Mark no like spelling

Mark is terrible at spelling, a fact he readily (and proudly) admits.

"Who cares," he says, waving his hands dismissively at me. "No one cares about spelling anyway."

"Uh, I do," I always remind him. "I'm a writer, remember? Good spelling pays the bills around here!"

But it doesn't matter. Mark's head is completely filled with more important things--sports stats, and video game strategies, future inventions. There's no room for words in there.

I don't think my expectations of him are unreasonable. At a bare minimum, he should be able to spell certain words he sees every day, like his name or chronic autoimmune diseases that affect him, for example. But even here, my dear son disagrees with me.

"Hey Mom," he called out the other day. "How do you spell diabetes?"

I answered as I always do.

"Sound it out," I said.

"D-I-B..." he started. "Um...E-E-T-E-E-S?"

I shook my head and sighed. Mark replied with his dismissive hand wave.

"Whatever," he told me, scribbling his made-up word. "Doesn't matter."

"It does matter, Mark," I said. "Come on, how many times a day do you write diabetes?"

"None," he told me. Then I realized he was probably right about that, and changed my tact.

"OK, well, you should at least spell things like your name right."

"I can," he said. "M-A-R-K D-A-Y-I-N-E-L-L-E--"

"Wait!" I interrupted. "Did you just spell your middle name wrong?"

"No," he snorted, then thought for a moment and asked, "How do you spell it?"

"D-A-N-I-E-L," I said.

"Whatever," he repeated. "You just say that because you have an easy middle name. A-N-N. I could spell my name if it was short like that, too."

"Doesn't matter if it's short, you should still be able to spell your own name!" I said.

"Who uses their middle name anyway?" he asked. He stopped for a moment, thinking about his adoption day, when he wanted to re-name himself after the cat.

The social worker said that some kids like to change their names at adoption, to reflect their new beginning. When I asked Mark if he wanted to do that, he'd immediately said yes--he wanted to name himself after the cat.

I bargained him down to changing just his middle name. I thought it was cute, but my friend Kelley disagreed.

"You can't name him after the CAT!" she yelled at me.

"Why not?" I asked. "It's just his middle name."

But Kelley won, pointing out that Mark was five years old, and maybe not in his prime decision-making years. So instead, he kept his original middle name, a name he still can't spell.

"So you wish your middle name was Ann?" I asked him now.

"Well, not Ann," he admitted. "But something easy. Like Frankie. F-R-A-N-K..."

He paused, staring into space. I sighed again.

"Really?" I asked. "You see it on his collar every day, and you can't spell Frankie?"

"...Y," he said. "F-R-A-N-K-Y. Right?"

"Mark," I said, shaking my head. "Thank God your name isn't something complicated like Benjamin or Benedict. Or Bartholomew. At least you can spell your first name right."

"Yup, it's easy," he agreed. "M-A-R-C."

I turned my head to look at him. He was smiling, a grin lighting up his face. He may not be a good speller, but he's got a wicked sense of humor.

"Yes, M-A-R-C," I said. "That's close enough."

And for the record, Mark hasn't changed that much since he was five. He'd still name himself after a cat today, if the name "Fernando" wasn't so long.

This is what happens when you teach your kid to answer the phone...

I hate robocalls with a passion. I hate all those telemarketers bugging us, especially at dinner time.

I used to ignore them, but changed my mind after listening to Mark and his friends answer the phone one day.

Instead of getting angry, I decided to embrace their humor and have some fun too. I told Mark he was now in charge of all telemarketing calls. He was thrilled.

It was one of my better ideas, as evidenced by a call from the local newspaper yesterday. We were eating dinner when the phone rang and an 800 number popped up on the caller ID screen.

Mark answers it in a crazy old woman voice: Helllllllooooo?

The telemarketer asks for Heather.

Mark: This is Heather. I'm an old, old lady. (Giggles at my expense.)

Telemarketer says he has a special offer for the newspaper.

Mark, still in crazy voice: But I can't reeeaaaad, sonny.

Telemarketer: Pauses, but bless his soul, forges ahead. He tells Mark he has a special deal for a Sunday-only newspaper subscription.

Mark: But I only look at the paper on Saturdays. (Laughs maniacally.)

Mark listens for a moment, then responds: Just kidding, I read the Sunday paper. I'm just too cheap to buy it.

Me, giggling at first, then insulted, from the sidelines: I'm not cheap! I just don't have time to read it!

Telemarketer: Mumbles something to Mark.

Mark: That's right, cheap. I have tons of money, but I won't spend it. Can you give me free papers on Sundays?

Telemarketer: Silence.

Mark: Is that a yes?

Telemarketer, clearly confused: Mumbles something again.

Mark: Do you like cats? I like cats. Do you write about cats in your newspaper? Hello? Hello? Are you still there, sonny? (Turning to me) He hung up on me!

And then Mark laughs, and also hangs up. The conversations aren't long, but they are immensely satisfying, at least to me and Mark. Telemarketers never find them as amusing as we do, but I like to think we're giving them a little gift--a good story to share at the end of the day. You know, when they're sitting around talking about the weirdest calls of the day with their co-workers. I always hope Mark makes it into the top five of those calls.

But it's cool if he doesn't. Because honestly, we aren't really doing it for the telemarketers. We're doing it to crack ourselves up, and it works every time.

My plan totally worked--I don't get mad anymore when I see toll-free numbers display on caller ID. Instead, I know I'm in for a comedy show. So telemarketers, you may have my number, but fair is fair--Mark's got your number, too! 

Consider yourselves warned.

Don't know why I bother...

Last weekend, I signed Mark up for a paintball outing. He's always begging me to let him play video games with shooting, and I always say no, so I thought he'd love this. Boy, was I wrong!

"I don't wanna," was his immediate answer.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "You always wanna shoot stuff in video games."

"Yeah, but they don't shoot back," he said. "Video games don't hurt."

"They hurt me," I said. "Your video game obsession pains me. You're going outside to play, and that's final."

He sighed and picked up the event description.

"The fee includes all day entry, gun rental, mask rental, and 200 pounds" he read, then yelped, "What?? I can't carry 200 pounds of equipment. I don't even weigh 100 pounds!"

I grabbed the card while he he loudly protested that he couldn't carry twice his body weight.

"ROUNDS," I corrected. "You get 200 rounds of paintballs, not 200 POUNDS!"

