Mark had a typical reaction when I told him he was going on an ocean fishing trip: he groaned.
"Why do you always sign me up for these things?" he whined.
"Because if I didn't, you'd spend all your time playing video games," I answered.
Mark stared at me quizzically.
"Um...yeah," he said. Duh, he also thought, but was smart enough not to verbalize. And the problem is???
The problem is, I don't want all his childhood memories centered around the TV. I signed him up for ocean fishing, happily, until the final email arrived, stating we had to be on the dock by 5:30. IN THE MORNING. On a Saturday.
I reacted the same way Mark did--I mentally kicked me.
When the alarm rang on Saturday morning at 4:45, I kicked myself again. I wondered if I was so desperate for a kid-free day that I'd actually wake up while it's still dark--and then realized yeah, that sounds about right.
Mark did surprisingly well. He was up, dressed and ready to go within 15 minutes. He even put on a lucky hat--his Miami Dolphins cap--"in case we see some dolphins."
"Donuts?" he asked. This is the only early-morning incentive/reward that actually works on him.
I shrugged and said, "I don't know if the donut store is even open this early!"
"Yum Yum's open 24 hours," he replied. I don't know how he knew that, but he was right.
And so, by 5:10, donuts in hand, we were on the road.
"Look at the sunset!" I said, as the skies lightened up.
"Sun rise," Mark corrected.
I shrugged again. Being awake when this early is such a foreign concept, I don't even have the right vocabulary for it!
After a couple wrong turns, we made it to the docks and found the other Boy Scouts. They looked almost as happy as we did.
I rented a rod and reel for Mark, and purchased some lead weights (we've learned the hard way that weights really are a necessity). I tried posing Mark for a few quick photos, and this is where his mood visibly disintegrated.
"OK, no more," he finally declared, walking away.
I asked the dad in charge of the trip when to pick Mark up, and he graciously offered to drive him home. I was basking in how nice that was, when he added, "If I remember..." My gratitude immediately turned to worry.
"Make sure you stick to Zach's dad when you return," I told Mark. "Otherwise, you'll be chillin' on the docks till I get here." Mark nodded, and gave me a second look to see if I was kidding. I was not.
I raced back home to my bed, but when I got there, sleep eluded me. My body was tired and achy, but not enough to fall back asleep. It looked like I was in for a long day.
But I made the best of it. Maybe I couldn't sleep, but I could certainly clean, and it went a lot faster without a surly teenager continuously calling out, "It doesn't matter! Nobody cares if the house is clean!"
I did multiple loads of laundry, had the yard sprayed for black widows, went to a movie, lunch and a little shopping with Edra, and made it home moments before Mark did (yay, Zach's dad for remembering!).
"How was the trip?" I asked.
"Great!" Mark exclaimed. "I caught two fish and--dang it, I left them in Zach's car!"
If I said I wasn't a little relieved, I'd be lying. I have no idea how to cook rockfish or sand dabs.
"Did you get sea sick?" I asked. "Did you drink the ginger ale I sent?"
"No sea sick, yes, ginger ale," he said, licking his lips at the memory. "I ate a lot on the boat--the food was sooooo good."
I wasn't surprised--they'd been gone for 10 hours, and that kid can eat when he wants to.
"Did you have a burger?" I asked.
"TWO burgers!" he exclaimed. "And a grilled cheese sandwich, and two bags of chips, and a soda, and a Snickers bar."
"What!" I said. "So you didn't eat any snacks?"
"Oh, and I ate ALL my snacks!" he added. There were 20 granola bars in that bag--I couldn't believe he wasn't sick from all that!
He told me all about the boat, and the sea, and how he napped at the beginning and end of the trip. He told me about the fish everyone else caught.
"Some kids caught a bunch!" he said, frowning. "But I only caught two."
"Because you were busy eating the whole time!" I reminded him. "And sleeping."
"That's true," he said. "Still had fun, though."
He told me, excitedly, how big each fish was and how he'd paid the deckhands a dollar a fish to clean them (God bless those deckhands!). He told me his hat worked, and that they saw dolphins. He told me again about all the food he consumed, and how much fun he'd had with the other boys on the boat.
