This.

Mark and I were looking at photos of our house taken a few years ago. The living room, filled with greenery, looked awesome.

"We need some new plants," I told Mark. I scanned the room--there's only one plant left:

"Pathetic!" I said to the tower of sticks with five leaves clinging to it.

It's my own fault. Every couple years, I decide the plants need food and buy those little plant fertilizer sticks at the dollar store. And every time, without fail, they kill my plants. Dead. Immediately.

So I need new plants. Sounds easy enough, but now I have the World's Largest kitten, who thinks anything new in the house is a toy, food or something he must protect us against. Doesn't matter which option he chooses, the results are the same--the threat is quickly mangled, chewed-up, and left lying on the floor.  

I arrived at the local nursery, smartphone in hand, fully aware that 90% of the plants I purchased will be eaten and regurgitated on the carpets. I spent a good hour perusing plants, trying to decipher the names of each plant, and then referencing it on the ASPCA web site. Turns out every plant I like is toxic to cats. 

I finally found a polka dot plant, a couple ferns and a small palm tree plant, all of which are non-toxic. Seriously, I found FOUR plants. In the whole nursery, there were only four plants that won't kill my curious, hyperactive, spastic giant kitten.

As soon as I got home, I transplanted my purchases. I watered them and sprinkled some cajun pepper in the dirt (a cat deterrent, according to my good friend, the Internet). Then I stood back, spray bottle in hand, ready to douse whichever cat attacked first.

And that's when I realized I completely wasted my entire lunch hour. Because Fernando was, indeed, curious...about the plastic drainage saucer. That's right, he didn't care about the plant at all, he just walked up and started chewing on the plastic drainage dish.

He was obsessive about it, too. Just as I'd imagined, but I thought he'd obsess over the plant, not the plastic. I squirted him good three or four times, then finally distracted him with a cat treat and a toy.

But not before he left his mark...

It turned out, unfortunately, like most of my other parenting decisions. I put a lot of thought, and work, into protecting the ingrates living in my house...but I'm always just the slightest bit off.

It's not really a secret

Mark was watching TV when a Victoria's Secret commercial aired. He leaned forward, very interested. He's 13, so I wasn't surprised he's interested in pretty girls--I was more surprised at how blatant he was about it (that's not Mark's cool-as-a-cucumber style).

"What is Victoria's Secret, anyway?" he asked. "What do they sell?"

I suppressed a giggle, and blessed his innocent little heart.

"Lingerie," I said.

He stared at me blankly.

"Pretty bras and underwear," I clarified.

And suddenly, he sat back, waaaaaay back, on the couch and looked away, embarrassed (and I blessed his prudish little heart).

"Why does it even matter?" he demanded. "Who needs dressy underwear? Nobody even SEES it!"

I bit my tongue again, and refrained from answering, "You wear it when someone WILL see it!" But I knew that would further embarrass Mark, so I went with another (still truthful) answer instead.

"Girls like dressy underwear," I explained. "Even if nobody else sees it. Girls like pretty things."

"But...nobody else sees it," Mark repeated.

"The girl sees it," I repeated. "It makes her happy. Like when you wear your soccer or football jerseys."

"But people see those," Mark reasoned.

"I know," I sighed. "It's a girl thing. We like pretty things, like flowers and scarves and lace. We like pretty things even if no one but us ever sees them."

He stared at me for a moment, then finally shook his head.

"I just don't get it," he said. "I don't get girls."

I smiled. "You never will," I said, patting him on the back. "We'll be a mystery your whole life, so get used to it."

Mark sighed, loudly, sadly, his shoulders sinking. He didn't like the sound of that, so I threw him one last bone.

"Don't worry, we don't understand you men, either," I said. "But it doesn't matter--we don't have to understand each other to get along. That's why you have guy friends!"

That made him feel better, a little, anyway. But he turned off the TV, grabbed a basketball, and went to shoot some hoops outside.

You know, where there aren't any models in flashy underwear, and life is easier to understand.

These are a few of my (least) favorite things...

Intellectually, I know that one day soon, my beloved young son will awaken as a grown man, make his bed and bid me a loving adieu. He will thank me for my many years of sacrifice and all the wisdom I imparted on him. I will hug him, kiss the top of his head, and wish him well at college.

