It's the Great Pumpkin

Yesterday was our annual trek to the pumpkin patch. Mark was more excited than he's been the past couple years, and he couldn't wait to tell me why.

"I'm much bigger than I was last year," he explained. "I can finally pick up the big pumpkins!"

Of course, there's only one rule when it comes to the pumpkin patch: "You can have whatever pumpkin you can carry." Only Mark takes that as a personal challenge.

And so he went around trying to pick up the biggest pumpkins he could find. Which I thought was cute and funny at the same time, until Edra pointed out the prices written on them.

"Fifty dollars!" I screeched. "For a PUMPKIN? Mark, put that pumpkin down now!"

Which he did, almost involuntarily. My screaming scared him, and he almost dropped the dang thing. I'm not cheap, but paying $50 for a smashed pumpkin (and going home empty-handed) would tick me off.

Mark ran off to a row of slightly (not much) smaller pumpkins. He is so skinny, it was hilarious watching him hoist those pumpkins up. 

He finally stopped bending down, opting, as Mark often does, for a shortcut. He tried lifting them up by the vine stump on top.

Which, again, was funny to watch, until he pulled the stump straight off a giant pumpkin. He looked up at me, stump still in hand, his eyes as big as pumpkins.

"Put it down," I hissed. "Walk away."

"But--" he started, and I sighed, aggravated as always that his ethics kick in AFTER he's damaged something.

"Technically, it's not broken," I said in a low voice. "Put it down. Walk away. Do it!!!"

I would have felt worse if it wasn't the day before Halloween, and there weren't 50 other giant pumpkins to choose from. But it was, there were, and we moved on.

Mark decided to downsize after that fiasco. He returned to me with a sizably smaller pumpkin.

"Seriously?" I asked. "That's the one you want?"

He nodded yes. I sent him out to look again.

Mark finally settled on a pumpkin twice the size as last year's, but without any double-digit price tags written on it. We had ourselves a winner.

I know Mark's a bit sqeamish when it comes to touching things like pumpkin innards, but he went at it with the sharpest knife he could find, and a plastic sandwich bag over his hands. I calmly took the knife away, and complimented him on the improvised surgical glove.

Mark spent almost all of his time emptying out the guts. He did, however, carve out two very tiny eyes, complete with eyebrows, on the massive pumpkins face. 

When he grew tired of carving, he drew on the pumpkin with a silver Sharpie instead. 

And finally, out of nowhere, he wrote this cryptic message, and started carving that out. 

At this point, I took away the knife, and sent him to bed.

And so, in typical Mark fashion, this year we have a very atypical jack o' lantern.

Seems about right...

Turning the tables

I may have inadvertently killed Mark's sports career last night. At the very least, I killed his desire to attend another school function with me ever again.

We went to a high school football game to watch a friend's son play in the band (rock on, Brother Gillen!). It was great; we supported Gillen's drum career, and in turn, Gillen encouraged Mark's budding drum career. Chalk one up to Gillen for not only being an awesome drummer, but a really good role model as well.

A bonus was that I got to play supportive mom by staying to watch the game. Mark likes football, so I gave him a chance to see a live game.

I'm not into sports, but I love an event, and sports are really good events. There's always so much going on--and I embrace it all, becoming a temporary Superfan.

Tonight was no different--a whole lot was going on. There was the marching band, playing their jaunty tunes; the cheerleaders, mentoring a much smaller, younger cheer squad; the spirited high schoolers who painted their faces orange and black to match their half orange/half black shirts, then ran, screaming, back and forth with a giant flag, revving up the crowd. There were the families--the proud parents wearing picture buttons of their players, and the younger kids wearing jerseys with their sibling's name and number on them.

And let's not forget the students themselves. The high schoolers were dressed in various layers, some dressed for winter, some still clinging to summer, all sporting the school colors. They were giddy, yelling, giggling and texting non-stop, save for the girl who walked by us crying, her friend's arm wrapped around her in a comforting manner.

Mark looked at that girl, then to me, quizzically, so I explained.

"Know what that girl's crying about?" I asked, and he shook his head.

"Some boy," I explained. "Whenever you see a high school girl crying, it's always over some dumb boy. All high school boys act dumb, and all high school girls cry."

"Did you ever cry like that?" he asked.

I wanted to be honest, but...honestly, I've been out of high school a looooooong time. I finally settled on, "Probably," which made him smile.

As we were watching all this, a guy walked by with an armload of orange hand towels that said "Go OILERS!"

"Spirit towels?" he asked, tossing a couple at us. "Be sure to use them!"

Lacking further instruction, I raised my towel in the air and whipped it around in frantic circles.

"Go Oilers!" I shouted, adding a "Woo hoo!" for emphasis.

I glanced at Mark, and the look on his face stopped me. His eyes were huge, his mortified face frozen, and before I could say anything, he grabbed at my towel.

But I grew up with three brothers, and have cat-like reflexes as a result. I snapped the towel out of reach and asked, "What?"

"Really, Mom?" he hissed at me. "REALLY?"

Which made me smile. Because a) Mark's never sat near me at in the stands, so  he doesn't know about my boundless enthusiasm, and b) I realized that he was embarrassed by my behavior, and boy, did I love that.

"I'm so excited!" I told him.

"I know," he sighed.

The band started up just then, and the crowd started stomping their feet on the metal bleachers. I joined in too, yelling to Mark above the din, "You're always on the field, playing--you never sat with me in the stands before, huh?"

He lowered his head into his hands, ignoring me. I saw my opportunity to pay him back for all the times he acted sassy and disrespectful to me in public.

"Oilers! Oilers!" I shouted, still stomping. Mark rolled his eyes, embarrassed at first, then angry, as if warning me to stop.

"What?" I asked, innocently.

"I'm gonna take that towel away if you don't stop!" he threatened.

I waved it overhead with all I had. "You'll never get my spirit towel!" I cried, whipping it just out of his reach. "Unless you pry it from my cold, dead hands!"

Gillen's mom appeared just then, much to Mark's relief.

"There's Jill," he said, pointing to my friend. He was grateful for the distraction.

I spent the rest of the evening hanging out with Jill, watching Mark scarf down pizza and separating the two of them before Jill could plant any idea's into Mark's head. (I spent most of Gillen's youth plotting pranks against Jill; I'm now spending Mark's youth avoiding payback.) We even got to visit with Gillen a few minutes between his band duties.

