I grew up with three brothers, and realized very early that there were distinct differences in the way males and females communicate. (Having a son reiterated this fact.)
I learned to listen to the meaning of words, and not just the words themselves. I grew to appreciate that phrases like "You idiot," when said with the right tone, were actually warm, fuzzy compliments and not insults. (I also learned that insults, if witty enough, were not only permitted, but downright appreciated, in my family. But hey, that's another story.)
However, this past weekend, I got another reminder of just how huge those male/female communication differences are.
Mark and I attended a diabetes lecture. Ten minutes into the talk, the moderator broke us up into smaller groups--moms in one, dads in another, and kids in a third group. He loaded us up with some heavy-duty questions and sent the groups off to discuss them.
When the groups returned, the moderator asked, "How did it go?" He chose volunteers to report back.
The first volunteer was a woman. She wiped her eye, thought reflectively about our very emotional discussion, and said, "Wow, it was therapeutic! I feel a lot better now, but I'm sad that the time went so quickly." The women all around her nodded their heads and wiped their eyes in agreement.
Next, the moderator called on a man. The man stood up and said, with a sigh, "That was the longest half-hour of my life." All the men around him nodded in agreement. I think they'd rather have visited the dentist instead.
Mark squirmed in his seat, bored out of his mind. I think he really identified with the men's group; all this talk was slowly driving him mad.
The moderator then called on the kids. "Come on," he said, "I want to hear what you talked about. I want to know how you're feeling."
I nudged Mark in the ribs. "Yeah, Mark," I whispered. "What are you feeling?"
Mark immediately answered, "I feel hungry!" He even rubbed his belly and pointed to his open mouth to prove it.
And that's when I realized the moderator was in for a long morning, at least with half the crowd.
I also realized that when I talk to Mark, I need brevity. Say exactly what I mean--no subtleties. Say it in half the words I think I need. Otherwise, he's gonna tune me out just like all the men did to that well-meaning, good-intentioned moderator.
And most importantly, I realized I need to talk to Mark about stuff only when his stomach is full. Because apparently, there's a direct link from his stomach to his head, and if either one is empty, all communication immediately and irretrievably breaks down.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Sports and other dangerous hobbies
As a single mom, I sometimes feel guilty that my hobbies and interests have become Mark's hobbies and interests. He loves shoes, tabloid magazines and good gossip waaaaay more than your average 10-year-old boy should.
I try to balance out the things I like to do with the things he likes to do, and he likes sports. So this week, we went to TWO professional sporting events.
Saturday we went to the Dodgers game. He loves baseball and the Dodgers, but he was more interested in his root beer float than in the baseball game itself. We had incredible seats (thanks, Vic!!), and the guy two rows ahead of us even caught a foul ball (I've never been that close to a foul ball before). I was still pumped on the adrenaline of almost being killed by a rogue foul ball (ok, not really) when Mark asked if there were any more cookies left.
Our second event was a pro hockey game. We ate junk food for dinner and smuggled in trail mix with M&Ms in it. Security tried to take it away, but I uttered the D-word and the guard immediately said, "No problem," and ushered us past.
The kid next to us wasn't so lucky; Mark was mortified as security took the kid's whole, unopened giant bag of M&Ms away.
"He should've said he had diabetes, too," Mark said.
"And the M&Ms were for his lows?" I chuckled. "Somehow, I don't think it would've worked."
We ran into friends at the arena (what up, Devin!), and were having a blast before the game had even started. We found our seats and prepared for a fun night of hockey.
Let me just acknowledge at this point that I know nothing about hockey. I know there are three quarters, and I also know they aren't actually called "quarters" but that's where my knowledge ends. I almost screamed "Hit the ball!" a couple times, but remembered it was really a puck. But whatever, we didn't need to know what was going on to have fun.
Mark's favorite part was when a Duck player crashed into the other goalie, and sent him sliding into his own net. "Goal!" Mark shouted.
He also liked when an inflatable sheep floated around the arena during intermission. The sheep released coupons to the crowd below. However, because of where the coupons came out, it looked like the sheep was...well, urinating coupons on to the crowd. This was my opportunity to take the high road and be a good model for Mark, and I failed miserably. We were both in hysterics, and vowed to run if the sheep came near us.
Mark ate his trail mix, and the M&Ms inside gave him a burst of energy. He wrestled with me, and I reminded him that some people actually came to watch the game, not a hyperactive little kid. He settled for a less distracting round of thumb-wrestling.
We stayed through the first two not-quarters, and then it was time to take the little sports fan home to bed. The Ducks hadn't done too badly while we were in the arena, but by the time we reached our car, the Coyotes scored another goal off them. By the time we got on the freeway, the giant electronic sign said the Coyotes scored again! So we saw two goals in the arena, and two outside it.
All in all, it was a fun night. I'm no sports fan, but I love an event, and hey, the tickets were free. So you can't beat that, not even with a giant urinating sheep!
I try to balance out the things I like to do with the things he likes to do, and he likes sports. So this week, we went to TWO professional sporting events.
Saturday we went to the Dodgers game. He loves baseball and the Dodgers, but he was more interested in his root beer float than in the baseball game itself. We had incredible seats (thanks, Vic!!), and the guy two rows ahead of us even caught a foul ball (I've never been that close to a foul ball before). I was still pumped on the adrenaline of almost being killed by a rogue foul ball (ok, not really) when Mark asked if there were any more cookies left.
Our second event was a pro hockey game. We ate junk food for dinner and smuggled in trail mix with M&Ms in it. Security tried to take it away, but I uttered the D-word and the guard immediately said, "No problem," and ushered us past.
The kid next to us wasn't so lucky; Mark was mortified as security took the kid's whole, unopened giant bag of M&Ms away.
"He should've said he had diabetes, too," Mark said.
"And the M&Ms were for his lows?" I chuckled. "Somehow, I don't think it would've worked."
We ran into friends at the arena (what up, Devin!), and were having a blast before the game had even started. We found our seats and prepared for a fun night of hockey.
Let me just acknowledge at this point that I know nothing about hockey. I know there are three quarters, and I also know they aren't actually called "quarters" but that's where my knowledge ends. I almost screamed "Hit the ball!" a couple times, but remembered it was really a puck. But whatever, we didn't need to know what was going on to have fun.
Mark's favorite part was when a Duck player crashed into the other goalie, and sent him sliding into his own net. "Goal!" Mark shouted.
He also liked when an inflatable sheep floated around the arena during intermission. The sheep released coupons to the crowd below. However, because of where the coupons came out, it looked like the sheep was...well, urinating coupons on to the crowd. This was my opportunity to take the high road and be a good model for Mark, and I failed miserably. We were both in hysterics, and vowed to run if the sheep came near us.
Mark ate his trail mix, and the M&Ms inside gave him a burst of energy. He wrestled with me, and I reminded him that some people actually came to watch the game, not a hyperactive little kid. He settled for a less distracting round of thumb-wrestling.
We stayed through the first two not-quarters, and then it was time to take the little sports fan home to bed. The Ducks hadn't done too badly while we were in the arena, but by the time we reached our car, the Coyotes scored another goal off them. By the time we got on the freeway, the giant electronic sign said the Coyotes scored again! So we saw two goals in the arena, and two outside it.
All in all, it was a fun night. I'm no sports fan, but I love an event, and hey, the tickets were free. So you can't beat that, not even with a giant urinating sheep!
Monday, September 20, 2010
First game
This weekend's theme was baseball. We went to the Dodgers game with some friends, which was super fun, even if the Dodgers themselves played terribly. (Final score: 12-2. Which was actually 12-0 until 10 minutes before the game ended.)
Then yesterday, Mark played in his first official Little League game. He was stoked to play, and to incorporate some of the pro moves he'd witnessed at the Dodgers game. I was just hoping for something shy of complete embarrassment by my newbie baseball player.
I needn't have worried. Turns out, he was as good at baseball as he was at soccer, and previously at basketball. Which is to say not great, but excited, and his enthusiasm goes a long way. It also makes for an entertaining afternoon.
Mark played third base the first inning. He was wearing his glove on one hand and a batting glove on the other. He has his own sense of fashion, and likes to show it off whenever possible. During warm-up, he stood directly on third base, and stared off into the sky above him. I watched as the first baseman tried desperately to get Mark's attention to catch the ball.
"Third base!" he yelled to Mark, who clearly wasn't listening. "Hey, third base!"
The second baseman and shortstop also tried yelling at him, and finally, when someone shouted, "MARK!!" he woke up and punched inside his glove, ready for the ball.
The next inning, he played left field. He used his time out there to practice his Sponge Bob dance, and then worked on popping and locking with his arms. He danced a bit more, then stopped and waved at me. I pointed at my eyes, and then at the batter, and mouthed "Watch the batter!" He got the message.
He'd practiced his batting stance all week, and couldn't wait to show it off. He hit a few foul balls, and then, while he was waiting for the pitcher to get ready, some grandpa at the fence started yelling at him to hit the ball. (I never saw him yell at anyone other than Mark the whole game.)
"Get in the box, batter!" Grandpa yelled. "Hit the ball!" Mark frowned at him, and I snickered. Even random strangers knew Mark needed direction!
For the next inning, Mark went back to third base. This time, he paid attention, and crouched down, ready to field the ball. Unfortunately, he crouched so low, he was almost sitting on the ground. I prayed that nobody would hit the ball to him, and risk a facial injury.
He decided it was a good time to practice some more robot dancing moves. He finally paid attention to the game when a kid got on second base. But instead of protecting third, Mark mouthed off to the runner on second. I couldn't hear what he said, but I'm sure it was some kind of taunt about how he wouldn't make it to third. I was afraid the catcher would bean the ball to third base, where Mark was not, and the runner would steal not only third, but home as well. Mark, oblivious to all the strategy going on here, just smiled and waved to me again.
So the good news is, Mark held his own. He wasn't the best player on the field, but he certainly wasn't the worst, either. He reaffirmed my belief that he has ADHD, and he made me realize baseball may not be his sport, either.
But hey, maybe I'm looking too hard to find Mark's sport. Because no matter which one he plays--baseball, soccer, basketball--he spends most of the time on the field or court dancing.
Maybe I'm missing the obvious here; instead of signing him up for sports, I think I'll sign him up for hip-hop dance classes next spring instead.
But until then, I think this baseball season will be very entertaining...
Then yesterday, Mark played in his first official Little League game. He was stoked to play, and to incorporate some of the pro moves he'd witnessed at the Dodgers game. I was just hoping for something shy of complete embarrassment by my newbie baseball player.
I needn't have worried. Turns out, he was as good at baseball as he was at soccer, and previously at basketball. Which is to say not great, but excited, and his enthusiasm goes a long way. It also makes for an entertaining afternoon.
