it," I snapped. "No more TV for you today."

"What!" he exclaimed. "What am I gonna do after dinner?"

"Read a book?" I suggested. "Play some basketball?"

Punishing Mark is like clearing the cache on your Internet browser--you may just want to clear away the last troublesome URL, but you also clear out all the other items cached in the memory, too. As soon as I took away the TV, he walked around the house with a blank look, complaining there was nothing to do. He couldn't think of one thing.

But I wasn't being punished. So a couple hours later, while Mark was getting out of the shower, I turned on the TV.

A commercial came on for a new sandwich. It looked like this:

 
"Man, you'd love that sandwich," I said to Mark, as he entered the dining room. "It's made on a Hawaiian roll."

"I love Hawaiian rolls!" Mark said. He licked his lips.

"I know," I said.

He stood there for a moment, watching me, then asked, "Does it look really good?"

"Yep," I said. I rewound the commercial. "See for yourself."

Mark stood in front of the TV. Then he turned to me with the biggest grin--which confused me, because I didn't think he'd like the sandwich that much.

But it wasn't the food he was smiling about.

"Ha!" he said. "You said I couldn't watch any TV tonight--but I tricked you into letting me watch!" Then he laughed and laughed, very proud of himself.

"Dammit!" I said. He totally did trick me. I still can't believe I set myself up like that!

Oh, well. We all have occasional parenting losses. Mark wasn't laughing as hard when I flipped mine back around to a parenting win.

"Good night," I said, kissing his wet hair. "Sleep tight."

"I still have ten minutes till bedtime," he complained.

"Tricked you," I said. "Now get outta here, kid."

Off he went, calling out, "Fine, but I still win! I tricked you first!"

I giggled, because he did trick me. Little stinker!

Must be nice to know everything in the world

I'm learning the old adage is true...the middle school years really are hell on self-esteem.

My self-esteem, that is...not my middle schooler's. His self-esteem is just fine, thanks. 

Mark's always been confident in himself. The big change is his confidence in me. When he was little, he'd ask me questions because I was Mom, the all-knowing. He'd ask questions because he wanted answers, and he wholeheartedly believed I had them.

Now, as a snarky 13-year-old, he questions for a different purpose: to prove me wrong. Apparently, the brain trust has shifted in our house. I no longer know anything--anything at all--and Mark suddenly knows everything. Seriously. He even advises me how to drive and park my car, something he's never, ever, ever done in his entire life.

He's pretty good at giving attitude, too. I come home each night and watch him for a couple minutes, playing basketball with his best friend, laughing and joking. It makes me happy to see him thriving socially.

But then poof! As soon as his friend leaves, Mark turns into a snarling, surly little being who's suddenly lost the ability to communicate in any language other than angry grunting.

It's like there's an invisible alarm clock somewhere out in the universe, and it goes off every night when Mark sits down at the dinner table. That ding! signifies that all intelligent conversation must stop, and all language becomes non-verbal.

"How was school today?" I ask every night.

"Uuuh," Mark grunts. I've interpreted this grunt to mean, "Fine, thanks for asking."

"What was the best thing that happened to you today?" I ask next.

He replies with a shrug and an "Errr." I've interpreted this to mean, "Wow, there was so much, I can't even think of one specific thing to share. But thank you for being interested!"

Some people might give up at this point, but not me. I am strangely committed--I love a challenge. I won't give up until I get a full sentence out of my little Neanderthal.

"What'd you do at lunch?" I ask. "Who'd you eat with?"

In return, I get a heavy sigh, an eye roll, and then, after a moment of simmering silence..."The same thing," he'll grumble. "Basketball. With the same people. I tell you every day."

And boom! A semi-conversation. Success!

Not every night is a Demoralizing Dinner. There are two ways to make conversation a little easier: one is to eat dinner in front of the TV, which Mark loves, because he gets to watch TV and I don't pepper him with questions. Mark loves this so much, he asks me every day, hopefully, which table are we eating at (meaning: living room coffee table in front of the TV, or dining room table). I burst his bubble most days and tell him we're eating dinner like a normal family--in the dining room, where we will provide the soundtrack and canned laughter, not the TV.

The other way is to just wait it out. After dinner, I join him on the basketball court/patio. He doesn't mind conversing then, as long as we keep up the activity, and he's suitably distracted/hyperfocused. ("Must. Get. Ball. In. Net.")

I realize it's a teenage thing, and that hopefully, on his 20th birthday, he'll miraculously be cured and turn into a civilized human being. But in the meantime--self-esteem be damned--I'll keep trying, and keep trying NOT to take the attitude personally.

And who knows, maybe I'll get more than just a few syllables out of him each day.

Uuuh...

The puppet show

Boys and girls play differently--waaaaay differently.

I don't say that as a child behavior specialist, a teacher, or any other kind of professional in the child development world. I say it as a girl who grew up with three brothers, in a neighborhood full of boys, and now, as a mother of a son.

They play differently.