We stayed past Mark's bedtime, not that he cared much. What he DID care about, however, was his future. He had seen what that holds, and it scared him.

"I can't wait to go to your high school games," I told Mark. I saw fear flash quickly across his face, then he steadied himself, and shrugged coolly.

"Bet you can't wait either," I said, and he shrugged again.

We walked quietly to the car, but I couldn't help smiling. All I could think of was the many, many, MANY times sassy Mark had mouthed off in front of my friends, and now, finally, here he was at the age where nothing was worse than me returning the favor.

I could finally see an end to being yelly-screamy mom, and the ineffective discipline methods I've clung to. And in their place was something that really would work--embarrassment.

Mark's, of course, not mine. Not that I'm planning to emotionally scar him or anything--I think just the threat of me being myself is enough to make him behave. Because just like all my friends, Mark knows the truth--I'm not afraid to act like an idiot in public. Or in front of his friends.

And finally, finally, looks like that will work to my advantage!

Why white uniform shirts are bad

...or, "Why Clear Chapstick is Good."

I've stopped buying Mark white t-shirts for school, slowly replacing them with navy shirts only. I don't know what the school district was thinking, choosing white, or what I was thinking, going along with it.

I can bleach the heck out of the white shirts to clean them, but what really drives me crazy is picking Mark up at the end of a school day, when he looks like someone has dragged him and his white shirt through a mud puddle. This is especially painful when we have somewhere to go after school, and he looks like Pig Pen from the Charlie Brown cartoons, or like a lost little orphan who's never washed his clothes. I'm all for kids being kids and playing in the dirt, but even I have my limits. 

But since Mark does still have white shirts, I'll also have to cross another product off my list--colored lip balms. Because apparently, not only do Mark's white shirts highlight dirt, they also make nifty lip balm removers. 

In case you didn't know that, here's how to do it:

1. Lift the sleeve to your face, where you just smeared copious amounts of cherry Chapstick all over your mouth.

2. Wipe your lips furiously onto your sleeve. 

3.  Repeat all day long, until you have a nice big red glob on your sleeve.

4. Wait until the end of the day, and then, in your most surprised tone, ask your mom what this big red, waxy stain on your sleeve is.

5. Laugh delightedly when she explains, and then say, "Oooooh, THAT'S why my lips are still chapped!"

6. Walk away from your poor mom, who's silently banging her head against the wall.

Adventures in cooking, part 57

I've been cooking a lot more lately, thanks to the greatest invention ever--a slow cooker with a timer on it. When the timer goes off, the slow cooker switches to warm, so the food is still hot but not overcooked when we get home.

I want to yell, "Slow cooker, where have you been all my life??" until I remember we actually had one growing up. My mom used it all the time, not that my dad was an appreciative audience. When we'd ask what was for dinner, he'd make a face and say, "Whatever crawled out of the Crock Pot." So thanks to that lasting image, I never fully embraced my slow cooker until now.

Turns out you can make more than just spaghetti sauce and stew in it! Mark digs it because he's eating more than just pasta or dried-out chicken these days. He's actually getting some protein, and he loves it.

Loves it so much, in fact, he inhales it. I can tell a meal is a success when he eats it straight out of the slow cooker, and I have to slap his little hands away. Last week I made ginger-plum pork roast, and he was eating it off his plate on the way to the table--then he tucked into it before I sat down.

I also made a pot roast that he liked. Liked it so much, in fact, that he gobbled it up as fast as he could--I was just starting in on my own dinner, when I noticed I didn't have any silverware.

The mystery was solved a minute later when I saw this:

That's right, one set of silverware wasn't enough for Mark--he took mine, too. I guess it helped him cut the meat and feed himself twice as fast.

But while the slow cooker has been a bit hit, I'm still struggling with that big white thing in the kitchen--the stove. This meal was supposed to be accompanied by brown rice (that's right, I'm making entrees AND side dishes now!).

However, brown rice takes almost an hour to make, and I ran out of time this morning. I cooked it about three-quarters of the way through, and then nuked it in the microwave for five minutes when I got home to finish it up.

If you're thinking to yourself, "Huh, I didn't know you could do that"--well, stop right there. Turns out you can't. This was the result:

Those two lumps of charcoal are burnt rice. I thought my microwave might catch fire at this point, and the smell of burnt rice permeated the house for days.

Sigh...one step forward, two steps back. Oh well, I'll just go back to the original idea of a one-pot meal--all side dishes will now cook in tandem inside the slow cooker, with the meat.

Nod to the Specials--this town IS coming like a ghost town

This weekend was the annual Boy Scouts camping trip to Calico. I was a little apprehensive, because a) it's a ghost town, and b) did I mention it's a ghost town? I'm all for camping, but ghosts I can do without.

My car is too little to fit all the camping gear we needed, so I borrowed my brother Smed's car and stuffed it to the top. I drove up with my friend Liz, and her son Sean, plus Mark.

If you've never driven two plus hours in traffic with a couple of squirrelly boys, then man, you are missing out. Liz and I listened as they freaked out that we were driving in circles ("I swear, I JUST saw that bridge! I JUST saw that car!"), then as they sang along with the radio about how they were sexy, and they know it (Mark stopped singing when I explained that "sexy" meant girls want to kiss him). When the radio cut out, we were treated to a 20-minute rendition of the song that never ends ("This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend. Some people started singing it, not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because...This is the song that never ends..." repeated on an endless loop). The song eventually DID end, and was replaced with 99 bottles of beer on the wall. Liz and I managed to tune them out and they gave up at 80 bottles.

After a quick stop for dinner, we drove on into the desert. It was pitch black out there without any lights, and it felt late. Mark worried if anyone would still be awake by the time we got there. I looked at the clock and laughed.

"They will be," I said. "It's only 7:15!"

Just when I thought the squirrelly boys could take no more, we arrived in Calico. The campground was packed! Each space was overflowing with tents and trailers, but also with Halloween decorations. It's a tradition for the two weekends before Halloween, and these campers took it very seriously.

We parked the car, and turned the boys loose. I think that was the last time we saw them for more than 2 minutes for the next two days.

Some Scouts had arrived early and set up all the boys' tents, but we still had to set up our camp. Liz and I put up the tent, filled the air mattress, and settled in by the fire with the Barnetts and the Kochs. I stared up at the sky and marvelled at all the stars we could see--I'm sure they shine over L.A. as well, but you can never see them with all the light pollution.