Mark played third base the first inning. He was wearing his glove on one hand and a batting glove on the other. He has his own sense of fashion, and likes to show it off whenever possible. During warm-up, he stood directly on third base, and stared off into the sky above him. I watched as the first baseman tried desperately to get Mark's attention to catch the ball.
"Third base!" he yelled to Mark, who clearly wasn't listening. "Hey, third base!"
The second baseman and shortstop also tried yelling at him, and finally, when someone shouted, "MARK!!" he woke up and punched inside his glove, ready for the ball.
The next inning, he played left field. He used his time out there to practice his Sponge Bob dance, and then worked on popping and locking with his arms. He danced a bit more, then stopped and waved at me. I pointed at my eyes, and then at the batter, and mouthed "Watch the batter!" He got the message.
He'd practiced his batting stance all week, and couldn't wait to show it off. He hit a few foul balls, and then, while he was waiting for the pitcher to get ready, some grandpa at the fence started yelling at him to hit the ball. (I never saw him yell at anyone other than Mark the whole game.)
"Get in the box, batter!" Grandpa yelled. "Hit the ball!" Mark frowned at him, and I snickered. Even random strangers knew Mark needed direction!
For the next inning, Mark went back to third base. This time, he paid attention, and crouched down, ready to field the ball. Unfortunately, he crouched so low, he was almost sitting on the ground. I prayed that nobody would hit the ball to him, and risk a facial injury.
He decided it was a good time to practice some more robot dancing moves. He finally paid attention to the game when a kid got on second base. But instead of protecting third, Mark mouthed off to the runner on second. I couldn't hear what he said, but I'm sure it was some kind of taunt about how he wouldn't make it to third. I was afraid the catcher would bean the ball to third base, where Mark was not, and the runner would steal not only third, but home as well. Mark, oblivious to all the strategy going on here, just smiled and waved to me again.
So the good news is, Mark held his own. He wasn't the best player on the field, but he certainly wasn't the worst, either. He reaffirmed my belief that he has ADHD, and he made me realize baseball may not be his sport, either.
But hey, maybe I'm looking too hard to find Mark's sport. Because no matter which one he plays--baseball, soccer, basketball--he spends most of the time on the field or court dancing.
Maybe I'm missing the obvious here; instead of signing him up for sports, I think I'll sign him up for hip-hop dance classes next spring instead.
But until then, I think this baseball season will be very entertaining...
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Great Brain (but not for math)
Mark was astounded to learn that as a fifth-grader, he's expected to write a book report every month."EVERY MONTH!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Can you believe that?"
I could. And as an avid reader, it didn't sound unreasonable to me.
Mark loves to read, too, but his method is a bit more...cavalier. He loves Calvin and Hobbes books, mostly because he identifies with Calvin and has a wily feline sidekick himself. He also likes to read chapter books, but he's more of a drop-in visitor than a long-term guest. Which is why he likes Calvin and Hobbes--he can pick up and leave off at any page.
He frequently starts books, but he doesn't always finish them. (The exception being the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series. We read those entire books. Seven. Times. In. A. Row. EACH.) It drives me a bit batty--I'm a total linear girl, and I like to start a book at the beginning, and read through until the very end. None of this constant-flipping-through-every-TV-channel-with-the-remote kind of reading for me.
But hey, I don't really care how or what (within reason) he's reading as long as he's reading. I have suffered through my share of Captain Underpants books all for the sake of childhood literacy.
However, the thought of a monthly report has Mark running a bit scared. He's currently reading "Flush" by Carl Hiassen, and he informed me the book is a whopping 200 pages. He is sweating about it, worried he won't finish it by the end of September.
So he came up with an alternate solution. He shared his plan at dinner last night.
"Hey Mom, I'm reading 'Me and My Little Brain,'" he told me. "It's only 176 pages."
"Oh," I said. "You changed books?"
"No. I'm still reading 'Flush,'" he said. "But in case I don't finish it in time, I'm also reading 'Me and My Little Brain,' because it has less pages."
"Good idea," I told him. He didn't realize he's actually reading twice as much as he has to, not half, but I wasn't gonna be the one to tell him that. I know he's interested in both books, so I figure whether he reads two books or only one, it's still a win-win situation.
"That's very smart," I told him. "You'll really improve your reading comprehension that way."
He nodded, and smiled, proud of himself.
And I smiled, and made a mental note to myself. I'll definitely be helping Mark with his math and reasoning skills this year.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The trouble with communication...
...is that it takes two participants to be successful. In my house, conversations are completely one-sided. I talk and think we're conversing, and Mark ignores me until my voice rises and he senses impending danger. (He's got a keen sense of self-preservation, that kid.)
He has perfected the art of looking like he's taking in what I am saying. He nods at appropriate intervals and adds, "OK," during pauses in the conversation. But I've discovered he's not actually listening at all--he just hears "Wah wah wah wah," like I'm a teacher speaking and he's Charlie Brown.
Yesterday, he left an empty cat food can on the counter. I asked him three times to throw it in the recycling bin, and he nodded each time and said, "OK." And then ignored me completely.
By the fourth time, I was about to lose it. My voice grew louder and angrier, and he counteracted my tone with a snotty one of his own.
"OK, OK," he said, holding his hands up defensively. "You can stop yelling."
"I can't!" I yelled. "I've already asked numerous times. You are not listening!"
He stopped short, and looked me in the eye. "So you're saying I'm stupid?" he asked.
Now it was my turn to be stunned. I sighed and said, "I didn't say you were stupid. I said you don't listen."
"So basically, you're calling me stupid. Thanks a lot." He tossed the can outside angrily, and tried to push past me to stomp away.
I stopped him, and repeated, "I never said you were stupid. I said you don't listen, and this entire conversation confirms that."
"Oooooh!" he said, finally getting it. "OK. I just thought you were being really mean." Then he walked away, happy once again.
I shook my head at that crazy kid. Then I gritted my teeth and prepared myself to tell him (at least five times) it was time for bed.
He has perfected the art of looking like he's taking in what I am saying. He nods at appropriate intervals and adds, "OK," during pauses in the conversation. But I've discovered he's not actually listening at all--he just hears "Wah wah wah wah," like I'm a teacher speaking and he's Charlie Brown.
Yesterday, he left an empty cat food can on the counter. I asked him three times to throw it in the recycling bin, and he nodded each time and said, "OK." And then ignored me completely.
By the fourth time, I was about to lose it. My voice grew louder and angrier, and he counteracted my tone with a snotty one of his own.
"OK, OK," he said, holding his hands up defensively. "You can stop yelling."
"I can't!" I yelled. "I've already asked numerous times. You are not listening!"
He stopped short, and looked me in the eye. "So you're saying I'm stupid?" he asked.
Now it was my turn to be stunned. I sighed and said, "I didn't say you were stupid. I said you don't listen."
"So basically, you're calling me stupid. Thanks a lot." He tossed the can outside angrily, and tried to push past me to stomp away.
I stopped him, and repeated, "I never said you were stupid. I said you don't listen, and this entire conversation confirms that."
"Oooooh!" he said, finally getting it. "OK. I just thought you were being really mean." Then he walked away, happy once again.
I shook my head at that crazy kid. Then I gritted my teeth and prepared myself to tell him (at least five times) it was time for bed.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Dizzy Gillespie has some competition
This year Mark decided to play trumpet at school. My brother Scott used to play trumpet, and I even played it for all of two seconds, until I was kicked out of band for copying the girl next to me.
"They kicked you out?" Mark asked. He was shocked.
"Yup."
"Why were you cheating?"
"I wasn't cheating," I explained. "I just couldn't read music. So I watched to see what she was doing."
Mark kinda snickered at that. He's been reading music for more than two years now; he loves being able to do something I can't.
When I called my mom to see if, by some strange bit of luck, she still had that old trumpet, she immediately answered, "No." But when I mentioned it to Scott, he knew exactly where it was. He brought the case in from the garage and Mark and his cousins all took turns blowing on it until they were lightheaded and red in the face.
It definitely needed some love; it sat hidden in the garage for 35 years. But my friend Liz pointed me toward an instrument repair shop, where a kid shined it up and oiled the valves for $60--much cheaper than a new trumpet!
Mark was thrilled to have his trumpet back in working condition, but was disappointed when I said the guy cleaned all the gunk out of it. When I asked why he was so bummed, Mark confirmed my boys-are-gross theory by saying, "I wanted to see that."
He worked the valves and blew deeply into the horn, which emitted the blare of a dying elephant. He experimented with different sounds, his favorite being the roar of Chewbacca. He played the theme to Jeopardy! then held his trumpet aloft and blew, letting out a mighty FWWWWOOOOOOM! He was a natural.
Or maybe not.
Like any good musician, he thoroughly examined his instrument. He wanted to see if a flashlight would shine through all the curves and out the other end.
He tried playing it without the mouthpiece, to see if the sound was different.
He tried playing it by completely covering the mouthpiece, and ended up gagging and complaining of the metal taste. I could've told him it would taste disgusting, but it was more entertaining to watch him try.
In the end, he didn't play any recognizable songs. Mark being Mark, he created a new fancy, one-handed move, complete with crazy eyes.
It was hilarious until he fell over. Then it was even more hilarious.
He hasn't even had one lesson yet, but after watching him this afternoon, I feel like I already got my money's worth.
"They kicked you out?" Mark asked. He was shocked.
"Yup."
"Why were you cheating?"
"I wasn't cheating," I explained. "I just couldn't read music. So I watched to see what she was doing."
Mark kinda snickered at that. He's been reading music for more than two years now; he loves being able to do something I can't.
When I called my mom to see if, by some strange bit of luck, she still had that old trumpet, she immediately answered, "No." But when I mentioned it to Scott, he knew exactly where it was. He brought the case in from the garage and Mark and his cousins all took turns blowing on it until they were lightheaded and red in the face.
It definitely needed some love; it sat hidden in the garage for 35 years. But my friend Liz pointed me toward an instrument repair shop, where a kid shined it up and oiled the valves for $60--much cheaper than a new trumpet!
Mark was thrilled to have his trumpet back in working condition, but was disappointed when I said the guy cleaned all the gunk out of it. When I asked why he was so bummed, Mark confirmed my boys-are-gross theory by saying, "I wanted to see that."
He worked the valves and blew deeply into the horn, which emitted the blare of a dying elephant. He experimented with different sounds, his favorite being the roar of Chewbacca. He played the theme to Jeopardy! then held his trumpet aloft and blew, letting out a mighty FWWWWOOOOOOM! He was a natural.
Or maybe not.
Like any good musician, he thoroughly examined his instrument. He wanted to see if a flashlight would shine through all the curves and out the other end.
He tried playing it without the mouthpiece, to see if the sound was different.
He tried playing it by completely covering the mouthpiece, and ended up gagging and complaining of the metal taste. I could've told him it would taste disgusting, but it was more entertaining to watch him try.
In the end, he didn't play any recognizable songs. Mark being Mark, he created a new fancy, one-handed move, complete with crazy eyes.