"Whatever," he said. As he always reminds me, thorough reading's not his thing.

On the morning of the event, he was almost in tears, refusing to get out of bed.

"I'm not going!" he shouted, pulling the covers over his head.

"It's not a punishment!" I answered, completely confused. "I signed you up because it's FUN!"

"It's FUN to get shot with paintballs?!?" he demanded. "It hurts! You don't even know how much it hurts!"

"Neither do you," I reminded him. "You've never been."

No matter what I said, he kept arguing, saying I'm mean for waking him early on a Saturday morning.

"It's 8:30," I told him. "You get up at 7 a.m. every other Saturday of your life to play video games."

He got up and dressed, wearing his favorite old hat, which is covered in splatters that look like exploded paintballs.

 

We finally got out of the house, but only after a lot of threats and screaming. By the time we left, we were both angry, and I vowed never to do any nice things for the little ingrate again.

I hoped he'd cheer up when we got there, but no go. He stomped off to sulk in a corner. I talked to another mom, and when she asked if Mark had ever played paintball before, he yelled "NO!" from 10 feet away. I smiled uncomfortably.

A few grown men in battle fatigues passed by. They wore boots, protective vests, knee pads and huge masks that covered their whole heads. They looked like a SWAT team or professional soldiers going into combat. I glanced over at small, skinny Mark, wearing cotton shorts and a t-shirt, and realized he was in trouble.

The park, often used as a movie set, looks like a space center, with a giant space ship in the middle. The battleground covered a huge swath of land with burned out concrete buildings. It was a giant maze of obstacles to run through and over. It was also serious boy heaven--a place to get all filthy and physical. Any other boy I know would've loved it, but Mark was having none of it.

Some girls called out, "Hi, Mark!" but Mark rushed past them, planting himself in another far away corner.

I sighed--Mark was really pushing all my buttons, which another mom noticed.

"They should let us parents go in there with them," she said, pretending she had a paintball gun in her arms. She aimed it, and said, "That's for not checking your blood sugar! That's for not bolusing! That's for talking back to me!"

I laughed as she shot off the imaginary rounds.

"Yeah, they'd probably love taking a crack at us, too," I said. "Could be very rewarding for everybody!"

I walked over to the group leader and nodded toward Mark. I wanted someone to know he was there in case he tried to slink off.

"Great!" the leader said, enthusiastically. The he saw Mark's shorts and asked if he'd brought any pants.

"No," I said, biting my lip. It was supposed to be 90 degrees--I thought he'd be too hot. But everyone else wore jeans and long shirts.

"That's okay," the leader said quickly. "He'll be fine."

"SEE!" Mark spat out. "I TOLD you it's gonna hurt! I'm gonna get all bruised!" He puffed out his righteous little chest at me, the rotten mother sending him off to die.

"You can rent coveralls," the leader told us. "And a vest. Those help."

I handed Mark extra money for protective gear. I thought about walking him over to get the gear, but stopped. It was Mark's time to make a grown-up decision, to decide if he was gonna overcome his bad mood and have fun, or if he was gonna be a martyr. I hoped for grown-up, but knew martyr had a higher chance.

"Rent the stuff if you want it," I said, waving goodbye.

And off I went. I had a great day, enjoying a movie and lunch with some friends. I worried a little that Mark was unhappy, but he's always like this when he tries new stuff. I figured he'd have fun and probably even get shot intentionally to get bruises he could make me feel guilty about. I knew it was gonna be all about the bruises.

And it was. He was wandering around the park with a giant bottle of root beer and a smile when I picked him up--he'd had a blast despite himself.

"Hi, Mom!" he called, running over. "Check out this giant welt on my leg!"

He did indeed have a purplish lump.

"Wow, that's pretty gross!" I said.

"Told you it hurt!" he admonished me.

"Well, did you have fun anyway?" I asked.

He wouldn't admit that he did, saying only that it would've been more fun if he'd gone with his friends.

"I didn't know anyone here," he said. Just then, a couple boys walked past, saying "See ya, Mark!"

"You know those kids," I pointed out. "They were in your cabin last year at Catalina camp. And those kids over there--they went to summer camp with you!"

"Well, I didn't know anybody else," he grumbled. He called to another group of kids, by name, and waved good bye.

I'm glad he had a good time, I just wish he wouldn't fight me so hard about it. Because honestly, I spend enough time arguing about things that aren't fun--like homework, chores and drum practice. I don't need to argue about fun things too.

But I guess that's Mark in a nutshell. He wants to be in control of everything, and he'll take the whole ship down with him if he can't.

After this little fiasco, maybe leaving him at home with his video games isn't such a bad idea after all. It'd certainly be easier, cheaper and less stressful for me.

Or maybe, like the other mom suggested, Mark just needs to go a few rounds with dear old mom in the paintball course. He might not feel better about that, but I would.

Personally, I like that idea a whole lot.

Serendipity

I'm constantly immersing myself in diabetes books, web sites, conferences or other events. Mark could care less about diabetes or learning or learning about diabetes, but much to his chagrin, I drag him along with me.

On Monday, I signed us up for a class on coping with diabetes. It was at the hospital from 5:30-7 on a school night, which meant a rush-hour nightmare, but I was willing to do it for Mark.

Mark, who does not appreciate my maternal support, complained the whole way there.

"I've been stuck in traffic for the last hour and a half," I reminded him, through gritted teeth. "I'm feeling a little road ragey right now, so you should tread lightly."

He opened his mouth to argue back, when suddenly another car cut me off. I aimed a loud stream of profanities at the guy while Mark stared at me, shocked.

"I also haven't eaten," I warned. He silently handed me a granola bar.

The class was split into two groups, one for kids and one for parents. Three silent, sulking kids slumped around a table, sighing loudly and avoiding all eye contact. The group leader, a chipper young lady, pointed me to the other group.

The parents group wasn't much different from the kid's group, except that the other two moms didn't look angry, they just looked...defeated.

This group leader handed me a set of slides, and spent the next hour reading them to us verbatim. She talked about kids having denial and being angry at diabetes, and the other moms nodded in agreement.

She paused after the presentation.

"So," she said, looking at me. "Are you having any of these issues?"

"Um...no," I answered, truthfully. "Not right now. In the past, yes, but we're actually doing okay this week."