The boys dumped their bags and headed into town as soon as we got there. They stopped at our site first, palms out, pleading for money to buy rubber-band guns and sarsaparilla. It was so much fun to just turn them loose, and let them have the run of the campground, without worrying about them. As a kid, that was the best part of summer, being turned loose on our own. I was glad Mark got the chance to experience that as well.

When our camp went to bed, the boys had returned from town and it was quiet. But one of the Scout leaders arrived shortly after, calling out for help unpacking the supplies from his truck. This got the Scouts all riled up again, and as I drifted off to sleep, I could hear laughing and shouting from the boys' camp five sites away.

I headed up to camp at first light to check on Mark and give him his meds. I knew better than to look for him among the boys already climbing the hills or sitting by the fire. Instead, I headed straight to his tent, where he was indeed, the only Scout left still sleeping.

The Barnetts made a great breakfast--somehow hot food always tastes better when you're outdoors. It was hot already by 8:30, and I could tell it was gonna be a scorcher.

By the time the boys ate breakfast and cleaned up, it was mid-morning and time to hike. I handed over Mark's emergency supplies to the troop leader, who asked, "Aren't you coming with us?" He obviously does not know me well; it was already 90 degrees, and I couldn't see a tree for miles. All I saw was hot, barren desert, tall red cliffs and quails. And in my mind's eye, all I saw was me, the delicate flower, melting in the heat.

But hooray for Liz, Karen and Kimmi! Those are some serious hiking moms. They joined the Scouts and headed out for a three-hour hike with the boys. They have my utmost respect!

I stayed back with one of the dads, and I must admit, we did a pretty good job of holding down the fort. We sat in the shade and watched chipmunks, birds, quail and even a little lizard descend onto camp. Nary a critter walked away with anything from the camp site.

Liz and I were in charge of lunch. We were having tacos, so we heated up the rice, meat and tortillas, and set up all the accompanying goodies to go with them. It was awesome, because the Kochs had all the cooking gear we needed in their camper, and a stove to cook it on. Which was great, because we didn't have any space left in our car to have packed that stuff!

Later that afternoon, we strolled into town. I briefly saw the boys, but they disappeared into the haunted maze before I could do more than wave. We moseyed through some haunted houses too, where I was glad to find out were family-friendly during the day (at night, monsters and other creatures jump out to scare you). It was so much fun to hang out with the adults--it was kind of like a little mini-vacation. We knew the boys were safe, and every so often, we saw them. But mostly, we all just hung out with our own friends.

We took a little train ride and learned about Calico's mining town history. 

I'm being followed by a train shadow, a train shadow, train shadow, train shadow.

We strolled down the main street, taking photos with the locals. 

One of these things is not like the others...

We smiled at the cute little kids in their Halloween costumes. We even stopped at the town saloon, which had a sign above the door prohibiting spittin', fightin' or loose women, and had another sign painted on the door that said, "Kids welcome." That's right, the wild west ain't so wild after all. (And for the record, the sarsaparillas were amazing--not sure if it was because it was so hot, or because they were just so creamy, but they went down very easily!)

I saw the boys as we were leaving. Mark was shoving candy into his mouth, but when he saw me, he panicked and reached for his insulin pump. He repeated this whenever I saw him, when he was eating cookies, or other junk food. I'd already written the weekend off diabetes-wise, but it was good to know that seeing me triggered Mark to do the right thing.

Our last stop in town was at the cemetery, where some local folks in old-fashioned clothes told us the history of the townspeople. We all thought that was a really cool tour--one guy was so deep in his character, I really believed he was talking about his own kids, and I just wanted to hug him.

Dinner was by the fire at the Beck's camp a few spaces down. Trick or treaters hit us up during dinner by the fire.

Then it was back to town for the evening festivities. Some of the group went into the haunted maze, but I don't like being scared, and I wasn't alone. Half of us waited at the end of the haunted maze, trying to dodge the big tall monster, or the chainsaw-wielding scary guy who kept following us through town. (He could tell Karen didn't like him.)

But the best part of the night was the Monster Mash. All the costumed kids gathered in the middle of Main street, which transformed into a ghostly dance floor. It was so much fun! The kids let loose, and we adults were right there with them, dancing in the streets with the giant white-haired monster. 

The giant monster was much scarier at night!

One bloodied cowboy with exposed entrails approached me, but I said he didn't have the guts to ask me out. (I know, the jokes are bad!) Liz and I hadn't seen Mark or Sean for hours. When the Party Rocker song came on, and we still didn't see them, I knew they had to be back at camp. There was no way that song would play without those two boys center stage (if they were there)!

I was exhausted that night, and slept like a log. The long hike wore out the boys, too, because when we went to check on the boys, Sean and Jonah were already asleep in their tent! Mark, however, was making the most of his freedom, wolfing down s'mores and cherry cobbler. Which was strangely comforting to me--I knew with that much sugar in him, it was almost impossible for him to go low that night!

Good thing we all went to bed early, because we all woke up early, too. We must have been in the most industrious row of campers, because they were hard at work as the sun came up, breaking down their camps. My tent was so comfy, I did not want to get up, but eventually I did, lured by the smell of bacon and french toast.

Liz and I packed up our stuff and crammed it back into the car. Mark and Sean came down with their stuff, still wearing the same clothes as Friday, but with their wrinkled Boy Scout uniform shirts over them. They both looked exhausted, and were pretty cranky. Mark was grumbling that Sean and company had collapsed the tent on him, but I found out later it was payback because Mark had kept them up till 3 a.m., giggling and talking.

When camp was finally all packed up, we took the boys a few miles down the road to a dry lake bed to shoot off rockets. I wasn't expecting much, but I was surprised at how high those bad boys shot up into the air. I felt like one of the boys, gasping and yelling, "YEAH!!" when the first few took flight.

I couldn't believe how high up those rockets soared!

Some rockets were bigger--MUCH bigger--than others.

In addition to being overly tired, Mark and Sean hadn't eaten much breakfast. So we finally put them back in the car, and drove off in search of lunch. We bought them a round of Shirley Temples and burgers, which they mostly ignored in favor of the sugary sodas. But whatever--might as well end the party weekend with a bang.

So our first Calico weekend was a rousing success. Mark and Sean had a blast running wild with the Scouts, and we parents had fun hanging out together as well. It took a lot of scrubbing to recognize Mark again, but under all that dirt was one happy, tired boy.

"We have to go camping more often," he yawned, when I put him to bed that night. And I assured him we would, most definitely.