I remember being baffled by this as a little girl. I'd line up my stuffed animals for long talks or an impromptu reading session (I wasn't a tea party kind of girl), but before we could really get started, my brothers would charge in and attack them. They'd leave my room a mess, me in tears, my animals askew, swaggering out full of bravado, proud of themselves for proving their worth and ridding the world of dangerous enemies (like my stuffed elephant).
 
I thought I'd left that world behind when I grew up, but as I mentioned before, I have a son now. And he is once again proving my theory correct.

Case in point: A puppet show.

I loved puppet shows as a little girl--it was a way to bring my animals, and my stories, to life. It allowed me to sort out my world creatively, to weave stories and morals together through dramatic play, to become heroine and tragic figures alike, depending on my imagination.

Well, Mark had a similar opportunity this weekend, but his puppet show went a little differently. His show starred a lion, a zebra and a Nerf gun, and only one of those puppets came out alive.

"Mom, watch my show!" Mark cried, right before he filled the zebra up with Nerf darts. "It's about a zebra and a lion!"

I was filled with inappropriate giggles and horror simultaneously. Mark brought the zebra back to life, and it walked side by side with the lion for a moment, conversing happily. Until the lion did what lions do, and ate the zebra. I could hear Mark laughing wickedly behind the curtains.

I sighed. Boys play differently, I reminded myself. It wasn't right or wrong, just...different.
 
Unless, of course, you're a zebra puppet. In which case...sorry, things just aren't gonna end well for you in this show.

But there's till hope, if a little girl happens by. Then, and only then, your narrative may turn from innocent, half-eaten victim to honored tea party guest. But until then, the poor zebra is destined to die repeatedly, in various tortured ways, with only momentary respites, as the puppeteer occasionally turned the Nerf gun away from the zebra, using it on the audience instead.

Did I mention boys and girls play differently?

This is why you don't leave your phone sitting around unattended...

Mark and I sat in the living room the other day, two feet apart. I lounged on the couch, reading the Sunday paper and Mark occupied the love seat, just chilling.

Or so I thought. I really didn't notice what he was doing, or that he was so quiet. That should've been my first clue--nothing good ever comes of a silent kid.

It wasn't until later, when I picked up my cell phone to make a call, that I realized what he'd been up to--taking and assigning photos to my phone contacts.

This is now the contact picture that appears when I dial up our favorite restaurant...

This is the new contact photo for Mark's school...(I have no idea how he took it with no hands!)

This is for our favorite pizza joint--I was a little confused at the expression until Mark explained it, mimicking a friend's hungry baby ("Hungee, Marky is HUNGEEEEE!").

This one is for our home phone number. Guess he decided to change it up a little.

But this one was my favorite. You can tell we share the same sick sense of humor, because Mark and I both burst into laughter when I saw it. 

The contact? Why, it's for poison control, of course.

The Lesson

This weekend was a crazy party weekend. Mark's best friend Sean turned 13, and celebrated with a 20-hour party.

Well, technically, it was a two-parter party. The first part was at a park, where the boys played Fear Factor, eating disgusting things like oysters and sardines (ironically, a container filled with bologna and jelly elicited more "ewwwwwws!" than the seafood).

After the park, it was on to Sean's house for a sleepover. My very brave friend Liz (aka Sean's mom) supervised a houseful of middle-school boys determined to stay awake all night long playing video games. They made it until 4 a.m., when, Josh told me, "My body literally shut down, and I fell asleep with my iTouch in my hands."

The boys (and Liz) didn't go completely sleepless--they did get 3 1/2 full hours of shut eye. And Mark was still going strong when I picked him up.

"We're going to another party in two hours," I reminded him. "Then Boy Scouts at 7. So nap if you need to when we get home, you've got two hours."

"I'm taking a shower when we get home," Mark told me. Of course, showering turned into playing with his kitten, which turned into, What do you mean it's time for Corban's party, why didn't you tell me???

Mark slept for 20 minutes on the way to the party. He made me promise we'd leave early, but of course, he had so much fun, I had to drag him outta there 45 minutes after the party officially ended. We got home just in time for him to shower, eat dinner, and change into his Boy Scout uniform.

And then, finally, he hit the wall.

"I'm sooooo tired," he whined on the way to Scouts. "Do I really have to go tonight?"

"Yep," I answered.

"I can't miss ONE WEEK?" he complained.

"You're missing next week," I said. "And the Memorial Day event. So yes, you can miss a week--just not this one."

He sunk into the seat.

"You knew about this before the party," I reminded him. "You made the choice to stay up playing video games all night, and that's fine. But you can't weasel out of your other commitments because of it."

He sighed. I could almost hear him silently asking, "Does EVERYTHING have to be a lesson?"

Yes, I answered silently. It does.

"Today's lesson is called 'sucking it up,'" I said out loud. "It's okay to have fun, it's okay to pull an all-nighter, but when your responsibilities come knocking the next day--"

"I have to suck it up," Mark finished.

"Yep," I said, turning in to the parking lot. "Have fun!"