She looked at the mom next to me. The poor lady confessed that she had TWO teens with Type 1, and that it was very, very difficult. She teared up, covering her face in her hands and emotionally shut down.

I stared at her, wanting to reach out and ask if she was okay, but she clearly wasn't. As she sat there, curling up more into herself, the group leader turned to the other mom.

She rattled off the crimes her 16-year-old commits--not checking his blood sugar enough, not bolusing, not telling people (like his football team) that he even has diabetes. She said they fight constantly because he always wants to eat, and told how she warns him he'll get his feet or legs amputated like other family members if he doesn't take care of his diabetes.

The longer she talked, the more my heart hurt. For her, because she was obviously struggling, and for her son, who sounded depressed and, well...hungry. He's an active  16-year-old boy, and I know how much teen boys can eat, but all I heard was how much she resticted his diet.

I've lived through the stuff she discussed, so I tried, gently, to share what worked for us. She listened, but ended each sentence with a new complaint. When I realized she didn't want answers, she wanted to vent, I stopped talking and just listened.

We circled back to the other mom, who'd stopped crying. But she froze up again when the leader came back to her--it was too much. The room was tense, fraught with emotion, and I just wanted to escape. I hoped Mark was faring better in the other room.

Finally, our time was up. I talked to the distraught mom, but she still had trouble connecting, even one on one. I listened a few minutes, and as she left, wished her well, telling her it does get better.

When I walked into the kid's room, Mark's eyes zeroed in on me like a laser. His jaw clenched, he shot me the stink eye, and I knew his group hadn't gone any better.

"I'm sorry!" I mouthed, before he stomped out of the room.

He exploded as soon as we hit the parking lot.

"I'm never going back to that group again, EVER!" he ranted. "I don't care what you say, NEVER!"

"Me neither," I said, surprising him. "Seriously..."

Mark told me how none of the other kids talked.

"Not at ALL!" he said. "I was the only one who answered, until the the leader stopped calling on me."

"What'd she ask you?"

"What my A1C was, how I take care of my diabetes, what I like to do," he said. "Those other kids--all they said was 'Nothing.' She asked what they liked to do--nothing. What sports do they play? What makes you angry? What makes you happy? What do you want your parents to help with? Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing."

"Yikes," I said. "Wait, what is that?" I motioned at something shiny in his hands.

"My thoughts," he said sarcastically. He held up a jar filled with water and glitter and violently swirled it around. "We made this in class. These are my thoughts when I'm worried, like before taking a test. Now I need to wait for my thoughts to all settle."

I giggled. "Is that..." I started. "Um, is that a urine sample jar?"

He stopped ranting, looked closely, and said, "It totally is!"

Mark held up a ball in his other hand. "They also gave me a stress ball," he said, squishing it tight. "Me, a kid. Do they think I'm stressed? What am I supposed to do with this?"

I thought he might throw it at me, which would definitely relieve his stress, so I warned him not to.

"I won't," he promised. "I only took it for Fernando," mimicking his playful cat.

I tried to find the positive note. "What else did she ask you?"

"Nothing," he said glumly, imitating the other kids. "She asked what's a good A1C. I said between 7 and 8 percent."

I was impressed, as was the group leader.

"She said good job," Mark told me. "Then she asked what I was even doing here. I said, 'I don't know.'"

I hugged him.

"I'm sorry, kiddo," I said. "And I'm proud of you. Super proud. You are a great kid, and you do a great job, at school, at home, and with your diabetes. I don't tell you enough, but you are an awesome kid, and I love you."

Mark softened a bit, then pulled away from me, embarrassed. 

"I'm still not ever going back," he said.

"You don't have to," I said. "On to more important things--what do you want for dinner?"

"Nothing," he repeated in a flat voice. "I feel nothing. I eat nothing." It was his answer to every question that night, and we laughed just as hard every time he said it.

"That's really what we learned tonight," Mark told me at dinner. "NOTHING!"

I laughed again, but disagreed. I learned a lot. The class was an awesome (and timely) reminder that I have an amazing kid, a whip-smart kid, a kid who likes to argue with me but also wages a mighty battle against diabetes on a daily basis--and routinely kicks its butt.

I learned I have a resilient, funny kid who keeps his sense of humor even in the worst possible scenario. I learned how lucky I really am, that I hit the jackpot in the kid department, and that I am incredibly grateful for all of it.

So yeah, maybe the class itself was painful. But the lesson I took away was not. I learned that we aren't any better, smarter or different than those other families--we're just at different points in our journeys. We've been where they are now, and we'll probably be back again.

Which is fine. Because as of today we're still moving ahead, moving forward on our journey. We're moving together, in laughter and appreciation, and in gratitude.

And that, my friend, is not nothing.

One last day of beautiful beaches...

The first few days of our cruise passed slowly, peacefully, but somehow, we blinked and it was Friday--time for Cozumel, our last port of call.

We were excited to visit Cozumel, all of us for different reasons. Hannah was beyond excited, because she and Kim were swimming with dolphins, the highlight of Hannah's trip. (She's gonna be a dolphin trainer someday, and knows exactly how to get the dolphins to come play with us.)

The boys booked a snorkel trip, and couldn't wait to dive in the coral reefs.

As for me...well, I wanted to get in the water too, but not really in the water. I thought about snorkeling with the boys, until Tim explained that they were going into rough waters on a small 8-man fishing boat. Since I get sea sick just looking at small boats and/or rough water, I immediately declined, opting instead for a trip on a semi-submersible boat with my parents.

We found our group and lined up on the dock with them. I glanced around, noticing I was the youngest person there by a good 40 years, save for one lone little kid with her parents. Apparently, I was the only adult under 80 who'd chosen not to snorkel.

But whatever. We climbed aboard our vessel, which looked like a boat from the top, but like a submarine from inside. The bottom deck had one long bench down the middle, and windows all along the sides. We joked that it was kinda like the old Disneyland submarine ride, and sure enough, when the boat took off, rows of bubbles covered the windows.

The boat headed for the reefs, which were in a protected area. Along the way, we saw all sorts of cool fish, including about a million little zebra fish, blue tangs and even a some barracuda and shovel-nosed guitar fish.

