The Wrestling Match

Last week, Mark had a Scoutmaster conference so he could move up a rank in Boy Scouts. During the conference, he shared what he like most--sports.

The Scoutmaster invited Mark to his son's next wrestling match.

I think Mark declined right off the bat, because when I got there, he jumped in the car and yelled, "Go!!!" I looked around, confused, wondering which bank he'd robbed, and if I was the getaway car. But all I saw was the Scoutmaster walking toward us.

He told me about the wrestling match.

"Some boys from the troop are on the team," he said. "Mark can support his fellow scouts, his future high school, and meet the coach."

I realized Mark was invited not as a guest, but as a prospective wrestler. 

"Wrestling's good because you can start in high school--you're not out if you haven't played your whole life, like baseball," the Scoutmaster said. "And you can play it any weight--the starting weight is 106 pounds, so even a little guy like Mark can wrestle."

"I only weigh 92 pounds," Mark snorted.

I nudged him in his disrespectful little 92-pound ribs.

"Well, you've got all summer," the Scoutmaster said.

I told him Mark would be there.

"That was thoughtful!" I said on the way home.

"I'm not going," Mark answered, not quite as nicely.

I suspect he didn't want to hang out with the Scoutmaster, who comes across as gruff but is a really good guy. He doesn't take any crap from the boys, and he's strict, so I like him. Mark steers clear of him for exactly those same reasons.

"Why not?" I asked.

"I hate wrestling," he said, flatly. "I'm not going."

"You're not wrestling," I reminded him. "You're a guest. The Scoutmaster thinks it'd be good for you, so you're going." Mark's not the only family member who can dig in his heels and be stubborn.

Mark didn't mention the match all week, in hopes I'd forget. I did not. I reminded him about it yesterday, and reviewed the plan once again.

"Walk to the match after school," I said. "Bring your phone, your meter, and some snacks. I'll pick you up on my way home from work."

He just grumbled.

At 3:25, I waited for the inevitable phone call. At 3:26, my phone rang.

"You are going to the match," I said, instead of the traditional "Hello."

"I know," Mark sighed. "I'm just dropping off my backpack. Oh, and I'm cleaning out the cat litter box. It really needs it."

I immediately burst into giggles. Mark would rather stall by cleaning the litter box--his least favorite thing to do EVER--than go to the wrestling match.

I figured he was also trying to butter me up (I dislike cleaning the litter box too, so hey, good try, kid!). But like I said, Mark's not the only stubborn Dinsdale in our home.

"OK, have fun," I said. "See you at 6!" Mark grumbled some snotty reply, but I cut him short and hung up.

When I arrived at the gym, it was packed. On both sides of the gym, fans were standing, screaming at two skinny, muscular boys scrambling around on the mat.

I found Mark right away. He was sitting a whole section away from the Scoutmaster's wife, who was smiling and furiously waving me over.

Reluctantly, Mark grabbed his skateboard and followed me over.

Within two minutes, I was hooked. The boys were strong and quick, and it was a championship match. The crowd was stomping and cheering, and I joined right in. But Mark had other concerns.

"Did you bring me any water?" he asked, yawning.

I silently handed over my bottle of iced tea.

"I'm hungry," he said, as the buzzer announced a team point and the crowd went wild.

I slipped him a couple bucks and said, "No candy."

He returned with a bag of chips, which he swallowed in 30 seconds as the clock ran down. He then announced, "I'm still hungry."

He used my last two dollars to buy an ooey brown disgusting-looking power bar. He wiped some of the brown goo onto his pants, then tried to discreetly text his friends.

"Hand it over," I said.

"What?" he answered in the teen voice that's a perfect blend of innocent confusion, snotty attitude and affected indifference. I motioned again, he sighed and slapped the gooey phone into my palm. Lucky me.

The boys stopped pinning each other, and spent the next few matches just rolling around on the floor, which is not nearly as amusing as it sounds. I was losing interest myself, but literally took one for the team--the team being Adults Providing Good, Healthy Activities to Keep Teens Too Busy to Get In Trouble.

