The gift

Now that Mark's firmly ensconced in his teen age years, his conversational skills haven't just diminished, they've completely stopped. Oh sure, he's talkative when it comes to something he wants  but for everything else, getting him to answer a question is akin to prying a donut out of his hand. It just ain't gonna happen.

I've spent this year re-phrasing the question "How was your day?" to elicit any answer other than "Fine." I've inquired about school projects, friends, the best thing that happened that day. I've asked about sports, current events, skateboards, Fixie bikes and Christmas lists. I've asked every open-ended question I could think of, and I was met with the same answer for each one: a stony silence, followed by a shrug and, "I dunno."

So I gave up. Mark doesn't talk unless he wants to, so I tried to let the conversations occur organically. Nothing happened, except that I spent my dinner times in my own head, wishing for things like dinner conversation, world peace and a private chef--hey, they all have an equal likelihood of coming true.

And then something weird happened. Mark began talking. All on his own. Without any poking or prodding, without any pointed questions. He just started talking.

It had nothing to do with my bazillion questions. In fact, it had nothing to me at all. I simply told Mark I needed some exercise, and was going for a walk after dinner.

I invited him along. I figured he'd decline, opting to stay inside the warm house. But he surprised me and said yes, and off into the dark night air we went.

I was quiet. I'd exhausted all my questions during dinner.

But as we walked, Mark opened up.

"Watch your step," he said, pointing out a high curb.

"Thanks," I answered. I'd almost tripped over it.

"Car," he said at the next corner, putting his arm up protectively so I didn't step into the street.

"Thanks again," I said.

"We had a substitute teacher yesterday in math," he said on the next block. "He was one of my counselors from summer camp."

"That's cool!" I said.

"Yeah, he's a good guy," Mark told me. "He looked waaaaay different than at camp. He was dressed up all nice, and I had to call him Mr., instead of just by his first name. He seemed kinda nervous."

We walked on for another block in silence.

"Step," Mark said again, pointing the flashlight at a busted-up chunk of sidewalk.

We passed a house completely decorated in Christmas lights. A holiday soundtrack was playing, and the lights flashed on and off in sync with the music.

We stopped to watch, and as we stood there watching, Mark said, "I got to conduct the orchestra today."

"You were the conductor?" I asked, surprised.

"Yep," he said. "We had a substitute teacher, and she didn't know how to conduct, so she let us do it. The other kids were out of time, but not me. I did it perfect!"

He started waving his right arm up and down in the air.

"One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!" he said, with great flourish, as the lights flashed off and on in time with his arm.

I smiled, watching my little man conduct the Christmas lights and music.

"I was really good at it," he admitted.

"I bet you were," I said, tousling his hair. "You're the drummer, you have great rhythm."

As we continued our walk, he told me about trying out for the basketball team, his new video game, and how he was worried about an upcoming math test. He talked about his friend Sean, who lost his iTouch when his house, and how bad he felt for Sean. He talked about an upcoming high school fair and admitted he was a little nervous about starting high school.

It was amazing. This was the conversation I was always trying to start at dinner--but I got it all wrong. Mark is a boy, and boys hate pointed conversations. He felt trapped at the dinner table, I realized. Instead of just letting him eat, I was always firing questions at him nonstop, and he felt trapped. But out here, walking around, he felt safe. I focused on traffic and not falling and that took all the pressure off conversation.

It was so cool. I got to know my boy better that night than I had in a month's worth of dinners. I realized that when I shut my mouth, he opened his. I used my ears instead of my mouth, and it made all the difference.

So now we walk after dinner as often as possible. I carry the flashlight and he carries the conversation. He warns me of uprooted sidewalks and over sized curbs, and I listen. He tells me about his day, and again, I just listen. I ooh and ahh and ask questions, but only in relation to the story he's telling me. I let him lead the walk and the discussion, and I've watched him thrive because of it.

It's been an awesome reminder to stop trying so hard as a parent, to remember that my job isn't to just tell Mark how to grow and thrive, it's simply to guide him. He's got it all inside him, he will grow into a strong, wise, caring man all on his own. Right now, he just needs someone to walk beside him, to listen to his hopes and worries, to applaud his bold decisions, to cheer him on when he needs a little encouragement.

And I am grateful, because I'm the one who was chosen. I'm the one who gets to walk beside him and listen. It's the most amazing Christmas gift I've ever received, and I'm not going to squander one minute of it.

Thank you, Santa.

My son, the age-ist

While preparing for Mark's recent backpacking trip, we realized his sleeping bag was waaaaaay too big to carry. So with hours to spare, we schlepped to the local sporting goods store in search of a smaller, lighter bag.

As I pulled into a parking space, Mark gasped and pointed out two middle-aged women in the car next to us.

