Unlikely inspiration

The parenting advice I hear most often is "Pick your battles." That's good advice, but it's kinda like saying, "Feed your unicorn every day." You can certainly pick the battles you want, but that's no guarantee you'll walk away any more successful than if you picked every single battle you wanted.

I know this, because twice a day, I engage in battle with my son. I'm not sure if that makes me a good, consistent mom, or a glutton for punishment. I suspect it's a little of both.

The battle I've picked is brushing teeth. Or, more specifically, Mark brushing his teeth. I feel like this is a righteous battle, and one the universe should side with me on. And yet, every day I realize I'd really be more successful feeding a unicorn than getting Mark to brush his teeth.

I've tried everything--rewards, encouragement, praise, threats...well, that's it, actually. I don't know what else to try.

I taught him good habits when he was little, how to brush and for how long. He'd shrug his shoulders, then tell me it didn't matter, because these were baby teeth and he was going to lose them all anyway. (It's hard to argue with that.)

I tried buying fun, spinny toothbrushes, which he treated as toys, not dental tools.

I scared him with stories of "sugar bugs" and cavities. He just looked at me and rubbed his fingers and thumb together in the universal sign for "more money."

"Tooth Fairy," he'd say, then spend the next hour deciding what to buy with his riches.

"No girl will ever want to kiss you," I tell him now that he's older.

"GOOD!" he says, though I'm sure he'll change his mind about that in the next couple years.

I've about given up. I'm pretty sure he's gonna grow up into a toothless hillbilly. And yet, I can't help myself. I still engage in the twice-daily battle.

"Brush your teeth," I tell Mark every morning. He replies, "OK," then shuts the bathroom door for approximately three seconds before shouting, "Done!"

"Brush your teeth," I tell Mark every night.

"I did," he insists, before going straight to bed.

I touch his toothbrush, which is always pristine and dry. (Don't worry, I'm not passing any germs onto him--he's never actually put that toothbrush into his mouth.)

Toothbrushes are the same age. One needs replacing, one is barely used. Guess which one's Mark's?

"I know you're lying!" I shout in what I'm sure is the exact opposite of June Cleaver's voice and demeanor. But hey, Beaver Cleaver always felt guilty when he did something wrong. My little angel does not share that trait.

And then, a couple days ago, out of the blue, a miracle happened.

We were talking about work, and what went on at my office that day. I mentioned that my poor friend Frankie went to the dentist for gum surgery.

"Gum surgery?" Mark asked, nervously running a finger across his mouth.

"Yep," I said. "She said they shoot a big needle into her gums to numb them first!"

Mark seemed to pale at that. He gulped, took a few steps backwards, then said, "I don't know why, but I suddenly feel like brushing my teeth." And he ran off to do exactly that.

I just sat there, dumbfounded. I didn't tell him the story to scare him, but hey, who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth? (Seriously--the most apropos cliche ever!)

And now I'm glad to report that in the past few days, Mark has brushed his teeth without fail. He gave me attitude about it once, and I just casually remarked, "Frankie said that needle was BIG," which sent Mark scurrying to the bathroom.

And sent me to work, to thank Frankie for what those parenting experts call a "teachable moment." Because finally, finally, I picked my battle and won.

A dusty, dirty, awesome weekend in a ghost town

I spent the past weekend camping with the Scouts in Calico Ghost Town. Can't say that's something I would've ever done pre-kid, but turns out, I had a really great time.

Calico's out in the high desert, just past Barstow. The campground is not much to look at, mostly hard-packed dirt, rocks and a couple trees (not in our sites). But the mountains surrounding it are gorgeous, and the wildlife is pretty cool. (And once again, the foxes stole a loaf of bread!) 

 I thought these were really big quail--they were actually partridges. And there weren't even any pear trees around!

 
I was very excited to try out my new tent and double-high air mattress on this trip. 

Home sweet home.

Mark still worried that my tent has no rain fly, but I explained that I don't need a rain fly because if it's rains, I'M GOING HOME. To my warm, enclosed house. I have nothing to prove to Mother Nature--the first time she rains on me, I'm going home. End of story.

The tent was AWESOME! The description and accompanying video swear you can set the whole thing up in under a minute. Because I'm not the most advanced camper and because I'm bad at almost everything, I convinced myself I could probably pitch the tent in maybe 10 or 15 minutes. But the tent lived up to its hype--I honestly had the tent assembled and ready to go in less than a minute. BEST. TENT. EVER.

Not as impressive? The wimpy little tent stakes.

Yeah, those stakes and that little rock will keep this tent grounded.