I smiled, taking it all in. This--this is why I sign you up for the trips, even when you don't want to go! I thought. But I didn't need to say it out loud--no sense in rubbing it in, or riling him up. Part of being his mom is expanding his horizons, even grudgingly--and the other part is reveling in his joy when it turns out he actually does like doing stuff other than just video games.
"It was a really good trip," he finished, rubbing his eyes. "I need a shower--I totally smell like squid!"
Fernando, who'd been sniffing around Mark's ankles, agreed.
"OK, get to it," I said, smiling and rubbing my own eyes.
Because at that moment, getting up at 4:45 a.m. on a Saturday, seemed totally worth it.
Last Monday, Mark announced he had an audition with the high school band. He and the middle school band teacher were working on a drum solo.
"What's the audition for?" I asked.
"I don't know," Mark snapped, like this was the dumbest question ever.
On Tuesday, I asked how it was going. He answered, "All right," then said he scheduled his audition for Thursday, so he could work with his private drum teacher.
"Great idea!" I said. I was impressed by his maturity and logical reasoning.
On Wednesday, Mark asked to double his private lesson time. His weekly lesson is 30 minutes, but he wanted the more time to perfect the solo.
"Absolutely!" I said. I arranged the longer lesson with the instructor.
On Thursday, he called after school to tell me he was home.
"How'd the audition go?" I asked, crossing my fingers.
"I didn't do it yet," he snarked. "It's at 6."
I was silent, trying to process that information. Then I realized what it meant.
"Wait..." I said. "Is the audition at the high school?"
"Yes," he said.
This was news to me. I thought it was at his school, during school hours--he'd never once mentioned this little tidbit.
I glanced at the clock. It was 3:45, and I don't get off work until 5. My mind started racing with solutions. The easiest one was to say, "Ride your bike." Except that we tried that the day before, when Mark rode to drum lessons and got lost. He did not have time to get lost today.
"Mark, it takes me an hour and 15 minutes to get home on Thursdays!" I yelled. "Seriously, you're telling me this now???"
"I told you before," he started, but I shut him down. We did not have time to argue.
I finished my work, and took off at 4:30. With any luck, I'd roll up to the curb with moments to spare.
But the traffic gods were on my side (see Kelley, God does look out for fools!), and I arrived at the house at 5:36. I pulled into the school parking lot at 5:40, and asked Mark where the auditions were.
"I don't know," he said. "The auditorium?"
"You're asking me?" I said. "You're the one with all the info. Didn't they give you a flyer?"
"No," he said. "They didn't give me anything."
"Well, let's go look. We're 20 minutes early, but I'd rather be early than late."
Mark looked at the clock, then back at me.
"I said the auditions go until 6," he clarified. "It's not at 6."
And that's when my head almost exploded. No, that is not what he said. I remember, very clearly, his exact words--because he'd uttered them only 90 minutes ago.
We now had mere moments to spare and no idea where to go.
I started with the most logical choice, the band room, where a woman was talking to a mom and a student. Mark tugged at my sleeve urgently.
"C'mon, Mom," he said. "It's in the auditorium."
"Fine," I said. "You go look there. I'm gonna talk to this lady." I pretty mush discounted anything that came out of his mouth now.
The other mom and student walked out with Mark on their heels. I introduced myself to the other woman, who turned out to be the music teacher.
I apologized for being late. "I know the auditions only go till 6--" I started.
"No, they went until 5:15," she corrected. It was now 5:45. "But I can do it now. Do you have the info sheet?"
Smoke came out my nose and ears. I looked at Mark, nervously biting his nails and shaking his head.
The teacher handed me a form to complete. Sure enough, here's the first thing that jumped out at me:
She took Mark into the band room next door, where he banged out some rudiments on the snare drum. I was halfway through the form when he returned.
"That's it?" I asked, still writing. "All done?"
"Yup," he said.
"How'd you do?"
"I dunno," he answered. "She didn't say anything."
An audition that short meant he'd done really, really well, or really, really terrible. It's always a toss-up with Mark.