It was hilarious until he fell over. Then it was even more hilarious.
He hasn't even had one lesson yet, but after watching him this afternoon, I feel like I already got my money's worth.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
My son, the cat
Mark has acquired a disturbing new eating habit, and I blame it all on his pet, Frankie. My son now eats like a cat. (All this time I was worried about peer pressure--I should be worried about feline pressure instead!)
Previously, the most disturbing thing about his eating was the volume at which he chewed his meal, mouth wide open. I never thought I'd long for those days.
Now, instead of using utensils, Mark uses his fingers to guide food to his mouth. He then rips into it with his teeth, and quickly shakes his head from side to side, growling. Dinners have taken on a neanderthal-like ambiance.
At first, I wasn't quite sure what was going on.
The first time he did it, I was appalled. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"Eating," he said simply, ripping in to his chicken and shaking his head.
"Could've fooled me," I answered. "Did you forget how to use a fork?"
He sighed loudly. Sometimes my simple-mindedness exasperates him.
"I'm eating like Frankie," he clarified. His tone clearly indicated he was talking to a toddler. A really, really dumb toddler.
I watched him eat a few more bites. He attacked his food enthusiastically.
"You know you're not a cat, right?" I'm never quite sure. I waited for him to meow or maybe hiss at me.
"Duh," he sneered. He rolled his eyes, then shook his head violently and swallowed loudly.
"Duh," I repeated. I wasn't convinced he really knew.
But for all my doubt, he still has one really big fan. Frankie sat nearby, staring lovingly up at Mark. When Mark cooed, "Hi, Frankie" in a sweet tone, Frankie meowed and rolled over on the floor, scooting toward Mark. Clearly, Mark can do no wrong in his eyes.
I just sighed and cleared the table. I consoled myself that hey, at least there would be fewer utensils to wash after every meal. And maybe my son really was just playing around; he didn't really think he was a cat.
I turned to smile at him and his active imagination. He was on the floor with Frankie, licking his paw--err, hand--to wash his face, and purring. And I realized that I'd just downsized my family from one kid and two cats to three cats.
So maybe my vet bills just went up, but hey, now I won't have to pay for college!
Previously, the most disturbing thing about his eating was the volume at which he chewed his meal, mouth wide open. I never thought I'd long for those days.
Now, instead of using utensils, Mark uses his fingers to guide food to his mouth. He then rips into it with his teeth, and quickly shakes his head from side to side, growling. Dinners have taken on a neanderthal-like ambiance.
At first, I wasn't quite sure what was going on.
The first time he did it, I was appalled. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"Eating," he said simply, ripping in to his chicken and shaking his head.
"Could've fooled me," I answered. "Did you forget how to use a fork?"
He sighed loudly. Sometimes my simple-mindedness exasperates him.
"I'm eating like Frankie," he clarified. His tone clearly indicated he was talking to a toddler. A really, really dumb toddler.
I watched him eat a few more bites. He attacked his food enthusiastically.
"You know you're not a cat, right?" I'm never quite sure. I waited for him to meow or maybe hiss at me.
"Duh," he sneered. He rolled his eyes, then shook his head violently and swallowed loudly.
"Duh," I repeated. I wasn't convinced he really knew.
But for all my doubt, he still has one really big fan. Frankie sat nearby, staring lovingly up at Mark. When Mark cooed, "Hi, Frankie" in a sweet tone, Frankie meowed and rolled over on the floor, scooting toward Mark. Clearly, Mark can do no wrong in his eyes.
I just sighed and cleared the table. I consoled myself that hey, at least there would be fewer utensils to wash after every meal. And maybe my son really was just playing around; he didn't really think he was a cat.
I turned to smile at him and his active imagination. He was on the floor with Frankie, licking his paw--err, hand--to wash his face, and purring. And I realized that I'd just downsized my family from one kid and two cats to three cats.
So maybe my vet bills just went up, but hey, now I won't have to pay for college!
Monday, September 13, 2010
Batter up!
Yesterday was another milestone for Mark--his first-ever Little League practice.
He's a pretty athletic little guy. What he lacks in skill, he makes up for in enthusiasm, and in fantasy. He may not have ever played baseball in a league before, but in his head, he ranks right up there with Babe Ruth.
We've been gearing up for the season, tossing the ball back and forth a bit. My friend Tim stopped by to play catch with Mark last weekend, and as I listened from inside, I giggled at the differences between how men teach kids games, and how women do.
Mark was showing off his knuckleball, but Tim was having none of it. He told Mark to just practice basic throwing and catching before he tried to get all fancy.
"Just throw it!" Tim told him. "Stop talking about your knuckleball, you knucklehead!"
Mark was a little nervous about being the new kid, and I was a little nervous for him, too. He's played other sports--basketball, soccer--but never baseball, and as one kid told him, "I've been playing since I was in T-ball!"
Of course, Mark's favorite part of the whole day was modeling his new clothes. He was thrilled to have new baseball pants, cleats and socks, although he was a little bummed you couldn't see much of the socks.
I watched as he played catch with one kid. He did pretty good, and my fears subsided. He made enough catches, and threw the ball far enough, that I thought he stood a pretty decent chance of surviving his first season.
I also saw what my next 10 Sunday afternoons would look like. It resembled watching my son play in the yard from a prison cell:
After catch, the players lined up to field balls from each position. Mark did okay with the catching and throwing, not so much with the hustling from base to base. He'd gone to a week long baseball camp a couple years ago, and I remembered his biggest gripe about baseball.
"I hate all the hustling," he'd told me then. "Hustle here, hustle there--I'm sick of running everywhere!" I could tell from yesterday's practice he still held firmly to that belief.
Mark moseyed down to the catcher's position, and did all right catching.
The batting was a little iffy. He stood straight up in the box, and his swing was a little slow. I knew his bat was too heavy for him (he has a wooden bat a friend cut down to kid-size for him). But he never gave up--he kept swinging, and got a piece of it almost every time. He hit a bunch of foul balls, and then got a base hit! I was so excited, I could barely sit still.
He stopped safely at first, and then fiddled with his helmet until the next kid up got a hit. And ran to first base. And met up with Mark, who was still there, fiddling with his batting helmet. And had no idea he was supposed to be on his way to second base.
So we do have some work to do. I can see a trip or two to the batting cages in my near future, and probably a lighter, smaller aluminum bat, too. We'll ramp up our nightly games of catch in the backyard. And Mark will certainly have to get used to the protective gear--he spent a lot of time re-adjusting his helmet and his--um, lower body protective wear--which at least made him look like a professional baseball player. As the season progresses, he'll get used to that, and use his hands for catching and throwing instead.
At least, that's what I'm hoping for. I'm also hoping he likes baseball well enough to play in the spring, because I'm going to sign him up then. I've gotta get my money's worth out of all the new baseball gear I've purchased over the past two weeks!
He's a pretty athletic little guy. What he lacks in skill, he makes up for in enthusiasm, and in fantasy. He may not have ever played baseball in a league before, but in his head, he ranks right up there with Babe Ruth.
We've been gearing up for the season, tossing the ball back and forth a bit. My friend Tim stopped by to play catch with Mark last weekend, and as I listened from inside, I giggled at the differences between how men teach kids games, and how women do.
Mark was showing off his knuckleball, but Tim was having none of it. He told Mark to just practice basic throwing and catching before he tried to get all fancy.
"Just throw it!" Tim told him. "Stop talking about your knuckleball, you knucklehead!"
Mark was a little nervous about being the new kid, and I was a little nervous for him, too. He's played other sports--basketball, soccer--but never baseball, and as one kid told him, "I've been playing since I was in T-ball!"
Of course, Mark's favorite part of the whole day was modeling his new clothes. He was thrilled to have new baseball pants, cleats and socks, although he was a little bummed you couldn't see much of the socks.
I watched as he played catch with one kid. He did pretty good, and my fears subsided. He made enough catches, and threw the ball far enough, that I thought he stood a pretty decent chance of surviving his first season.
I also saw what my next 10 Sunday afternoons would look like. It resembled watching my son play in the yard from a prison cell:
After catch, the players lined up to field balls from each position. Mark did okay with the catching and throwing, not so much with the hustling from base to base. He'd gone to a week long baseball camp a couple years ago, and I remembered his biggest gripe about baseball.
"I hate all the hustling," he'd told me then. "Hustle here, hustle there--I'm sick of running everywhere!" I could tell from yesterday's practice he still held firmly to that belief.
Mark moseyed down to the catcher's position, and did all right catching.
The batting was a little iffy. He stood straight up in the box, and his swing was a little slow. I knew his bat was too heavy for him (he has a wooden bat a friend cut down to kid-size for him). But he never gave up--he kept swinging, and got a piece of it almost every time. He hit a bunch of foul balls, and then got a base hit! I was so excited, I could barely sit still.
He stopped safely at first, and then fiddled with his helmet until the next kid up got a hit. And ran to first base. And met up with Mark, who was still there, fiddling with his batting helmet. And had no idea he was supposed to be on his way to second base.
So we do have some work to do. I can see a trip or two to the batting cages in my near future, and probably a lighter, smaller aluminum bat, too. We'll ramp up our nightly games of catch in the backyard. And Mark will certainly have to get used to the protective gear--he spent a lot of time re-adjusting his helmet and his--um, lower body protective wear--which at least made him look like a professional baseball player. As the season progresses, he'll get used to that, and use his hands for catching and throwing instead.
At least, that's what I'm hoping for. I'm also hoping he likes baseball well enough to play in the spring, because I'm going to sign him up then. I've gotta get my money's worth out of all the new baseball gear I've purchased over the past two weeks!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
My son, the lunch lady
I'm sure you all know my son, Mark, the child who groans when I ask him to make his bed and almost cries when I ask him to help with the yard work. The child who thinks "chores" mean watching the TV without an extra pillow, or actually getting out of bed on time.That's right, the kid who my dad nicknamed "Mañana" because seriously, that's when he likes to help around the house. Mañana--always mañana.
And yet, at school it is the complete opposite. When the teacher asked yesterday who'd like to volunteer in the cafeteria, Mark's hand shot up immediately. He told me when he got home it's a good deal--he gets a free lunch every day. But I know better--he's not trying to save me money. The lure of a free cafeteria cookie was really the draw, not so much the food, which just last week he told me is "disgusting." But I was surprised he'd give up his lunch recess playtime to actually work.
"That is a good deal," I agreed. "But you were in such a rush to get to the caf, you skipped the nurse's office on your way."
I recounted how the nurse chased him down to check his blood sugar and bolus for his lunch. I reminded him that it's his duty to stop at the nurse's office, and that he must eat his own lunch before serving up anyone else's.
He agreed to follow the plan, on penalty of being fired from his day job. Losing out that daily cookie is motivation enough for him!
Then curiosity got the best of me, and I asked what exactly he did in the caf.