I'm sure they work just fine in grass, but there's not one blade of grass in Calico. I wasn't even going to bother with the stakes, until I remembered the crazy wind that sent all the tents flying last year. So I improvised--Calico doesn't have grass but it has plenty of big boulders. I chucked the stakes, and carried in a bunch of giant rocks, distributing them around the tent floor.

Stop judging. My tent did NOT fly away, so this was brilliant.

The troop spent the afternoon hiking to some nearby caves, which meant all the boys and most of the adults were gone. I briefly thought about joining them, then laughed at that silly notion and set out my chair instead. I spent a quiet afternoon with a good friend I rarely see anymore because of my hectic schedule--my People magazine. I tore through four issues before the boys came back--it was an unexpected luxury.

I ventured up to the boys' camp around dinner time to take some photos. 

Scout camp.

The Scouts were preparing their meals when I interrupted a discussion on hygiene.

"Use soap and water to wash your hands," one boy told another. "Don't use hand sanitizer!"

"It's all the same," the second boy retorted.

"No, it's not!" the first boy said. "Use soap and water. You're making burgers with your hands--we don't want them to taste like hand sanitizer!"

I was suddenly grateful we had our own cooks down at the adult camp. 

 

Young boys and a full-size propane tank. Nothing to worry about, here, right? 

Turns out the boys weren't making just any old burgers--they were making "manburgers." They distributed about a pound of beef to each boy, who then shaped it into a giant manburger. I wondered how long it takes to grill a manburger (hopefully not as long as a hobo packet--Mark once created a monstrous meatball that took over an hour to cook!).

After they ate, the boys cleaned up. They were trying to hurry, so they could go into town, but I watched as a steady stream of boys trickled past our camp. One unlucky guy, Dan, had a nosebleed, which traumatized him a bit. Another boy walked by carrying something long and heavy. An adult leader also saw him and immediately boomed, "What is that and why are you carrying it?"

"I dunno," the boy shrugged. "I just found it."

Turns out it was a thick metal pipe, as tall as the boy was, painted and filled with cement. It fit snugly into the ground by the bathrooms, a barricade to keep cars from backing into the building. I can't believe that kid carried that heavy thing as far as he did--and I have no idea what he was going to do with it if he'd gotten it up to camp!


The leader then decided to check on the boys, to make sure "no one was lighting anything on fire"--a very real concern. Always an adventure, Scout camping.

After dinner, we followed the boys into town. There weren't any of the crazy characters that usually roamed the town--no big tall guy, or sneaky chainsaw guy. I was a little bummed at that--my favorite Calico memory is of the chainsaw guy stalking and scaring my friend Karen. :-)

The boys skipped the dance this year, instead heading over to the saloon. It's a little unsettling to see them all in the saloon, moseying up to the bar and downing dark bottles of root beer, rubber band guns at their sides. It's what I imagine the Wild West would be like if had it been tamed by Boy Scouts.

I returned to camp exhausted, but got a great night's sleep on my new double-high air mattress. I felt like a bit of a diva, but since I woke up happy and well-rested, who cares. The only problem was that I put the tent and mattress up so quickly, it was on a bit of a slope, and I almost rolled off the bed at first. (I caught myself quickly since a double-high mattress + falling three feet onto rocky, hard dirt = PAIN.)

The next morning, the Scouts packed up their tents and cleaned the camp in record time. Seriously, I don't know what got in to them (maturity? experience? the lure of In N Out burgers for lunch?) but the whole place was packed and ready to go by 10 a.m., a new record. We ended the camping part with a group circle, where the boys and parents all named one thing they were grateful for. Food was a popular choice, as was the time spent with family and friends. One Scout looked pointedly (OK, accusingly) at the older Scouts, and said he was thankful the big boys didn't wander off trail this year, and that they actually finished their hike to the caves. But my favorite was Dan, who said he was thankful he didn't bleed out from his bloody nose.

After finishing the thankful circle with a laugh, it was on to rocket time!

We drove down to a nearby dry lake bed to shoot off the rockets. Mark broke off two of his rocket's wings when he packed for the trip. He then sat on the rocket, bending the nose and breaking off all the other wings. He also managed to glue the parachute into the nose, so by the time we got there, his rocket was both a mess and a danger. The troop leader refused to let him fly it.

Menace to society--the rocket, I mean.

"It's too dangerous," he told Mark. "It'll come down at us like a missile." That is, if the engine didn't burn through the parachute and rocket first...and come down at us as a flaming missile!

Since Mark had engines, the leader lent him another rocket, so the trip wasn't a total loss. Besides, it was fun to watch the other boys. They'd get the whole group to count down from 10, then they'd launch the rocket, while the younger boys raced down the lake bed to catch it. 