At first the reefs were just kind of interesting, but not spectacular. Then I realized we were on the wrong side of the boat, because once they turned us around, we saw the most amazing coral reefs ever! We saw huge fan corals waving gently in the drifts, and giant brain coral all along the shallow floor. Our guide pointed out brown coral, and said that coral was sleeping, then bright purple coral, which he said was awake.

We motored slowly through the shallow water, followed by an endless parade of brightly-colored parrot fish, zebras and blue tangs. There was a whole rainbow of fish--silver, white, maroon, so many that it felt like we were looking into a giant aquarium (which we kind of were, in a way). One curious maroon fish swam right up to my dad's window, then turned sideways so he could look directly at my dad. He gave my dad the side-eye for a minute or two, then swam off. I guess we weren't the only creatures interested in what was on the other side of the window!

Our guide told us how strictly the government monitored this protected area--divers and snorkelers were allowed in, but couldn't touch the coral or animals at all; he said that a single touch kills the coral in a matter of moments. Divers can't even wear diving gloves or bring knives in, because they might be tempted to touch the coral with those.

I just stared at all the fish while he droned on about the safety measure. I couldn't believe how many there were when suddenly, something caught my eye--a little bit of food the fish all pounced on.

"I think they're feeding the fish!" I gasped, pointing it out to my dad.

"These feesh, they come straight to our boat," the guide said in heavily accented English. "Maybe it's because of all the tortillas the crew feeds them."

I looked at him, as did a few other people.

"They are Mexican feesh," he explained. "So they like Mexican food!"

I just shook my head.

We drifted out into the deeper waters, where the coral was more scarce but much larger. (It grows best in the sunny, shallow water, but bigger in the deep water where it has to work to get up to the sunlight.) This was also where the bigger fish hung out--we saw tons of barracuda, and even better, giant schools of snapper swimming in a tight-knit massive cloud. There were hundreds of fish in each school (we saw two or three schools), all of them sticking close together to appear as one large mass to any interested predators.

I wanted to see some sharks or sea turtles, but there are no sharks in the area, and summer is sea turtle season. I also thought it'd be cool to wave at Tim and the boys snorkeling by, but we didn't see them.

After a few trips around the reefs, the boat headed back in. We returned to the dock excited and completely stoked. We also got back very early--it was only 10:15 in the morning!

The plan was to all meet up at El Presidente hotel around noon. Tim and Kim honeymooned there, and were excited to return 18 years later.

My parents and I strolled around the little shopping mall for a couple minutes, sampling rum cake and trying not to get swindled by the vendors. (One guy tried to sell me a brightly painted gourd mobile for $35.) It was getting hot, so we decided to go directly to the hotel and wait for the group there.

We drove through the city, which was busy, busy, busy. There were six cruise ships in town, and the streets were overflowing with tourists and aggressive street vendors hawking their wares. After three days on the ship and two days in beach towns, I was tired of people coming at me or grabbing me to get my attention. I didn't want any cheesy souvenirs, and I was tired of people looking at me and seeing dollar signs--I wanted a little peace and quiet.

El Presidente was just the cure. I was a little worried at first--there was an armed guard at the gate into the hotel, and he let us in, reluctantly, when we said we were meeting friends for lunch. The bellman greeted us warmly, but immediately lead us to the front desk, where I had to surrender my ID. I wasn't sure why they needed my ID, but I gave them my driver's license.

We walked through the open lobby, and onto a tiny private beach. Now THIS was what I was looking for! There were palapas covering chaise lounges, and smooth, white sand melting into a turquoise sea. 

We napped lazily in the chaise lounges. My parents went for a walk around the grounds, and I thought about joining them, but it was just so peaceful, I fell asleep instead. I was 100 percent relaxed when they returned.

There were no vendors or cruise ship passengers around, just sun, sand and a few nosy iguanas sunning themselves.

Tim and the boys showed up a couple hours later, a lot worse for wear. Their snorkeling trip didn't go nearly as well as our trip, and the boys looked a little sick.

Apparently, they were the first passengers onto the little boat, which was supposed to hold 8 passengers but ended up with 20. Tim thought they'd head directly out to the reefs, which they eventually did, after making three stops to pick up other passengers. He said they putt-putted through the marina at approximately 2 mph for 45 minutes, party music blaring through the speakers, at which point poor Nicholas got sea sick.

It didn't get much better out at sea. Nic and Mark had trouble with their snorkels and ditched them. Which meant they had to surface every couple minutes for air, and were promptly slammed by the waves in the rough waters. Tim said they worked hard, swimming their hearts out, but finally had to give up because of the constant pounding.

As the boat made its slow return to the city, Tim decided he was done. They didn't even go back to their port--they just jumped off the boat at the first stop, and caught a taxi out of the marina. By the time they reached us, they were all starving, queasy, and a little pale.

Tim enjoyed the trip a little more than the boys did. He used his snorkel and didn't fight the waves. He figured the photos on the company web site were enhanced, so his expectations were very low. The boys were not impressed by the reef of sea stars or coral--they were looking for sharks or other cool predators.

"I wasn't expecting much, so I was pleasantly surprised," Tim said. "But the boys were expecting a lot more, so they were disappointed."

Mark was a little more blunt than Tim.

"It sucked," he said, flatly. "Worst trip ever." Nic nodded in agreement.

But it wasn't anything a little lunch couldn't cure. The boys scarfed down their lunches (and half of mine), and we enjoyed the beautiful restaurant and fantastic view.

Kim and Hannah showed up halfway through lunch. They had a great time--Hannah was very excited and showed off all the photos she bought. They'd arrived early, and got lots of time before and after their dolphin encounter. Hannah the future-dolphin-trainer was in heaven.

And Kim was in heaven, too. Being back at the hotel flooded her with memories. It was fun to listen to Kim and Tim re-live their trip 18 years prior. The hotel hadn't changed at all, but Tim and Kim's family sure had!

Mark was tired after his trip, but Nic was a little antsy (and queasy) after sitting so long. He was also anxious to hunt down some iguanas, and lit up when I said I'd seen a couple earlier, scarfing down hibiscus flowers. We went off in search of them, and found four or five throughout the resort. He tried to feed one big guy and even tried a taste test (does he prefer red flowers or white?) but the big guy was having none of it.

By the afternoon, it was hot, hot, hot. My parents went back to the boat to escape the heat and the rest of us ended up at the pool. It was so nice to relax in the quiet hotel--I felt a million miles away from the throng of cruise ship passengers.