"I serve stuff," he said.
"What kind of stuff?" I asked.
"You know, the food--today I gave kids their burritos."
I bit my lip, and my friend Edra, who was with us, bit hers too. I think we both had the same image, at the same time--Mark in an apron, a hair net, and plastic gloves. My son, the walking fashion statement, the boy who refuses to wear shorts that don't hit below the knees, or shirts that aren't "cool"--that child of mine is donning food-service gear all for a free cookie. Now that's a serious sweet tooth!
I'll just have to see how long that cookie tides him over. I'm sure he'll enjoy it this next week, but even cookies lose their appeal when you eat the same kind everyday. I'm sure the free cafeteria lunch will lose it's appeal in a week or so, and the tug of the playground will pull at Mark soon enough.
And when it does, it'll be time for his next big life lesson--about keeping your word, and honoring your commitments, even if it means giving up your lunchtime recess or football games with your friends.
And maybe I'll even throw a free bonus lesson in there--about raising your price when you sell out. Because from where I'm sitting, a free cafeteria cookie seems a pretty low price!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
It's the most wonderful day of the yeaaaaaar...
I can't help singing that song or thinking fondly of that commercial on this day every day: the first day of school. Mark doesn't think it's nearly as funny as I do, and I'm guessing he's not alone (I know all the parents were signing it to their kids!)We checked the list posted in the office last weekend to see who Mark's teacher is. There was a little girl and her mom in front of us, and the mom was looking for other familiar names in the class.
"It's all boys!" she fretted. "Here's one--Mark Dins-something. Do you know him? Is he nice?"
Without even turning around, the girl told her mom dryly, "He's standing right behind you, you know." Mark and I cracked up about that all weekend long.
Turns out Mark got a male teacher again, for the fourth year in a row. I was thrilled to have so many great male role models for my son, and I said so to my friend Edra.
"As a single mom, I'm so glad he has a man teacher," I said. Mark completely took that the wrong way, and sneered, "He's married, you know."
It took me a minute to understand what he was saying, and then I answered, "I'm not going to date him! Geez!"
I can tell Mark's growing up, because this morning, he didn't make a big deal out of his first day back. He played it all cool, and I started thinking he really didn't care. Then I noticed both boxes of new shoes out on his floor, which meant he'd thought long and hard over which shoes to wear. And he asked me (nonchalantly) to put on his new shark's tooth necklace, making sure the silver side was showing, since it looked cooler. I realized these tiny, casual acts meant he cared a lot more than he was letting on.
I manage to get a couple good fist-day-of-school photos before he ran off and ditched me.
Since this is also my fifth year walking Mark to school on the first day, I knew what to expect. I kept in step with him the whole way.
As we neared the school, I prepared for him to take off running. I smiled, and out of the corner of my mouth, said, "I want one nice picture in front of the school sign. And I want a smile. If you take a good shot, we can be done in five seconds."
Before he could argue, I added menacingly, "And if you goof around or try to run, I will make a scene and scream, 'Marky, come back! Mommy wants a picture of you by the sign!'"
He sighed and slowed his pace. He knew I'd do it, so he complied.
Then he tried to ditch me. He sped up his pace and headed toward the class without me. But I was ready for that, too.
"Mark, if you try to run, I will make you hold my hand," I said. "Then I'll yell, 'Marky, have fun in school, Mommy wuvs you!' And I'll pretend like I'm crying and hug you too much at the classroom door."
He sighed again, and again, slowed his pace. We walked to class right next to each other.
Mark couldn't wait to get to class. Just as he reached the door, I called him back.
"Have a good day," I whispered, in case any other boys were around. "I love you. Have fun!"
He smiled, glad to hit the safety of his class. He waved and ran into the class, and as the final bell rang, I shook my head and wondered how in the world I have a son in fifth grade.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Things the washing machine doesn't like
I hate to do laundry. I hate it because I forget to check the pockets, because it takes a lot of time, and because I have to put it away afterwards (which I never do).
I make Mark sort his own clothes, but sometimes when we're running late, I just do it myself. Boy, did I find a surprise when I dumped his hamper on the ground yesterday.
Besides dirty clothes, all of these objects tumbled out as well:
I was surprised to see all of that stuff--I'm guessing Mark's bed is too crammed underneath to shove in any more crap. So I guess the hamper is his new go-to storage area when I yell at him to pick up his floor.
I wasn't surprised to see the hats (two of them!) or the belt. I was kinda surprised to see the shoe, but only because there was just one, not both. What really surprised me was this:
Yup, that's right, a peanut. Or rather, half a peanut. I have no idea why there was half a peanut rolling around in the hamper, except that maybe it fell out of Mark's pocket. Which also concerns me, because I'm trying my best to raise a man, and not a squirrel.
I suppose this was a nice, gentle reminder to keep checking not only Mark's pockets, but his hamper as well. Because apparently, crayons are not the worst thing I might put in the washer!
I make Mark sort his own clothes, but sometimes when we're running late, I just do it myself. Boy, did I find a surprise when I dumped his hamper on the ground yesterday.
Besides dirty clothes, all of these objects tumbled out as well:
I was surprised to see all of that stuff--I'm guessing Mark's bed is too crammed underneath to shove in any more crap. So I guess the hamper is his new go-to storage area when I yell at him to pick up his floor.
I wasn't surprised to see the hats (two of them!) or the belt. I was kinda surprised to see the shoe, but only because there was just one, not both. What really surprised me was this:
Yup, that's right, a peanut. Or rather, half a peanut. I have no idea why there was half a peanut rolling around in the hamper, except that maybe it fell out of Mark's pocket. Which also concerns me, because I'm trying my best to raise a man, and not a squirrel.
I suppose this was a nice, gentle reminder to keep checking not only Mark's pockets, but his hamper as well. Because apparently, crayons are not the worst thing I might put in the washer!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Superhero camp
Mark begged me all last week to cut eye holes in a red bandanna he's been carrying around. He said he wanted to be the red Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, which confused me, because he's about seven years past their target audience.
Then, on Friday, he dressed in all red (including soccer socks pulled up over his knees). When I asked while he was so color-coordinated, he slipped on his mask and answered, "Ninja turtle."
None of this made any sense to me until we walked into camp. Suddenly, I was surrounded by superheroes of all sizes--Batman, Wolverine, Superman, even Super Kyle Man. (Mark's friend Kyle sported a huge duct tape K on his chest. I loved that!)
"What's going on?" I asked. I hadn't seen any fliers regarding costumes.
"It's Superhero day," Mark answered. Suddenly the Ninja Turtle costume made sense.
There were other celebrations and parting gifts, too. Mark received a spiffy photo book with photos from the entire summer.
In this picture, you'll notice the name "Jadyn" on the cover. That's because Mark lost his own book approximately two minutes after receiving it. I'm guessing it's keeping last year's lost book company.
There was also a potluck lunch. I wasn't planning to go until Mark said he'd be bummed if I didn't. Well, Mr. Independent never makes admissions such as that, and I'm Catholic by birth, so the guilt kicked in and I went.
I was pretty excited to watch the skits after lunch. I asked what skit Mark was performing, and he just shrugged. He told me he'd gone around to each group and couldn't decide which skit he liked best. Which cracked me up, because the groups are formed according to age. Which means Mark auditioned with all ages, from the kindergartners on up to the middle schoolers.
Unfortunately, I didn't get to see him perform with any of the groups. When skit time started, Mark was more interested in his cookie with M&Ms on top. I asked which group he was going up with, only to be told none.
"I don't want to be in a skit," he told me. The natural-born performer declined to perform.
At first I was a little bummed. I'd taken off time from work to eat dodgy potluck food and watch my kid act the fool. Apparently, it wasn't gonna happen.
And then I realized that instead of being bummed, I should be happy. I didn't have to stay and watch the skits!
I told Mark that I wasn't gonna stick around and watch a bunch of other people's kids perform. I was headed home, and offered to take him with me. He declined, and told me I wasn't to pick him up until 6.
"But you'll be the last kid here," I said.
"So? I want to stay and play with my friends!"
I agreed to the late pickup. And I cracked up when my cell phone rang at precisely 5:55, when I was one block away from camp.
"I'm the last kid here!" Mark wailed. Edra and Kathleen, who were in the car with me, laughed as hard as I did.
"I know," I answered. "You told me to pick you up at 6. So I am."
Mark didn't think it was nearly as funny as we did.
Then, on Friday, he dressed in all red (including soccer socks pulled up over his knees). When I asked while he was so color-coordinated, he slipped on his mask and answered, "Ninja turtle."
None of this made any sense to me until we walked into camp. Suddenly, I was surrounded by superheroes of all sizes--Batman, Wolverine, Superman, even Super Kyle Man. (Mark's friend Kyle sported a huge duct tape K on his chest. I loved that!)
"What's going on?" I asked. I hadn't seen any fliers regarding costumes.
"It's Superhero day," Mark answered. Suddenly the Ninja Turtle costume made sense.
There were other celebrations and parting gifts, too. Mark received a spiffy photo book with photos from the entire summer.
In this picture, you'll notice the name "Jadyn" on the cover. That's because Mark lost his own book approximately two minutes after receiving it. I'm guessing it's keeping last year's lost book company.
There was also a potluck lunch. I wasn't planning to go until Mark said he'd be bummed if I didn't. Well, Mr. Independent never makes admissions such as that, and I'm Catholic by birth, so the guilt kicked in and I went.
I was pretty excited to watch the skits after lunch. I asked what skit Mark was performing, and he just shrugged. He told me he'd gone around to each group and couldn't decide which skit he liked best. Which cracked me up, because the groups are formed according to age. Which means Mark auditioned with all ages, from the kindergartners on up to the middle schoolers.
Unfortunately, I didn't get to see him perform with any of the groups. When skit time started, Mark was more interested in his cookie with M&Ms on top. I asked which group he was going up with, only to be told none.
"I don't want to be in a skit," he told me. The natural-born performer declined to perform.
At first I was a little bummed. I'd taken off time from work to eat dodgy potluck food and watch my kid act the fool. Apparently, it wasn't gonna happen.
And then I realized that instead of being bummed, I should be happy. I didn't have to stay and watch the skits!
I told Mark that I wasn't gonna stick around and watch a bunch of other people's kids perform. I was headed home, and offered to take him with me. He declined, and told me I wasn't to pick him up until 6.
"But you'll be the last kid here," I said.
"So? I want to stay and play with my friends!"
I agreed to the late pickup. And I cracked up when my cell phone rang at precisely 5:55, when I was one block away from camp.
"I'm the last kid here!" Mark wailed. Edra and Kathleen, who were in the car with me, laughed as hard as I did.
"I know," I answered. "You told me to pick you up at 6. So I am."
Mark didn't think it was nearly as funny as we did.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Grammar lesson
Mark's been slacking on his drums a bit lately. He practices regularly, but he plays the same two songs week after week.
