The Awards Ceremony

I'm a single working mom, and because of my limited time, I can't volunteer much at Mark's school. So when a friend asked me to help with the 8th grade graduation activities, I jumped on it.

My job, along with my friends Karen and Liz, was to co-chair the 8th grade awards ceremony. Karen, Liz and I worked the entire school year on the ceremony, tying it into the overall graduation beach theme, and coordinating decorations with the other activity chairs. 

We worked with a designer on the invitations and programs. We emailed the guidance counselor questions. We worked with parents, finding volunteers to set up the stage and an artist to decorate the cafeteria for the reception afterwards. We solicited treats from parents, to feed the hungry masses. And all the while, I fretted over just one thing: whether or not my kid would get an award.

"He'll be there with me anyway," I told Karen. "I just hope he's sitting onstage."

I wasn't being mean; Mark's whip-smart and wickedly funny, although that combination seems to get him in trouble more often than it earns him awards. He's also good at sports, but was recognized for that at the sports award banquet. He's an outstanding kid, but only a decent student; I hoped desperately he'd earn an academic award, but it wasn't guaranteed.

And I wasn't the only one wondering. 

"I don't think I'll get an award," Mark admitted. "I don't know what I'd get one for."

"Maybe music?" I suggested hopefully. 

Mark played in the school jazz band every Monday afternoon. And while most kids played in either the school band or orchestra, Mark volunteered for both, meaning he went to zero period every. single. day. An extra hour of school every morning, voluntarily--that had to be worth an award, right?

But I still held my breath right up until a couple weeks before the ceremony. Then one day, a letter arrived in the mail--including an invitation to the awards ceremony!

I was thrilled, and texted Karen immediately. She was just as happy as Mark and I!

The day of the ceremony finally arrived. I spent it running around--buying flowers to decorate the stage, and re-potting them all because they came in ugly containers. I helped Karen, Liz and the other volunteers at school, unloading my car in endless trips to decorate the stage and the cafeteria. I ran off to buy cookies, and chips, and chip bowls. I stopped to get Mark and Sean dinner, so they wouldn't starve halfway through the ceremony, then took them home to dress. I rushed them back to school, and finally, after a long, hectic day, I sat down to enjoy the fruits of so many months' labor.

Oh, and did I mention the perks of being a committee chair? The best was that I got a front-row seat in the auditorium--I sat closer to the stage than I'd ever sat the entire time Mark attended school. I was dog-tired, but thrilled to be close enough to the stage to take a decent photo of my son receiving his award.

But Mark foiled that plan right away. He hopped onstage and disappeared into the back row, hiding in a group of girls, determined not to make eye contact or acknowledge me. Whatever. As long as I got my front-row photo when it counted, I didn't care.

The ceremony moved along briskly. The same 10-12 kids got called onstage repeatedly, smiling broadly and holding up award certificates for their proud parents. Cameras clicked constantly and flashes lit up the stage. I couldn't wait for my turn. 

I followed the program, motioning excitedly to Kathleen when we reached the music awards. The big moment arrived, and then...nothing. No award. Five kids who were not mine collected their band awards, then marched back to their seats.

"I don't know what else he's eligible for," I told Kathleen, frantically scanning the remaining awards. Scholarship, math, most inspiring student. (No, no, and God no!) Geography bee, California Junior Scholarship Federation, most improved student of the year. I couldn't see any of those awards in Mark's immediate future.

The guidance counselor announced the honor student awards for GPAs 3.5 and above. She called out every kid's name but Mark's, so many kids they didn't even fit on the stage steps. The kids completely blocked the stage, so I couldn't even see Mark at all.

And then finally, miraculously, I heard Mark's name.

"That's my boy!" I told the woman next to me, proudly. Our friends around us clapped a little harder and cheered for Mark.

"What is it for?" Kathleen whispered, from the other side of my seat. 

"I have no idea," I answered, aiming my camera. 

It was then I noticed the battery light blinking--seriously, it was dying NOW? I focused center stage, knowing I only had one chance, praying the battery lasted long enough to capture this moment.

"Please, please, please, please, please," I chanted silently.

Mark whispered and giggled onstage with the girl next to him.

"Mark!" I whispered frantically, pointing my camera at him. "Over here!"   

He smiled, looked at me, and I pressed the button...just as he simultaneously smirked and raised his certificate to cover his entire face.

The entire front row gasped. I lowered the camera, shocked, humiliated, my face burning with embarrassment. I'd worked nine months for this moment--his one award--and Mark ruined it all in one second, trying to be funny, but really just being snotty.

Maybe nobody noticed, I thought, although the collective gasp seemed to contradict that.

"That little brat!" Kathleen fumed.

"Stinker!" Liz texted, from half a row over. So much for no one noticing...

The ceremony ended shortly after that, although I'm not even sure which awards were left. I spent the rest of the time slumped in my chair, mentally beating up my questionable mothering skills.

Mark knew he was in deep trouble, because he rushed up to me immediately afterwards, saying, "I'll take a nice photo for you now, as many as you want." He bit his bottom lip, offering up a nervous smile and his award certificate toward me.