 Scouts warming up--they were ready to chase down those rockets.

 

 Lift off!

The race to catch it before it lands with a thud.

Dan and his brother realized a little late that the rockets don't come assembled. Poor kid sat on the cracked, dry dirt with a million little rocket pieces before him, looking kinda sad and lost.

But Scouts look out for each other. The older Scouts quickly assembled his rocket, forgetting only one minor piece--the parachute. We watched Dan's rocket soar straight up, and everyone cheered. Then they gasped, realizing the parachute didn't open, held their breath, and watched as the rocket turned down and shot back to the Earth even faster. I realized then what the troop leader meant about Mark's rocket turning in to a missile.

The rocket crashed into the ground at breakneck speed, and the boys cheered even louder. They ran to retrieve it, and brought back a dented, zig-zagged rocket. The nose had a new Z-shape, and looked a little like a lightning bolt. They boys excitedly asked if they could launch it again. One leader said no, the other said "Tape it up straight," and two minutes later, it soared into the air again, and then into oblivion somewhere out by the highway. No one could top that, so we decided to leave on a high note.

Mark and I returned home filthy and tired, but happy. Although we spent most of the trip in passing, we both had a blast. Mark got to be a grubby boy, playing in the dirt with his friends, and I got to hang out with the cool Scout parents. It was an altogether awesome trip.

The very bane of my existence

Or maybe just my nose's existence.

This picture looks like a pair of perfectly innocent shoes, but let me tell you, it is not. Right now you should thank your God and all other deities that this photo is not four-dimensional, or else you might be gagging at the smell a wee bit.

If there's something smellier than a 13-year-old boy after football practice, I've yet to meet it. A skunk almost destroyed my neighborhood a few nights ago with its noxious fumes, but I sniffed the air slightly and thought, "Nope. Still not as ripe..."

And just to make things worse, Mark leaves these shoes by the couch. My couch. My refuge at the end of the day. My safe, happy place. So when I'm exhausted and just want to veg in front of the TV, I am assaulted by the smells wafting from them.

Something had to be done. I called in the big guns.

That's right, a giant bottle of What Odor? spray, guaranteed to eliminate the most foul fumes around. It was actually invented to kill odor in sneakers, and it works really well. 

I gently grabbed the heel of Mark's shoes, sprayed them down, then repeated. If that didn't kill the smell, I was tossing those puppies out.

I washed the funk off my hands and returned to my couch, pleased with myself. But my joy quickly died when Mark entered the room, sniffing the air dramatically.

"DID YOU JUST SPRAY MY SHOES?" he thundered.

I looked at him in disbelief. I was the victim here--what the heck was he going on about???

"You DID spray my shoes," he accused, hugging his precious, dripping wet sneakers to his chest.

"Yes, I did," I shot back. "You're welcome."

"I didn't want you to spray them!" he whined. "I HATE that smell!"

"You--what?" I asked.

"I hate that smell! What Odor? smells terrible--I can't believe you sprayed my shoes with it!" He stood there, glaring at me.

And this is the part where, as in most Mark stories, I just looked at him and shook my head. Because only in Mark's world is the disinfectant spray more offensive than the deadly taint of smelly, sweaty, disgusting tennis shoes. It's almost like he said, "See that meadow of spring flowers over there? The one just beyond the bakery setting out fresh loaves of bread and cookies? Well, that meadow smells WORSE than the trash dump full of dirty diapers down the street."

"Sorry," I finally told him. "Maybe you don't like the What Odor? smell, but honestly, those shoes made my eyes and nose burn. This odor beats that odor. There's no contest. Now go put those shoes outside!"

He stomped out of the room, then off to bed. And I resumed my place on the couch, which no longer smelled like an entirely family of sickly skunks died there.

And yes, the What Odor? did its job beautifully. I wasn't brave enough to do an up-close smell test, but the room didn't reek when Mark left it, so that is a job well done.

For one of us, at least.

(Slow) Race to space

As a mom and a woman, I know my limitations. I'm not handy around the house (personal flaw, not female stereotype) and I'm not good at putting together things that have intensive, multi-page instructions (ironic, since I'm a tech writer). Rockets definitely fall into that latter category. 

About two years ago, I bought Mark a model rocket ship to shoot off at a Boy Scout activity. But we ran out of time to build it, and it sat in Mark's closet a whole year.

Last year, we took it out of the box again. I saw all the tiny part and glanced at the detailed instructions, and I put that rocket back in its box. We decided I am not the person to help Mark achieve the goal of building a model rocket ship, but I promised him Grandpa or Uncle Scott would.