Fearing I'll snap if I hear "Beat It" or "Billie Jean" one more time, I strongly encouraged him to pick two new songs. He balked, and said, "But I like those songs."
"I know," I said. "But it's time to learn something new. Go get your iPod--are you going to pick a new song, or am I?"
"I is," he answered, sending grammatical daggers through my heart.
"I am," I corrected. And thanked God school is starting again next week.
"I is," he repeated, so again, I corrected him and said, "I am. Seriously, you sound like an uneducated hick!"
He sighed, and said even more loudly, "No, IYAZ. I want to play the song 'Replay' by Iyaz."
I finally realized he was saying the singer's name, and not the grammatically incorrect "I is." I started laughing and what I said when I finally stopped was, "Oh, sorry! I couldn't understand what the heck you were saying! My apologies."
But what I thought was, "I is sorry..."
Fearing I'll snap if I hear "Beat It" or "Billie Jean" one more time, I strongly encouraged him to pick two new songs. He balked, and said, "But I like those songs."
"I know," I said. "But it's time to learn something new. Go get your iPod--are you going to pick a new song, or am I?"
"I is," he answered, sending grammatical daggers through my heart.
"I am," I corrected. And thanked God school is starting again next week.
"I is," he repeated, so again, I corrected him and said, "I am. Seriously, you sound like an uneducated hick!"
He sighed, and said even more loudly, "No, IYAZ. I want to play the song 'Replay' by Iyaz."
I finally realized he was saying the singer's name, and not the grammatically incorrect "I is." I started laughing and what I said when I finally stopped was, "Oh, sorry! I couldn't understand what the heck you were saying! My apologies."
But what I thought was, "I is sorry..."
Thursday, August 26, 2010
How to tell it's time to go back to school...
I've taught Mark the proper way to answer a phone and how to leave a message. He's not always successful; earlier this summer when he called Tyler's house, Tyler's mom answered. Mark asked her to come over to play, and when she told Mark it was Tyler's mom, not Tyler, he sneered, "Yeah, right! Good one, Tyler!" I shrank into the corner and died a little bit from embarrassment.So when Mark's friend Tyler called yesterday to see if Mark could come over to play, I listened to Tyler's voicemail with interest. (Because it's rude to say I'm trying to see how Mark rates along side his peers in the voicemail department.)
Tyler did great. He was polite, to the point, and even left a timestamp. Sorta.
"Hi Mark," he started. "It's Tyler. I'm calling to see if you can come over to play. It's Wednesday, 2010."
He paused. "Um, I don't know what day is it. I think it's the 8th. [It was the 25th.] Anyway, call me back."
I hung up the phone and giggled a bit. And realized Mark is right where he's supposed to be developmentally.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
High roller
The other night, I went to dinner with Mark and my friend Edra. In a moment of generosity, Mark fished around in his pocket, then plunked this down on the table.
"I'll pay," he told us, pointing to his giant wad of 100 bills.
I'd never seen Mark carry any money, let alone enough to stuff in a money clip disguised as a stack of Benjamins. The clip was heavy, made out of a hard plaster, and unwieldy, but hilarious. I couldn't imagine anyone carrying it around for real.
"Where'd you get that?" Edra asked, and he said he found at camp. Mark said that if he ever got mugged, he'd simply toss the money clip in one direction to fool the robber, then run away in the other direction. I said that the thunk it made while crashing on the concrete might tip off the robber that it was a fake, but Mark disagreed.
Mark was on fire that night. He put on his own little comedy show, and was cracking us up. When Edra told him she could read his mind, he said, "Oh yeah? Guess what I'm thinking about now?"
She studied him for a moment, and as she was about to answer, he yelled, "NUTMEG!" I have no idea where that came from! Edra did admit that no, she had no idea that was what he was thinking about.
But at least he was a little more observant of the people around us that night. Usually he doesn't notice anything but his dinner plate, but when the people next to us got up to leave, Mark pointed them out.
"Look, they're doing a conga line!" he said excitedly. He pointed to a tall man who was walking with his hands on his wife's shoulders in front of him.
I smacked myself in the forehead--I'd noticed that couple already.
"They aren't doing a conga line!" I hissed at Mark. "That man is blind!"
I explained he was using the woman to guide him out of the tiny restaurant, and Mark laughed, not the least bit embarrassed.
"Oh!" he said. "Well, how am I supposed to know?"
I'm beginning to think that fancy restaurants and pleasant dinner companions are waaaaay overrated. My own companion may be a little rough around the edges, but he is definitely entertaining.
"I'll pay," he told us, pointing to his giant wad of 100 bills.
I'd never seen Mark carry any money, let alone enough to stuff in a money clip disguised as a stack of Benjamins. The clip was heavy, made out of a hard plaster, and unwieldy, but hilarious. I couldn't imagine anyone carrying it around for real.
"Where'd you get that?" Edra asked, and he said he found at camp. Mark said that if he ever got mugged, he'd simply toss the money clip in one direction to fool the robber, then run away in the other direction. I said that the thunk it made while crashing on the concrete might tip off the robber that it was a fake, but Mark disagreed.
Mark was on fire that night. He put on his own little comedy show, and was cracking us up. When Edra told him she could read his mind, he said, "Oh yeah? Guess what I'm thinking about now?"
She studied him for a moment, and as she was about to answer, he yelled, "NUTMEG!" I have no idea where that came from! Edra did admit that no, she had no idea that was what he was thinking about.
But at least he was a little more observant of the people around us that night. Usually he doesn't notice anything but his dinner plate, but when the people next to us got up to leave, Mark pointed them out.
"Look, they're doing a conga line!" he said excitedly. He pointed to a tall man who was walking with his hands on his wife's shoulders in front of him.
I smacked myself in the forehead--I'd noticed that couple already.
"They aren't doing a conga line!" I hissed at Mark. "That man is blind!"
I explained he was using the woman to guide him out of the tiny restaurant, and Mark laughed, not the least bit embarrassed.
"Oh!" he said. "Well, how am I supposed to know?"
I'm beginning to think that fancy restaurants and pleasant dinner companions are waaaaay overrated. My own companion may be a little rough around the edges, but he is definitely entertaining.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Well, it is nice to have visitors...
Today's laugh is provided by my nephew Johnny, who reminds me to check the Go-Gurt ingredients. I'm certain they're putting something addictive in those handy little yogurt tubes...
Johnny is three, and while already a Go-Gurt fan, he couldn't believe you could possibly make them any better. That is, until Mark introduced him to frozen Go-Gurts. Johnny's eyes lit up on his first taste, and he immediately raced home to freeze his own box.
He liked them sooooo much he insisted on eating one, then two, every time he came to my house. He ate so many, my brother Brad told him, "Don't eat all of Auntie Heather's Go-Gurts!" I guess Brad told him more than once, because the next time Johnny came over, I offered him one. Johnny just looked at me and said, apologetically, "I don't wanna eat all your Go-Gurts, Auntie Heather."
I assured him that it was okay, and that I can always buy more. He gobbled that frozen Go-Gurt up before I could finish the sentence!
A few days later, my sis-in-law Mary was driving the boys to school and camp. Johnny proudly told Mary how he had a whole box of Go-Gurts at home. Then he sent Mary into a fit of laughter when he told her, "I'm gonna eat all of Auntie Heather's Go-Gurts, and then I'm gonna go to my house and visit mine. Auntie Mary, do you want to come to my house and visit my Go-Gurts?"
He's a little stinker...
Johnny is three, and while already a Go-Gurt fan, he couldn't believe you could possibly make them any better. That is, until Mark introduced him to frozen Go-Gurts. Johnny's eyes lit up on his first taste, and he immediately raced home to freeze his own box.
He liked them sooooo much he insisted on eating one, then two, every time he came to my house. He ate so many, my brother Brad told him, "Don't eat all of Auntie Heather's Go-Gurts!" I guess Brad told him more than once, because the next time Johnny came over, I offered him one. Johnny just looked at me and said, apologetically, "I don't wanna eat all your Go-Gurts, Auntie Heather."
I assured him that it was okay, and that I can always buy more. He gobbled that frozen Go-Gurt up before I could finish the sentence!
A few days later, my sis-in-law Mary was driving the boys to school and camp. Johnny proudly told Mary how he had a whole box of Go-Gurts at home. Then he sent Mary into a fit of laughter when he told her, "I'm gonna eat all of Auntie Heather's Go-Gurts, and then I'm gonna go to my house and visit mine. Auntie Mary, do you want to come to my house and visit my Go-Gurts?"
He's a little stinker...
Thursday, August 19, 2010
The Village is working
I love the old adage that it takes a village to raise a child. My child in particular is a wild banshee in need of more guidance and discipline than I alone can provide, and so I am grateful for backup from my village.
Last night, Mark was commenting on the village members.
"I like it better when I get in trouble with Grandma than when I do with Edra," he said, speaking about one of my best friends (who also runs a before/after school center for kids).
This surprised me -- I'd always assumed Grandma was the biggest, baddest threat around.
"Why's that?" I asked.
"Because," Mark said thoughtfully. "When I get in trouble with Grandma, she yells at me, but then she has a good laugh about it later. Edra just yells at me and then says all proud, 'Man, I gave that Mark some gooooood discipline.'"
I burst into laughter.
"She doesn't have a good laugh about it later?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No, she's proud of how well she disciplined me!"
I laughed again, as did Edra when I told her what he'd said. She loved it.
And I love my village -- all the parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, friends, aunties and uncles who tell it like it is, and shape my son into a well-rounded, nice kid. Keep on with your discipline and bad selves--it's working!
Last night, Mark was commenting on the village members.
"I like it better when I get in trouble with Grandma than when I do with Edra," he said, speaking about one of my best friends (who also runs a before/after school center for kids).
This surprised me -- I'd always assumed Grandma was the biggest, baddest threat around.
"Why's that?" I asked.
"Because," Mark said thoughtfully. "When I get in trouble with Grandma, she yells at me, but then she has a good laugh about it later. Edra just yells at me and then says all proud, 'Man, I gave that Mark some gooooood discipline.'"
I burst into laughter.
"She doesn't have a good laugh about it later?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No, she's proud of how well she disciplined me!"
I laughed again, as did Edra when I told her what he'd said. She loved it.
And I love my village -- all the parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, friends, aunties and uncles who tell it like it is, and shape my son into a well-rounded, nice kid. Keep on with your discipline and bad selves--it's working!
Monday, August 16, 2010
Yeah, that's what they mean
I rarely pay attention to the parental ratings for television shows. Instead, I rely solely on my own personal code of Do I really want my child to watch this program? I use common sense when deciding what Mark can and cannot watch. Shows with violence, nudity, cursing or smarmy pre-teens sassing their parents are automatically disqualified.