Mark slammed the door and ran in to the meeting. When I checked on him later, his patrol was dragging. Three of the four boys were at the party, and were laying their heads on the table, fighting sleep.

At one point, the adrenaline kicked in, and they all jumped up to run around the table, completely inappropriate. I marched over to remind them to be respectful. But they were so slugnutty from not sleeping, it was like trying to tell a bunch of drunks to be quiet--it just made them louder.

Mark insisted he was not sleepy all the way home. He actually went the opposite direction, turning into a dancing, fast-talking maniac. He was fighting sleep deprivation with every fiber in him.

Five minutes after I sent him to his room, the house became eerily quiet. I tiptoed to Mark's room, and there he was, slumped on the floor. He was leaning against his bed, head back, glasses askew on his face, holding his pajamas. Dead asleep. I mean, he was out cold. I realized exactly what Josh meant when he said his body literally shut down.

"Come on, buddy, time for bed," I gently prodded Mark. He awoke with a start, put his pajamas on and crawled on top of the bed. He didn't even crawl under the covers, just slept on top, all the way through to this morning.

But hey, I've gotta give it to him. He grumbled a little, but in the end, he did suck it up.

Lesson learned!

My Little Nightmare

The hotel hosting the PADRE fashion show was quite busy last weekend--there were two other conferences going on at the same time.

I passed a sign for one of them, which on a normal day would've been weird enough--Actors and Models for Christ. (I guess Jesus has his own talent agency now?)

But you couldn't miss the attendees of the other event--they weren't loud, but they stood out. They wore gowns, robes, plastic swords, bright wigs and even brighter outfits. The few girls had wings, tiny little wings up to massive works of art spanning their entire backs. The boys (many, many boys) wore colorful outfits, and unicorn backpacks.

And hats, many, many hats, all of them sporting ears. Some people wore single unicorn horns sprouting from their foreheads, others wore a pair of tiny horns atop their heads. And the colors--it was a colorful crowd, like someone popped open a bag of Skittles and set them free to roam the lobby.

We were intrigued.

"What's going on?" my mom asked the concierge, gesturing toward the crowd.

"It's a My Little Pony convention," the concierge responded.

As in cartoon ponies? For little girls? We looked around again--there weren't any kids around, and certainly not many girls. The group was mostly young men in their late teens and 20s, walking around with stuffed ponies on their shoulders. It was kinda weird.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any weirder, a giant unicorn, powered by three boys, ran by me. Seriously. I had to chase it down and get a photo.

These girls were actually fashion show models, not MLP attendees.

I learned these guys were "bronies"--a mashup of the words "bro" and "ponies." That's right--they are male superfans who love cartoon ponies.

Despite their outlandish costumes, the bronies were very well-behaved. There were lots of security guards roaming the lobby, and they set up a very clear, definitive border between the fashion show and the bronies. I had to go through three different guards to pick Mark up from practice.

Mark walked uncomfortably through the crowd of fairies and unicorns.

"They're freaking me out," he grumbled.

I tried to keep an open mind, but it's hard when you're surrounded by a crowd of grown men carrying stuffed animals.

In the end, the extra security seemed unwarranted. The slight, quiet bronies didn't look or act like a threat--in fact, like ponies, they were easily spooked.

We encountered one very nervous young guy on the elevator who was convinced the malfactioning car door opened on every floor because someone was pranking us. ("That was awkward," he proclaimed, when we finally reached the lobby, voicing no one else's opinion.)

Another girl freaked out on a different elevator, claiming she was claustrophobic, and pushing her way off. For a bunch of pack animals, they sure seemed to hate crowds (or, you know...interacting with other people).

I couldn't get enough of it--I thought they were awesome, I wanted to talk to all of them. ("So...who's your favorite pony? What's your favorite color--rainbow? Me too!") I tried sneaking into the vendor hall, but got shut out by a beefy security guard. I wanted to learn everything there was about being a brony, but Mark wouldn't let me near them.

My mom was equally fascinated.

"What do you call them?" she wondered. "I mean, all of them together, as a group?"

I just shrugged. I had no idea--what do you call of group of ponies? A herd?

We got our answer as we checked out of the hotel the next morning and passed one lone brony in the hall.

"Join the heeeeerd," he neighed at us, confirming my guess. I almost lost it, biting my tongue so I didn't laugh right in the poor socially awkward young guy's face.

But I did nudge Mark once we passed him.

"Yeah, Mark, join the herd," I whispered.

Mark just sighed. He'd thought it was bad enough walking through the lobby with his mom potentially embarrassing him in front of his PADRE friends. He had no idea I could up the embarrassment level so much higher by stalking the bronies.

Whatever. All I know is that when I return next year, I'm wearing a unicorn backpack.  

Fashionisto

OK, I don't know if that's really the male version of "fashionista," but it sounded more appropriate.