This year, I was determined to build that damn rocket. Mark collected his box and engines, and we drove up to Uncle Scott's house. I figured that a) he'd get a better built rocket if Uncle Scott helped him, and b) it would be a good male bonding activity for them both.

I was wrong on both accounts.

My first clue was when they dumped out the box and realized they were missing a part. 

"Can't you just forget it?" I asked. "Is there any way to work around it?"

"Nope," Scott said, studying the box. "It's the piece that holds the engine."

So we did what any well-respected rocket builder would do--we went to the hobby shop and purchase another brand new rocket.

Forty-five minutes later, Mark and Scott started assembly. They spread the pieces out all over the table, then took the body downstairs to paint. They returned with a lime green rocket.

While the body dried, they started assembling the rest of the rocket. I sat in the kitchen talking to my sister-in-law, occasionally glancing at the boys. Uncle Scott was digging deep into his tool box, while Mark was staring deeply at the TV.

"Mark," I hissed, nodding at Scott.

"What should I do, Uncle Scott?" he asked dutifully.

Scott handed him the body and told him to glue on a wing. Mark did.

But when I checked in an hour later, they were still trying to glue on the wings. They'd used white glue and Gorilla Glue. Neither was working. 

"Do you have any Krazy Glue?" I asked. "That stuff works on everything."

I know from experience--I've used Krazy Glue to fix broke plates, bike parts, furniture, garden gnomes, you name it. If it's cracked or broken, I'm Krazy gluing it--and if that doesn't work, I throw the broken stuff out because it's not worth my trouble. That's how much I love Krazy Glue.

"We're using Gorilla Glue," Scott replied, a little irritated.

"Gorilla Glue is the best," Mark said, as though I were a complete idiot.

"But it's not working," I pointed out.

"Because the paint is still tacky," they said.

"OK," I shrugged. "But Krazy Glue sticks to everything."

I could see I was bugging them, but hey, we were two hours into this project with no end in sight. Scott sighed, dug in his toolbox and retrieved a tube of Krazy Glue.

He applied a thin layer, and sure enough, the wing stuck! Not great, but good enough.

"Huh," Scott said. He handed over the tube and wings to Mark, who was still absorbed in the TV, and told him to get to work.

I helped Mark attach the wings, then Scott added an extra layer of white glue. Scott finished off the rest of work, which required finer motor skills or patience than I have. He gingerly attached the two tubes used to mount the rocket onto the launch pad, then slid the skewer out.

Three hours after they started, they had a rocket. The paint was smudged a bit, the wings were a bit off center, and the boys' hands were covered in various types of glues.

"There you go," Scott said, handing the rocket to Mark. "I don't know how they managed to make it so difficult--it's just a tube, but they really made it complicated."

"Thanks," Mark said. He grabbed the rocket as though it were a hot coal. "Bye, everyone," he called. "Thanks for lunch. Thanks for helping me with my rocket."

I said goodbye to Scott and Mari, then went downstairs to say goodbye to the kids. When I was done, I looked around for Mark, who was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Mark?" I asked the kids.

"Outside," Grant said. Sure enough, he was sitting on the curb next to the car, rocket in hand. He couldn't wait to leave.

"Did you have fun?" I asked him on the ride home.

"That was the WORST afternoon ever!" Mark whined. "It was so boring. I don't ever wanna build another rocket again."

"It'll be fine," I soothed. "Juts think how much fun it'll be to launch it."

"I don't care," Mark said. "I'm done with this rocket. You never would've been able to help with it--you would've been sooooooo mad."

"I know," I said. "That's why I brought you to Uncle Scott's." 

I wouldn't let him shoot off a rocket I helped with, anyway--I'd be afraid something would explode in Mark's face during the launch. I was grateful for Scott's help, even if Mark wasn't.

Mark was so grumpy, I just shut up. I turned up the car radio, and two minutes later, I started laughing when Elton John's song "Rocket Man" started playing.

"Hey, Mark, it's your song!" I said. "You're a rocket man!"

"No, I'm not," Mark said. "I hate rockets. I don't ever want to talk about rockets again." And with that, he snapped off the radio.

Wow, I thought. So much for the male bonding. And for rockets...

...and *nobody* wants to see that

Mark and I went for a nightly stroll last night. We live smack dab in suburbia where the houses all look the same, and I'm embarrassed to admit that sometimes, I get a little lost. It's an older community, "mid-century modern" as my friend Michelle calls it, so the houses aren't identical, just similar enough to confuse me a bit.

It confuses Mark, too.

"I have no idea," he said, when we came to a corner and I asked if we should go left or right. "I don't recognize any of this."

I shined my flashlight around, and the corner house suddenly looked familiar.