OK, none of those things will ever actually happen (except for college), but I can hope. The logical part of me knows someday he will leave, but the emotional part of me is in denial, waging a constant, heated battle about whether he'll really go or not (he will leave, to do good in the world; he won't leave, because he's a good boy who loves his mother sooooooo much!).

Most days, just the the thought of Mark leaving renders me teary and speechless. But some days (occurring more frequently as Mark settles into teenhood), I seriously feel like breaking out the calendar, and gleefully marking off the dates.

The truth is, I'm not actually writing this post for you, my loyal readers (all three of you), I'm writing it to myself. My future self. The Heather in five years, struggling with Empty Nest Syndrome, who's furiously packing her car for the long drive to Mark's college, where she'll embarrass him in front of all his cool new friends in the dining hall. The Future Heather who will grab Mark, hugging him relentlessly, sobbing uncontrollably, screaming, "Mommy misses her little Marky!"

So, uh, yeah...Future Heather, don't do that. Unpack the car, take a deep breath, and sit down. Seriously. It was hard enough to get that kid into one college--transferring to another due to extreme maternal embarrassment is not an option.

Future Heather, Empty Nest Syndrome is coming. You may welcome it the first few months, as you gain back all the time usually spent cleaning up after Mark, putting away  the stuff he left out. But eventually, the house will be clean, and stay clean, and you'll realize with a shock it's because no one else is there to mess it up. (Except for Fernando, the freakishly large cat, who I'm hoping will finally calm down in five years. Please tell me he's calmer!)

What will you do, Future Heather? How will you navigate the silence, the cleanliness? How will you fill all those hours previously relegated to chauffeuring your child to and from social, academic and musical activities?

The answer is: I don't know. I'm still back here, in 2013, imagining it.

But Future Heather, before you get all verklempt about your son leaving, remember these things. Remember how dear young Mark left all of these things strewn about the house, and very nearly drove you to the very brink of insanity doing so.

Remember how blood sugar test strips cropped up everywhere, on every surface of every room in the house. How the strips tumbled out of the dryer with clean clothes, and how piles of them sprung up overnight, a toxic mountain of hazardous waste on the bookshelf. How you found them everywhere--in the couch, the fireplace, the backyard, even the cat litter box--and how you thought, endlessly, curiously, "How did a strip get there?"

Remember the straw wrappers, from one of the million little juice boxes Mark downed to correct low blood sugars. The wrappers littered the kitchen floor, hiding behind the trash can or under the fridge. They fluttered into the dining room, catching air from a light breeze through the kitchen window. Remember how they crinkled underfoot each night on your way to bed, or how you constantly wrestled them away from Fernando, worried he'd eat them, when really, he just wanted to chase them. (Note to Future Heather: Mark wasn't the only one who thought you were a killjoy.)

And remember those little pill caplets, how they rolled out from behind the coffee and sugar jars, from wherever Mark tossed them after emptying them into his milk. Remember how hard Mark fought you about them daily, insisting he couldn't swallow pills, until you finally gave in. The important part is the medicine inside, not the little orange shell, you reasoned, and boy, did you live to rue that decision. Remember the day you uncovered an entire cache of spent pills, the same day Fernando found and emptied a bag of insulin needles throughout the house? Thank God no one visited that day, because it would've been hard to convince them that, despite all outward appearances, this wasn't really a crack house.

I could go on about the other annoying habits--the backyard littered with sports equipment, the bedroom that smelled like a woolly mammoth died in it, thanks to the overflowing dirty clothes hamper--but Future Heather, I think you get the point.

The point is, the house won't be full of little "souvenirs" Mark left behind anymore. They moved out with Mark, moved on to college, where now they'll annoy a whole dormful of equally slovenly college kids, who may not have rivers of used test strips, but most certainly will have hampers of dirty clothes.