Saturday night was Mark's third trip down the runway in the PADRE Foundation's annual fashion show. He rocked it, as always, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

This year, I also learned that it pays to have friends in high places. Shanda's dad John Kunkle is an auctioneer (he even has his own TV show, Container Wars--watch it!) and when I asked if he'd volunteer to help us out, he didn't even hesitate. He was in!

John helped out in the (not-so-)silent auction, encouraging bidders to bust a move. After the auction, he and his wife Debbie joined us at our table during dinner and the show.

"Do you think we'll get better seats because John and Debbie are with us?" my mom whispered. I giggled, because I'd wondered the same thing. We usually end up at the back of the room, somewhere between Siberia and the exit doors.

Turns out we got GREAT seats! In fact, we were at Table 1. They placed us there so John and the MC could scoot backstage easily. Oh, and the MC was none other than Miss America 1999 and the former host of the dLife TV show, Nicole Johnson. That's right, we sat with Miss America--we were definitely moving up in the world!

The dinner was good, and the videos they showed of the kids during various PADRE activities was great. We spotted Mark kayaking in the Catalina video, and in some of the summer camp pictures. And of course, they flashed the kids pictures on the giant screens during dinner--I got the Kunkles and Miss America to join my mom and I, screaming for Mark every time his picture appeared.

They also showed videos on the big screens, of the parents and kids discussing how their lives changed with their diabetes diagnoses, and my eyes welled up almost immediately. The ceremony dragged on a little bit, but my favorite part was the raffle. A bunch of little kids stood onstage with Nicole Johnson, who asked them their names and ages. The two littlest kids were a big hit with the audience.

"How old are you?" she asked one adorable little boy.

"Three," he answered, waving at the crowd.

"And how long have you had diabetes?" she asked.

"Twenty years," he answered, very seriously. The audience lost it.

John got up and worked his magic, raising a ton of money during the auction. Bless his heart--I'd told him about the past couple years, when people donated crazy amounts of money. This year, however, someone turned the donation waterfall off, because no one wanted to give at first. John finally coaxed some money out of them when he lowered the amounts, but man, I felt bad for him at first.

But then, finally, came the best part of the night--the kids. This year's theme was Invincible, and boy, did the kids play up to that. They came onstage for the opening number, dancing around in astronaut suits. (I didn't quite get the correlation, except that maybe astronauts are invincible? Whatever, it was a fun dance!)

There were a couple other dance numbers, one by the boy performers group and one by the girls. But then the music amped up, and it was time for the models.

The show is actually a full-fashion show, sponsored by Macy's and featuring their clothes. They have professional adult models walking the runway as well, and I recognized some of them from the previous years (yes, Michelle, the crazy hip lady was there, although she's learning to walk better--didn't look like she was going to throw out a hip this year!).

The kids did a fantastic job--I am just so impressed by them every year. They come out on stage to blaring music and flashing lights, to a huge ballroom filled with 50 tables and 500 people staring at them. The runway is long, too--lots of room to panic and go running backstage. But they moved forward, each of them walking to the edge of the runway, flaunting their stuff, then walking back up the runway.

Mark did an excellent job again this year! He'd complained after practice that he was walking with a really hyper kid this year--what he failed to mention was that it was a little kid. Seriously, he's only like four years old! (And to make things even more challenging, the little guy had a low blood sugar right before going on stage...poor guy!)

I think they picked Mark to walk with him because Mark's so great with little kids. But here they came, both of them so cute and proud, Mark leading the little guy like a true champ.

I've never been so proud of Mark! He shined in more ways than one on that stage.

The boys came back out together during the finale. They held their signs up, telling the number of years they've had diabetes. It's so weird to see all those signs--so sad and inspiring all at once. You just want to hug all those kids and make them feel better, but at the same time, you realize what heroes they really are, and that after all those years of living with diabetes, they really might just be invincible. But invincible or not, they're still just kids.

The event ran long this year, and we were exhausted by the end. But also happy--very happy--and inspired. These kids fight Type 1 diabetes every day. They may not win the small battles every day, but with our help, and PADRE's help, they'll win the war--and have fun doing it!

My son the comedian...what a card

During our Mother's Day dinner, we discussed that no matter what the holiday, we hate serious cards.

"I hate those serious, flowery birthday cards," I said. "I look at those paragraphs of words in cursive, and my mind literally goes blank. I just wait a couple seconds, pretend I've read them, then open the card to see who it's from."

My mom and Shanda agreed. This was most certainly a funny-card crowd.

And apparently, Mark feels the same, because this is the loving card he gave me this year:

I wasn't sure what was more shocking--the fact he gave me this card, or the fact that my mom approved it (she took him shopping).

"Really, Mom?" I asked, pointing to the "rat's ass" comment. I couldn't even say the words out loud to my prim and proper mother.

But my mom just giggled and shrugged.

"What?" she asked. "He's heard worse."

I looked at Mark, who nodded in agreement. 

"I have heard worse," he said. He looked at me knowingly and I shot him back the stink eye.