Tim still wanted to see the town, so a couple hours later, we packed up our stuff, reclaimed our IDs, and taxied into town.

We bought a few last souvenirs, and headed back to the boats. The humidity got the best of us as we dragged ourselves down the long dock. But relief was just ahead, in the form of cruise staff, who handed us cool, wet washcloths for our faces, and cups of water or lemonade.  We took them all gladly, spritzed ourselves with hand sanitizer, and climbed aboard our home-away-from-home one last time.

We were sad to leave our final port of call, but at least we still had one last sea day left. And I had all these amazing, hilarious memories of a week with spent with some of my very favorite people--it was truly a wonderful week, and I felt so lucky to have shared it with my family.

I waved sadly to Cozumel as our ship set sail one last time. I felt like Norman Paperman in Don't Stop the Carnival--this week was a blast, but hey Mr. Paperman, it was time to go home.

A day in ruins

We sailed in to Mexico for our second shore day--Costa Maya, to be exact. I'd never even heard of Costa Maya before.

"Because it's a made-up city," Tim explained. "The government built it so the cruise ships would stop."

Well, it sure worked, because there was another ship already docked when we got there, and a third one pulled in shortly after.

We walked a lot on our Jamaica day, which took a toll on my dad. My mom decided afterwards that he should skip Costa Maya, although she phrased it a little less delicately.

"We voted you off the island," she told my Dad. "You're staying on board when we get to Mexico."

We all cracked up, but my dad didn't really mind. He was thrilled to park himself poolside and claim his spot at the soft-serve ice cream machine. But it turns out karma has a sense of irony, because my mom woke up feeling a bit dodgy, and didn't go on land either. We were all disappointed, Tim most of all.

"She WHAT?!?" Tim gasped, when I told him Mom wasn't coming with us. I was touched by his concern, until he added, "She's our translator! Today's the only day we really need her, and she's letting me down!" I guess he inherited empathy from my mom.

But hey, it's Tim, so even a missing translator didn't really slow him down. He was going to get us to the big tourist destination in town--Mayan ruins--with or without my mom.

We exited the pier through an outdoor mall filled with souvenir shops and guys in warrior costumes who took pictures with us.

"Smile!" Kim called out, as the photographer snapped us. "Look scared of the Aztecs!"

"Mayans," one warrior corrected, and she answered back, "Aztecs, Mayans, same thing." He frowned and I smiled, quickly guiding us away before they turned into REAL warriors and attacked us.

To my chagrin (but not surprise), Tim stomped right past all the buses and vested people, and glanced around. He literally stood in front of every tour guide and bus driver in the city, and the only question he had for them was, "Where are the taxis?" This port didn't have a fence, but if it did, Tim would've been looking for a driver on the other side of it.

I knew the ruins were far away--45 minutes to 2 hours, depending on which ones you went to. "Can you even take a taxi out to the ruins?" I asked a friendly-looking tour guide.

He shifted around nervously. "You can," he started. "But...they only spend an hour out there, and none of them speak English. My tour is only $35 a person--you get an English-speaking guide, an air-conditioned bus, and a couple hours to walk around."

That sounded perfect to me, but Tim was already gone.

"He said the drivers don't speak English!" I called out to Tim.

"Whatever," Tim scoffed. I think he forgot that we were English-only speakers, except for Nic and Hannah, who also speak French--not that it did us any good in Mexico.

Even at 8 a.m., it was already hot and humid. I followed Tim, watching the other cruise passengers drive away in air conditioned buses, and I knew I wasn't going to be nearly as lucky.

Tim did find us a very nice cab driver named Valentine. He proved the other tour guide correct by being just as proficient as English as we were at Spanish--which is to say, not at all. We spent the first few minutes asking questions, pretending like we understood his answers. He was kind and spoke slowly, patiently, but that didn't make us understand any better.

We asked how far away the ruins were. Valentine mimed the road, pushing his arm out straight, and flashing 10 fingers at us twice. Suddenly, he jutted his arm left, and flashed his 10 fingers twice more. He was completely accurate--we drove straight down the road for 20 minutes, until suddenly the road turned a sharp left. Twenty minutes after that, we arrived at the ruins.

When I go on vacation, I research everything--where we're going, what we're seeing, why it's important, and the history behind it all. This trip was a little different--Tim did all the planning, and I just followed along. Which was really freeing, except that now, I had no idea where we were, or what we were seeing.

Valentine turned onto a small dirt path, which opened up unexpectedly to a tiny parking lot. He pointed toward the entrance and a winding path, tapped his watch and held up one finger, indicating we should return in an hour. We headed toward the ruins.

The place was gorgeous. It was a tropical rain forest, filled with tall plants, palm trees and birds whooshing by overheard. Someone warned us about monkeys, which immediately set Mark and Nic off in a fit of monkey-calls, but luckily, they were the only howlers we encountered.

I walked leisurely past a group of tourists just as the tour guide was telling them the name of this old town.

"We call it 'Chacchoben,'" she said. "It means 'red corn,' which was a staple in the Mexican diet. You couldn't grow a lot out here because of the weather, but you could always grow corn."

I overheard another guide say that Chacchoben had two seasons--hot and VERY HOT--and I was glad we were visiting during the first one,. Still, by 9:15 a.m., I was drenched in sweat.

The ruins were awesome.

A second set of ruins featured a huge stone staircase leading up a hill, which the kids immediately ran up. I decided I didn't get many chances like this, and went too, praising and thanking my bad knee, hoping it didn't give out halfway up. It did me a solid, and didn't.

The view from the top was spectacular. We stood over the treetops, and you could see the flat, swampy land go on for miles. It was truly breath-taking.

Some tourists were taking photos in front of a grand pyramid. As I waited for them to finish, I saw my family disappear out of my peripheral vision. I wasn't worried, because it was a small area, and there was only one way in to and out of the ruins, but damned if they didn't lose me while I was snapping my photo. (This is not uncommon when traveling with Tim--he has ditched me at literally every amusement park we've ever visited. But this is the first time he ever ditched me in a desolate rain forest, a foreign land, where I don't speak the language.)

So I wandered the grounds on my own, enjoying the lush, peaceful tree tunnels and the dry soil crunching under my feet. I admired the giant crumbling structures, occasionally eavesdropping on the tours. It was very cool.