Confessions of a middle school mama

This year, Mark moved up to middle school. It wasn't a big move physically--he stayed at the same school, which is K-8, but as he likes to say, he's now the "little of the big" at school. He likes hanging out with the older kids more than he liked hanging with the little elementary kids.

So far, Mark really likes middle school (well, as much as a kid can enjoy school). He likes changing classes every hour, and says it makes the day go faster.

Mark also likes his teachers. His favorite is Mr. Estrada, the math teacher. Mark recounted how Mr. Estrada welcomed the kids to his class on the first day, and set down the classroom rules.

"First of all, raise your hand to talk," Mr. Estrada explained. "Which really means...BE QUIET!"

"The next rule is, stay in your seat," he said. "Which really means...BE QUIET!"

"The third rule is, keep your hands to yourself," Mark said, channeling Mr. Estrada. "Which really means--"

"BE QUIET!" I interrupted. I liked Mr. Estrada already.

"Yeah," Mark said. "All the rules ended like that! How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess," I said, shrugging. I could sympathize with a man stuck in a roomful of middle schoolers all day.

Mark loves the 10-minute morning nutrition break that replaced morning recess. I thought he'd miss playing sports, but he says it's cooler (sicker? more sick? the sickest? I'm still not up on the slang yet) to just hang out with friends at nutrition than to play like a little kid. (Moment of maternal sadness: You know they're growing up when they'd rather chill with their buds than run around. :-(

Nutrition break has another upside for Mark--the food. He says the cafeteria offers better snacks for middle schoolers.

"Like what?" I asked.

"Chips, cookies," Mark answered, licking his lips.

"That doesn't sound very nutritious to me," I said, sounding exactly the opposite of the mom I want to be. (I can't help it!)

"It's fine, Mom," said Mark, vaguely irritated, sounding exactly the way a middle schooler does when conversing with a mom who comments on nutritional values.

He still had the dreamy look on his face when I realized he shouldn't even know what the caf offers--he doesn't have any money in his cafeteria account. And I send him to school every day with a handful of granola bars or other yummy goodness to enjoy during the break. I immediately pictured my beloved (and expensive) granola bars being unceremoniously tossed into the trash every day. (The mom I want to be would never have written that sentence, either.)

Mark sighed again and, for good measure, threw in an eye roll. (See, he is learning a lot in middle school!)

"My friends share with me," he said. "They call me the Human Garbage Disposal."
(Which is not as endearing a nickname as I'd hoped for him...)

The one thing that hasn't changed is Mark's lunchtime routine. He did pretty good at first, reporting dutifully to the nurse's office every day, on time, and eating his own lunch.

But that deteriorated quickly, and he is officially driving me and the patient, saintly school nurse bonkers. Now, the only consistent part of lunch is Mark complaining that he won't eat, or lying that he did, in fact, eat his own lunch. However, he's gained an encyclopedic knowledge of Takis, Hot Cheetos and energy drinks, and all the disgusting artificial flavors and colors they come in--and I can assure you, my kitchen has always been Taki-, Hot Cheetos- and Monster drink-free.

It's a never-ending battle trying to figure out what he'll actually eat--it changes every day. I gave up trying last year, and delegated lunch-making duties to him, under the guise that if he makes it, surely he will pick something he wants to eat. But if you think that logic works, then I've got some eye rolls and sassy backtalk to share with you and your dumb adult way of thinking.

Sigh...he really is trying to drive me insane, and I am shocked my hair has not turned white in response yet. (He's probably saving that trick up for high school.) I hate being a food cop, I hate micromanaging his lunch, and I am supremely jealous of all the parents of non-diabetic children out there. Even the ones sending their kids to school with Takis and Monster drinks--right about now, I'd give anything to let go of all these food issues. I always envisioned myself as a the type of mom who doesn't yell when her kid won't eat--I'd simply shrug, and say, "That's fine. You'll eat when you're hungry." Diabetes threw a monkey wrench into THAT plan!

My friend Jill pointed out that it's nothing personal, Mark's just on track developmentally. He's beginning his separation, his struggle for independence, she said. Struggle is right, I thought, though I think I'm struggling more than him. Because if these last couple months prove anything, it's that I'm becoming less tolerant as I age (or really, as Mark ages).

I'm all for independence, and for Mark the Middle Schooler achieving it...but at this rate, I may end up throttling him before he actually achieves anything!

Adoption Day number four

Last week, Mark and I celebrated our fourth Adoption Day together. To be honest, I kind of forgot about it--forgot it was coming, forgot to plan a big celebration or a trip to Disneyland, forgot to make a big deal about it in some way or another. I felt guilty, a bad mom for forgetting one of the most important days in our family history.

But then I realized maybe it's not such a bad thing I forgot. Because, honestly, while it was still the best day of my life, it wasn't the happy ending, the defining moment of our adoption story--it was really just the beginning of it.

By the time our adoption was finalized, Mark had already lived with me for two years. In those two years, I watched him hit some amazing milestones. I watched him learn to read and graduate from kindergarten. I watched him ride a bike for the first time, pedaling like a madman, and I remember that the minute he was far enough away, I burst into tears because I was so proud of him. I cheered him on in basketball and soccer games, and watched him struggle to understand all the rules, but love playing the games anyway.

I snuggled with him every night before bed, reading him stories, and then slowly switching roles, listening to him read to me instead, simple books at first, and then chapter books. I watched him learn to count, then add, and subtract. I watched him test his own blood sugar, and give himself his first shot. I watched him make friends, and embrace our family, becoming inseparable from his cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. I watched him love and nurture his cat, and morph into the Cat Whisperer.

I watched him a lot in those two years prior to our formal adoption, and in watching, I learned a whole lot about that kid. And I learned even more about myself.

I learned that I was able to love somebody even more than I'd ever imagined, and I'd imagined a lot. I learned that love was contagious--it spread like a wildfire, and the more we gave out, the more it was returned to us, tenfold. I saw this outpouring of love from my friends and family, toward me, and toward this little boy, whom they loved unconditionally from day one. Not only did I feel love, I actually saw love, what it looks like. It's a cousin extending a hand to come play, a grandparent driving 120 miles for a 20-minute donut breakfast at school, friends taking time from work to get certified to give Mark insulin shots.