"What are they doing here?" he asked in his most accusatory tone.

I knew immediately what he was really asking. He wasn't speaking geographically, as in, "How did they come to be in this parking lot?" He wanted to know what these ancient, aged women could possibly need from a sporting good store which was clearly meant for only the youngest and most athletic people. But I wasn't going to point that out--I'd let Mark string his own self up.

"Why wouldn't they be here?" I asked.

"Because, you know..." he said. "Look at them."

"Women can't go to sporting goods stores?" I said.

"Not women," he huffed. Then, finally, he said it. "Old people."

"Only young people can hike?" I asked, surprised.

"Well," Mark started. "I'm just saying, they seem a little...old...to be hiking."

"Huh," I said. "I didn't know there was an age limit."

Mark just shrugged. He felt sorry for me, because I obviously wasn't smart enough to figure out that older people should stay home in their rocking chairs, petting their cats and complaining about the cold weather.

But young Mark was singing a different tune when he came back from the hike. He was sore all over, and could barely walk.

"Mr. Huss tried to kill us!" he complained bitterly.

And then I smiled. I remembered talking to Mr. Huss at the last camp out, when he mentioned his job, prior to retiring. He was certainly much older than the two ladies at the sporting goods store.

"What do you mean?" I asked Mark.

"Mr. Huss made us hike all the way up the mountain," Mark said. "We didn't even want to climb to the top, but he kept on going. He wouldn't slow down."

"Really?" I asked. "He wasn't tired?"

"No!" Mark answered. "He hikes all the time. He's running a marathon next weekend, so this was no big deal for him."

"What about the other boys?" I asked. "Did they want to keep climbing?"

"No way!" Mark said. "They were tired and sore, too. Sean said even his toes hurt!"

And there was my win.

"So all the young kids were tired," I said. "What about the leaders? Who's the oldest leader in the group?"

"Mr. Huss," Mark said. 

"So you're saying the oldest guy in the group kicked all your young butts?" I asked. "And you don't think old people can hike?"

Mark glared at me, then burst into laughter. He knew he was beat.

"Mr. Huss is a marathon runner," he reminded me.

"And the oldest guy in the group," I reminded him back.

"Whatever," Mark said. He walked away, and I just smiled to myself.

Score one for the old guys, I thought.

Track and field star

Mark made it onto the school track team again this year. That was the good news.

The bad news is that he only ran one race, and he didn't qualify for the big district track meet. He's fast, but not as fast as the giant 8th graders who stood a good head above him, sporting humongous muscles, and, in some cases, facial hair. I swear, these "boys" must be raised on Muscle Milk and pure protein.

But what I love most about Mark is his attitude. He was a little bummed he didn't qualify, but he still wanted to go to the meet to support his teammates. I thought this was a grand idea, not only because I love his sportsmanship, but also because it meant I didn't have to spend another three hours sitting in the bleachers to watch Mark run for 15 seconds.

So he suited up and I dropped him off at the stadium. I went on to breakfast with my friends Edra and Chas, and Mark went to cheer on his team.

Halfway into our meal, my phone buzzed with an incoming text. I figured it was Mark, ready to come home, and was surprised to see it was my friend Karen instead.

"Mark just accepted the first place ribbon for shot put for Eric with lots of panache," it said.

I just shook my head. I've seen Mark collect awards and merit badges onstage before--he is not AT ALL shy. "Panache" was code for "Mark accepted an award and hammed it up."

I shared the message with Edra and Chas, and we all cracked up. Mark loves any opportunity to make people laugh, and we could only imagine him up at the podium.

"Heard you had quite a morning," I said when I picked Mark up. "You won a first-place ribbon, huh?"

He smiled. "Yup," he said. "Eric went home, so I went up there and said, 'I'm Eric.' They said, 'Congrats, you won first place!'"

"They didn't even check?" I said. "They just gave you the ribbon?"

He nodded. "It was awesome. All the other guys were HUGE--they were like, six feet tall with huge muscles," he said. "There I was, five feet tall, skinny, no muscles. They just stared at me and said, 'How'd you do it? How'd you throw it that far?'"

And then I laughed out loud. I could just picture Mark shrugging, then throwing his hands in the air victoriously, waving them triumphantly. I could also picture the giants staring agape at Mark, equal parts jealous and disbelief.

"The Cubberley team was laughing so hard," he said. "And the parents, too. But everyone else was kinda confused--they didn't understand what was so funny."

And I laughed again. I laughed about it the rest of the afternoon, too. Because honestly, that is Mark in a nutshell. He didn't even participate--he was just there for moral support. It was 100% Mark--he did none of the work, and got all of the glory.

That's my kid for you. In addition to being a champion shot-putter, he also keeps me very entertained.