I wanted to be that cool, collected mom who realizes her immature son just picked the wrong moment to be funny, and lets it go. But I'm not that mom, any more than Mark is that kid who realizes these are important moments for a mom. 

"I don't want any pictures," I said, eyes stinging, disappearing into the crowd. I just wanted to be left alone.

I ignored him during the reception, and at pizza afterward with Kathleen and Juan. 

On the way home, I  explained why what he did was wrong--how it hurt my feelings, and how badly he made me feel. I know he felt bad, but only because he knew he'd done something wrong by seeing it on everyone else's faces. To this day, he probably doesn't understand what was so bad.

As for me (because yes, I am gonna make this about me)...well, I do recognize it for the moment it was. A moment when I realize that I'm not just a loving mom, but a constant source of embarrassment to my teenager, simply because I exist. It's taken me two weeks to get here, to not take it personally, but man, it's hard not to.

I get it...I was a bratty teen, too, and said stupid things to my own mom that probably hurt her just as deeply. And boy, does it stink to realize that, too. Maybe this is just karma, repaying me back tenfold.  

Either way, I'm gonna work on thickening my skin. Or clearing up my calendar by saying no to all future awards ceremonies. And thanking my camera battery, because seriously, the only thing that made this whole debacle a little less worse was that I didn't get 20 pictures of it. 

I guess that's the silver lining, huh?

8th Grade Grad Party

The last couple weeks of school were insanely busy, so I didn't get a chance to post about all the activities. I thought late was better than never, so enjoy...

The 8th graders began their celebration week with a graduation party at the local college. Mark was most excited that it was a free dress event (he hates school uniforms) and came running outdoors in a South Park shirt when I picked him up at home. 

"You cannot wear that shirt," I said, before he even opened the door. "Go change."

"Why???" he asked, pointing at Cartman in his sunglasses under the words "Respect My Authority." "Grandma bought this for me!"

"Only because she didn't know who that was," I said. "Now go change."

He did, reluctantly. Finally, we headed off to Jonah's house to pick up his friends.

When we arrived, I realized Mark isn't the only 14-year-old who wants nothing to do with his mom--Jonah, Sean and Mark immediately ran away from us, and climbed in the car. Karen, Liz and I talked them out, insisting on pictures to commemorate the moment. The boys have been friends since they were wee little 8-year-old Cub Scouts, and the moms wanted a nice picture of how much they've grown up since.

But like the Rolling Stones say, you can't always get what you want...especially when your models are exasperated teenagers intent on ruining the photo. 

Jonah and Sean look great here...but Mark closed his eyes.

Mark opened them just a tad, but then Sean got in on the act...

And why close your eyes when you can open your mouth really wide?? 

Sean got tired and distracted, Mark just started making...weird...faces.

OK, even Jonah gave up and realized this was a lost cause. Still, this sequence shows why Jonah is my favorite kid, especially that day.

Finally, we all had enough of Mark's dumb faces and loaded them in the car. I don't know who was more relieved, the boys or the moms.

To give the kids some freedom, 8th grade parents aren't allowed at the party. Instead, the 7th grade parents chaperone the party, and the 8th grade parents just clean up afterwards (when, presumably, there is less chance of being a complete embarrassment to your kid). Karen and I were chaperones last year, so we knew what to expect--a little dancing, some pool playing and bowling, and lots of gorging on candy (between the candy, pizza and smoothies, I completely expected Mark's blood sugar to skyrocket).

Luckily, we had a spy--our friend Kimmi, who's son is  a 7th grader. Kimmi, a chaperone, promised to keep us updated (which really meant telling us if the boys talked to--gasp!--girls). 

Karen, Liz and I went off to dinner. We were enjoying crepes and wine when Kimmi's first text arrived.

"Kids are on the dance floor," Karen read aloud. "Now they're twerking!"

"Tell Mark to stop!" I answered, because let's face it, there's always a very good chance Mark's starting these things.

The next text beeped a moment later. 

"Was girls, not Mark," Karen read. "Twerking has stopped." 

We all breathed a sigh of relief, because it stopped, and because it really wasn't Mark after all.

We moved on to a more important task--choosing a dessert crepe. It was more difficult than you'd think--Karen wanted chocolate, but nothing with bananas, and Liz wanted something without nuts (she's allergic). Which was impossible, since all the chocolate crepes contained Nutella, and all the other crepes had bananas. 

"How about this one?" Liz asked, pointing at the description. "Let's just ask them to substitute strawberries for the bananas."

Which seemed easy enough--until I noticed the crepe's name---banana cream pie! We cracked up.

Eventually, we rolled out of the restaurant, and returned to the school, where Kimmi said Mark spent the whole night dancing. (I was not surprised at all.) We hid behind other parents, trying to sneak a peek at our boys, who immediately saw us and melted into the crowd. Eventually, they just ran off the dance floor entirely.

They returned a few minutes later for the 8th grade group picture. 

And for a few smaller group pictures. I was (kind of) glad to see Mark didn't limit his dumb faces to only my photos, although it was still annoying.  

Karen, Liz and I joined the clean up crew while our boys ran off. They repeatedly raided the candy bar as we cleaned up, so I kept shooing Mark away.