I saw my friends and family step up, volunteering to be emergency contacts at school, to take Mark shopping for my first Mother's Day gift, to discipline Mark with strong words and warm hugs afterwards when he did wrong. And they stepped up for me, too, standing beside me, behind me, propping me up when I felt sapped, depleted of energy or patience, and cheering me on through the small victories. In those two years, I felt more love and support than in my prior 34 years put together, and that's saying a lot.

So that day in court four years ago...it wasn't the end of our story, our becoming the family. It was a formalization, for sure, but I didn't feel any different leaving court that day than I did when I got there--I loved Mark as my son when we got there, and I loved him just as much as my son when we left. Sure, Mark had a new legal last name, but this family who shared that name--they'd been his family for two years already, a third of his lifetime. He was already one of us, our family, as we were his.

And so maybe it wasn't a bad thing that I almost forgot Adoption Day this year. I didn't forget because it was unimportant, but because it was simply one more day in our life. It was an important day, for sure, but so were the 730 days previous, and the 1460 after. It was all those days put together, the little days and the big days, the people who shared in all those days with us, that really shaped us as a family. Those are the days that made us a family, that forged us together, that bonded us forever. Not just that one day in court, with one judge, one gavel and one proclamation. (Although, it still was a pretty great day!)

And don't feel bad for Mark, because I didn't say I completely forgot our day, just that I almost did. In the end, I did remember it, and we still celebrated in our best family tradition ever--the annual Adoption Day ice cream sundae dinner! It wasn't a fancy dinner at a fancy restaurant, and it wasn't big or elaborate, or filled with extended family and friends like the lunch we had that day after court. It was quiet, sweet, just the two of us, my son and I, a couple scoops of ice cream, some hot fudge, and whipped cream. It was perfect.

Just like that day four years ago.

Do these count as fashion accessories?

Mark is super forgetful, just like every other 11-year-old boy. He loses small innocuous things such as his tiny toy skateboards, and bigger, more expensive things such as his iPod. In the last month alone, he lost his phone, his glucose meter and his carb count sheet for lunch.

All of this would be merely annoying, except for the fact that the stuff he's losing are medical necessities. I wouldn't trust Mark with my car keys or wallet, but I send him to school every day with expensive medical devices and instructions on how to keep himself alive. (I remind myself to cut him some slack when I realize no other kids have such huge responsibilities!)

I was discussing this with my brother Smed, who listened sympathetically. Smed then turned to Mark and said, "You know what we did to guys in the army who lost their stuff? We tied their equipment--ALL THEIR EQUIPMENT--to them with a rope. They learned not to forget their stuff after that."

That freaked Mark out. He knows Uncle Smed doesn't tell stories like that just because. Ever since then, Mark's had nightmares of Uncle Smed tying him up with a rope and all of his devices. 

"He wouldn't really do that," I reassured Mark, although to be honest, he probably would. (Mark knows Smed's not a man of idle threats.) But still, it's a really funny picture to imagine (for me, anyway, not for Mark).

But yesterday, as I sent Mark off to class, I realized maybe I'm not all that different from Uncle Smed. 

I didn't tie a rope around Mark, but as he left, I noticed he had no fewer than four things chained or clipped to himself--an insulin pump, his meter, his wallet and his phone. His glasses were slipping off his face, and as he flipped his head around a la Justin Bieber, I warned he'd get a leash for those as well.

Sigh...I really am trying to raise my son using love, logic, and lots of family support. But I do start to worry when my discipline ideas subconsciously mirror those ideas of his uncles (Uncle Smed and Uncle Sam). 

I've seen the light

Mark got a new insulin pump a few months ago. It's the latest and greatest model, and it communicates directly with Mark's blood glucose meter via radio waves (so cool!!).

I love that. I love the idea of a whole system, and the different components all working together. Mark checks his blood sugar with a new meter, which then tells the pump how much insulin to give Mark. Another cool thing is that it works remotely, so when Mark's sleeping, I can just point the meter in his general direction to deliver the insulin. Totally beats rooting around in the dark, looking for his pump.

However...the one thing the new meter doesn't have is a light. I didn't even know meters came without lights until I got this one. And I didn't realize how important a light was until I didn't have one.

Turns out it's dark when I check Mark's blood sugar at night, really dark. Like, pitch black dark. So I can poke Mark's fingers all I want to, but I can't see the resulting drop of blood, or even the meter itself, let alone the tiny little strip it holds, where I'm supposed to guide the blood.

I figured the easiest way to solve this was to just use a flashlight. Which I promptly pointed directly into Mark's face, scaring him awake with a jolt. I apologized profusely, then tried wrangling the light so I could hold Mark's finger with my left hand, poke it with my right hand, then guide the blood droplet into the strip, also with my right hand. Which left no hand to hold the flashlight.

But I'm no quitter, so I changed up the light placement. I tried holding it in my armpit, but it fell out. I tried putting it on top of Mark's body, but the flashlight rolled away in the dark, even smacking Mark in the face once (ouch). I used the hallway and bathroom lights, but they didn't give off enough direct light. Neither did Mark's night light or lamp--they had enough power to wake Mark up, but not enough to see the meter. I tried the flashlight one more time, and once again, I jolted Mark awake.

I needed a better solution before I gave Mark sleeping (and waking) issues.

And then Mark solved the problem for me. He brought this nifty little gadget home from camp.

Mark said most kids used it as a hands-free flashlight around camp at night. I figured I could use it in a similar manner--when I test Mark's blood sugar at night.

I should've told Mark that's how I'd use it. Instead, I waited till dark, shoved it on to my head, and approached Mark, super proud of my troubleshooting skills.

Right up until I aimed the light directly into Mark's face. And woke him with a start.

Even worse, he couldn't figure out how or where the light was attached. He freaked out, thinking a dentist or surgeon (or maybe a train) was coming in close to him.

"Ack!" he shouted, throwing his arms in front of his face. He blinked wildly, then peeked through his arms and asked, "Mom? Is that you? What are you doing?"

I nodded, said "It's me," and watched the small circle of light that followed my head motions.

"Isn't this great?" I gushed. "Now my hands are free to test you!"

I bent my head down to demonstrate. It would've been a great demo, if Mark hadn't yanked his bleeding hand back to shield his eyes again from the bright light.

"Dang it!" I said, knowing I'd lost that blood sample. "Now I've got to poke another finger!"

I've improved over the past couple months. I manage to keep the light out of Mark's eyes now, and I haven't scared him awake in a while. But I sure do miss that other meter with its handy little light.