I finished the form and handed it back to the teacher. And then I asked her to fill me in on any/everything else I should know, since obviously, my messenger was not to be trusted.
She told me about a percussion workshop the next day (required for incoming freshmen). She also told me about the summer music camps--one in July for percussion, another in August for the whole marching band. I immediately noted them in my phone calendar, as the chances of Mark bringing home informational flyers is slim to none.
"Anything else I should know?" I asked.
"Nope, just show up tomorrow!" she told Mark.
But Mark had other ideas.
"I don't have to go to that workshop," he said, as we left the room.
"What part of 'incoming freshmen' don't you get?" I asked. "It's specifically for YOU! You. Are. Going. No more discussion!"
And so he did. Grudgingly. And loved it. And told me he couldn't wait for the second workshop next week.
As for me...well, luckily, I have wonderfully supportive friends.
"Breathe in. Exhale. Don't kill him," my friend Kelley texted me.
I texted back that I'd save myself four years of stress if I strangled him now, instead of waiting till graduation.
Which prompted her to call and talk me down after the audition.
"You're on speakerphone," I warned, to let her know Mark was also in the car.
"Hi, Mark!" she said. "You're still alive! Boy, do you owe me BIG TIME!"
"You do," I said, nudging him in the ribs. "Seriously."
But Mark just rolled his eyes.
And I did the same. Because yes, the middle and high schools usually inundate me with email and phone calls, but only when relevant to current student activities. Obviously, Mark was in a fuzzy zone here, between schools, and not all that keen on keeping me updated. I'd worry more if I hadn't personally exchanged email addresses with the band teacher, thereby cutting out my not-so-reliable middle(school) man.
I just sighed. And so it begins...I thought. My friend Jill always told me high school rushes by, but now I'm not so sure. He hasn't even officially started yet, and I know this won't be the last time Mark "forgets" to tell me something important. Let's just pray that he (we) makes it out of high school alive!
(And if he does...it will all be thanks to Kelley!)
This week, Mark played his last middle school concert. Ever. I was dreading it, but not because the band is terrible (they're not). I dreaded it because it was the first of the lasts.
His last middle school concert. His last grade school field trips. His last few weeks with the school nurse, who I love and trust unconditionally with Mark's care. His last few weeks in a small, safe school where the entire staff knows and loves him, and where parent involvement makes the school crazy good.
Next week is Mark's last Open House, then his last few days with the music program, which has been so amazing for him, bringing him success and confidence.
And these are all my last few days there, as well...
I know that's the real issue here. Mark could care less about middle school--he's already got one foot out the door. But this place was my constant--a haven, the place I sent Mark and knew he was safe and cared for, and learning a lot.
Mark can't wait to go to high school, and to reap all the benefits it offers. So far, those include a smartphone, a car, a later curfew (or any curfew, because it means I let him out of the house with his friends). I love Mark and his lofty delusions.
I know my feelings are completely normal--timeless and mundane, in fact. Mama Bird tries keeping her baby safe in the nest, while the baby can't wait to fly off. And I get it, he's only moving over to the high school, not around the world, but still...high school is a big place, with four times the kids and all the perils that keep the media in business. (Drugs! Bullies! Peer pressure! Ack!!!)
"You're worrying too much," my friend Edra told me.
"I can't help it," I answered. "I only have four years left with him, then he's off to college. I can't believe it's almost over."
"Oh, please," she snorted, nodding toward Mark shooting hoops in the backyard. "Look at him. You think he's going off to college right away? He's not going anywhere any time soon."
Maybe I should've been insulted, but she's right. He's 14, but he's still a young kid at heart, and barring any miracles or instant maturity infusions, he probably will stay local for a couple years.
Which made me feel better. Well enough, in fact, to enjoy his first last...the concert.
Mark arrived at the school as he usually does, by forgetting something important. This time, it was his tie. He frantically texted me to bring it to him at school.
I looked for him upon arrival, but he wasn't anywhere nearby--not with his friend Sean, not with the other drummers either. Sean finally pointed him out, stuck directly in a circle of girls, a young Casanova laughing and and holding court. (See, my fears are not unfounded. I wished desperately for a moment that he was shy, like his other friends.)