When I was done, I stood at the end of the path, where eventually my family showed up, asking where I'd been.

"We lost you, Auntie Heather!" Nic cried. But happily, we all ended up back together, including Valentine, for which I was grateful. (It was a loooooong drive back to the town otherwise!) I was even more grateful when Valentine turned up the A/C full-blast, reminding me again how completely unsuited I am to live in a tropical climate.

Valentine drove us back toward the city, then turned off the main drag, dropping us off for an afternoon in Muhahual, a sleepy little beach town.

Muhahual had shops on one side and a beach full of outdoor cafes on the other. We walked in between, looking at souvenirs and dodging the persistent vendors.

The family ducked into the first pharmacy they saw, trying to remedy our sunscreen shortage. I saw something better than a pharmacy--a rickety old wooden dock that ended in a sea of turquoise water. It called to me, and to my camera, and I answered.

I called to Mark, and motioned that I was heading down to the water. He acknowledged me with a nod, but apparently didn't think to share this info with anyone else.

The dock was cool, but the view of the beach was even cooler. It looked like a beach right out of a calendar--white sandy beaches filled with palm trees and blue water as far as you could see. Every kind of water toy you could imagine bobbed along the water's edge--kayaks, jet skis, fishing boats, even a giant banana boat roared by us with a load of kids clinging tight and screaming happily.

I finished taking photos and returned to the pharmacy, where my family no longer was. I looked around, but true to form, they'd ditched me again. Oh well, at least I could see our ship in the distance, and if they were gonna leave me behind, this place wasn't half bad.

Eventually, the boys found me, calling out the joke they'd repeated the entire cruise. "Heather!" they called. "Heather, is that you?" They feigned surprise, as though we were acquaintances running into each other unexpectedly at the local grocery store.

They'd found their sunscreen, and were now on the prowl for something more substantial--lunch. The cafes all looked the same, inviting, and each had at least a couple guys waving menus and calling out to us, which made it hard to pick just one place. They offered us everything--free beer, appetizers, margaritas (even for the kids!). We listened to one guy's spiel at the Krazy Lobster, and as he was selling us, a tourist couple stopped and told us they'd just eaten the best lunch ever. That did the trick, and in we went.

It was the most perfect little beach cafe. We walked through the warm sand, past hammocks swinging from palm trees, which Mark immediately called dibs on. The host led us to a table under a palapa and more palm trees, about 10 feet from the water. 

Tim ordered appetizers and a bucket of beer right away. It was a good move, because like Jamaica, Mexico runs on island time, and our lunch didn't show up for another hour.

But boy, was it good when it came! Mark, Tim, Kim and I ordered the lobster covered in butter and garlic (emphasis on the garlic!) and it was seriously good. We loaded up our fresh tortillas with rice and lobster, and didn't talk for half an hour, other than to say how amazing that lunch was. 

As soon as they finished, the kids jumped back from the table, and ran out to the water. They repeatedly jumped off the dock, splashing around in the ocean. I wanted to join them, but the warm sun, full belly, and beer all did me in. I opted instead for the chaise lounges on the beach, where I could lazily dip my toes into the water and not drown.

In addition to the food and prime beach location, the restaurant also offered free kayaks. I opened my eyes just in time to see Hannah and the boys slipping away in them.

Hannah was a natural. She glided through the ocean like she'd done this all her life, cutting silently through the waves. The boys, on the other hand, were not nearly as graceful. Nic was headed out to sea in the opposite direction, and Mark was 20 or 30 yards behind him. Two minutes later, Mark proved without a doubt that he's my child by flipping his kayak, then splashing helplessly as it sank (while water flooded his kayak, memories flooded my mind, recalling my similar, yet far more panicky, kayak trip in Catalina).

I watched him struggle as the kayak sank. Because the water was shallow, barely three feet deep, it was more funny than scary. Tim dragged it back to shore for him, and I can say from experience that a water-logged kayak weighs about 700 pounds and is nearly impossible to empty.

Mark didn't even try--he just grabbed a new kayak and set out to sea again. Hannah glided past him, handing him his paddle, which she'd grabbed when his ship went down, and then she was gone again.

I returned to my lounger, where Kim joined me. We admired the view, finished our beers, and realized this was how life should always be. We also realized how hard it would be to return to work next week. We were good at lying around all day at the beach, drinking beer and relaxing, and we never wanted it to end.

But eventually, like all other good things, it did end. We packed up our stuff, grabbed a couple cabs, and headed back toward the ship. Apparently, our drivers were race car drivers in another life, because they flew through the empty town, screeching around corners and racing through driveways to avoid the speed bumps in the road.

"These would be awesome cabs during the Amazing Race!" Kim said, and I wholeheartedly agreed.

Our last stop was a brief one in the little government mall. There were two touristy bars sharing a pool, and the boys, still wet from the beach, hopped right on in. Hannah stole Tim's camera and disappeared onto the beach, where there were pools of dolphins you could pay to swim with.

Tim, Kim and I grabbed a table poolside, and ordered drinks. The waitress reappeared with our drinks--a couple beers and sodas in tacky, giant plastic palm tree glasses.

"I got this round, Tim," I said, pulling a twenty out of my wallet. "How much is it?"

"Thirty-six," the waitress said.

I did the math in my head--the entrance fee at the ruins was 48 pesos, or four bucks. If these drinks were 36, that was only three bucks--what a bargain!

"U.S.," the waitress added, which didn't quite register.

"U.S. what?" I asked.

"Dollars," she said, shrugging. "The drinks are 36 U.S. dollars."

"For two beers and three sodas?" I yelped, and she shrugged again, but this time it was a "what are you gonna do?" type shrug. I stared at her, still not comprehending, until the boys swam off with their drinks. When I realized I was burnt and there was no way out of this, I grudgingly handed over two twenties, and tried (unsuccessfully) to get over it.

But honestly, who am I to complain? That was the worst thing that happened to me the entire trip, being gouged for drinks. Mexico earned a little more of my money than I'd expected, but in return, I got to climb ancient ruins, chow down on grilled lobster and fresh tortilas, and lounge in the sand as the water lapped at my toes.

I definitely came out ahead. :-)

Jamaican me crazy, mon!

Our first stop on the cruise was Jamaica, and boy, were we excited! We were in the land of Bob Marley and jerk chicken, and we readied ourselves by adding the word "mon" to the end of all our sentences.