The point is...oh heck, who am I kidding? I'm trying, Future Heather, to point out how Mark annoyed you, so you won't miss him as much. But the bigger truth is that, annoying little habits aside, he's a great kid, and that raising him up was an honor. Yes, he drove you nuts sometimes, just like you drove your parents nuts, but he also made you smile and laugh. He made your heart swell with pride and joy, and the biggest truth of all is that he made your heart come alive and sing, just by being his mom. He made you a better person during his childhood years than you made yourself during your whole life prior to him.

So you know what, Future Mom, forget everything I just said. If you miss Mark, call him. Visit him--just plan it ahead of time (college kids don't like surprise visits), and keep it together when you do see him.

As for me, 2013 Heather, well, I'm busy, too. I just walked through a house full of strips, wrappers and pills, out to the backyard, to go play basketball with my kid.

And it's all thanks to you, Future Heather, who made me realize that while some things (like test strips) will live in my house forever, my kid will not.      

My son's in Jeopardy!

My brother Smed planned an Iron Man movie day with the boys, and Mark could hardly wait. But that day, he called me at lunch to say he couldn't go because he was in a Jeopardy! tournament.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"I don't know," Mark grumbled. "Means I can't go to the movies with Uncle Brad."

I could tell he was bummed. And I was surprised when he came home after school.

"What about Jeopardy!?" I said.

"It's not till 4:30," he answered.

I decided to tag along. I walked back to school with him, camera in hand, to take photos during the tournament. But I was confused when Mark turned into the school early, heading toward the first grade building, instead of to the middle of the school toward the auditorium.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Room 24," he said. Turns out it wasn't really a tournament, it was just the tryouts for the tournament.

"Wait, you're trying out?" I asked. "Last week you swore wouldn't try out--you changed your mind?"

"I had to," Mark said. "The history teacher made us. I'm playing against Kelly, but she doesn't want to win--she's embarrassed to go onstage."

"It's just you and Kelly?"

"And another girl, but she's not coming," Mark confided. "She already told us."

Then he smiled at me, all self-assured and confident, going into battle with one opponent who refused to show up, and another planning to throw the fight. He liked his odds.

I just sighed.

We found the room, and met the guy running the tournament ("I'll take random jobs for $100, Alex"). Kelly came into the room with a big sigh, plopping into the chair, and nodding almost imperceptibly to Mark. Mark saw her nod, and raised her an eyebrow.
 
The tournament guy waited a few minutes for the last contender. The kids said she wasn't coming, so he called her home. When her mom answered, he explained she was due in class for the Jeopardy! tournament. There was a momentary silence, and then he answered, "Um, sure...okay."

"Mom didn't know where she was," he told us. "She said tell her to call home if I find her."

This afternoon was getting weirder and weirder.

Finally, the game began.

I thought it would be a quick match. Kelly did play like she was throwing the match at first, refusing to answer any questions. Mark held his own, but then Kelly couldn't help herself--she answered a question correctly after Mark missed it. Her confidence rose with the correct answer, and bolstered by her win, she went for the jugular--the math questions. I knew Mark was doomed.

She whizzed through three math questions easily, as Mark and I sat there clueless. Seriously--I did not get one math question right. I had absolutely no idea what the answers were. The first problem was -3(8) + 12=36. The other problems used the same numbers, but moved the parentheses and switched up the positive and negative numbers.

Kelly switched to a new topic, Green, Bean or Spleen, where she guessed the first two correctly (she got verde, green; and legume, bean, but Mark got body part = spleen right).

I watched Mark falter during the World Leaders topic, when the question was about a Chinese Emperor during the Sui Dynasty whose name began with W.

"Wendi," I answered silently. I didn't even know who Wendi was until two days ago, when Mark wrote about him for a history report.

But Mark didn't answer. He just shrugged. Kelly sighed and answered correctly, and I started to wonder who was really throwing the challenge.

Kelly won by $100; Mark lost with a final tally of -$1,600. He seemed a little bummed, but I consoled him, saying, "If you come out of Jeopardy! with any money, you weren't trying hard enough."

Mark just stared at me.

"If you don't bet big, you don't win big," I clarified. He just shrugged again.

"I didn't know any of the math problems!" he cried.

"Don't worry," I said. "I didn't either. Not one!"

I asked about Wendi, and professed my surprise that Mark didn't answer that.

"Who?" he asked.