Finally, the student union was clean, and we drove home, just Mark and I.

"Did you have a good time?" I asked.

"Yeah," Mark said, smiling. "A really good time. That was really fun!"

"I'm glad," I said. I knew he'd have a blast.

"I'll miss my friends next year," he said. "The ones going off to other high schools."

This was the first time he'd opened up about that, so I just nodded and listened.

"Kind of a bummer," he said.

"It is," I agreed. "At least you have their numbers. You can text or call them." 

"I guess," he said, looking out the car window. "But it'll be a lot different."

I glanced over at him. Just a minute ago, he'd been a goofy kid intent on photobombing all the pictures; now, on the quiet ride home, he was much more reflective. 

It'll be okay, I wanted to say, you'll make lots of new friends. But I didn't want to minimize his feelings for his old friends, the kids he'd spent the past six years with, the kids he was so attached to now. He didn't remember much of his early elementary school years, but these years, and these friends, he cherished. And it was just now hitting him that it was all over.

"Yeah," I finally said, because nothing else seemed enough. "Yeah."

I parked the car and patted him on the shoulder. 

"I'm glad tonight was fun," I said again. "High school is gonna be different--maybe scary at first, but fun. I'll miss Cubberley, too. It's scary saying goodbye, but  nowadays, you never really say goodbye. You text or Facebook your friends--you don't have to lose touch."

He nodded.

"When I was a kid," I said, realizing just how old I sounded, "You moved on, and that was it--nobody had smart phones or social media. Maybe you kept in touch by writing letters, but usually not. So you're a lot luckier today--you actually can stay in touch with them all."

He nodded again. I knew he heard me, but I also knew he wasn't really listening. He was thinking about all these years, these kids, even his big, new school and how different next year would be. 

"Let's go," I said, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. "Time for bed. High school's gonna be crazy busy--this may be the last time you sleep for four years!"

He laughed at that. And I smiled, partially because it's true, and partially because I felt the same way he did--a little bit scared of the future, but ready to take it on.

Our place of Refugio

Four years ago, my brother Tim casually mentioned he was taking his family was camping at a little place called Refugio State Beach. I jumped all over that, inviting Mark and myself along. The campsite could hold up to 8 people, so Tim readily agreed. We had so much fun, it turned into an annual trip.

This year, we filled THREE camp sites! We had a revolving cast of campers, 19 people in total. That included almost my entire family (except for Nathalie, who was studying for finals, and Mary), and even some extended family (Kim's dad and stepmom). We had part-time campers (my parents) who spent the days with us, but returned to a cushy hotel at night. We even had out-of-town guests--my friends Kelley, Rob and Romi, who flew in from Baltimore, then drove up to camp the night with us. 

This year, we also scored on the primo camp sites. We had tons of trees (shade!) and no other campers behind us for most of the time. We were also 10 feet from the beach, which was great for spotting whales, dolphins and seals. 

Smed and Shanda arrived first, and set up the biggest tent I've ever seen. It was like a tent HOTEL, and they laughed when I asked how many families were gonna sleep in it. 

I set up my tent so I could see the waves from my air mattress. Awesome. 

We set up camp quickly, so we could go on to more important things--like happy hour on the beach for the grownups, and tee-pee building for the kids. 

We also wanted to get busy cooking! My family likes to eat, and eat well. We don't like average camp food, like hot dogs or canned stuff. No way. Scott made ribs and fettuccine alfredo in his Dutch oven that night, while Shanda cooked up chicken fajitas, beans and rice. The next night, Tim barbecued chicken three ways, and Scott cooked up a vat of chili. On Saturday morning, I baked a cheesy egg, bacon and biscuit casserole in my own Dutch oven, which the kids loved.

Mark wanted to make a recipe he learned at Scout camp. But he's Mark, and there were lots of shiny things to distract him, so after an hour, he set out a Dutch oven filled with three poorly peeled and cubed potatoes with some bacon bits tossed in.

"What is THAT?" Scott asked, shaking his head.

"It's pathetic!" Tim scoffed. "You should lose a merit badge for that! Seriously, I am taking a merit badge away."

"I'll give you a merit badge for it," Smed said. "A badge with half a donkey on it--guess which half?"

And yeah, that pretty much described Mark's effort in cooking--half-assed. 

Scott salvaged the meal, folding in cheese, spices and other good things, and salvaged the meal. The potatoes turned out fantastic, even though it took so long to cook, it eventually became lunch instead of breakfast.

But as usual, Kim won the crowd over with her fresh blueberry cobbler (also cooked in a Dutch oven--best camping accessory EVER!). All the Dutch oven food came out great, but it's impossible to beat Kim's cobbler--it honestly is the best food ever. 

We spent most of our weekend moving between the camp site and the beach. Hannah, Tim and Nic tried swimming, but for some reason, the beach was filled with rocks this year. Hannah could tolerate the cold ocean, but said the rocks pounded her between waves. 

So instead of swimming, we rode bikes, chilled at camp, walked on the beach, or visited the nearby caves.

There was one activity that brought the whole family together, though--throwing rocks. (I never realized how much my family likes to throw rocks!) Grant and Johnny spent the whole weekend starting tiny avalanches by pounding the cliffs with rocks. Mark and Nic joined in, and they all tossed rocks into the ocean.