Finally, around 7, we excused ourselves for dinner and homework time. The Scoutmaster's wife thanked us for coming, and asked Mark if he was interested in trying out for the team next year.

My dear, darling son didn't even put up the pretense of being polite.

"No," he told her, staring just past her, toward the door to his escape.

I smiled, subtly nudged my little ingrate, and said, "He's concerned about being too small. But hey, he might gain more weight by next year, huh Mark?" Mark just growled.  

"I'm not doing it," he said, while we walked to the car. "It's just like grappling, and I hated grappling."

"It is," I said. He disliked grappling because girls and smaller kids kept beating him during his much-hated (and short-lived) karate lessons.

I also didn't volunteer the real reason Mark can't handle wrestling--because he's an only child. I have three brothers, and growing up in our house, wrestling wasn't a sport, it was a conflict resolution. It wasn't as organized as matches or fancy uniforms. No, you simply walked into a room, and got attacked for no reason. Wrestling wasn't a sport, it was purely self-defense, something an only child won't ever understand.

"Anyway..." I said, but Mark was already lost in his thoughts. He shuffled out to the car, imagining himself a high school basketball star, not a star wrestler. I imagined myself an only child, in a home without wrestling.

And I shuddered. Because, tough as it was, it shaped me, made me who I am--a tough chick with cat-like reflexes who doesn't put up with anything from anybody.

Including a 13-year-old with a bad attitude, the luxury of being an only kid, and perhaps, just maybe, some wrestling lessons in his near future.  

Why God invented wine

I've always thought good communication skills meant being able to speak articulately, listen intelligently, and hold up your end of a thoughtful conversation.

Turns out, I'm completely wrong; as my dear young son has now taught me, communication has nothing to do with the actual words and everything to do with the interpretation. Surprisingly, his interpretations rarely agree with with my words.

For example, this daily conversation in our house:

What I say: Mark, pick up your room.
(What I mean: Mark, pick up your room.)

Mark interprets this as: Mark, you are so awesome, you should continue doing whatever you want. Don't even acknowledge Mom until she says "Want some ice cream?"

What I say, five minutes later:  Mark, pick up your room.
(What I mean: Mark, pick up your room.)

Mark interprets this as: Nothing. There were no words in that sentence, therefore, no sentence was even uttered. Which reminds me--time to go outside and play basketball!

What I say, ten minutes later:  Mark, seriously, pick up your damn room, NOW! You have exactly three minutes before I go in there and throw everything away.
(What I mean: Mark, I am dangerously close to throttling you. And tossing your stuff. And where's the wine bottle opener??)

Mark interprets this as: Danger! Danger! Imminent adult meltdown...run to your room for safety!

This is the point where ignoring me loses its fun. Mark doesn't like ruts, so he shake things up by engaging in the all-out Snotty Teen attack at this point.

What I say (wine glass in hand): Ish your room pickeded up yet?
(What I mean: This is good wine.)

Mark interprets this as: Wanna fight? I can be snottier than you so easily...give me your best shot...right...NOW.

What Mark says: I know, I know, pick up the floor. (Rolls eyes.) Geez, what do you THINK I'm doing? (Stomps dramatically around room, tossing dirty clothes under his bed--seriously, right in front of me!)

What I say: (Nothing. Sip wine, savor, repeat.)

Mark, replying with his (and my) new favorite answer: Geez, why do you even care, anyway?

(This is my new favorite question, because of its flexibility: Mark spits it back at me whenever I ask him to eat, manage his diabetes, or attend to his personal hygiene. You know, the stuff moms never care about.)

I could share about a bazillion other conversations that feature the request/ignore technique, the turn-it-back-on-your-mom technique, or the "Why do you even care???" technique. I could, but I won't...because I've got a wonderful bottle of viognier to ignore, and a snotty 13-year-old to enjoy.

Oh, wait, no, that's the kid's reverse psychology working on me...I meant it the other way around.  But to quote a thoughtful and philosophical 13-year-old I know...why do you even care?
  