"Right," I told Mark. I nodded toward the corner house and said, "Remember that place? You went trick or treating there a couple years ago."

Mark looked at the place, shook his head and told me he didn't remember it.

"It had a haunted tunnel," I reminded him. "You had to go through the tunnel to earn your candy."

And suddenly, the light went on.

"I HATED that place!" he yelled.

"What did you hate so much?" I asked.

"Umm, EVERYTHING," he said. "People were scaring us inside! I hated them. I hated those two words. Haunted. Tunnel. What makes you think I'd like THAT? I hated it all!"

His outrage made me giggle. He'd seemed a little nervous about going in at the time, but not like this.

"And they wouldn't let me take a flashlight in," he grumbled.

"They didn't want you to ruin the illusion," I said. "They didn't want you to see them up close."

"Did they want to see me wetting my pants?" Mark asked. "Because that's what they WOULD have seen, if I had a flashlight."

I couldn't even giggle, I straight up laughed out loud.

"You didn't really wet your pants, did you?" I asked, when I could finally catch my breath.

"No," Mark admitted. "But I was scared."

"OK," I said. "No more haunted tunnels this, year. I promise."

"I don't care," he said. "I'm going to Tristan's party anyway."

I nodded. I didn't remember the story the same way Mark did, but last year's Halloween now made more sense. I couldn't figure out why, given parental permission and almost unlimited freedom, Mark hadn't run off further to collect free candy with his friend Jonah. Instead, he and Jonah kept slinking back to the house, under the guise of scaring littler kids.

But now I understood. It wasn't independence Mark longed for, it was actually protection. From haunted tunnels, scary adults and publicly wetting his pants.

Huh...can't say I blame the kid!

 

Worst babysitters ever (or the BEST, if you ask Mark)

I will preface this post by saying that I have the most awesome family in the world. I appreciate them tremendously, and I'd never survive as a single mom without their support--it is both humbling and amazing how quickly they say yes to watching Mark when I need a babysitter.

However...that being said, the quality of child care has dropped quite a bit.

When I received a last-minute ticket to see Maroon 5 this weekend, my mom graciously agreed to watch Mark. It got even better when we arrived--because we were taking a party bus to/from the concert, my mom insisted I stay at my friend Nicky's. 

"I can handle Mark overnight," she said, and I couldn't love her any more than I did in that moment.

My brother Brad and his wife Shanda were also in town.

"Come on, Mark," they said. "We're going to Oktoberfest."

"Is that okay?" my mom asked, as they walked out the door.

"Of course," I replied. I knew he'd be safe and have fun with the family (and what else could I say? I took him to Oktoberfest myself last weekend!).

My worries started when I arrived home the next morning.

"Hi, Mom," Mark called, as he zipped past me in the hallway.

"Is he wearing the same clothes he was yesterday?" I asked my mom, who was right behind him.

She looked at Mark running away and said simply, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" I asked.

Mark ran by again, and smiled at me. All I could see was a mouthful of fuzzy teeth. 

"Did he brush his teeth at all?" I asked.

"What do you want from me?" she said, holding up her hands. "He's alive, isn't he?"

I burst into laughter.

"Yes, he is," I answered. "But I didn't know that was the level of care we were striving for here."

"He's fine," my mom said. "He ate really well at Oktoberfest. He drank two sodas--"

"Three!" Mark interrupted. "I had three sodas!"

My mom saw my concerned face and shrugged. "OK," she said. "So I didn't see that last soda...but he's fine."

"Let me get this straight," I said. "He's wearing the same clothes I dropped him off in, he drank THREE sodas, and he hasn't brushed his teeth since he's been here?"

"Like I said...what do you want from me?" my mom repeated, and this time, we all burst into laughter. (I wasn't really mad, just thought it was funny.)

Mom and I went off to buy a gift for a birthday party that afternoon. When we got home, the house was strangely quiet.

"Where's Mark?" I asked my dad.

"He went with Brad and Shanda," Dad answered.

"To the brewery?!?" I asked.

"To the birthday party," Dad clarified.

"They were going beer-tasting at a brewery first," I told him. This was news to my dad.

I knew Mark's motives--it wasn't quality time with his aunt and uncle. No, he was lured by a more basic instinct. He knew where there was beer, there was also soda (maybe even root beer!), and he was all over that.

By the time I arrived at the party, Mark was pretty sugared up. Two cans of carbonated juice were lined up before him, and he was about to pop open a third.

"He's already had two cans," Shanda warned me. I shot him a look.

"This is my SECOND can," he announced. I silently pointed at the empty cans beside him.