Pretty much anything on HBO is out, while everything on HGTV is allowed. (Allowed, though just barely tolerated. But Mark's so addicted to TV that he'd rather watch a House Hunters marathon than actually turn the set off.)
However, my method is not perfect. Sometimes shows slip by me that seem innocuous, and yet, cross over into that gray area.
For example, Top Chef. On the surface, it's just a cooking competition. But its competitors are grown adults who, I've noticed with alarming regularity, smoke and curse. I don't always remember that, until I'm watching it with Mark.
On a recent episode, the chefs were vying for a cash prize. One earnest young man confided that if he won the $20,000, he'd donate it to an orphanage in Thailand that took in children afflicted with HIV. Another chef smirked, and proudly confessed he would blow it all on an eight-ball and hookers.
Please...I begged, silently. Please don't ask... I steadfastly refused to make eye contact with my 10-year-old son seated next to me.
But of course, he did ask. "What are eight-balls and hookers?" he said, looking directly at me.
"It has to do with pool," I answered immediately. "You know, like when you play pool and sink the eight-ball." I mimed shooting in a ball with a pool cue.
He nodded. "Ohhh."
Home-free, I thought.
"And what are hookers?" he asked.
Or maybe not...
"For fishing," I answered. I simulated casting a fishing line, then reeled it back in. "You know, when you hook a fish."
I was terrified he would ask how the two things were related, but luckily, he accepted my answers and moved on.
And I immediately made a mental note to cross Top Chef off the list of approved TV shows.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Mr. Generous
Mark's having a blast at camp this week. His group is traveling to all sorts of fun places, and today's big adventure was to an Angels game.
I sent him off with 20 bucks and a firm reminder that he was to eat a proper lunch. I told him I have eyes watching his every move (I lied) and I would know if he feasted on only ice cream, cotton candy and diet soda.
But when he called at lunch, he just wanted the carb counts for a hot dog and diet soda. I kept waiting for a second call about Cracker Jack or ice cream, but it never came.
"How was the game?" I asked when I picked him up.
"Good!" he answered. He handed me his remaining five dollars and said, "My friend didn't have any money, so I bought him some Cracker Jacks."
He bit his lip and looked at me expectantly. I dunno what he thought I was gonna do (probably yell at him for spending my money), so I confused him by smiling.
"That was very nice," I said. "I bet he was really happy."
Mark immediately perked up and said, "He was happy. Very happy!" He grinned.
And then the floodgates opened. "I also bought him some ice cream," Mark confessed. "And I bought this other girl some cotton candy."
"You did?" Now I was the confused one. "Did you have enough money for all that?"
"Yup!" he answered.
I shrugged. "Well, then you must've been very popular today."
"I was!" he said. He smiled again, and felt very proud of himself.
"Well, it was really nice of you to be so generous," I said. I kept my tone and words upbeat and happy. But truth be told, I was a little scared--images of Mark in college popped in to my head. I could see him buying pizza for everybody, and a little later on, buying rounds of drinks for all his friends. I realized for the first time that textbooks and class fees may not be the most expensive part of Mark's college experience. Apparently, I should be saving enough to feed not only Mark, but all his friends as well.
But if that's the cost of raising a generous, friendly kid...I think it's a bargain.
I sent him off with 20 bucks and a firm reminder that he was to eat a proper lunch. I told him I have eyes watching his every move (I lied) and I would know if he feasted on only ice cream, cotton candy and diet soda.
But when he called at lunch, he just wanted the carb counts for a hot dog and diet soda. I kept waiting for a second call about Cracker Jack or ice cream, but it never came.
"How was the game?" I asked when I picked him up.
"Good!" he answered. He handed me his remaining five dollars and said, "My friend didn't have any money, so I bought him some Cracker Jacks."
He bit his lip and looked at me expectantly. I dunno what he thought I was gonna do (probably yell at him for spending my money), so I confused him by smiling.
"That was very nice," I said. "I bet he was really happy."
Mark immediately perked up and said, "He was happy. Very happy!" He grinned.
And then the floodgates opened. "I also bought him some ice cream," Mark confessed. "And I bought this other girl some cotton candy."
"You did?" Now I was the confused one. "Did you have enough money for all that?"
"Yup!" he answered.
I shrugged. "Well, then you must've been very popular today."
"I was!" he said. He smiled again, and felt very proud of himself.
"Well, it was really nice of you to be so generous," I said. I kept my tone and words upbeat and happy. But truth be told, I was a little scared--images of Mark in college popped in to my head. I could see him buying pizza for everybody, and a little later on, buying rounds of drinks for all his friends. I realized for the first time that textbooks and class fees may not be the most expensive part of Mark's college experience. Apparently, I should be saving enough to feed not only Mark, but all his friends as well.
But if that's the cost of raising a generous, friendly kid...I think it's a bargain.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
I know because I CAN READ!
My son is exceptionally cute, hilariously funny, and usually fairly intelligent. As his mother, I say that with complete bias, but if you ask my mom, or any of Mark's other family members, I'm pretty sure they'll agree.However...his intelligence, like his listening, is definitely selective. I'm afraid I've passed on my "Duh" gene to him somehow, tipping the scales one step closer to nurture in the nature vs. nurture argument.
We were driving home from the farmer's market this weekend, and I noticed the car in front of me littered with bumper stickers. Four of them said "I love my Irish Setter" and the other three had pictures and names Irish Setters. It was fairly obnoxious.
"Wow, the people in front of us really like Irish Setters," I observed sarcastically.
"Where?" Mark asked. He craned his neck to see what I was looking at.
"The car in front of us," I said. I pointed at all the stickers.
But my observant son still didn't get it. "How can you tell?" he asked.
I read each sticker out loud to him. "See, there are seven clues," I said. "Look at all the pictures of the dogs."
And finally the light bulb went on.
"Ooooh!" he said, nodding his head. And then he frowned, and asked, "But how do you know those are Irish Setters?"
I snorted and looked to see if he was being serious.
"A lucky guess," I answered.
And then the light turned green. I accelerated, and drove as far away as possible from that conversation. Because while my car idled aimlessly at the light, Mark's brain did the same.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The triumphant return
Yesterday, Mark came home from camp. He'd been gone 12 days, longer than I've ever been away from him, and I was very excited about his return.
When I went to pick him up, Mark wasn't there yet, but his luggage was.
I picked out his duffel bag among all the other bags. We'd stuffed his sleeping bag into a white trash bag, so that one took a while longer to find (I wasn't the only mom to utilize kitchen garbage bags as luggage).
As I loaded the bags into my car, Mark's shoe tumbled out. I stuffed it back in the bag, where I noticed not only its mate, but his back-up shoes as well. I sighed, fearing that my child was riding the bus barefoot.
Luckily, he had on flip-flops as he stepped off the bus. He also had a giant scab on his chin--apparently, he misjudged the depth of the pool, and scraped it. (I giggled as I remembered discussing the same injury with a friend over happy hour this week. Although she may have been a wee bit...impaired...when she scraped her own chin.)
After collecting his blood sugar logs and group picture, I searched nervously, looking for Mark. He takes notoriously bad photos, and I expected to see him with eyes closed like last year, or eyes closed and mouth open, like the year before. He was making a really weird face, but he smiled and said, "Hey, at least my eyes are open!"
"Whose shirt is that?" I asked, pointing at his photo.
He shrugged. "I dunno--it was in my laundry, so I just wore it."
Mark couldn't wait to tell me all about camp. I peppered him with questions, and he was uncharacteristically chatty. He raved about the food (ribs, steak, burgers, breakfast cereal), the store where he bought diet sodas every day ("I'm gonna miss those sodas!" he lamented), the pool where he scraped his chin, and the bear they all saw traipse by his cabin. He told me about the 8-mile-hike they went on, and when I asked how long that took, he answered, "About 20 minutes."
He told me about all the sports he played, and the snacks (beef jerky!) he ate every night before bed. He described the overnighter where they camped outside on a tarp, but did not eat snack (bears like beef jerky). He talked about the arts and crafts, and groused about the drink choices at dinner every night (milk or water). Then he smiled and told me he'd figured out where they kept the Crystal Light, and how he'd filled up his cup with that instead.
He was filthy, so I asked when he'd last taken a shower. He said he took one the night before, then he bragged that he'd only taken two showers the entire time.
"You only took TWO?" I gasped. "Including the one last night?"
"Yep," he answered. "And only because the counselor made me." I can only imagine how smelly that cabin was, with a bunch of sweaty 10-year-old boys running around!
He told me the staff had done his laundry during the weekend, including his sleeping bag. I was relieved to hear that, considering he'd only showered once during the two weeks, and once the night before he came home. I put the sleeping bag outside to air out, but it may go directly into the trash if it doesn't freshen up a bit.
Mark talked a bit about the kids in his cabin, including Andreas, who came from South America. Mark, of the overflowing closets and crammed to capacity under-bed, insisted that his cabin mates were slobs. And then he uttered words I never imagined him saying in a million years...
"I was the clean freak in our cabin," he said, quite seriously. He shuddered at the thought of his cabin, and I shuddered even more. If my kid was the cleanest one there, then I don't ever want to go to camp.
He was exhausted, but hungry, so we stopped for lunch on the way home. We walked right past an ice cream store, and he remarked that, "I don't know why, but for some reason, I want ice cream."
"I bet," I answered. Then I hugged him and said again how glad I was he was home.
"Me too," he said. "Maybe we should celebrate with some ice cream." And then he nudged me toward the ice cream store!
So I was glad to see some things don't change. He had a blast at camp, and I had a blast at Mommy Camp while he was gone. I exhausted myself and the friends who went out me every night while he was gone (big props to Kathleen and Edra for humoring me during Mommy Camp!). And I'm sure he exhausted the camp counselors during his stay. But we were both home, happy, and glad to see each other.
Until next summer...
When I went to pick him up, Mark wasn't there yet, but his luggage was.
I picked out his duffel bag among all the other bags. We'd stuffed his sleeping bag into a white trash bag, so that one took a while longer to find (I wasn't the only mom to utilize kitchen garbage bags as luggage).
As I loaded the bags into my car, Mark's shoe tumbled out. I stuffed it back in the bag, where I noticed not only its mate, but his back-up shoes as well. I sighed, fearing that my child was riding the bus barefoot.
Luckily, he had on flip-flops as he stepped off the bus. He also had a giant scab on his chin--apparently, he misjudged the depth of the pool, and scraped it. (I giggled as I remembered discussing the same injury with a friend over happy hour this week. Although she may have been a wee bit...impaired...when she scraped her own chin.)
After collecting his blood sugar logs and group picture, I searched nervously, looking for Mark. He takes notoriously bad photos, and I expected to see him with eyes closed like last year, or eyes closed and mouth open, like the year before. He was making a really weird face, but he smiled and said, "Hey, at least my eyes are open!"
"Whose shirt is that?" I asked, pointing at his photo.
He shrugged. "I dunno--it was in my laundry, so I just wore it."