Christmas Recap

Starting off the New Year a few days late with a new post...sorry, I've been severely lacking in the blog department since I got my new job. Many other things have fallen to the way side as well, including house cleaning, laundry and landscaping. Some things have picked up, like Mark having more TV/video game time after school, but I'm not nearly as thrilled about that as he is.

Anyway, on to happier things. Christmas was, as usual, a blast. We managed to get a full-sized tree up and decorated this year. I resisted last year because I thought my wild, crazy cat Fernando would ruin it, and I was nervous that theory would hold up again this year. But he did surprisingly well--he actually liked having a tree indoors. He spent lots of nap time underneath, and almost as much time trying to drink the water out of the tree stand.

Because I switched jobs, I had no vacation time during the holidays. Mark still had two full weeks off, so I sent him off to San Diego to spend the first week with all his cousins. He missed me terribly while he was gone, texting and phoning me constantly.

OK, just kidding, he didn't even notice I wasn't there. I called and spoke to everyone in the house BUT Mark, and likewise received texts from everyone but him. When I got there Christmas Eve, I was greeted with huge hugs, though--again, from every kid but mine. (Gotta say, those nieces and nephews do make you feel loved and welcome!)

In our house, it's not Christmas until the house is overflowing, so we invited the neighbors and their kids over for dinner. It was a loud, fun dinner, with the kids and dogs in the kitchen, and the adults in the dining room. I'm pretty sure our laughter drowned out the children's.

Christmas morning was a bit...underwhelming. Not present-wise, but because most of the kids are teenagers now. They used to wake up at the crack of dawn, yelling and screaming excitedly, trying to shake the presents under the tree without any adults noticing. But this year, Tim and Kim brought their new dog, Phoebe, who is actually Fernando in a dog costume. She's two years old, a playful, rambunctious puppy disguised as a full-sized dog. Upon arrival, Phoebe walked in and immediately marked her territory on the Christmas tree. 

Poor little Grant was the only one still excited about Santa anyway, and he had to go off to a hotel with his parents. Which probably worked out for the best, because Santa arrived at my parents' late in the morning, so we could keep an eye on Phoebe and keep the presents dry.

The kids were all excited about their gifts--electronics topped the lists this year. Poor Mark was bummed that he didn't get anything to plug in, but he was sweet enough to pretend he wasn't. (And please...it's not like the kid got nothing..or a lump of coal!)

But not all the kids were paying such close attention to the gifts they were opening. My nephew Nicholas proudly showed off a rubber ducky tea infuser, which I told him was really for Aunt Mari.

"Did you really think I'd give you that?" I asked, taking the duck away.

"Well, I like rubber duckies," he said, shrugging. "And I like tea, so..."

"It's for Aunt Mari!" I told him, handing it to Mari.

Ten minutes later, he opened another gift.

"Uh...thanks, Auntie Heather?" he asked, turning the gift around in his hands to examine it. "It's really--"

"It's for Grandma," I said, swiping the gift away. "Did you really think I'd give you ceramic measuring bowls for Christmas?"

I had to give him credit for being polite, though--he was certainly polite and thankful for whatever he thought he got.

The kids were quietly playing with their new stuff a while later, and I stopped to check in on them.

"Do you get some good stuff, Marky?" I asked, using my son's pet name.

"Yep!" he answered.

My sis-in-law Kim was sitting there, and asked if Mark minded being called "Marky."

"No," he shrugged. "It's fine."

And then Kim made a fatal mistake--she opened up and made herself vulnerable. (She's been a Dinsdale long enough to know NEVER, EVER expose a weakness to this pack of wild dogs--because they will immediately seize on it and never let go!)

"I always hated being called 'Kimmy' when I was a kid," she said. And that was all it took...

"Really, Aunt Kimmy?" Mark asked.

"Kimmy, seriously...you hated that?" said Nicholas.

"Aunt Kimmy!" Grant cheered happily. (He couldn't think of a good put-down, but he wanted to join in.)

"Kimmy, time for breakfast!" Tim called. And boy, oh boy, did I feel bad, because I saw a whole week of "Kimmy" ahead.

We put the gifts away long enough to feast on two wonderful meals--my mom really outdid herself this year. We all wanted to be together this day, so we squished everybody in, packing all 13 of us into the tiny dining room. The food was fantastic, and the laughter around the table was even better.