"Fine, it's my third," he admitted. "But I bolused."

"Get some water instead," I told him. He groaned but did it. He drank the water, then 15 minutes later when no one was looking, he downed the third juice as well.

In the end, I just went with it. Like my mom said, Mark was still alive, there was no permanent damage and that seemed good enough for me. I got to hang out with my friends, and a grubby, hyperactive kid all hopped up on sugar seemed a small price to pay for it.

And hey, I wasn't going to look into the whole situation too deeply. Because if I did, I'd realize that the bad parents in this scenario weren't the ones who fed him soda or took him to the brewery...it was the parent who entrusted him to those parents!

Whatever. Like my mom said, Mark was alive, and he had a great weekend. And now I know where we've set the bar, and the standard of care I can expect. I guess you really do get what you pay for!

Sympathy

Fine, I'll admit it--sometimes when my son is hurt, I run out of sympathy too quickly.

I'm not proud of this, I just never know exactly how sympathetic I'm supposed to be. My first reaction is always to immediately rush in and help my boy, but I've watched Mark smack his head on a giant planter when he was little, and immediately push me away. Conversely, I've seen a (removed) splinter require days of attention, bandages and antibiotic cream.

At least once a week, Mark appears with some appendage wrapped in gauze from the school nurse's office. He regales me with tales of how he fell in P.E., basketball or, sometimes, just walking. (He really is my kid.)

But I knew things were bad yesterday when I walked in the door. Crutches were propped against the wall, and as soon as I made eye contact, Mark burst into tears.

"I hurt my foot," he sobbed, rubbing his shoe. "I was running in football, and I tripped."

I sat beside him, and touched it gingerly. "Does it hurt here?" I asked. "Or here?"

He nodded both times.

I wasn't sure what to do. He had a drum lesson in 15 minutes, which was already a re-schedule. I couldn't cancel it now, at the last minute, but I didn't want Mark drumming with an injured foot.

"Get your bag," I said. "We have to go to drums, but if it hurts too much, don't use your foot. Just work on your snare."

Mark nodded, wiping the tears away. Then he stood, and with the most affected limp I've even seen, he dragged his seemingly dead foot to the door.

When we got to the lesson, he forgot he was injured and stepped out of the car. He quickly remembered, and resumed his limp, which actually took more effort than real walking did.

My gut said Mark was fine, but he was putting so much work into garnering sympathy that I gave it to him. I sat him on the couch when we got home, elevating his foot on a pillow. I gave him ice and Advil, and promised to take him to the doctor if it still hurt in the morning.

I put away the crutches while he slept, but he didn't seem to notice when he woke up. He limped awkwardly to breakfast, and I knew he was about to lay it on thick. I couldn't tell what he was angling for exactly--was he really working for a whole day off from school because of this?

"Your foot still hurts?" I asked.

He nodded, rubbing his sock.

"Let's put ice on it," I said, but he shook his head. "More ibuprofen, too, to keep the swelling down."

"It's not swollen," he snapped. "And no ice. It didn't help last night."

"You have to ice it more than once," I said. "And take more than one ibuprofen. It doesn't get better after one pill and one ice pack!"

But he refused. "No," he said bluntly. "It didn't work. I won't do it again."

I wasn't sure what brought about the snottiness, other than that it was morning, and he's not a morning person. I bit my tongue, refusing to be baited into an argument.

"So..." he said, after a few silent moments. "Are you gonna take me to the doctor?"

"The doctor's gonna tell you to ice it and take Advil," I told him.

He didn't like that one bit.

"So you're not gonna take me the doctor?" he spewed. "Only you get to go to the doctor when you're sick?"

I didn't like that tone at all, so I called his bluff.

"You're right," I said. "You should see the doctor. You need a flu shot anyway. Call me at lunch, and if it still hurts, we'll go to the doctor this afternoon."

That shut him up. The only thing worse than no sympathy is a shot. Mark wasn't going for that.

When I dropped him off at school, I reminded him to call at lunch. Curiously, my phone did not ring during his entire lunch break.

It did ring 15 minutes afterward, though. It was the school nurse, and for a brief minute, I felt like the world's worst mom. I instantly knew she was calling to say his foot was broken!

"Don't worry," she started out. "Mark's fine, but his head is a little banged up."

"I know--" I started, then stopped. "Did you say his head?"

"His head," she repeated. "He was playing football at lunch, and collided with a buddy. They crashed into each other, but he's already gone, so I think he's fine."

She stopped talking when she realized I was laughing.

"I'm sorry," I explained. "He hurt his foot yesterday, and I felt guilty for not taking him to the doctor. But he must be fine after all, if he was running all over the football field."