But the headlamp has another benefit, too. The other night, Mark woke up low in the middle of the night. Half-asleep, I shuffled into the kitchen to get him a cup of sugary milk. It wasn't until I put the milk away that I realized I hadn't turned any lights on in the kitchen--I was simply following the headlamp light. And I realized that to anyone driving past right then, I might've looked like burglar.

Mark still laughs at me, and my cousin Kathleen can't believe I willingly don the ridiculous head light. But considering the late hour and dark room (and the fact no one really sees me wearing it), it's worked out pretty well.

Just don't ask Mark. He's still a little jumpy at night, so he might disagree.

Cattoo artist

Apparently, my house is a magnet for homeless cats, because we're on our third guest now.

He's the cutest guy, a petite little orange cat. We'd seen him before, dining with our second homeless cat, George. But when George moved on to a new home, the petite cat disappeared.

Until now...he recently re-appeared at the kitchen door, where my cousin Kathleen took pity on him. She started feeding him, so he kept coming back. Now he shows up each morning, and sometimes evenings, with the softest little meow you've ever heard. It almost looks like he's not meowing at all, just going through the motions.

He was very shy at first, scurrying away as soon as we opened the door, and he wouldn't let us pet him. Eventually, because she feeds him every day, he let Kathleen (but only Kathleen) pet him. So I was surprised one day when he walked right up to me, meowed loudly, then rolled over and let me scratch him.

"Your little cat isn't shy anymore," I told Kathleen. "And he meowed at me really loud!"

"I don't think it's the same cat," she answered. "There's another cat who looks like him, and they're confusing me!"

"That's Chloe's new cat," Mark said, pointing to the neighbor kid. "He looks just like your cat, Kathleen."

"I knew it!" Kathleen exclaimed, shaking an angry fist in the air. She doesn't mind feeding a hungry wild cat, but wasn't about to feed someone else's freeloading feline.

Over the next couple days, both cats appeared. I couldn't tell them apart, and suspected Kathleen couldn't either.

"Yes, I can," Kathleen answered when I asked her. "Because I marked mine blue."

"You what?" I asked. I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly.

"I marked him," she repeated. "On the neck. With a blue pen."

"It was a dry erase pen," she quickly added, when she saw my jaw drop. "I couldn't find a Sharpie."

"You drew on the cat?" I asked.

"Just so I could tell them apart!" she said. "I'm gonna get him a collar."

I couldn't even stifle a giggle; I laughed right out loud.

"He just let you draw on him?" I asked.

"Yup, he thought I was petting him," she said.

She made it sound like she's just marked him with a blue dot. But the next day, when the little cat appeared at the door, the front half of his back was all red. I just looked at Kathleen.

She shrugged. "The blue ink came off," she said, holding up a red dry erase pen.

"Yeah, but half his back is red!" I exclaimed. She just shrugged again.

I gave her one of my cat's old collars, and Kathleen put it on him. She also gave him a  name--Jack. And though Jack was a bit peeved about the collar at first, he's forgiven Kathleen, and still arrives daily at our doorstep with his little meow and big appetite.

I don't mind our daily visitor. I think he looks pretty snazzy in his new blue collar, but mostly I'm just glad he lost his colorful temporary tattoos.

Homework, homework...

Now that Mark's back in school, he's back to the nightly homework grind. But he's been taking it very seriously, and I'm so proud of him.

I caught him in a contemplative mood last night. It was definitely a Kodak moment, my boy and his studies, so I captured it for posterity. 

And this is one of my SMART friends...

Recently, some friends came to the States for a visit. They flew in from Australia, where they live. He's American, she's Australian, and my friend Nicky and I were very excited to see them.

We were also excited to meet their gorgeous baby girl. Sophia was beautiful, sweet and super happy. She doesn't talk yet, but she's very vocal, so Nicky and I spent a lot of time trying to make her giggle.

Later on, we were discussing how cute Sophia is, and what great parents Ted and Nicole are. We also marvelled at how Ted has absolutely no Australian accent whatsoever, even though he's lived in Sydney for 15 or 16 years. 

Nicky paused for a minute, and then said, "I wonder what Sophia will speak."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You know," Nicky explained. "Since her Dad's American, and her mom's Australian."

Now it was my turn to pause. Then I burst into laughter, and I told Nicky, "You know they speak English in Australia, right? She's gonna speak English, like both of them!"

Nicky got all flustered and said that's not what she meant, she really meant would Sophia have an American accent or an Australian one, blah blah blah. But for the rest of the evening, I couldn't get that thought out of my head, and I just kept giggling about it. Every time I looked at Nic, she glared at me and told me to shut up.

Which I would have done...if only I'd known which language she meant, American or Australian.

The Phantom Menace

Who knew I'd spend so much time obsessing over an inanimate object that is not even mine?? (Honestly...this is what my life's been revolving around--now I know why some of my friend's refuse to get cell phones!)

Mark's had his cell phone back for a week now, which is commendable. But what I've realized this week is that I spent too much time telling him not to lose it, and not enough time teaching him how to use it. 

I know this because my own cell phone has been ringing non-stop. So far, I've gotten calls from my mom, my brother Smed, and my sister-in-law Mari. They called to say Mark's phone is repeatedly calling them.

"Tell him to hang up," I told my brother, Smed, who called this morning.

"I did," he said, in the same tone I use with Mark when I'm irritated. "He's not listening--I can only stand in the street yelling at the phone for so long before people think I'm crazy."

That made me giggle. Bonus points to Mark for making his uncle look goofy on the job.

So I called Mark myself. At first the phone went straight to voicemail--guess he was still (not) talking to Uncle Smed. I called back a couple minutes later, and someone answered--but forgot to talk. I listened to the playground chatter for a couple minutes, all the while shouting, "Mark. Mark! MARK!!!" progressively louder into my phone (I feel your pain, Smed). Mark finally hung up on me, so I called back.

"Hello???" he answered, in a very surprised voice. Apparently, he's only used to making, not receiving, calls.

"Mark, turn your phone off," I said. "Keep it off during class, and don't turn it back on again until after school!"

"HELLO??" he said, again. Seriously. He couldn't figure out who was calling him. I could just imagine him staring, baffled, at his phone, wondering who had his number, and why they were calling.

"TURN OFF YOUR PHONE!" I yelled. "You keep calling Grandma and Uncle Smed, and it's bugging them."

"What?!" he exclaimed. "I didn't call anyone!"

I just sighed, and realized it's a good thing God made Mark cute.