Hannah and Nic wanted to try out their new surfboards after lunch, so they headed off to the beach. To my delight, they took Mark, too. He'd been a little pill that day, eating massive amounts of sugar and not giving himself nearly enough insulin to compensate. He even tried running out the door without his meter (which has glucose tabs attached), which meant he had no backup sugar in case he went low.

I handed him the meter, but on a whim, pulled it back and popped open the container where there should have been glucose tabs. It was empty. I growled at Mark, pointed toward the kitchen and strongly suggested he refill it before I strangled him. He snorted, rolled his eyes but refilled it before Uncle Tim left without him. (Uncle Tim waits for no one.)

They were all gone for a blissfully quiet couple of hours. When they returned, Gabi found me--she couldn't wait to tell me about their afternoon. (She and Mark drive each other crazy, and love to tattle on each other.)

"Mark went low," she said, smiling broadly.

"He did?" I asked.

"Yup," she said. "My mom was really mad."

"Why?" I asked. That didn't seem like Mari at all.

"Because he didn't bring any snacks with him," she said. "He was really hungry."

I smacked my forehead. "So, what happened?" I asked.

"My mom took us over to the Hotel Del," Gabi explained. "She bought Mark Rice Krispies and milk, and she bought me a chocolate croissant." A big smile lit up her face.

I gasped--Mark LOVES chocolate croissants. "Was he so mad?" I asked.

"My mom was MAD!" she said. "She picked the most boring thing she could for Mark, and he had to watch us eating chocolate croissants."

Usually I wouldn't laugh at my kid being tortured, but I couldn't help myself. He'd been giving me hell all week and ignoring his diabetes--not only was this a hilarious punishment, it was also very fitting.

"I can't believe Aunt Mari did that," I said. She is Mark's favorite person, because of her sweet, gentle nature. But even Aunt Mari doesn't mess around when it comes to diabetes!

"She didn't want to ruin your Christmas day," Gabi explained. Little did she know, Mari actually MADE my Christmas with that story!

As the day rolled on, we had just one final commitment--to see our friends, the Fera-Schanes'. We LOVE them, and traditionally spend Christmas evening visiting at our house. But this year, we went to their house to see their newest family member--a two-month-old golden retriever puppy named Atticus. (He looked like a baby Phoebe!)

Atticus (who's name is twice as big as he is!) was a doll! Seriously, he was like a giant stuffed animal come to life, so soft and silly. He'd recently learned to run, which was more like an unsteady gallop/bounce, and he was thrilled to show us how he could attack (and eat) every stick in the yard.

The kids LOVED him, descending on him like he was the best toy ever made. They overwhelmed the little guy, but he loved it. He was seemingly punch-drunk from all their energy--at one point, I told them to all stop running and stand still. Atticus literally bounced into them, then the wall, then a nearby lounge chair. He was so overstimulated he couldn't stand still. It was hilarious.

I finally had to drag the hyper children away to give the baby dog time to rest and recover. We bid adieu to my favorite family, and headed home. Nicholas, however, was still wound up from all the puppy time, and wouldn't sit still in the car. I knew everyone else would be quiet and calm when we got home, so I stopped at the top of the hill a half mile from home.

"Out," I said, popping open the door.

The kids looked at me, confused.

"Nicholas, out!" I repeated. "Go run off some of that energy."

"OK!" he shouted, climbing over the seats. Mark shrugged and jumped out with him, then Nathalie followed as well. Gabi climbed out, too, which confused me, because she hates running, or any type of exercise, for that matter. But then she jumped into the front seat, slammed the door and yelled, "GO!" at me.

"HURRY!" she screamed. "We must beat them home!" That sounded more like her. :-)

And beat them we did, but just barely. They raced inside, where they were immediately shushed. I just smiled, happy, content, with a warm Christmas and new puppy buzz. It was loud, and homey, and wonderful to be surrounded by my family, and there was no where else on Earth I'd rather be than there, in that moment.

And really, what better way to end Christmas than that?