I interrupted him long enough to hand over the tie, then directed him toward the drum set so I could take a few photos before the concert started. He complied--barely--still showing off for the percussion section. He made goofy faces, clowning for the camera to illicit laughs from the drummers.
I smiled sweetly and said, "Give me a nice smile, or Mama's gonna go all crazy and make a scene here in front of everybody!"
I saw a momentary flutter of fear in his eyes, then Mark quickly recovered. He knows I don't toss out idle threats.
This was the best shot I could get out of him:
The concert went well. Mark sat idly for the first few songs, then joined the orchestra on the drum set. He did a great job.
After a few songs, he moved over to the band, where he took up the percussion instruments like the bells and maracas. He shook the maracas and did a silly dance, smiling and acting goofy the whole time. That child does not have one ounce of stage fright in him at all--he lives for the spotlight, and this was his chance.
He also played the kettle drums, snare drum and big bass drum before moving back to the drum set with the jazz band. I just smiled broadly the entire time, so proud of my little drummer boy.
Edra, Kathleen, her husband Juan and I ate our dinner and enjoyed the hot evening and live music. Don't be sad, I reminded myself, and for a few moments, I was not. I did pretty good all the way up until the last song.
That's it, I thought. Good-bye Cubberley. I felt like I was the one moving up, not Mark.
"Let's go," Mark told me, two minutes after the concert ended.
"Don't you have to help clean up?" I asked. Usually, I'm there a good 45 minutes after the show, watching Mark and his friends break down the drum set.
"Eighth graders don't have to clean up," he said.
I nodded. I wasn't ready to go so quickly. I suggested ice cream to celebrate, and luckily, I found some takers.
The concert reminded me how lucky I am, and how grateful I am for so many things: a happy, healthy kid with musical talent, lots of friends, and even some game with the girls. I was grateful for the stability the school offered Mark for so many years, and for the sense of community we both felt there. I was grateful Mark was taking so many positive memories with him, and I was grateful for all the memories I would keep home with me, too.
Including the image of my son rocking out on the maracas...
Sunday was Mother's Day and this year, I received something new: an epiphany.
What I realized is that Mother's Day is an awesome day for kids, but a terrible day for moms. Which pretty much makes this "special" day just like every other day of the year for moms.
Let me explain. I have the most awesome mom around, so as her kid, Mother's Day really is a holiday. I love to spoil my mom, to make her feel special, because she deserves and appreciates it. That part of Mother's Day was great, and a total success--I got to show and tell my mom just how amazing she is, and I loved that.
But as a mom, I dread this "holiday." This must be how married women feel on Valentine's Day--a sense of excitement building up to the day, the celebration of an amazing relationship. What will he plan? What will he do? Will I be pampered, showered with love, appreciated for my hard work and continual support? Will I be as lucky and happy, as spoiled and well-treated, as all the other moms on Facebook are?
And the answer is...no. Just like Valentine's Day, the guy (or the kid) doesn't bring it. Or brings something worse than loving words--he brings a bad attitude. He puts me up on a motherly pedestal just so he can kick me right off.
It's not that I want material gifts--like other moms, I just want a little effort, an acknowledgement or expression of love. A home-made card would go a loooooooong way--that would make my whole day. But effort, apparently, is not what men--or baby-men, in this case--are good at.
Case in point, here's what I got for Mother's Day this year:
- A haircut (treated myself--yay, me!)
- A poke in the eye (four pokes, actually, from my overzealous optometrist).
- A full day of helping my ADHD son "write" his science report (more painful than the eye pokes).
- A new garden hose (I actually did ask for this one!)
- Attitude from said son at the farmer's market, because he wanted to carry kettle corn and not the basket of fruits and veggies. (Oh, and add a dash of mortification when a vendor who witnessed the whole scene asked Mark, "What day is it?" Yeah, got it, you're trying to help, guy, but now I'm even more embarrassed!)
- A 10-minute time out while I stewed in the car waiting for the kid to show up. (I'm pretty sure I was justified in leaving him and his bad attitude at the farmer's market--I only waited because I didn't want to come back)
- A whole lot of attitude from my brother who hosted Mother's Day brunch but apparently did not want to (he yelled at me about two different dogs--one of them his! NEWSFLASH: I don't even own a dog!)