 Even my mom and Gabi got into it. There was a beautiful hill of ice plant across from us, which turned out to house the entire park's squirrel population. It was filled with fat squirrels who flooded our site four or five at a time. They loved my car, hiding under it or climbing up into the wheels. They also loved our picnic table, which we'd loaded down with fruit, bread and other supplies. They were brazen, fearless little critters, running right past us to assault our flimsy packaging and feast upon our food.

My mom and Gabi weren't having any of it. Gabi started chucking pebbles at them, but just as I was yelling at her, my mom sidled up with her own fistful of stones. I thought she was going to tell Gabi to stop, but no--she had a whole pocket full of stones. She wanted to join Gabs on the hunt.

I was mortified--I hate squirrels, but I'm totally against harming any animals (even squirrels--seriously, I hate squirrels!). But she wasn't hurting anyone, Gabi pointed out--the squirrels thought she was feeding them, and actually ran toward the pebbles. Ugh...

I made them stop anyway. But Gabi was determined--she grabbed Grant's bike, and rode it through the campsites, chasing down squirrels and screaming at them. It was actually very effective, if a little weird!

She even convinced Mark to join her. Here's the squirrel patrol in action.

We have very few photos of the entire family, mostly because Dinsdales are bossy and opinionated and everyone wants to be in charge. So herding them together is nearly impossible--as soon as we all group together, somebody insults someone else, and the photo ops quickly deteriorate. So this photo--with almost all of us--is really a miracle.

We even got a shot of most of the grandkids--just missing Nathalie. :-(

And of course, the boys wanted their own action shot. 

On Saturday afternoon, a group of college students on a biking tour took over the group site behind us. Our kids quickly friended them, joining in on some weird game where you throw giant wooden chess pieces and knock down other chess pieces. (Yes, our trip had a theme--throwing things.)

We also had some other visitors--skunks. They invaded our site each night, sending us all into a panic. One bitty guy strolled right past us the first night, running toward our tents. The second night, a skunk sidled up to our camp fire while we out hunting grunion. We returned from the beach, and again flew into a panic, trying desperately to shoo him away without getting sprayed. 

Because the bikers were so nice, Mark warned them about the skunks. They barely acknowledged him, blowing him off, but 30 minutes later, another camper shouted at them excitedly.

"Hey, college kids, a skunk just went in your tent!" he yelled. "I AM NOT JOKING AROUND! It's in your tent!" 

That was followed by many girls shrieking, but they must've successfully scared the varmint away, because it never sprayed. (Well, not us, anyway--another kid told us he saw a group of people in the bathrooms later, who did get sprayed and were washing off the scent.)

My other favorite time was campfire time. I love gathering around the smoky fire, watching the kids try not to stab each other with skewers, or turn their marshmallows into flaming fire bombs. (They were not 100% successful with either.)

The first night, the kids just went full attack on the s'mores--they couldn't cram them in their mouths fast enough. My poor nephew Johnny, who doesn't have a lot of campfire experience, was not digging it. He held his marshmallow about five feet from the flames, and was bummed it was taking so long to cook.

"You don't like the the fire?" Smed asked, guiding him a little closer.

"I don't like the hot," Johnny clarified. He stood a little closer, but not too close. He watched his cousins gorge on s'mores, then frowned at his not-roasted marshmallow and the fire and said, "I'm angry!"

"Way to use your words," we congratulated him, as Smed helped him toast the marshmallow.

Sunday was an extra-busy day. It was Father's Day, and my birthday, although my loving son told me we were mostly celebrating Father's Day because I was outranked--there were five dads there and only one of me. (We'll see what that little rat gets for HIS birthday next year!)

I really didn't care. All I really wanted for my birthday was to spend it with my family...and I certainly got that.

Oh, I also got a bonus gift--whales! That's right, a whole pod of whales appeared on the horizon that morning. At first, we just saw their water spouts, but soon, one whale breached, and the show was on. We started seeing whale tales left and right, slapping the water, and calling all the other whales to breakfast. It was so cool! We stood there on the edge of the beach, passing around binoculars, and watching whales surface for a good hour.

Sunday was also a busy day because our campers were coming and going. Smed, Shanda, Scott, and their kids all packed up to leave. In their place, Kelley, Rob, and Romi arrived, straight from the airport. (They flew in from Baltimore that morning. And Rob was gracious enough to drive all the way to Refugio, which was not, as Kelley repeatedly told him, in Malibu. Poor Rob thought he had a 20 minute drive from the airport--not a two HOUR drive!)

It was so great to see the Gludts. I haven't seen them in a couple years. Romi can be kind of shy, so I figured I'd give him a little space to warm up to us all first (Dinsdales are a loud and overwhelming group.) But Romi forgot he was shy--and three minutes into our visit, he grabbed my hand and dragged me down to the beach, to frolic in the cold ocean. So much for being shy!

The Gludts, Mark and I strolled down the beautiful beach, exploring the caves and digging up sand crabs (Romi was not a fan!). It was so serene, and kind of surreal, all of us together on a random West Coast beach. 