Tim took on the role of our group leader, which we all appreciated. Personally, I would've signed us all up for the cruise excursions, but Tim was convinced we'd have a much better (and cheaper) adventure if we went out on our own. He was certainly right about that.

I knew we were in for a treat as soon as we disembarked. At the end of the long pier was a fenced-in area filled with Jamaicans hawking tours and taxis. They all wore official-looking gray vest and name tags.

Tim walked right past all the legitimate tourism workers and instead moseyed up to a local guy at the end of the pier. He asked the cost for driving our group around for the day, and when the guy answered $45 a person, Tim immediately turned and walked away.

"Too much," Tim said dismissively.

The local guy waved Tim back, and whispered something to him. I saw Tim glance toward the fence, where a Jamaican guy on the other side was frantically waving him over. Tim went over, returning a moment later to say we had a driver.

"The guy at the fence?" I asked, dubiously. "You made a deal with guy behind the fence?"

"His name is Teffe," Tim said. "And he'll drive us around all day for 20 bucks a person."

"Follow me!" the guy yelled, motioning us to the end of the fence. He walked us to the end, staying with us the whole time, calling out to us, and waving us on, keeping eye contact the entire time so that we wouldn't notice the legitimate tour guides. The guides still tried to entice us,  even when we told them we had a driver already.

"Who?" they asked, confused, and we would point toward the fence.

"Ugh, TEFFE!" they all groaned. Apparently, everyone knew (but did not appreciate) Teffe.

We came to the end of the parking lot, and the fence, and found ourselves facing armed guards. Tim told them we were meeting our driver nearby, and the guards reluctantly  opened the gates to let us out into the city.

"Where are we going?" my mom asked,stepping outside the gate. "Is this safe?"

Buses filled with cruise passengers passed us by, the people all staring at us bravely leaving the safety zone all alone.

Teffe ran off to get his van, leaving us on a dirt road in front of a hotel. We stood by chatting with the hotel guards, awaiting (and doubting) his return.

But a few minutes later, Teffe arrived, helping us into his tiny little van. "Welcome to Ochos Rios!" he boomed. "Let me show you my town."

He drove us up the street pointing out all the local landmarks.

"There is a nice shopping center," he said, pointing to the right. "But they sell a lot of drugs back there."

"There is the casino," he pointed to the left. "And that street over there, they sell a lot of drugs."

"That hill up there, that's where all the rich people live," he pointed out. "And the drug dealers."

I wasn't sure why he kept noting the drug streets--maybe he thought all cruise passengers wanted to buy Jamaican weed, but we had a van full of kids and a couple senior citizens! We didn't exactly your free-smokin' party-animal crowd, though Teffe seemed to think differently.

"Where's Dunn Falls?" Tim asked. "That's what we really want to see."

"We'll get to it, mon," Teffe replied. "First, sight-seeing. Then, you go to the Falls and the beach."

And so we toured. Teffe stopped at a local souvenir shop where we each got our own personal stalker--err, shopper. I didn't realize this at first, and kept trying to lose my shopping assistant. It wasn't until she said, "If you smile more, you get a bigger discount," that I realized her job. She liked me more as I filled my basket with coffee and jerk chicken paste, but then a little less when I refused the rum and liquor bottles.

Teffe loaded us back into the van and headed for the hills. He drove us through a neighborhood, pointing out the banana, ackee and bread fruit trees.

"There's fruit everywhere, in every yard" he told us. "If you go hungry in Jamaica, it's only because you're lazy!"

Teffe then turned toward Dunn Falls National Park. He stopped at the bottom of the hill so we could rent aqua shoes. I still wasn't sure what exactly the falls were, or what was going on, but I got some shoes anyway.

The park was gorgeous, manicured and full of palm trees (and aggressive souvenir vendors).

"It's owned by the government," Teffe said, full of disdain. "They water the grass every day, even when it rains." He shook his head, then told the cashier I needed an adult ticket and a child ticket.

"How old is the child?" she asked me, but before I could answer, Teffe spat out, "Eleven!" and saved me $8.

I still wasn't sure what was going on with the falls--I thought I could walk alongside Tim and the gang and take photos. But then I saw the actual falls and realized that not only would I ruin my camera, I'd also probably slip and die. I immediately opted not to walk up the falls.

Turns out, I made a good decision. The tours were led by young local guys, who tried to get their groups fired up by yelling, "This tour gonna be HOT, HOT, HOT! What it gonna be, mon?" And the crowd would yell back, "HOT, HOT, HOT!"

"That's right, mon!" the guides smiled. "I gonna lead you through the falls and keep you from gettin' hurt, and then you gonna tip me at the end of it all!" he told them. "Are you ready, mon?" And they shouted back they were!

He also told them whole trip would be videotaped, and they could buy a DVD afterwards. What he didn't tell them was that the videographers were aggressive.

My mom and I waited for our group on a platform above the first fall. It looked scary!!! A two-story boulder with a fast-moving river of water rushed down, constantly threatening to wash away the tourists. The tourists battled the torrent, clutching each other's hands, and climbing up a narrow, slippery rock staircase. 

I suddenly felt like a very, very bad mother for sending Mark off to a watery death (or at least a good skull-crackin'!).

"He's with Tim," my mom reminded me. "He's safe--oh my God, look at the kid, he almost drowned!"

I looked over to see a kid--about Mark's age and size--struggling to ascend the giant wet rock. He looked exhausted.That bad mother feeling grew.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, a videographer appeared. He stood at the top of the rock, waving frantically to get the attention of the climbers below him.

"Hello!" he shouted at the struggling climbers. "How you feeling?"

When none of them answered (because they were holding on for dear life), the videographer kicked water at them (seriously!) and prompted them with "HOT! HOT! HOT!" He repeated this scenario the entire time, even after one fed-up guest splashed water back at him in the shallow pool.

Luckily, my family eventually made it safely up the falls, even with the obnoxious guides kicking water in their faces. They got an awesome picture and a lasting memory, and I got the satisfaction of enjoying the beautiful scenery without actually endangering my life.

Our next stop was at the beach. Teffe drove us out to a restaurant called Bamboo Blu, which was smack in the middle of a gated community. I was beginning to notice a theme here in Jamaica--the only streets that weren't gated were the ones where you could readily buy drugs.