- More attitude from my son, who did not want to get out of the hot tub, even though it was sending his blood sugar precariously low.
- An admonition from a party guest on why my diabetic son shouldn't eat sugar (even though it was the cure for the aforementioned LOW blood sugar).
- MORE attitude from my dearly beloved son when I asked him to clean up the yard clippings that afternoon, as previously agreed upon.
All of which left me feeling less than warm and fuzzy by the end of the day. I felt maternal all right, but more in the "I'm getting a belt to whoop somebody's butt" sense than in the "basking in love" one.
I finally gave up, and retired to my couch to watch American gypsy weddings with a handful of jellybeans. This day felt a lot like Christmas, and to give you an idea of how Christmas feels, we have a saying in our family--"It's not Christmas until Heather cries."
Then, just when I thought I couldn't get any grumpier, Mark appeared, and happily asked if I was enjoying my Mother's Day.
"No," I snapped.
He looked genuinely surprised.
"What part should I enjoy?" I asked. "The part where my brother was a jerk, the part where you whined and gave me attitude, or the part where you ignored me and the front yard clippings?"
His smile disappeared, and he slunk off to his room. I didn't think I could feel any worse, but suddenly, yelling at my only child on Mother's Day, I did. No wonder no one wanted to celebrate me on this day.
Mark was quiet for so long that I finally checked in on him. He was no longer pouting--he was napping peacefully on his bed. I guess I should be glad someone enjoyed the afternoon.
"I don't know what you expected," my friend Kelley said later, after I recounted my no good, horrible day. "Mother's Day is always a bust for you."
"I know," I said. "I keep thinking this will be the year it changes. My bar is set so low now that I don't even want displays of affection--I just want a day where no one's whining, complaining or being rude to me. Even for five minutes!"
But I guess that's the irony of the job. You don't become a mom because it's easy or appreciated--there's no instant glory in it. You work hard, nurture and care for everyone else and it never stops, not even on Mother's Day.
"I give up," I told Kelley. "Next year, I'm celebrating on my own. I'm running away to a spa day. I'll pamper myself!"
Kelley laughed, and said, "There you go!" She agreed it was a fine idea, even if it is diametrically opposed to the whole notion of Mother's Day.
But maybe it's not...the day is devoted to celebrating moms, not necessarily to spending it with kids. I don't think you can actually do both things at once, so next year, I'm not even gonna try.
If my kid asks where I am, can someone please tell him I'll be at the spa? Thanks!
In an ironic twist, my entire family went to church for TWO consecutive Sundays. The last time that happened, I was 16.
But it was for a good cause--my nephew Grant's first communion.
We were all excited for Grant, who was actually very nervous. (He's always nervous.) But he was also proud of his milestone, and of being the center of attention for a whole day.
My parents beat us to the parking lot. As I exited my car, I saw my dad resting on a bench, looking down at the ground, while my mom rushed about. I couldn't tell what she was looking for, but she was determined. Suddenly, my dad looked up and waved me over. I frowned--is everything okay?--just as my mom stopped moving, and also waved me over, even more frantically.
"Something's wrong," I told Mark, rushing off. My dad sat still on the bench--I worried he wasn't well.
"Hurry!" my mom said, as I rushed up. She pointed toward the hall. "They have coffee and donuts!"
I stopped running, then sighed. I thought my dad was having a heart attack. And he was--kind of--over donuts. (My parents really love donuts.)
"My favorite part of church!" Mark smiled, wringing his hands together. Usually he had to wait till after the service to get them.
I told Mark to eat his very carefully. He'd dressed all up for the mass, and I didn't want him to spill on his outfit. He looked very dapper.
As we left the hall, a couple little boys ran by us wearing similar outfits (except they sported white, not black, ties).
"Uh oh," I said.
"What?" Mark asked.
"They're gonna think you're making your first communion," I said, pointing out the other boys. "With your white shirt and black pants."
Now Mark sighed. And sure enough, as we climbed the stairs to the church, several church ladies clapped and cheered for Mark.