I finally hung up. I assume Mark turned off his phone, since no one else reported any more phantom phone calls.

I did learn, however, that Mark is right on par with his peers and their phones (I'm talking to you, Sean!). On his way to school, Sean asked if I'd text his mom, because he forgot his phone at home. I told Liz to call Mark if she needs Sean, but who knows how successful that will really be. We decided there's some kind of cosmic force at work that allows only one boy to have his phone on him at any given moment. Inevitably, the other boy's phone will be at home, lost, off or busy calling someone else.

So, my apologies in advance if Mark calls you. I've only put a lucky few of you into Mark's contact list, and he's been hard at work using up all your minutes.

On a related note...if this is a timely topic, and you've been wondering if your own child is old enough to have a cell phone, let me save you some time and energy. The answer is no. They are not old enough. Not now, not soon, not until they have moved out of your house and gone off to college. Where, presumably, they will use said phone only to call you and ask for money.

But on the upside, you probably won't get those calls very often. Because, you know...they can't find their phone.

Mommy lessons

I like to read a lot, and some of my favorite things to read are mommy blogs. They have a calming effect on me, as I realize I'm not alone in raising a savage beast smartly disguised as a very cute little boy.

I was reading one of my favorites when Mark came into the room. He was so quiet, I didn't even hear him at first. I just felt a presence, turned slightly, and there he was, reading over my shoulder.

"Ack!" I shrieked, startled. "You scared me! What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he shrugged, but he wasn't looking at me, he was scanning the web page in front of me.

I closed it out of habit. There was nothing objectionable onscreen, it was just irritating to have someone reading over my shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "Getting new tips?"

"What?" I asked, confused.

He nodded at the screen. "Is that where you learn everything?" he asked. "That's where you get your instructions?"

I suddenly realized what he was asking, and burst into laughter.

I'd been looking at a blog called The Meanest Mom (http://themeanestmom.blogspot.com). Mark thought it was an INSTRUCTIONAL WEB SITE, and that I was doing research on how to be the meanest mom!

"It's not a teaching site," I told him. "I read it because it's funny, not instructional."

He just stared, and I could tell he didn't believe me.

"Really!" I exclaimed.

He still stared, then finally walked away.

"I didn't learn all this from a web site!" I called to him as he left the room. He was shaking his head in disbelief.

But it's true--I learned my mothering skills firsthand from The Master, waaaaaay before there even was an Internet. I learned from the original Meanest Mom, who took great pride, not offense, in the name--my own Mother. She's the one who raised us with the motto, "I'm your Mom, not your friend," and I'll always be grateful to her for that.

Even if Mark thinks I'm cheating, and getting the answers from a web site...

This makes me sad

CNN.com runs daily polls on their web site, usually in conjunction with a popular news story.

I was shocked to see the results from a poll the other day. Seems more than 47,000 people (52% of the respondents!) rarely go to one of my favorite places on Earth. And they admitted it!

I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they said "Rarely" because they get their books old-school style--from the library. Or maybe they order their books from online retailers. (Which I also do when I'm pressed for time.)

But still, there's nothing I find more intoxicating than roaming the aisles of my local brick-and-mortar bookstore. I love the feeling of going through the new hardcover bestsellers, of sorting through the oversized trade paperbacks, of laughing at the colorful kids books with brightly colored covers and funny titles. And don't even get me started on finding hidden treasures in the clearance section, gorgeous photo coffee table books or funny craft or skills books.

I can't believe that 52% of the people who took this poll experience that feeling only rarely. And don't even get me started on the bottom 18%--I'm just chalking that up to criminals and housebound sick people. Because really, I can't think of a reason those people wouldn't want to go to a bookstore, other than that they were busy serving time or physically unable to!

I'm (not) listening

I thought Mark was the only person who doesn't listen to me, but now I'm starting to worry. My co-workers aren't listening either. Not even when I write something down and a little window flashes it in front of them. 

Case in point: here's a real instant message exchange I had with a co-worker in another office. I removed last names and identifying product names to protect the innocent (and my job), but otherwise, the conversation went down just like this. 

At 10:01 a.m:
Adam: Hello Heather
Heather: Hi Adam
Adam: are you still the primary contact for Product ABC?
Heather: Yes. Also for Products 123, and XYZ.
Adam: can you update the migration documents with a valid migration quarter?
Heather: Yes, I will do that.
Adam: thanks!
Heather: n/p

At 10:10 a.m.:
Adam: Lorna is listed as the contact for Product XYZ, should I change that to you?
Heather: Yes, please. Also change Product 123 to me as well.
Adam: will do thanks

At 10:38 a.m.:
Adam: hey Heather, do you know if Lorna still owns Product 123?
Heather: Nope, that's me. >>Bites down on fingers to keep from screaming and/or typing something very negative.<<

Adam: ok thanks
Heather: Sure.

You should note all absences of snark or "WTH??" comments. And you should be super (super!) proud of my professional demeanor, because honestly, it took more restraint than I thought I had to type the same answer three times in a row. To a man who clearly was not paying attention. And can't read.

Well, the upside is that even if Mark doesn't listen to me, it obviously won't hinder his job prospects. 

My son is slowly trying to drive me insane...

...and it's working.

Mark swears he's old enough for a cell phone, while I quietly contend he is not. This belief is based on the number of times and places I have searched for Mark's lost phone, including (but not limited to) go-kart tracks, baseball fields, summer camps, his friends' houses, and even my own car. I have fished it from his pants mere seconds before dropping them into the wash, after he's sworn he checked the pockets multiple times. Three weeks ago, he tired of losing it, and completely killed the phone when he took it for a swim in the ocean. Apparently, saltwater is bad for cell phones.

But this weekend, he almost pushed me over the edge with that dang phone. After spending the day at a theme park with the Boy Scouts, he returned to the church, where a parent's meeting was in progress.

"Hi mom, bye mom," he called, as he passed by. He joined the other scouts outside, where they were busy not interrupting the parent meeting.

But an hour later, Mark came back in like a hurricane, talking fast, and grabbing my stuff on the table. I isolated the words, "your," "phone," "call," and "me," but everything else was just babbling.

"What do you need?" I asked, plucking my cell phone from his hands.

"You need to call my phone!" he said, urgently. "It fell out of my pocket while I was wrestling!"

And though I didn't quite get the urgency, I called the phone and followed Mark outside.

Where it was now pitch black.

I headed toward the school lunch area, but Mark headed out to a giant athletic field instead. Did I mention it was pitch black? And giant?