It was also beautiful, as evidenced by the sunset. I must have 50 photos of the sun setting over this cove over the years, and still, I can't get enough. It's just so beautiful every time.

We cooked up a ton of burgers for dinner that night (thanks to my awesome Mom, who bought all the groceries!!). Romi, chowing down on his veggie burger, looked over Hannah and her own dinner.

"Is that a burger?" he asked, curiously.

"Yep!" she replied.

"Oh," he answered. "Well, you're obviously not kosher!" 

Hannah just cracked up.

Romi was very curious about skunks--he's never seen one, and really wanted to see and smell one. 

"Don't jinx us, Romi," I said, very worried, because it was a realistic possibility. Sure enough, when Kim went up to the bathrooms to wash up, a skunk cruised around the building. The whole camp came alive, and I could hear Tim, Nic and Mark shouting, "Skunk!" and aiming their flashlights at it. Romi immediately jumped behind me, though he might've thought twice if he knew I was a bigger scaredy cat than he was!

Romi also couldn't wait for s'mores time, but the weather had other plans. Right after dinner, a crazy wind came through, sending hurricane force gales through the camp. It was a strange wind, blowing down from the mountains, toward the ocean. 

Tim built a fire, but the wind fueled the flames, quickly burning through our wood. Kim kindly moved their mini-van to shield us, but the wind still hit us, and it was super cold! 

We handed out skewers and s'mores stuff, and told the kids to get on it. It was still dusky, but we were afraid the fire would burn out soon. Finally, at 9:30, we just gave up, and went to bed. I laid on my bed and listened to the howling wind race through camp.

On Monday, we awoke to a clear, beautiful, QUIET morning. It was like the wind had never happened!

Romi couldn't wait to help make breakfast. He carried around the pancake mix until I was ready for it. Nic helped me make and distribute the pancakes, and Mark stayed in bed until well after breakfast AND clean up. The Gludts and I even went for a long walk the other way on the beach--by the time we got back, Mark was just getting out of bed.

While the adults started packing away the camp, Mark and Nic ran off, running wildly up and down the nearby park slide. Romi loved that, jumping right in with the big boys. 

We stopped packing briefly when we saw some familiar water spouts out on the ocean. 

"Whales!" the kids shouted.

"Whale break," we all said, dropping our equipment and running to the edge of the beach. Kelley thought it was hilarious that everything stopped for the whales.

Pretty soon, we had all the tents down and most of the camp packed up. We'd earned another break, so we lugged our chairs down to the beach for a few last minutes. Most campers left after the weekend, so it was sunny, quiet and peaceful. A seal appeared in the waves five feet offshore, bobbing its head in the surf, and checking us out.

Eventually, we had to really pack up and leave. I was sad to go--Refugio is always fun, but this year was the most fun we'd had. We'd gotten the best camp sites in the park, almost the whole family was there, and we saw seals, dolphins, whales, gophers, and skunks. The brazen squirrels I could've done without, but even they seemed a small price to pay for such a wonderful weekend.

We'll see you again next year, Refugio...

Frustration, I know thee well

Mark, like most teenagers, prefers that his food is an awesome combination of high sugar, high fat, and low nutrients. If he could, he'd eat donuts for every meal.

But as his mom, that presents some (okay, MANY) issues for me, which can all be summed up in one word: NO.

I needed a way to get more vitamins and minerals into that kid. For a while, he drank healthy breakfast shakes, which worked pretty well. But with Mark, all favorite foods have a shelf life--it typically expires the day after I buy the supersized box of his latest food obsession at Costco (oh, hello, giant box of Ritz crackers in my pantry!).

Fruit smoothies also worked in the past, so I circled back around on those. I purchased an inexpensive single-serve blender (knowing he'll likely resist, leaving it unused, so no Ninja this time, Kelley). 

I visited the farmer's market, filling up with Mark's favorites fruits, and the local health food store for protein powder.

And so, organic seasonal fruit in hand, I turned on the blender. I started with fresh peaches, ripe red strawberries, a small scoop of vanilla ice cream and a dash of milk. (Yes, I used ice cream. On a diabetic kid. For breakfast. If you have a better idea, please come feed my kid.) 

The protein powder can said to add two scoops, but I went with one. No sense turning Mark off at the beginning of this new era if the protein was gross.

Which it was. I added a few more berries, but there was still a weird aftertaste. I stuck a straw in the shake and prayed Mark didn't notice.

But of course he did (why am I always surprised?).

"This is amazing, Mom! Thanks for making me such an awesome, healthy shake!" Mark said (in my head).

"BLECH!" Mark said, in real life, wiping his tongue on a napkin. "Disgusting! What's in here?"

"Just finish it," I sighed. "It's my first one, give me a break."

He eventually did finish it, 30 minutes later, after a running dialogue on how gross it was, and how he hated it, and man, I must really hate him, and do I really have to finish the whole thing or can this just be enough? Seriously, because I am soooooooo full, and I might throw up, and I can't finish this, and I don't even care if I'm late to school, because did I mention I. HATE. THIS. SHAKE?

Fine. I got it. He hated the shake. He hated ice cream. Duly noted, I told him, which put a little fear in his eyes, as he imagined a home without ice cream evermore.