"First communion boy!" they called out to him. "Congratulations! We're so proud of you!"
Poor Mark just smiled painfully and graciously mumbled, "Thanks."
Scott, Mari, and their kids were already inside. We shoved into one pew that just barely fit us all (well, not quite). OK, actually, it was one person too small, but we don't like to be separated, so the 12 of us just crammed ourselves in there.
Somehow, I ended up next to my neice Gabi again. Usually, the family doesn't let us sit together because we're both inappropriate and can't keep our mouths shut. This day was no different.
As Gabi flipped open the missal to find the song lyrics, the book snapped, sounding like a shotgun re-loading. Only Gabi would recognize that sound--she looked at me, surprised and delighted, a wicked grin spreading across her face. She then snapped the book ten times in a row, until finally Mark also realized what it sounded like, and started snapping his book, too. I giggled along until both my mom and Scott shot us dirty looks; then I immediately whispered, "Knock it off!" at Gabi. She locked and loaded one last time, then winked.
The church was beautiful, filled with fresh flowers from last Sunday's Easter mass. There was also a huge cave on the altar, which I'd never seen before. (I'm usually only there for first communions or Christmas Eve.)
"Do they always have that cave?" I asked Gabi.
"Only at Christmas and Easter," she whispered back. "You know, because Jesus came out of the cave."
"He only came out of the tomb at Easter," I reminded her. "Not Christmas. Christmas was when he was born."
"Oh, yeah!" she said. "At the farm. Because the hotel was closed."
I sighed again. "In a manger," I corrected. "Because the inn was full, not closed. Seriously, do you listen at all during services?"
"Yeah," she said. "Sometimes." Then she snapped the missal at me again--click! click!--proving she actually did not ever listen.
The monsignor was great--he was sweet and funny, personable and engaging. He involved the whole church, pacing back and forth as he told the sermon, and inviting questions from the audience. When it came time to prepare the communion, he called all the kids up to the altar to participate. I loved it--the whole service revolved around the family, and included everyone. This was not the stuffy, formal Catholic church I'd grown up with. I enjoyed it a lot, and started to feel guilty that my son has none of these traditions or memories to grow up with.
"Maybe we should go to this church," I told Mark. "I really like the monsignor."
"Nah," he said. "Too early."
"It's 10 o'clock!" I told the boy who gets up every weekend at 7 to play video games. "Besides, they have mass all day, even on Saturday and Sunday evenings." Little blasphemer earned himself a couple more weeks of church for that statement!
Finally, it was Grant's big moment. He gulped, gathered himself up, and lead his parents to the altar. The monsignor spoke to him softly, while Scott and Mari each placed a hand on his shoulder. Then, Grant accepted his first holy communion, and I got a little weepy. Grant returned to the pew, with a giant grin on his face. It was a really sweet moment.
Afterwards, the rest of us stood to go for communion. Mark usually goes too, with his arms folded across his chest, to receive a blessing. But because of his clothes, I motioned for him to stay.
"Don't go up," I said, pointing to his shirt. "You'll just confuse them!"
"I know!" he said, sitting back in the pew. "I'm not!"
It would be just like Mark to receive his first holy communion without going to any of the classes, or doing any of the prep work! That kid takes the shortcut for everything.
After mass, we gathered the family outside to capture the moment. I took tons of photos with at least three cameras, and they came out very nicely.
"OK, we're done," I told the squirrelly family after a few minutes. They are not a patient group.
"Now one with you in it!" Kathleen called. Everybody groaned, but Kathleen insisted. "Heather's never in it," she said. "Come on!"
I jumped in the picture, and gave my best smile. What I didn't know was that everyone else was making goofy faces. So yeah, this is my sentimental Kodak moment commemorating Grant's special day.
Finally, it was time to do what we liked best--party! We returned to Scott and Mari's house to eat, drink and harass each other. Grant raced around excitedly, opening cards stuffed with $20 bills, while Mark gasped and pointed out that Grant didn't deserve that much cash (he tried bargaining me down to give Grant only 10 bucks).
"If you make your first communion, you'll get money, too," I pointed out.