I realized two things in that moment. One, that my son finally recognizes that even though they may sound contrary, my brusque tone and unconventional words actually are loving and supportive. (I do love you, Mark, even if I tell you to brush your damn teeth and put on some clean damn clothes--that is loving and encouraging in our family.) And secondly, that we've given up even the smallest illusion of propriety in my family, even on the most sentimental of days. It's out the door, a complete free for all.

Which also means that, yes, I'm a little worried about the birthday card my beloved son will buy me next month. So if you see me reading it silently to myself before sharing it out loud...just know there's a good reason.

Word to your mother

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and I'm never sure how that's gonna pan out at my house. Sometimes I'm feted with breakfast in bed and homemade gifts, sometimes all I get is attitude. Happily, this year skewed more toward celebration. 

My mom was in town, so I got her to myself for most of the day (sorry, brothers). After congratulating ourselves on being such amazing mothers, we treated ourselves to a nice brunch. Then it was home to relax, where I imposed a strict rule that we couldn't do any chores or cleaning. We pretty much succeeded, except for making dinner. (Unless we wanted Top Ramen--Mark's specialty--we had to cook a little. But we made Mark clean it all up.)

Mom and Mark did sneak off for a bit to buy me a present. Mark insisted he was not late, as there were still a few hours left in the day. 

Upon his return, he scrambled around, first searching for a gift bag, and then in the kitchen. He was hard at work on something in there, warning me to stay out so I didn't ruin the surprise. I happily complied.

My brother Smed and his fiance, Shanda, also came to visit. We welcomed Shanda into our little celebration, wishing her a happy Mother's Day, since she's also amazing--a loving, stable mom to my little nephew. She was so sweet, bringing us little rose plants and wine. We had one big happy mom vibe going on.

As soon as he finished wrapping my present, Mark handed it to me.

"Open it!" he commanded.

"I can't," I told him. "Not until after dinner."

He insisted I open it immediately, in case I wanted to use it. I gently refused, reminding him there's a gift protocol--it's not a present-ripping frenzy.

But when I did open it, I realized why he wanted me to do it before dinner--he wanted me to use the gift during dinner.

That's right, he got me a set of specialized beer glasses--different kinds of glasses for different kinds of beer. Some moms get flowers for Mother's Day, some moms get beer glasses. Apparently, I belong to the latter group. (And in related news--boy, does that kid know what I like!)

"He picked it out himself," my mom said proudly, and I couldn't help smiling. "He said you only drink out of one glass."

I do, but it's awesome--my special Samuel Adams glass, created specifically to offer "a full sensory drinking experience by fully showcasing Samuel Adams Boston Lager's complex balance of malt and hop flavors," according to the brewery. (So yeah, one glass...)

"Thanks, buddy!" I enthused. "This is great!"

"That's a really cool gift," my beer-drinking friend Shanda said, admiring the set. "The beers really do taste differently depending on the glass."

Mark also included a Bud Light Lime Strawberry Margarita in a can. I wasn't sure which glass to use for that one, but Mark said I couldn't drink it at room temperature. (Whew!)

"I'll get you a beer!" he said, excitedly.

I was completely full from dinner, but there was no way to get out of an after-dinner beer without hurting the little guy's feelings. So as he got a Sierra Nevada from the fridge, Shanda and I read the descriptions to figure out which glass to use. We were torn between using the pale ale glass and the craft pub glass--Sierra Nevada's technically an India pale ale, but it's dark golden in color, like the beer in the craft pub glass. We finally opted for the pale ale glass and darned if the beer DIDN'T taste better in the specialty glass!

And so I enjoyed my beer with my other gift--a marshmallowy batch of Rice Krispie Treats that Mark made. (Coincidentally, it's also his favorite dessert.)

I hugged Mark and thanked him, and gave another silent thanks as well, for this crazy kid in front of me. The one who drives me nuts sometimes, who pushes my buttons and makes me want to scream in frustration. But that's not all he does--he also makes me insanely proud, of his kind and gentle nature, of how much he cares about his friends and family (and cats), of how sweet and silly he is. He makes me laugh, often, loudly. He asks me thoughtful questions, and engages me in conversations that are both thought-provoking and hilarious, often teaching me just as much as I teach him.

He opens me up to all sorts of things I never thought I'd do or be interested in. He tests me, yes, but not just in a bad way--he prods me out of my stubborn Dinsdale ways, encouraging me to try new things, new flavors, new thoughts. He makes me a better mom, and in doing so, he makes me a better person.

So yeah, in a way, Mother's Day is about me. But it's also about my mom, all the love she gives me, and how much more I appreciate her since getting my own child. And it's about the kid who made me a mom, too. His best gift will always be himself. Because, funny cards and breakfasts in bed aside, the best thing Mark ever made me was...a mom.

Ice cream, you scream

Mark and his buddy Sean came running home after school yesterday. Out of breath and jumping around, they excitedly asked if they could make ice cream. They'd learned how in their after-school math and science class. 

"But we only ate one bite," Mark told me. "I got a big chunk of salt in mine, so it was gross."