So the next day I made a smoothie.

"What do you want in it?" I asked. "Peaches, strawberries, apples, bananas? Oranges? Cherries?"

"Mangoes," he answered. 

"You aren't gonna make this easy, are you?" I said. "I don't have any mangoes."

"I only like mangoes," he answered.

So I made an executive decision. Strawberries, peaches and an orange. And then we sat, same as yesterday, Mark gagging and whinging, me sighing and realizing I'd be late for work again.

"Did you put in protein powder?" he asked, eyeing the smoothie.

"No powder," I said.

"Did you put in milk?" he asked.

"No milk," I answered. "Fruit only. A true smoothie."

"I don't like strawberries," Mark insisted, pushing the smoothie away.

"You eat them straight off the strawberry plant in the backyard!" I reminded him.

"I only like them fresh," he insisted.

"These were picked yesterday," I said.

"I hate strawberries," he repeated.

I may throttle you, I thought. Silence seemed the best tact at this point.

"Let him make his own," my brother Scott advised. "That's the whole point--he'll drink it if he chooses the ingredients."

"He chose ice cream, chocolate sauce, and Butterfingers," I said. "For breakfast. He doesn't get the point!"

By Thursday, Mark choked down three different smoothies, complaining about each one. On Friday, I gave up, serving him buttered toast, his favorite. It was all carbs and no nutritional value--he was thrilled.

"Best breakfast all week!" he gloated, so I gave him an extra large serving of milk to shut him down.

By Sunday, my three baskets of strawberries were looking decidedly more ripe than perky. I hated wasting them, so I froze them, thinking they'd make awesome smoothies.

I chopped the berries up and bagged individual servings. I put one serving in a bowl, and gave it to Mark, lazily eating his breakfast on the couch.

"I hate strawberries," he said, ignoring the bowl.

"I know," I said. "You can eat these, or eat a bowl of cherries. The cherries are amazing."

"Fine," he said. "I'll eat the strawberries."

I returned to the kitchen and put the sealed strawberry packets into the freezer. Just as I added the last one, Mark called out from the couch.

"Are there any strawberries left?" he asked.

I sighed, and reminded myself again not to throttle him. I'd been begging him to eat those damn berries all week, and now he wanted them??

"Of course," I said, through gritted teeth. I pulled out the closest packet of berries, cut it open and dumped it into the bowl. 

"Enjoy," I told Mark. He smiled.

I'm trying, I really am. But I'm running out of patience. Which is why, if you see Mark drenched in smoothie, you don't need to ask him what happened--just ask him what flavor smoothie that is. (Hint: It's probably strawberry.)

Freshman!

Mark is...sniff, sniff...graduating 8th grade next week. He's thrilled, but I'm having a tough time adjusting for two simple reasons: a) My baby's old enough to be in HIGH SCHOOL, and b) I'm old enough to be the mom of a HIGH SCHOOLER. 

Ouch.

My friends with high schoolers warn that it's crazy busy and flies by. I just didn't realize it all starts so early--like, when Mark's STILL IN EIGHTH GRADE!

That's right, he's already attended four high school events in the past few weeks--a band audition, two percussion workshops, and freshman orientation. Next week, the day after he graduates middle school, is sports orientation; practice starts the Monday after. (Then drum camp in July and marching band camp in August--whew!)

I think my smartphone's calendar might blow up in the next couple years. 

Freshman orientation was great, for me, anyway--not so much for Mark. He grumbled about it a few days beforehand, trying to convince me it was optional. But when I got home, he was decked out in clean clothes--still didn't want to go, but wanted to look good while he was there.

We shuffled past the t-shirt booth, which was confusing. The table was filled with shirts and sweatshirts, which I purchased but couldn't take home.

"He takes the shirt home on registration day," the cashier told me. 

Wanna bet? I almost answered back. I'm pretty sure I just threw 13 bucks in the trash, which is where Mark will immediately stuff his t-shirt upon receiving it. (Ironically, he's the one boy on Earth who loves clothes and shopping and attends a school district requiring uniforms.)

We ambled into the auditorium, where the program was beginning. The orientation was for Mark's small learning community, an academy within the larger high school. It's a specialty program, with a curriculum based on performing arts and social science. 

Mark identifies himself as an athlete, not a musician, but he's also a very social ham who loves the spotlight, and is a pretty decent drummer. This program's a great fit for him. Mark's a very smart kid who's never gonna excel in the highly structured AP classes colleges love, but give him a creative outlet and a team of kids to work with and he shines.

I liked the program immediately, as soon as the lead teacher said a few words, then introduced a student singing performance.

"We're a performing arts community, so we're gonna showcase our amazing students," he said proudly. And they did, all night--in between speakers, the kids sang, performed monologues, even played a snazzy rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In" on brass, drums and piano. It was very impressive.

The teachers reminded us that while arts are the main focus, academics are also important. The English teacher discussed homework assignments--yes, homework already!--reminding students it's due on the first day of school. Mark just groaned. 

Between speakers, I completed a form in the folder we'd received.

"That's not for you," Mark snarled, trying to grab it from me. "You don't have to fill that out!"