Mark couldn't wait to tell me all about camp. I peppered him with questions, and he was uncharacteristically chatty. He raved about the food (ribs, steak, burgers, breakfast cereal), the store where he bought diet sodas every day ("I'm gonna miss those sodas!" he lamented), the pool where he scraped his chin, and the bear they all saw traipse by his cabin. He told me about the 8-mile-hike they went on, and when I asked how long that took, he answered, "About 20 minutes."
He told me about all the sports he played, and the snacks (beef jerky!) he ate every night before bed. He described the overnighter where they camped outside on a tarp, but did not eat snack (bears like beef jerky). He talked about the arts and crafts, and groused about the drink choices at dinner every night (milk or water). Then he smiled and told me he'd figured out where they kept the Crystal Light, and how he'd filled up his cup with that instead.
He was filthy, so I asked when he'd last taken a shower. He said he took one the night before, then he bragged that he'd only taken two showers the entire time.
"You only took TWO?" I gasped. "Including the one last night?"
"Yep," he answered. "And only because the counselor made me." I can only imagine how smelly that cabin was, with a bunch of sweaty 10-year-old boys running around!
He told me the staff had done his laundry during the weekend, including his sleeping bag. I was relieved to hear that, considering he'd only showered once during the two weeks, and once the night before he came home. I put the sleeping bag outside to air out, but it may go directly into the trash if it doesn't freshen up a bit.
Mark talked a bit about the kids in his cabin, including Andreas, who came from South America. Mark, of the overflowing closets and crammed to capacity under-bed, insisted that his cabin mates were slobs. And then he uttered words I never imagined him saying in a million years...
"I was the clean freak in our cabin," he said, quite seriously. He shuddered at the thought of his cabin, and I shuddered even more. If my kid was the cleanest one there, then I don't ever want to go to camp.
He was exhausted, but hungry, so we stopped for lunch on the way home. We walked right past an ice cream store, and he remarked that, "I don't know why, but for some reason, I want ice cream."
"I bet," I answered. Then I hugged him and said again how glad I was he was home.
"Me too," he said. "Maybe we should celebrate with some ice cream." And then he nudged me toward the ice cream store!
So I was glad to see some things don't change. He had a blast at camp, and I had a blast at Mommy Camp while he was gone. I exhausted myself and the friends who went out me every night while he was gone (big props to Kathleen and Edra for humoring me during Mommy Camp!). And I'm sure he exhausted the camp counselors during his stay. But we were both home, happy, and glad to see each other.
Until next summer...
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Chef is in
I'm not much of a cook. I know it, I own it, I shrug it off.
That fact never bothered me in my carefree pre-kid days, when sometimes dinner consisted of a tuna sandwich or even the occasional Pop-Tart (I love Pop-Tarts). But when I became a mother, I felt like I had to step up the meal preparations in order to raise a healthy child who appreciated healthy food (but he likes Pop-Tarts, too). My friend Jill, and the fact my son has diabetes, really drove home the importance of good, well-balanced meals (which apparently do NOT contain Pop-Tarts).
And so now I cook. Kinda. Well, quasi-cook. I can deliver a mean bowl of pasta (with red sauce--counts as a veggie, no?). I also sneak a couple handfuls of veggies in there to ratchet up the healthiness. I can barbecue pretty well, and again, a couple handfuls of frozen veggies or an ear of summer corn go a long way as side dishes to my sometimes-charred proteins.
But all in all, I thought I was doing an okay job of serving up some good, healthy family dinners. And even if the food wasn't always five-star, I reasoned that equally important was the opportunity to share a meal and share our days together as a family, sitting together at a table, and not in front of the T.V.
Until...
Until my mom started coming up to watch my son. It started a couple summers ago. She came to watch him during the gaps between summer camp ending and school starting. And she put my whole notion of cooking to shame, as she served up some amazing meals. She swore most of the ingredients came from my pantry, fridge, and freezer, but since she never once served us Pop-Tarts, I had my doubts.
It was during this time that Mark learned meals do not consist solely of one entree--they may also include other food on the plate (I explained these were called side dishes, and they complimented the entree). My mom actually served an entree with two, sometimes three side dishes (she explained to Mark that no, it doesn't matter what I say, bread is not a side dish). For a while, I felt a little guilty that the only home-cooked meals my son would ever remember would be my mom's.
But now my mom's returned. She's been coming up to watch my nephew, and her fan base has grown. She used to cook for Mark and I, but now my brother and nephew have joined in. And my cousin Kathleen, who regrets her own childhood meal memories, has become my mom's biggest fan. She and her boyfriend also make regular appearances whenever my mom comes up.
It's kinda sad how much we all appreciate my mom's good cooking. Just the mention that she's coming up to my house gets all of us drooling. My cousin's even started putting in requests, which my mom happily fulfills.
All of which makes me feel a little less pathetic. Because at the end of it all, I may be washing more dishes than I serve, but who cares? Turns out, I'm not the only fan of mom's cooking--I've got a lot of company. Just peer inside the window any time my mom is there, and you'll see I'm not alone. :-)
That fact never bothered me in my carefree pre-kid days, when sometimes dinner consisted of a tuna sandwich or even the occasional Pop-Tart (I love Pop-Tarts). But when I became a mother, I felt like I had to step up the meal preparations in order to raise a healthy child who appreciated healthy food (but he likes Pop-Tarts, too). My friend Jill, and the fact my son has diabetes, really drove home the importance of good, well-balanced meals (which apparently do NOT contain Pop-Tarts).
And so now I cook. Kinda. Well, quasi-cook. I can deliver a mean bowl of pasta (with red sauce--counts as a veggie, no?). I also sneak a couple handfuls of veggies in there to ratchet up the healthiness. I can barbecue pretty well, and again, a couple handfuls of frozen veggies or an ear of summer corn go a long way as side dishes to my sometimes-charred proteins.
But all in all, I thought I was doing an okay job of serving up some good, healthy family dinners. And even if the food wasn't always five-star, I reasoned that equally important was the opportunity to share a meal and share our days together as a family, sitting together at a table, and not in front of the T.V.
Until...
Until my mom started coming up to watch my son. It started a couple summers ago. She came to watch him during the gaps between summer camp ending and school starting. And she put my whole notion of cooking to shame, as she served up some amazing meals. She swore most of the ingredients came from my pantry, fridge, and freezer, but since she never once served us Pop-Tarts, I had my doubts.
It was during this time that Mark learned meals do not consist solely of one entree--they may also include other food on the plate (I explained these were called side dishes, and they complimented the entree). My mom actually served an entree with two, sometimes three side dishes (she explained to Mark that no, it doesn't matter what I say, bread is not a side dish). For a while, I felt a little guilty that the only home-cooked meals my son would ever remember would be my mom's.
But now my mom's returned. She's been coming up to watch my nephew, and her fan base has grown. She used to cook for Mark and I, but now my brother and nephew have joined in. And my cousin Kathleen, who regrets her own childhood meal memories, has become my mom's biggest fan. She and her boyfriend also make regular appearances whenever my mom comes up.
It's kinda sad how much we all appreciate my mom's good cooking. Just the mention that she's coming up to my house gets all of us drooling. My cousin's even started putting in requests, which my mom happily fulfills.
All of which makes me feel a little less pathetic. Because at the end of it all, I may be washing more dishes than I serve, but who cares? Turns out, I'm not the only fan of mom's cooking--I've got a lot of company. Just peer inside the window any time my mom is there, and you'll see I'm not alone. :-)
Monday, August 2, 2010
VBS
I'm not a particularly religious person. I've only seen the inside of a church once this year (hello, Easter), and I probably won't see it again until Christmas.
But my nephew goes to a church pre-school, and I dropped him off there last week. Mark helped me herd him through the courtyard and in to the classroom (he's tiny but quick). As we passed through the gates, Mark pointed at a sign and asked what VBS is.
"It stands for 'vacation Bible school,'" I told him.
He raised his eyebrows and said, "Doesn't sound like much of a vacation to me."
I gently reminded him that he had, indeed, attended Bible school once, when he was five. And he liked it so much, he tried to get saved.
I hadn't meant to send him there. I sent him to daycare, and found out as I was leaving that he was going on a field trip. For the entire week.
I was livid--I was paying the babysitter an outrageous sum, because no one else wanted to take on the challenge of a "medically fragile" kid. (I've learned needles freak people out, especially when they have to jab one in a squirrelly little kid.) I was not happy she was sending him off to learn religion; that was my job to teach, if I felt so inclined.
But since I didn't have any other childcare, I sucked it up. It's not like I had to go myself.
Except that I did, on the last night. I picked Mark up at the church, where I realized that between the bouncy tent and the free-flowing pizza slices, I'd never get him outta there. And before I could catch him, I was being ushered into the church for some service.
Mark sat up front with the other kids from daycare, and I hid in the back row, trying not to yawn too obviously. I sat through the service, and barely perked up until the end, when they asked for volunteers to come up and receive a blessing.
"Anyone can come up!" they announced. "All you need is some love in your heart, and the desire to be born again, to rid yourself of sin!"
No one was biting, so I scanned the crowd for Mark. I wanted to make a quick, discreet exit. Unfortunately, my plan immediately failed, as I heard the pastor plead for volunteers, and saw a group rise and head toward the pulpit.
They had linked arms, and were calling out, "I wanna be saved! I want Jesus in my heart!" The church applauded them, encouraging them on, which only emboldened them, and made them yell louder. It was all pretty amusing, until suddenly I realized that there in the middle of them all, was my five-year-old son. My about-to-be-born-again son. I needed to be born again, too, when I saw that, since my heart stopped right then and there.
I don't know who raced toward the pulpit faster, me or the babysitter, once she realized all her charges were about to be saved. She quickly guided the group out a side door, where I met up with Mark.
"How wonderful!" a man called out to me. "What a wonderful young man you're raising up in the spirit!" He raised a Bible and smiled big, and I knew the sales pitch was coming, and I had to get out of there quick. I searched for a way out to the car, but there were smiling volunteers all around the courtyard. It would take a miracle from God to get me outta there.
"Thanks," I said, racing past him. "He is a good kid!" And I waved away brochures and lollipops he offered in exchange for saving my soul back in the church. I yanked Mark away, knowing he'd immediately sell his soul for a lollipop.
And so, last week, when Mark mentioned VBS, I reminded him that he'd had his chance. And that he wasn't likely to get another one...unless, of course, the volunteers at Johnny's school were as quick on their toes as Johnny was.
But my nephew goes to a church pre-school, and I dropped him off there last week. Mark helped me herd him through the courtyard and in to the classroom (he's tiny but quick). As we passed through the gates, Mark pointed at a sign and asked what VBS is.
"It stands for 'vacation Bible school,'" I told him.
He raised his eyebrows and said, "Doesn't sound like much of a vacation to me."