"It's super easy," Sean said. "All we need is milk, sugar, and vanilla. Oh, and ice and salt."

"And bags," Mark added. "LOTS of bags. I'm double-bagging mine so the salt doesn't get in!"

"OK," I said. "Let's do it! I wanna see how you make it."

"You just mix all those ingredients and shake it," Sean said. "Mark knows the recipe."

Which was not entirely true...

"We need half a cup of milk each," Mark said. "And half a cup of sugar. And three tablespoons of vanilla." He paused for a moment, then asked Sean, "Or was it teaspoons? "

"Teaspoons," Sean answered. "But it needed more."

"Um, half a cup of sugar sounds like a lot," I interjected. 

"Oh, wait, it was two tablespoons of sugar and three teaspoons of vanilla," Sean corrected. "And half a cup of milk."

I smiled--that sounded like a much better recipe.

"And it has to be kosher salt," Mark added.

"It doesn't have to be kosher salt," Sean said. "It just has to be that big kind of salt." (Which I'm pretty sure is kosher salt.)

The boys poured and measured, adding extra sugar and vanilla. They double-bagged the ingredients, filled a gallon bag with ice and salt, and they were ready to go.

"We have to shake it for 10 minutes," Sean said. "It's like making butter--but better!"

"Let's shake it outside," Mark said. "In case the ice makes holes in the bags." 

"Good idea," I said. 

They were enthusiastic shakers for the first three minutes. Then, they lost interest--well, they shifted their interest from shaking to basketball. Which wasn't really losing interest, they reasoned--it was actually better, because the bags were still shaking as they ran around the backyard. I just laughed and watched.

Sean's dad picked him up about 20 minutes later, before the ice cream was done (even with all that shaking). As soon as he left, Mark really did lose interest in shaking and just put his ice cream in the freezer.

He forgot about it until this morning. When I checked, it was frozen, and much browner than I expected. It was a funny shape, too, so it looked like a piece of frozen chicken. I almost tossed it into the crock pot for dinner accidentally. 

I was curious about it, though. I gently opened the bag, and scraped a piece off. It tastes like...vanilla extract. Frozen vanilla extract. With a lot of sugar in it.

It wasn't exactly ice cream, unless you're 13 and deprived of all treats all of the time (as a certain coupla 13-year-olds believe themselves to be). I'm sure it will be gone when I get home, but I'm not sure if it will be gone down the hatch, or down the sink. 

I don't care either way--the best part of the whole experiment was watching them make it. That alone was worth a cup of milk, three cups of sugar and 14 tablespoons of vanilla extract. (Or whatever the final recipe was...)

A fish tale

This weekend, Mark and I went fishing. No, seriously, we really did.

It was originally a camping trip, too, but when the camping part got cancelled, we opted to stay at my brother's cabin. Mark was being a little pill before we left. He rebuffed all my suggestions of what to bring (pajamas, a sweatshirt, toothbrush), telling me in his huffiest voice ever, "Mom, I know how to pack."

He toned his snarky attitude down a bit when we arrived in the mountains and it was 55 degrees. I could see the wind rippling the lake, and the people all around the edge, bundled up in heavy jackets and hooded sweatshirts.

"Looks kinda cold out there," I told Mark, but he didn't care--he wanted to practice casting. He hopped out of the car, fishing pole in hand, and raced to the lake. It was at that moment he realized he forgot his sweatshirt, pants and sneakers (he later realized he also forgot his pajamas). He lasted all of three minutes out there, and I suddenly realized our fishing adventure on Sunday might not last very long.

But I didn't care. I was there to spend some quality time with Mark, to bond with my son. The son who immediately ditched me Sunday morning, pleading to ride in Uncle Scott's fancy new sports car.

"My dad's car is so awesome!" my nephew Grant bragged. "It can go zero to 60 in like three seconds!"

"Know what's cool about my car?" I asked him, pointing toward my trusty Prius. "It gets 50 miles to the gallon!"

Grant just stared at me awkwardly. He silently looked at the sports car, all muscle with a sporty red racing stripe, and finally just walked away.

And so I spent some quality time with Jimmy Buffett instead. I sang along to my radio, watching Scott and the boys speed off at a million miles an hour down the twisty mountain road, until they disappeared.

We arrived at the Boy Scout camp around 10 a.m (and 10:10, respectively). The day before was gorgeous, sunny and nice. But that day was gone, leaving in its place a cold, damp morning. A big cloud wandered into the camp, and suddenly, the lake and the people on the other side of it melted away.

"Oh my God, I'm freezing!" Mark whined. "I'm wearing three shirts and two shorts and I'm still cold!" (Um, because it was FORTY DEGREES OUT THERE!) He was cold all the way down to his socks and flip-flops. Uncle Scott finally took pity on him and lent him a spare jacket.

We walked down to the lake, where the scouts were already at work. Some were fishing, but most were running around the lake.

"A dead rat!" one cried, pointing at the edge of the lake.