"Yeah, his foot is fine," she said. "I just wanted to give you a heads up about his head."

Then we both giggled at her pun. I thanked her for calling, and hung up, preparing myself. I needed to practice some sympathy, because I'll need a bucketload when I get home tonight and Mark shows off his latest injury.

I just hope today's injury is similar to yesterday's--and that all Mark really hurt was his pride. Because I'm gonna treat it the same as I treated his foot--with ice, Advil and as much sympathy as he'll allow or I can muster.

MC Mark

Last weekend, Mark's Scout troop held their Court of Honor, celebrating rank advancements and earned merit badges. It's hosted by the boys, which is always entertaining.

This time, it was Mark's turn to MC. He and his three co-hosts rocked it!

I was worried about his performance. Not because he's afraid of public speaking, but because he's not. Mark's not shy AT ALL--just ask anyone who's watched him swagger onstage at a school or Scout event, arms raised victoriously above his head, winking and pointing at people in the seats. He's a born showman, who loves an audience and a chance to make them laugh.

What he's not good at is preparation. I reminded him the Court of Honor is a serious, structured event, and troop leaders expect reverence, not improv. They wanted Mark and the other boys to show up prepared. I broke into a nervous sweat just contemplating that when Mark volunteered.

Turns out, I didn't need to worry. Like my friend Frankie says, "Everything always works out for Mark."

He did an awesome job onstage, speaking in a loud, clear voice. He knew his lines and executed them perfectly. His biggest issue was purely physical--the podium was nearly as tall as him, so you could only see the top of his head (even on his tippy-toes!).

The funniest part was during the raffle. The boys stood somberly onstage, explaining the rules.

"We will call the last three numbers on the ticket," they said. "If we call your number, go to the back of the room to collect your prize. Please have your tickets ready."

One boy cleared his throat, then called the first number, while the other three boys scanned the room for the winner.

"4-5-0," the MC said, and suddenly, Mark screamed.

"That's me!" he shouted, instantly turning from serious MC to excited young boy. "Woo hoo!"

He literally jumped off the stage, and ran as fast as he could toward the prizes, the whole room cracking up at him.

The other MCs called out more numbers, and the reactions were similar to Mark's. I don't think the boys realize there's a prize for each Scout--I love watching the unbridled excitement and surprise when their numbers are called.

Mark was thrilled to be the first winner, since he got to pick first from all the prizes. It's all camping gear, and Mark always goes for the sharpest, shiniest thing available. Last year, he picked a serrated wire to use as a camp saw. This year, he picked out another beauty:

Seriously, who thinks that's a good prize for a 13-year-old kid??? That is a prime example of how differently Scout moms and dads think (no mom would ever offer a knife as a prize!).

The knife pretty much killed all Mark's remaining interest in the Court of Honor. He returned to the table with his new toy, and immediately tried prying the plastic open with a butter knife. Mark couldn't wait to get that knife out and cut himself.

"Not now, Mark," I hissed. We were sitting at a front table--I didn't want all the Scout families to watch him slice his finger off before we even got to dessert.

Mark sighed and put it down. He completely ignored the other MCs, instead running his fingers over the package. He couldn't believe his good/bad luck--he won the shiniest prize of all, but had a buzzkill mom who wouldn't let him show it off.

Finally, new ranks and badges collected, Mark closed out the ceremony. He thanked everyone for coming to the winter Court of Honor (we'll review the seasons later, since this was actually September), and called the Chaplain's Aide to end with a prayer.

I thought Mark was anxious to get home because he was tired, but I should've known better. He ran for the scissors before I'd even stepped in the door. I again warned him to be careful.

"Why don't you trust me, mom?" he asked.

"Because this is how you look when you're holding that knife," I answered. "Like a little psycho."

"I'm like a baby Dexter," he laughed, and suddenly, I realized I wouldn't sleep at all that night.

Neither of us could figure out how to actually close the blade. There was a trigger inside the handle, in the perfect position to slice your finger when the blade closed.

"Let's ask Uncle Brad about this," I said, stashing away the open blade. Mark agreed that was a good idea. My brother Brad agreed even more when I texted him a picture and asked how to work the damn thing.

"Leave it alone and I'll show you how to close it," he texted back, validating my fear that Mark wasn't the only one in danger of losing a finger.

And so I did leave it alone. I put away the knife, and instead focused on Mark's success. He did a great job working with the other MCs on a script, and kept the ceremony running smoothly. And, as an added bonus, he had a bagful of new merit badges--eight!--that he earned over the summer. 

Inappropriate Dexter jokes aside, I'm really proud of my super Scout. 

Zicke zacke zicke zacke, oi oi oi!