I gently reminded him that he had, indeed, attended Bible school once, when he was five. And he liked it so much, he tried to get saved.
I hadn't meant to send him there. I sent him to daycare, and found out as I was leaving that he was going on a field trip. For the entire week.
I was livid--I was paying the babysitter an outrageous sum, because no one else wanted to take on the challenge of a "medically fragile" kid. (I've learned needles freak people out, especially when they have to jab one in a squirrelly little kid.) I was not happy she was sending him off to learn religion; that was my job to teach, if I felt so inclined.
But since I didn't have any other childcare, I sucked it up. It's not like I had to go myself.
Except that I did, on the last night. I picked Mark up at the church, where I realized that between the bouncy tent and the free-flowing pizza slices, I'd never get him outta there. And before I could catch him, I was being ushered into the church for some service.
Mark sat up front with the other kids from daycare, and I hid in the back row, trying not to yawn too obviously. I sat through the service, and barely perked up until the end, when they asked for volunteers to come up and receive a blessing.
"Anyone can come up!" they announced. "All you need is some love in your heart, and the desire to be born again, to rid yourself of sin!"
No one was biting, so I scanned the crowd for Mark. I wanted to make a quick, discreet exit. Unfortunately, my plan immediately failed, as I heard the pastor plead for volunteers, and saw a group rise and head toward the pulpit.
They had linked arms, and were calling out, "I wanna be saved! I want Jesus in my heart!" The church applauded them, encouraging them on, which only emboldened them, and made them yell louder. It was all pretty amusing, until suddenly I realized that there in the middle of them all, was my five-year-old son. My about-to-be-born-again son. I needed to be born again, too, when I saw that, since my heart stopped right then and there.
I don't know who raced toward the pulpit faster, me or the babysitter, once she realized all her charges were about to be saved. She quickly guided the group out a side door, where I met up with Mark.
"How wonderful!" a man called out to me. "What a wonderful young man you're raising up in the spirit!" He raised a Bible and smiled big, and I knew the sales pitch was coming, and I had to get out of there quick. I searched for a way out to the car, but there were smiling volunteers all around the courtyard. It would take a miracle from God to get me outta there.
"Thanks," I said, racing past him. "He is a good kid!" And I waved away brochures and lollipops he offered in exchange for saving my soul back in the church. I yanked Mark away, knowing he'd immediately sell his soul for a lollipop.
And so, last week, when Mark mentioned VBS, I reminded him that he'd had his chance. And that he wasn't likely to get another one...unless, of course, the volunteers at Johnny's school were as quick on their toes as Johnny was.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Alms for the poor
One of the things I learned while in Greece is that my son is not working hard enough.
While he enjoyed a leisurely holiday, and afternoons in the pool, all around us were little kids with accordions, playing up a racket with one hand, and reaching out for coins with the other. Mark was fascinated by them, and asked what they were doing.
"They're playing for money," I told him. "That's how they earn a living."
The lesson stuck with him. He thought about it quite a bit, and I was happy that it made him think. I wanted him to realize how fortunate he is -- how fortunate we all are -- to have a happy, healthy life and to make a decent enough living that he doesn't have to spend his days in the street with an accordion.
That's what I hoped he was was thinking about, anyway. Turns out I was far too optimistic, because rather than feel sorry or compassionate for the kids, he thought they were brilliant, and wondered how much they made a day.
This became apparent when we took the boat ride from hell to the islands. Mark asked if he could get ice cream, and I said no at first (it was 9:30 a.m.!). But I relented in the afternoon, and he was so excited he could barely stand still.
I handed him a 2 Euro coin, and he took off running.
"Come back!" I shouted. "You need another Euro!"
"That's okay," he answered. "I'll get one up there."
Lori and I looked at each, confused. I motioned him back, and he reluctantly came.
"Up where?" I asked.
"By the ice cream stand," he said. "I'll just ask people for money."
And I realized that of all the things we'd seen so far, all the history, museums, historical sites....this is what he learned. How to beg strangers for money.
And it wasn't the last time he tried it, either. One evening in Santorini, as I turned the corner, I was met by this little beggar, asking for coins.
I take Mark traveling because I want him to be a citizen of the world. Turns out I'm setting my sights too high.
While he enjoyed a leisurely holiday, and afternoons in the pool, all around us were little kids with accordions, playing up a racket with one hand, and reaching out for coins with the other. Mark was fascinated by them, and asked what they were doing.
"They're playing for money," I told him. "That's how they earn a living."
The lesson stuck with him. He thought about it quite a bit, and I was happy that it made him think. I wanted him to realize how fortunate he is -- how fortunate we all are -- to have a happy, healthy life and to make a decent enough living that he doesn't have to spend his days in the street with an accordion.
That's what I hoped he was was thinking about, anyway. Turns out I was far too optimistic, because rather than feel sorry or compassionate for the kids, he thought they were brilliant, and wondered how much they made a day.
This became apparent when we took the boat ride from hell to the islands. Mark asked if he could get ice cream, and I said no at first (it was 9:30 a.m.!). But I relented in the afternoon, and he was so excited he could barely stand still.
I handed him a 2 Euro coin, and he took off running.
"Come back!" I shouted. "You need another Euro!"
"That's okay," he answered. "I'll get one up there."
Lori and I looked at each, confused. I motioned him back, and he reluctantly came.
"Up where?" I asked.
"By the ice cream stand," he said. "I'll just ask people for money."
And I realized that of all the things we'd seen so far, all the history, museums, historical sites....this is what he learned. How to beg strangers for money.
And it wasn't the last time he tried it, either. One evening in Santorini, as I turned the corner, I was met by this little beggar, asking for coins.
I take Mark traveling because I want him to be a citizen of the world. Turns out I'm setting my sights too high.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Mommy Camp 2010
Yesterday was one of my favorite summer time traditions—dropping my kid off for summer camp. Before you judge me a cold, heartless mother, let me tell you—it’s Mark’s favorite day of summer as well.
I was dreading a repeat of last year’s nightmare, when Mark turned into the devil himself while we waited for the buses to depart. I was especially worried because this time, I also brought along my 3-year-old nephew Johnny, who idolizes Mark. I knew if Mark acted up, Johnny would follow, and I’d end up imprisoned for a double (but justifiable) homicide.
So as I started up the car, I reminded Mark yet again about his behavior.
I started to say, “You WILL behave under penalty of—” but Mark cut me off.
“I know, I know, penalty of death,” he sighed. I was glad he’d been listening.
“Grandma told me the same thing,” he said. “She pulled me over in the hallway, like she was a traffic cop or something.”
I giggled at the thought. “Did she give you a ticket?” I asked.
“No, a lecture,” he answered. And so I knew he’d behave.
He behaved so well in fact, that I started to get a little teary. He was so playful and silly, and patient with Johnny, and I realized that he will be gone for two weeks, instead of his usual one. In the five years I’ve had him, he’s never been away that long. I started missing him before he even left.
By the time we got through the registration line, the wheel’s on Mark’s roller duffel bag were straining and twisting kinda weird. They tilted out sideways and I realized they would not last the trip, at least not with Mark carelessly dragging it across the campground.
“Mark, your bag is gonna break at camp,” I told him, pointing at the bag stuffed with his oldest, rattiest clothes. “I don’t care if you throw it away at the end of camp, but please don’t throw your clothes away until the second week! Otherwise, you won’t have anything to wear.” This is, after all, a diabetes camp, not a nudist camp.
Mark received his name tag, and promptly stuck it on his shorts where no one could see it. I made him move it up so people could see it, so he grudgingly moved it to his shoulder, and then to the bottom of his shirt. He’s just too cool for name tags.
We met his cabin counselor, Alec, and the counselor-in-training (I forgot his name). They introduced him to the other boys in his cabin, but he ignored them all, even the one kid he already knew from a previous camp. “S’up?” he said, with a slight head nod, then went back to playing with Johnny.
I couldn’t send him off on false pretenses, so I warned the counselor that this was the quietest he’d see Mark all week.
“He’s hiding it now,” I said, “but he’s really a little wild child.”
The counselor laughed and thanked me, saying he could handle any kid. I wonder if he’ll still say that when Mark returns from camp.
Because, as good as he was yesterday, he’s still Mark. And if that doesn’t mean anything to you, then this should shed some light. The boy in gray is the counselor, who was sitting in the seat in front of Mark on the bus.
And who was completely unaware that my child had found a new place to stick his name tag.
I was dreading a repeat of last year’s nightmare, when Mark turned into the devil himself while we waited for the buses to depart. I was especially worried because this time, I also brought along my 3-year-old nephew Johnny, who idolizes Mark. I knew if Mark acted up, Johnny would follow, and I’d end up imprisoned for a double (but justifiable) homicide.
So as I started up the car, I reminded Mark yet again about his behavior.
I started to say, “You WILL behave under penalty of—” but Mark cut me off.
“I know, I know, penalty of death,” he sighed. I was glad he’d been listening.
“Grandma told me the same thing,” he said. “She pulled me over in the hallway, like she was a traffic cop or something.”
I giggled at the thought. “Did she give you a ticket?” I asked.
“No, a lecture,” he answered. And so I knew he’d behave.
He behaved so well in fact, that I started to get a little teary. He was so playful and silly, and patient with Johnny, and I realized that he will be gone for two weeks, instead of his usual one. In the five years I’ve had him, he’s never been away that long. I started missing him before he even left.
By the time we got through the registration line, the wheel’s on Mark’s roller duffel bag were straining and twisting kinda weird. They tilted out sideways and I realized they would not last the trip, at least not with Mark carelessly dragging it across the campground.
“Mark, your bag is gonna break at camp,” I told him, pointing at the bag stuffed with his oldest, rattiest clothes. “I don’t care if you throw it away at the end of camp, but please don’t throw your clothes away until the second week! Otherwise, you won’t have anything to wear.” This is, after all, a diabetes camp, not a nudist camp.
Mark received his name tag, and promptly stuck it on his shorts where no one could see it. I made him move it up so people could see it, so he grudgingly moved it to his shoulder, and then to the bottom of his shirt. He’s just too cool for name tags.
We met his cabin counselor, Alec, and the counselor-in-training (I forgot his name). They introduced him to the other boys in his cabin, but he ignored them all, even the one kid he already knew from a previous camp. “S’up?” he said, with a slight head nod, then went back to playing with Johnny.
I couldn’t send him off on false pretenses, so I warned the counselor that this was the quietest he’d see Mark all week.
“He’s hiding it now,” I said, “but he’s really a little wild child.”
The counselor laughed and thanked me, saying he could handle any kid. I wonder if he’ll still say that when Mark returns from camp.
Because, as good as he was yesterday, he’s still Mark. And if that doesn’t mean anything to you, then this should shed some light. The boy in gray is the counselor, who was sitting in the seat in front of Mark on the bus.
And who was completely unaware that my child had found a new place to stick his name tag.
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