But Mark shook his head, remembering the story my mom told of Aunt Kim's conversion. "Too many classes," he said. "I'm gonna be like Aunt Kim, and do everything at once."
I just shook my head. Only Mark would plan ahead to take a religious studies crash course.
I mistakenly set my smartphone on a table and walked away. When I turned around, Gabi was taking a million pictures with it, including this one with my mom. (Gabi: "Smile, Grandma!" Mom: "OK! Look, Ralph, I'm taking selfies!")
We spent the whole day together, even staying long enough to watch a bit of Grant's baseball game that afternoon. The sun was shining, my family was happy, the spring flowers were in full bloom, and the whole day was gorgeous and bright.
And best of all? Lightning didn't strike any of us, not once during the whole Sunday mass (our second mass in a row! Did I mention that??).
And truly, that may be the biggest miracle of all!
As spring break drew nigh, Mark grew increasingly excited. I tried to be equally excited for him, but my overwhelming emotion was more...fretful.
I didn't know what to do with Mark, childcare-wise. I'd just used all my vacation time on a cruise, so I couldn't take the week off like I usually did. I couldn't leave Mark at my brother's--his kids had their break two weeks prior. Ditto for his friend Tyler, who had his spring break the week before.
"Any of your friends going to day camp?" I asked, hopefully.
"Nope," Mark answered. "Their parents are all teachers, so they just stay home."
At 14, Mark's old enough to stay home by himself now, he reminded me. Which I know, but he's too social to stay home alone a whole week. He begged, promising to just play video games the whole time and not get into trouble.
But I was completely against that. Besides the obvious reason (FIVE days straight of video games? IN YOUR DREAMS, MARK!), I knew that he'd actually get bored after a couple hours by himself. Meaning I'd spend the entire week fielding calls like this:
"Hi, Mom, it's Mark. When are you coming home?"
"I'll be home at 6, Mark, just like I always am."
And then...repeat. Repeat that phone call and answer ad nauseum every hour of every day for that entire week.
Um...no.
Finally, I ran out of options.
"You've gotta go to camp," I finally said. I felt bad, because he'd probably be the oldest kid there, but I didn't have a choice. "Sorry."
"Awwwwww..." Mark groaned, mostly bummed that I'd crushed his video game marathon.
I dropped him off the first day of camp, and to my horror, he WAS the oldest kid there. But it didn't slow him down--he rushed away from me, joining some younger kids shooting baskets.
He was filthy and exhausted when I picked him up.
"Did you have fun?" I asked.
"I ate ALL my snacks!" he said, proudly waving an empty one-gallon plastic bag.
"Those were for the entire week!" I gasped. Seriously, there were like 25 pre-packaged snacks in there!
"I'll re-fill it when I get home," he shrugged.
"What else did you do?"
"Played b-ball," he said. "I was dunkin' like donuts! This one kid Connor got all mad I wouldn't pass to him."
"Would it kill you to pass the ball?" I said. "You know...being a team player?"
"Pshhh," Mark replied, shooting imaginary baskets. "I was open. I wasn't gonna pass and let him miss when I had a clear shot. I kept running it in and boom! Buckets for days."
"Did you play in the gym or outside?" I asked.
"Both," he said. "All day long. It was AWESOME! My legs kinda hurt now, but it was totally worth it."
The best part was the outdoor baskets were for smaller kids, and were only a foot taller than Mark. He looked like a giant playing them, and he repeatedly slam-dunked the ball every chance he got.
He did a few other activities--like swimming and rollerskating--which he didn't like as much. Swimming was okay, but he only skated for 15 minutes before he fell on his tailbone and quit.
But his best days were spent at the park, playing--you guessed it--more basketball. The kid seriously cannot get enough.
"I played basketball eight hours a day," he told me. "And I ate a whole bag of snacks every day." He stared dreamily into the air, sighed happily, and said, "Best. Week. EVER."
The funniest part was after Mark returned to school the next week. I asked what his friends did for spring break, and he scoffed.
"They just played video games all week," he said, shaking his head. "Boring!"
And though it took all my restraint, I kept my mouth shut. Buckets for days, indeed.