"It IS for me," I answered, pointing at the title--Parent's Booster Club. Mark sank down in his chair--the only thing worse than being a new freshman is being a new freshman whose mom--gasp!--wants to participate. I look at it as involved parenting, my loving son sees it as a million opportunities for me to embarrass him to death. You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to.

And then, as if she'd read our minds, the speaker told us that parents are welcome at all student performances--even if students tell us otherwise.

"We want parents to come to everything," she said. "Don't listen to your kids if they say you're not invited!" 

I smirked at Mark, who sank even further.

The teacher also spoke excitedly about the freshman registration day and a new three-day intro to high school bridging class, which teaches kids how to succeed in high school.

"Don't you dare sign me up for that!" Mark warned, and I just smiled at him. It's cute how he thinks these decisions are up to him.

The English teacher returned to the podium. He was dry, funny and sarcastic. I liked him a lot, as did his students in the front row, who cheered and applauded for him. He spoke about the importance of getting involved, and listed the many opportunities--band, dance, drama, photography, the visual arts. He spoke about the fine art show next week, and the World War I museum the students created last semester. He brought a journalism student onstage, who spoke glowingly about the student newspaper. I took it all in, wishing there'd been a similar program when I was in school.

"That was awesome," I told Mark when it was over. "Are you excited?" 

"Eh," he shrugged. "I wasn't really listening." 

"You'll love The Outsiders," I said, referring to his summer reading. 

"Homework in the summer!" he scowled. "Seriously?" 

"I know, right?" I said. "Not cool!"

I was with him on that one. I'm all for keeping kids busy, but man, whatever happened to summer "break"?

Oh well, a minor quibble. I left the school happy, optimistic, and glad Mark was accepted into the program (the most requested one in the district, the teachers proudly noted). 

It'll go fast, for sure, and be hectic, but also great for Mark. 

"I'm sleeping all summer," I told Mark, "because we won't rest for the next four years." 

Mark nodded in agreement, but as I looked through the list of clubs and activities, I realized it's probably too late. 

The madness has already begun...

Not Beach Camping

Because we don't have enough end-of-school activities overwhelming us (yes, that's sarcasm), Mark and I went camping this weekend.

We went on the new Boy Scout beach camping trip. I was stoked, imagining quality time with the sand, surf, my beach chair, and my glossy gossip mags, but my enthusiasm dampened when I received directions to the campground.

Turns out our "beach" campground was actually SIX MILES from the beach. In a canyon, surrounded by hills, oak trees, and meadows.

But my disappointment was short-lived. I'd actually been to this campground before, and loved it. It's beautiful, scenic and serene--just not...beachy.

We arrived at camp early Friday evening. Mark was the senior scout for the night, which meant supervising the tent setup. This is akin to herding cats--if cats had opposable thumbs and could put up tents.

I only had to put up one tent (mine), so I returned to the boys' camp afterwards because it's always entertaining to watch them work.

As I sat watching in the dusk, a bird flew over my head, wobbling and flapping wildly.

"That's a weird bird," I mentioned.

"It's not a bird," a scout leader answered back. I smiled, not comprehending, then jumped, startled, when I realized what he meant.

"A bat?" I asked. I expected wildlife out here, but bats? It was Malibu--I expected deer, raccoons, coyotes maybe--but not bats.

Once the tents were up, the boys climbed inside, wrestling and acting crazy. This was my sign to leave, so I said my good nights, and went off to my tent.

The stars were out, and I was amazed at how many there were. And the moon was gorgeous, a little sliver shining between a couple trees.

The scouts woke bright and early Saturday morning. Mark emerged from his tent wearing someone else's shoes.

"I found my next pair of shoes!" said the child who treats every camp out like a shopping trip. He looked at my frowning face and said defensively,  "What? Brian let me wear them."

The first activity of the day was making breakfast. Watching the boys cook is almost as much fun as watching them set up tents.

"Look how thick my batter is!" One scout bragged, barely able to stir the floury pancake mixture.

"I'm hungry," another scout said, flipping a pancake two seconds after he'd poured it into the pan. "I'm cooking mine fast, so we can eat sooner."

"Remember, if you flip 'em before they're done, they'll be doughy inside," a group leader told him.

"I like 'em doughy," the kid answered.

"Try pouring them on the side of the pan," another dad pointed out to his son. "When you pour one in the middle like that, you don't leave room to cook any others. It'll take a long time to feed the troop if you cook them one at a time."

When they were done, they invited the parents to eat. Moms and dads eat first, partly as a gesture of respect from the scouts, and partly because the boys descend on the food like starving locusts, devouring everything in sight. You never wanna go after the scouts, or you'll go hungry.

"Oh, these look good!" I said, planting a fat pancake on my plate. Two seconds later, the cutest little freckle-faced scout appeared, heading straight for the pancake pile.

"I can't wait to eat my Mickey Mouse pancake!" he told his friend. He reached toward the pile, then gasped. 

"Where'd it go?" he cried, scanning all the plates, then stopping on mine, which---gulp--held a sort-of mouse-shaped pancake. Crap, I thought, watching his sweet little face turn into an angry scowl. I immediately ripped off part of an ear shape, stuffing it into my mouth, hoping he wouldn't notice (of course he did).