"Don't touch the dead rat," his dad answered without even looking up.

The same boy held up a stringer, and asked what it was for.

"Is it a harpoon?" he asked. "Do you stab the fish with it to catch them?"

"No, it's to hold on to the fish in the water," the dad answered. The boy was not impressed.

"A harpoon is way better," he said.

We found a good fishing spot. The boys next to us had already reeled in some trout.

"I caught one with my bare hands," a scout proudly told me. "I just reached in the water and grabbed it!"

"Wow," I said. "You'll do just fine if you ever get lost in the woods."

I was immensely grateful for Scott within the first two minutes. He took Mark and Grant's poles and loaded them up with swivels, weights, small tri-tipped hooks, and bait. He jiggered things around with pliers, tied some little knots, and taught them how to cast into the middle of the lake. It was very impressive. 

"What about the bobbers?" I asked, showing off my vast fishing knowledge.

"Real fisherman don't use bobbers," Scott sniffed. I laughed that he thought of our sons as "real fishermen."

But they actually did pretty well. Within 30 minutes, Mark landed a trout! I was across the lake, and Scott yelled out to me. I rushed back as Mark was reeling it in.

I took about one bazillion pictures. Mark just watched as an older scout netted and unhooked the fish. He showed Mark how to hold the it up by its gills for a picture, but Mark just shook his head.

"I'm not touching that," he informed us.

"You have to hold it," the older scout asked. "You can hold it, or you can kiss it for the picture."

"Fine, I'll hold it," Mark relented. I yelled for him to roll up his sleeve first--he was determined NOT to touch that fish, and I'm pretty sure Uncle Scott did not want him using his jacket sleeve as a holder.

But that wasn't all Mark caught. He also managed to hook a nearby bush. I think it's an improvement on the last time he went fishing, when he caught a tree. At least he's catching smaller things than trees now.

The guys next to us found a sweet spot, seriously catching a fish about every two minutes. It was like someone flipped the on switch, or rang the dinner bell for the fish. The dads fishing there were awesome--every time they landed a fish, they'd yell, "Who wants it?" then hand it over to the boys to reel in. They made sure everyone caught a fish and went home happy. (Did I mention the lake was stocked? I can't imagine taking 45 scouts fishing in a big, unstocked lake--they would've died of boredom, and touched that damn rat for sure!)

Mark went home happy for sure, mostly because he gave his fish to Uncle Scott.

"You take it," Scott said, handing the fish back to Mark. "I have a great recipe for you."

"No way," Mark said, backing up. He wouldn't even touch the outside of the fish--there was no way he'd gut and clean the inside.

So Scott ended up with two trout. He laughed that the boys were nowhere to be found when he cleaned them--they liked the glory of catching them, not so much in eating them.

But I didn't expect anything else. I was just glad to get outside and enjoy the great outdoors, and to get those boys away from their video games. And they had a blast on the trip, even if their favorite parts were racing in Scott's sports car and eating donuts (NOT in the car).

Hey, it's a start...

The trouble with boys is...

...their toys. As in, most of them are round, dense, bouncy, flying projectiles meant to be hurled into nets of varying sizes.  

Because Mark loves sports, I don't get too emotionally attached to anything in the backyard. I have some lovely ceramic planters, and a few decorative blown glass pieces but I put them outside at my own risk. I realize there's a good chance any or all of them may be demolished at any moment by rogue soccer, basket and baseballs.

What I didn't realize was this little guy is also pretty fragile...

He's made of thick resin. I placed him behind a couple of protective bushes, set back by the wall. I thought he'd be safe out there.

He was...for all of three days. Yesterday, he got smacked up, and broke his cheek and nose. The worst part is, the basketball that did him in flew out of my hands, not Mark's. I couldn't even blame the kid for busting up Mickey. 

"I told you not to put him there," Mark admonished me. He's always very helpful in these situations.

"I can fix this," I said, turning Mickey over in my hands. "Help me find the pieces."

Well, the trouble with me is that I'm not handy. Or crafty. And apparently, I don't have good hand-eye coordination. 

I took a tube of super glue and applied it to the small flesh-colored part of Mickey's cheek. It immediately adhered to my finger instead. I pulled it off, stuck it on Mickey, and watched helplessly as it fell into Mickey's body. I gave Mickey a quick shake. The piece clacked inside Mickey once, and then silence. The super glue did its trick, gluing the piece to the inside of Mickey forever.

"Dang it," I said. I shook Mickey again--nothing. I fished around for the piece, but it was obviously stuck somewhere in Mickey's lower extremities.

I sighed, and started over with the ear-shaped piece of Mickey's cheek. I managed not to drop this one, but I did super glue it to my fingers. I pulled it (and a good chunk of flesh-colored paint) off, and shoved it onto Mickey's face. It stuck. (So did my fingertips--to each other.)

I also glued Mickey's nose back on with no trouble. 

He looks better...except now he has a gaping hole in his cheek. I'm just gonna pretend he's smiling really big. 