I stared at the giant, black field and sighed. I'd never actually looked for a needle in a haystack until that very moment.

While Mark and a few other boys scoured the field in the dark, I called his cell repeatedly.

"That's weird," I called out. "I can't even hear the phone ringing."

And somewhere, out in the dark field, Mark shouted back to me, "That's because it's on vibrate!"

I don't know how Mark lived past that particular moment in time, but I think it has to do with him being out in the dark field. If he'd been anywhere close to me, I might have strangled him immediately.

"It's on VIBRATE?!?!?" I yelled. "Are. You. Kidding. ME??"

I think smoke actually billowed out of my ears, and I may have blacked out in rage for a minute.

"It should still light up when you call," said another logical young scout. I think his calm manner shocked me out of my momentary rage. I took a deep, calming breath, stopped dialing Mark's phone, and used my phone as a flashlight instead.

We covered that field two, three times, with no luck. Finally, after 40 minutes, I thanked the other scouts and parent and called off the search.

But Mark didn't get off so easy. We returned to the field at 7 the next morning, where he resumed his search, again with no luck.

He left his contact info with the church. I made him empty his backpack again, and call the Scout leader he drove to the park with, on the off chance he left the phone in the car.

"It's not there," Mark insisted. "It fell out of my pock--" He stopped short when he saw me glaring at him.

"You'll buy a new phone tonight with your allowance," I said quietly. Mark immediately began to protest, but I snapped my finger and hissed "SHHHHH!" a la the Dog Whisperer, and like a good pup, Mark went silent.

"You have to pay for it because YOU LOST IT," I said. "No more discussion!" He opened his mouth, and I SHHHHHshed him again.

Mark moped all through dinner. He'd been saving his money for a new bike, and this would put a serious hurt on his savings.

"Well, think how much it'll cost you if you keep losing your phone every month," I told him. "Twenty bucks a month to replace it, over 12 months a year--that's $240 a year."

He gasped. "That's more than bike I want!" he cried. "The bike is only $200!"

I smiled, and channelled Jon Lovitz from A League of Their Own.

"Well then, this would be more, wouldn't it?" I said.

Mark continued grumbling. I didn't quite understand all the mumbling, but I gathered that he could see the bike slipping from his future, and he was not happy about it.

We were literally heading out the door to buy a new phone when the home phone started ringing. I looked at the familiar caller ID number, then shouted, "It's your phone!"

Turns out, Mark HAD left the phone in the car. It was safe and sound at the Scout leader's house, and we could pick it up whenever.

Mark whooped it up all the way home. He sensed how close to death he'd really come, and he was grateful he'd gotten the phone back. I smiled at him, finally ready to forgive the little bugger, when he pushed me right back to my unhappy place.

"This phone's okay," he said nonchalantly. "But can I still buy another new phone? A cooler phone?"

I couldn't answer him. Instead, I simply pointed to his bedroom, and from my crazy eyes and the smoke once again pouring from my ears, he knew exactly what it meant. It meant, for the second time in as many days, he was about to have another near-death experience.

"Fine, good night," he conceded. And smartly headed off to bed without another word.

I shoulda put a ring on it

Raising Mark is a daily living example of Newton's third law of motion: For every action, there is always an equal and opposite reaction. No matter what I say, Mark says the opposite. No matter how strong my opinion, Mark has an equally opposite and strong opinion. Whenever I say black, Mark says white. Or, to paraphrase the Beatles, I say stop, and he says go, go, go.

This weekend was a prime example of that law. I let Mark practice his "manly" work skills by putting together a new bookcase. At first, he was all excited. His voice dropped a few octaves, and he grunted a la Tim Allen in Home Improvement when he answered that yes, he wanted to put the bookshelf together. He told me exactly what kind of tool he'd need (a Philips screwdriver) and lined up all the screws and book shelf pieces in order before he started.

Mark was excited because he digs anything that involves tools, right up until he realizes he's doing manual labor. With this realization comes the whining about how hard the task (whatever task) at hand is.

He was 10 minutes into the bookshelf when the whining started. I was about to shoot him a steely mom glare, when he suddenly perked up.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, jumping to his feet.

Our neighbors were having their wedding reception next door, and it was time for the bouquet toss. The DJ summoned all the single women to the dance floor, and in the background, Beyoncé was singing about all the single ladies.

"All the single ladies!" Mark repeated, in a falsetto singing voice. "Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh-oh, oh oh oh oh!"

And before I fully realized what was happening, he was doing a spot-on, hip-shaking, finger-waggling version of the single ladies dance. Right there, in the middle of my living room, among the loose screws and various shelving pieces, was my very own male Beyoncé impersonator.

I watched him for a moment, then burst into laughter. The more I laughed, the more he exaggerated his booty shaking and the higher his voice became. Finally, the song ended, and Mark fell to the floor, also laughing.

"Come on, Boy-oncé," I finally said. "It's time to finish building the bookcase."

"OK," he answered. And so he set about putting the pieces together, all the while humming about the single ladies.

The pitchmen are winning

Mark's always been susceptible to advertising, especially on T.V. When he was little, I'd find him watching cartoons with a pad of paper next to him, where he'd scrawled toll-free numbers and the names of wonder products we simply must have. I spent a good deal of his fifth year explaining that we did not need water globes or clay-like plastic you could mold into shapes. He was crushed every time, but not dissuaded. The next Saturday morning, he'd have a whole new list to run by me.

Now he's more into the radio than T.V., but he's just as highly attuned to the ads. The other day, he tracked me down and excitedly explained that he'd just heard the most amazing commercial. 

"It's for a new cell phone," he gushed. "It's only $50 a month, with FREE unlimited minutes and texting."

"You already have a phone," I reminded him. He snorted. He's got a cheapy pay-by-the-minute phone that doesn't even have Internet access. (The shame!!)

"Yeah, but this phone is better," he scolded me. "Free unlimited minutes and texting! Didn't you hear that part? FREE!"

I shook my head, and sighed. I reminded him of the first thing he said--the $50 a month part. He just looked at me blankly.

"So...can I get it?" he finally asked.

"Sure," I said. "As long as you pay for it."

And suddenly, it all came together. I actually saw the light go on in his head.

"I don't have $50 a month!" he shouted.

"Me neither," I answered.

"Guess my other phone's good enough," he said, glumly.

"Guess so," I agreed.

And then, just like that, we were all on the same page again. Can't blame him for trying, though...