"Wendi, the Chinese Emperor," I said. 

Mark stared at me, blankly. 

"You know, the guy in your report TWO DAYS AGO??"

"Oh," he scoffed. "You think I remember something from two days ago?"

I sighed. Not really the answer I was hoping for.

"Anyway," I said. "Good job trying. How do you feel?"

"Bummed," he said. I started to say he battled well, but he interrupted with, "I can't believe I missed Iron Man for that."

And then I shut my mouth. Because honestly, I don't blame him. Missing a superhero movie to get crushed in 10 minutes by a girl who didn't even want to win...that's my idea of a rotten afternoon, too.

"Let's get some dinner," I said, patting his back. He had a hard loss, and the least I could do was buy him a drink. "Shirley Temples, on me," I said, and Mark brightened up at that.

So maybe the afternoon wasn't a total loss after all.

Out of the frying pan...

If my dear, sweet, young son doesn't make it to the end of the school year alive, it's not my fault--he brought it upon himself.

Mark won this little guy at a trip to Dave & Buster's last weekend. 

It's an alarm clock that looks like a big hunk of bacon. It shakes and dances, and sings a whole song about bacon, with some pretty complex lyrics, such as:

Get your butt up outta bed

It's time to get shakin'

Start your day off right 

With two pounds of bacon.

It's crispy, it's crunchy

You know it tastes great

So get that butt up 

or you might be late.

So get your legs a-movin' 

and get your arms a-shakin'

It's time to wake up 

and smell the bacon

Smell, smell

Smell the bacon

(sizzling sounds)

How do I know the words so well? Because Mark laid in bed, singing along with the song. When he finally got up, it wasn't to get dressed and/or eat his breakfast--it was to play the song 17 more times in a row.

"Make your bed," I reminded him the 37th time he played it.

"The bed is fine!" he replied. "Smell the bacon!"

"Brush your teeth," I told him.

"Bacon, bacon, ba-a-a-a-a-acon!" he rapped back.

"It's 7:50," I told, a little less patiently. Class was starting. 

"I'm putting on my shoes," he answered. I sighed. He has Converse high tops, and it takes him seven minutes to lace them up.

I finally gave up, and started working. This, of course, was when Mark decided he was ready. 

"Let's go!" he called out. "Are you ready?"

"Did you brush your teeth yet?" I asked.

He sighed loudly. "It doesn't matter! Are you ready to go or not?"

I bit my tongue--hard--telling myself not to answer, because nothing out of my mouth would be Supernanny-approved. But the withering look I shot him worked pretty well. 

"Fine," he grunted, then stomped off to pretend he was brushing his teeth. He stopped by his room one last time to hit the alarm and dance to the bacon song.

Finally, he dragged himself out to the car. Before I could unlock the doors, he grabbed the handle and shook it five times to annoy me. I got inside, and he shook the handle seven more times. I waited until he'd stopped, then moved my hand toward the lock. He shook the handle one last time. I just sat there, wondering if it was too early to substitute wine for my morning coffee.

During that two-second respite, Mark gave up, and started walking to school. I unlocked the door, and ordered him into the car. He ignored me, and I thought we were finally gonna have a show-down. But he abruptly turned, climbed in to the back seat, and rolled down the window.

I turned into the street, but noticed Mark was sitting very close to me.

"Is your seatbelt on?" I asked. 

He flopped back into his seat, and in his snottiest voice ever, brilliantly observed that, "It. Doesn't. Matter." I immediately pulled the car to the curb and waited, silently, until he sighed again, and clicked the belt in. 

"Just go!" he commanded. "Geez. This is how you make me late every day."

And that, my friends, is when I finally lost it. I laughed, loudly, continuously, until we got to school. 

"It's not that funny," Mark grumbled.

"Oh, yes," I answered. "Yes, it really is." And then I laughed again.

He rolled down both sets of back seat windows and slammed the door on the way out, just to be a jerk. But it didn't matter--I was no longer angry, or willing to be baited into a fight. 

"Have a good day!" I called out to him through the open window, but he just stormed off.

And I laughed again. Because I swear, humor (intentional or not) is the only thing that saved that kid's bacon today.