The Boy Scouts hosted a mountain biking activity this past weekend. Originally, it was mountain biking AND camping, and I signed Mark up faster than you could say "Oktoberfest."

Or rather, "Oktoberfest in Big Bear." My family's gone for years, and loves it, and this year I was determined to do a little chicken dancing myself. I texted a couple friends, purchased some tickets online, and I was ready to go.

Until...the Scouts cancelled the camping trip. Biking was still on, but no camping, and as an extra bonus, the event now started at 5:30 a.m. with a two-hour drive to the mountains.

Now, I think of myself as a good mom, and I spend lots of time chauffeuring Mark to social activities, but come on, Mama needs a little sleep. So I made an executive decision--Mark could still mountain bike, but we'd go up the mountain as planned, the day before. And Oktoberfest was still on, although we'd now have an extra chicken dancer in tow.

Mark loved the mountain biking. Well, he loved the second half of it, anyway. The first half, the Scouts turned onto a fire trail and got lost. The road was steep and windy, and at every turn, they encountered another uphill climb. Eventually, they found their way back to the ski slopes, but Mark said it was grueling.

Back to the ski resort, the trip literally went downhill. The slopes became dusty biking trails. The boys jumped on the chair lifts, their bikes went on the seats behind them, and they spent the afternoon racing downhill. Mark loved that part.

By the time Michelle, Nicky and I picked him up, Mark was exhausted.

"Can I go back to the house and rest?" he pleaded, but I shook my head no. I reminded Mark it was Oktoberfest time. He whinged and whined, and I may have (innocently, inadvertently) used the phrases "Suck it up" and "Deal with it" but hey, it was all in the name of cultural enrichment.

Oktoberfest was a blast. We found some seats and promptly made some new friends. Mark sat down, sighed, and rested his head on the table. I sighed, too, for a completely different reason--I could tell I was in for some serious 13-year-old pouting. (I felt a little guilty about it the next day, when I learned the boys biked 25 miles, earning Mark a legitimate excuse to be tired.)

Michelle, Nicky and I weren't tired, though. We ended up at the bar, where we bought a round of enormous beers. We followed it up with this snack:

 

Everything about Oktoberfest is giant and full of carbs!

We cheered, laughed, and danced along with the Polka Dots, a band from Germany. They were great fun, although it's hard to take grown men seriously when they're dressed in lederhosen and knee-high socks.

We bought commemorative beer steins and cheered again. We had dinner, which was just okay, and apple strudel for dessert, which was awesome. We danced some more--the Electric Slide, a conga line, and even the Cha Cha dance ("Slide to the left..."), which all seemed a little out of place, but still fun. We also did the Chicken Dance, swinging ourselves all over the place. I love that best of all, because it reminds me of my little German grandmother, who always came to life when that song played. I imagined her imitating a dancing chicken and laughed.

Nicky and our new friend Kat entered the beer stein holding contest. Neither won, but they weren't the first ones out, so I say they did pretty well. I consoled Nicky by reminding her the steins were full of water, which she didn't want to drink anyway. We handed her back her own stein, not nearly as heavy, but filled with beer and declared her the winner for our table.

Mark didn't seem to have as much fun as we did. He eventually made his way to the "kinder garten" outside, but refused to ride the mechanical bull or the kid's rides. He did enjoy the ring toss game, though, repeatedly extracting money from my wallet with the excuse that it all went to charity. The goal was to toss the rings onto a small pole in the middle of the table to win $10. The game had the additional challenge of throwing around Carl, an elderly volunteer who seemed intent on collecting rings from the table, then standing directly in front of us. He blocked the table, so we had to shoot around him, which made the game virtually impossible to win but funny.

No one won the 10 bucks while we were there, but they won lots of smaller prizes. If your ring landed on any coins on the table, you'd win additional rings. Mark and I kept doing that, until we had probably a hundred rings in front of us.

Mark loaded the rings on his fingers, then made a skipping motion across them.

"I'm making it rain!" he laughed, but I immediately shut that down. I still had some modicum of propriety left.

Eventually, we ran out of rings, even with Carl slipping us extras. We never won big, but it kept us busy and happy for half an hour, so we didn't walk away total losers.

Eventually, we realized we'd reached the adults-only portion of the evening (no kids were allowed in after 6). We were happy, full of German beer, food and music, but Mark was exhausted. We decided to call it a night before any more hard-drinking adults arrived.

I left with a smile, as the last few notes of a German polka faded behind me. My friends were happy, I was happy, and although the kid wasn't thrilled, he'd spent a great day exploring the local mountains. It was a pretty fun weekend, in my book, at least.