Now I just have to figure out a safe place to return him to in the garden...if there is such a place.

I finally get even (a little bit)

Mark is awesome at giving me school bulletins when it benefits him. I never saw anything (from him) about state testing, but I sure saw field trip permission slips.

But I did get an email from Mark's school yesterday about an event:

Loved Ones Lunch

Come by on Friday and eat lunch with your kids on what we hope will be a lovely spring afternoon.

Pack a picnic, if you like. See the latest in handball games, yo-yo-ing, shots on soccer goals, tournament play, and the weekly favorite -- karaoke.

We've arranged to sell Jamba Juice, Dippin Dots, and cold water. The frozen treats sell for $3 apiece, and ice cold water for $1.

It was the first I'd heard of this event--Mark never mentioned it, or brought home the attached flyer.

I promptly deleted the message, mostly because a better name for it would be Rejection Lunch. I've been to every school event since kindergarten, and Mark treats me the same every time--he walks five steps ahead of me and pretends I don't exist. If someone acknowledges me, he acts completely surprised, like he didn't see me there. I'm pretty sure he's convinced himself he has his own apartment and is actually raising himself.

But when Mark broached the subject, I couldn't help myself.

"Hey Mom, can I have $3?" he asked. "They're selling Jamba Juice and ice cream at school on Friday."

I played dumb. "Really?" I said. "What's the occasion?"

"Nothing," he answered. "They just knew it was gonna be really hot that day."

"Oh," I said. I paused, then asked, "It's not for the Loved Ones Lunch?"

I saw a momentary flash of panic flit across his face, immediately replaced by a cool, casual you-are-boring-me-to-death expression.

"Loved...what?" he asked.

"Loved Ones Lunch," I repeated. "Didn't you get the flyer? I'm supposed to come eat lunch with you."

This time he couldn't hide the panic. He squirmed, unsure what to say. He didn't want to hurt my feelings outright, but he also didn't want me eating lunch with him and his friends.

I couldn't go to lunch anyway, but this sure was fun.

"So...what time should I be there?" I asked.

"Whenever," he said. "But...I like to play basketball during lunch."

"We can sit and eat together before," I reminded him.

He finally conceded. "I guess you can come," he lamented. "If you don't mind playing basketball. Because that's what I do...THE WHOLE LUNCH TIME."

I couldn't hold it in anymore--I burst out laughing.

"I'm not coming to lunch," I admitted. "But thanks for the thoughtful invitation."

Mark finally exhaled, relieved--he was panicking that his super uncool mom was literally going to ruin his game.

Whatever. I've been a mom long enough now to know it's not personal--he's just your typical kid, and seriously, the MOST embarrassing thing that can happen to a middle schooler is that his parent a) shows up at your events, b) opens her mouth, and c) your friends witness it.

But Mark better watch out...I'll skip this lunch, but I'll get him back next week, at his spring concert. I'm bringing my camera, my dinner, and the loudest friends and family members I can find. Mark and his friends will definitely know that I'm there.



     

Stress...I'm doing it wrong

I'm a single mom with a stressful job, no social life, and a mouthy kid with a chronic disease and ADD. I have a supportive family, but they all live far away.

Some days I think I'm a pretty good mom. But most days, I'm just too tired to think--I'm short on patience and long on yelling, instead of the other way around. 

This has not gone unnoticed by my child. Lately, he's offered me lots of suggestions on how to decompress.

"Hey Mom, you should get a soft ball to hold," he told me one day, while I was making dinner. "You can squeeze it when you're stressed out."

"Mom, you should try meditating," he said another day, while I was washing dishes. "It might help you calm down."

"Hey Mom, you should start walking," he offered, as I was doing the laundry. "It might help you stop yelling so much."

Usually, I just smile and nod. But yesterday, I couldn't take it any more. I'd spent half the night battling Mark's high blood sugars, because he "forgot" to bolus for his bedtime snack.

"Hey Mom, you should go to the spa," Mark yawned from his bed. "It might help you--"

"You know what'll help me be calm?" I snapped in a completely NOT calm voice. "YOU GETTING OUT OF BED! Let's go!"

"Geez," Mark muttered. "Gimme a minute to wake up." I reminded him he'd had 30 minutes of his alarm blaring to do just that. 

In the kitchen, I gave Mark his breakfast, and he gave me his pump so I could change the insulin and his set.

"If you really wanted to change the mood around here, you could do what I ask," I told Mark. "You ever think about what part your behavior plays in all this?"

Mark laughed, and shook his head at me.

"That's crazy," he said, setting his dirty dishes by the sink. "My behavior? It's not me--I'm not stressed at all."

Then he ran off to his room, completely missing the whole point. He waded through the sea of dirty clothes littering his floor, and grabbed with his hyperactive cat to play. In his pajamas. Teeth unbrushed. Five minutes before class started.

I just sighed. Somehow, I don't think my stress level actually will go down until a certain day in early September 2018...when I drop Mark off at college.