After the long and equally entertaining cleanup, the boys readied themselves for a hike. All the other parents joined in, but I politely deferred because a) those scouts (or rather, scout leaders) are hardcore about hiking, and I didn't want to lag behind, holding them up, and b) the thought of having the campground all to myself was heavenly.

It was a good 80 degrees already, and Mark was wearing jeans. I patiently explained that it was hot on the trail, and he should put on shorts. Then, when he shrugged, I not-so-patiently yelled at him to go change. He returned wearing a pair of green shorts that are NOT his.

"Brian let me wear them," he told me. I wondered if Brian regretted his choice of tent mate yet. But Brian was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, so probably not.

"When are we hiking to the beach?" asked one excited scout, who apparently didn't get the memo on the location change. An older scout explained there was no beach, that they were hiking to the site where the TV show M*A*S*H was filmed. These words meant nothing to a 10-year-old.

No one could really agree on how far the hike was--word around camp started out as a two-mile hike. The hike evolved into two and a HALF miles, which yielded further discussion.

Scout 1: "One way? Or both ways?"
Scout 2: "Yes."
Scout 1: "Yes, what?"
Scout 2: "Yes, both ways."
Scout 1: "So it's a five-mile hike?"
Scout 2: "No, it's a two and a half mile hike. Two and a half miles there, two and a half back."
Scout 1: "So a five-mile hike."
Scout 2: "No, the word hike just refers to your destination. Then you double the distance."
Scout 1: "WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME HOW LONG THE HIKE IS???"

And that is why I opted out. Scouts measure their hikes in distance; I measure their hikes in hours. And I've never known them to come back in less than three hours.

I left ten minutes after they did, but not on foot. I pointed my car toward civilization, heading to the nearest grocery store, ostensibly to buy paper plates and cups (Mark and I forgot our mess kits). I headed for Malibu, which is a city of extremes; I saw both a shiny new convertible Ferrari and a homeless guy taking sanitizing wipes from the cart area.

When I returned to camp, gale-force winds had replaced the scorching, still air. One of the leaders' tent was threatening to sail away, so I grabbed the scout bucket and staked it down. That's when I noticed a gap in the scout's tent line--and saw the tent that was formerly there at the end of the meadow, smashed into a bush. It was threatening to blow further.

I dragged it back, staked it down, and staked down another tent shaking wildly. A fourth tent blew back so hard the poles snapped, tearing the rain fly. I felt like a real mountain woman, fighting the elements.

The boys didn't return until 2 p.m. I knew they'd be ravenous, and it went against all of my motherly instincts to not set lunch out for their return. But the troop leaders frown on that kind of thing, too--interfering mothers do not encourage independence, and scouting is all about making the boys independent.

They were indeed hungry when they returned. They didn't even ask when they were gonna eat, they just asked how much they were allowed to eat.

"How many sandwiches can we have?" asked one young scout, a sandwich already in each hand.

"Until they're gone," was the answer. "After everyone gets a first serving."

After lunch and cleanup, the big boys returned to wrestling in the tents. The littler boys were still pretty squirrely, so a couple dads took them on another hike up to a water tower we could see in the distance. I sat around with the tired parents, talking and enjoying the afternoon.

Soon, it was time to eat again. Mark emerged from his tent, this time wearing two different shoes (neither his) and Brian's green shorts.

"Harrison let me wear his shoe," Mark said, by way of explanation. I'd actually stopped asking by that point.

The boys made chicken fajitas this time, which were fantastic. While they were cleaning up after, we had some visitors in the nearby meadow--a herd of grazing deer.

After dinner came the highlight of the trip for the boys--s'mores. Because of the fire danger level, we weren't allowed to build a wood fire--the boys had to settle for charcoal only.

Which was still enough heat to turn their skewered marshmallows into flaming torches. And that, along with devouring as much chocolate as possible, was really the whole point.

The sugar-fueled boys put on skits for our entertainment. They titled one "The Not-Beach Campout" and did a spot-on reenactment of the entire trip. I laughed so much, I couldn't stop.

The boys finally went to bed an hour later, not quite before their sugar buzzes wore off. I could still hear them laughing from my tent.

I was kidding myself if I thought there was any chance of sleeping in on Sunday morning. I heard the familiar call of "Troop 120, fall in!" at 7:06 a.m., and I knew I'd better get up and start packing. The boys may take forever to set up or clean, but they are highly efficient at breaking down camp.

They set a new record this time--we were in our cars, driving away, by 9 a.m. We left before the heat returned, tired but happy.

It was an awesome trip. Maybe not as close to the beach as we'd hoped, but great none the less. It was a fun group of boys, and I got to know a lot of parents I'd only known by name before.

And Mark got a brand new pair of green shorts out it.

"Brian gave them to me," he insisted. "He said he outgrew them."

I was tired from our fun weekend, so I just nodded. I made a mental note to wash and discreetly return them to Brian's mom next time I saw her.

And to remind Mark, prior to our next trip, that camping is really about the outdoors--and not so much about the clothes (especially other people's).