Bamboo Blu was very cool. The beach was spectacular--I was actually speechless when I saw it. White sandy beach and amazing surf as far as you could see. The water started out clear, transluscent, as it lapped at the beach, slowly turning a green blue, then turquoise, then a deep blue, until the blue melded into the sky and turned the blue down a couple pale notches. There were giant puffy clouds in the sky, and it all made for an unbelievable picture.

We paid the hostess $25. She snapped her fingers at the lifeguard, a young, skinny guy, who re-appeared with five beach chairs. He set them up for us and resumed his seat on the lifeguard chair.

The kids couldn't wait to get into the water. They ran right into it, until the lifeguard directed them further down the beach, toward the actual restaurant.

We ordered plates of jerk chicken and Red Stripe beers, and the kids, usually adventurous eaters, ordered hot dogs. They'd never had jerk chicken and were worried they wouldn't like it.

I was relaxing, thoroughly at peace and enjoying myself, when Tim gasped and looked at me with huge eyes.

"The lifeguard just downed a beer!" he whispered, pointing at the empty bottle in the sand. And suddenly, I very clearly understood the Jamaican motto of "No problem, mon!"

We finished our own beers and waited for our food. There was a little hut--The Jerk Hut--where all the food was cooked, so I figured they had tons of food already cooking. I totally forgot that Jamaica is an island and we were on island time.

The other thing about islands is the people, and how friendly they are. The Jamaicans were no exception. The lifeguard climbed down from his chair to talk to us.

He started telling us about his previous night, how he'd hung out with another tourist on his last night here.

"He didn't wanna go home, mon," he said, as the kids walked back up to us. "We were drinking beer, then I had to go because my girl was calling, but he told me to bring my girl over. So I did. I drank nine beers, and he drank 12!" He smiled broadly at us.

The kids' eyes got huge, so he further elaborated.

"Drank nine beers, and smoked a lotta pot!" he laughed.

"Don't smoke pot," Kim immediately told the kids under her breath.

"We smoked so much pot!" he said, and Kim repeated "Don't smoke pot!" to the kids.

The lifeguard told us all sorts of stories, peppering them liberally with expletives. It got to the point where it was so ridiculous, it wasn't even offensive anymore.

After about an hour, our waitress returned carrying huge plates of jerk chicken. We were hungry and descended upon them like vultures. The chicken was amazing--seriously, the best meal I've had in forever.

After a sample taste, the kids joined in. They nearly devoured our lunch before we could eat it.

"Good, mon, yeah?" the lifeguard asked.

"Unbelievable!" I said. "This barbecue sauce is so good! Where did they get this?"

The lifeguard snorted at me and said, "What you mean, mon? We make that (expletive word that was not stuff)!" He puffed out his chest as though he'd personally cooked up that fine batch of barbecue sauce. We cracked up, and "We make that sh!t" became our new family mantra.

A neighbor dog ambled over while we ate, lured by the smell of our meal.

"Go away!" the lifeguard yelled at him. "Mo-fo!" he cried, finally showing a little verbal restraint.

But not for long. "Mo-fo!" he yelled again, chasing the dog away. And then he yelled it--the whole bad word.

"Don't say m-f-er," Kim replied instinctively. "Don't smoke pot."

I couldn't tell which was funnier--the potty-mouth lifeguard or my proper fourth-grade teacher sister-in-law correcting him. They were both pretty hilarious.

"We're NOT gonna smoke pot!" Nicholas told his mom. Honestly, the kids were more interested in the chicken than in drugs. (Although Nic and Mark DID make up a totally inappropriate song later on about our afternoon with the lifeguard.)

We finally finished up our lunch. We hated to leave the beautiful beach, and our lively entertainment, but we told him it was time to go.

"What, mon!" he said, clearly shocked. "I don't want you to go!"

"We don't wanna go, either," Tim told him. He nodded toward our cruise ship, off in the distance. "But tell it to the captain."

"I will break that captain's arm, mon!" the lifeguard said. "So you can stay on me island!"

We laughed, amused. Then he took it a little farther.

"I will tie that captain up, and break every bone in his body so he can't never drive a ship again, mon!" he said. "I will kidnap dat captain, and beat him--pow! pow!--then you can stay here!"

And then we chuckled again, but nervously this time, because wow, that certainly escalated quickly!

"Um..." Tim started, looking around nervously. "Yeah, where's Teffe again?"

Suddenly, the lifeguard's boss appeared. She called sharply to him, and his eyes grew super big.

"Gotta go, mon," he said, and scooted down the beach, leaving us and our laughter behind.

"Can you imagine being that guy's boss?" I asked Tim. "He'd be the best and worst employee ever. Best because you'd laugh all day long, worst because you know, eventually, you'll have to fire him."

On duty, but nowhere to be seen...

 
We found Teffe hitting on the lady at the gate. We climbed back into the van, and scooted down the road ourselves.

Teffe honked and waved to his friends all the way down the road. He certainly knew everybody in town.

Our last stop was a pilgrimage to Margaritaville. My dad was so cute, he came decked out for the occasion in a Margaritaville t-shirt and a Landshark Lager hat (complete with a shark fin on top). We ordered a bucket of beers and sat around soaking up the atmosphere.

"This place is great," my dad said. "Why didn't we come here the whole day? I didn't need to see those waterfalls!" 

Fin ups!

I agreed, it was awesome. But it's nice to see some of the local highlights, too, I reminded him. He was not convinced.

Margaritaville was so cool. It had a pool in the middle of the restaurant, with a swim-up bar and a waterslide. It also had a private beach. The kids took off for the waterslide, and the adults gathered around, admiring the view.

Mecca--I mean, Margaritaville.

And then, too soon, it was time to go. Teffe loaded us up one last time, and dropped us off back on the safe side of the fence. We thanked him and bid him goodbye, genuinely sad to leave.

Jamaica was beautiful, and a blast. And the Jamaicans are a lot of fun--I totally get that whole "No problem, mon" thing now. They say it for everything--your kid's falling down a wet, rocky slope? Your food hasn't arrived? Your kids are swimming unattended? Your driver's too busy hitting on girls to drive you around? "No problem, mon!" 

It doesn't mean the problem's gonna get fixed, or that they're even acknowledging there IS a problem. It just means, relax, mon, it's all good. Life is good, and it'll all work out.

Just ask the lifeguard.