The Cute-off

The littlest male in my house is adorable. He makes me laugh so hard--I literally sit around watching him, and cracking up. He runs through the house like a madman, makes funny faces, and pulls crazy pranks, jumping out at me every time I walk past him. 

Seriously, he is the cutest, sweetest, wildest little thing around. I now spend approximately 90% of my time hugging him, and telling him how stinkin' cute he is.

And no, much to his dismay, this little critter is not Mark. It's Fernando!

Mark is usually right there beside me--we are, in fact, co-presidents of the Fernando Fan Club. (Frankie is the only member of the house who refuses to join the club.) Mark praises the kitten's hunting skills, or whips him into a frenzy of spinning orange fuzz with the kitty wand. He is as enamored with Fernando as I am.

Except...occasionally, he is not. Every once in a while, he gets jealous of me hugging and kissing the kitten, and reminds me that boys are, in fact, are just as cute and cuddly as kittens.

"Tell her, Fernando," he prodded the cat last night. Fernando just mewed and struggled to get away.

"C'mon, Fernando," Mark told the squirming kitten. "Let's have a cute-off. Mom, who's cuter, me or Fernando?"

Usually, I'd give the win to Fernando without even thinking about it, but this face...this boy put everything he had into it, including giving me the big puppy dog eyes, which he blinked endearingly, and the protruding bottom lip.

"OK," I admitted. "That kitten is cute, but I think you win this round. Fernando won't even look at the camera!"

And with that, Mark hoisted Fernando into the air, and whooped. He let out a victory cry, still holding the kitten overhead, and danced around the room.

Fernando mewed again, and bit Mark's hands until Mark put him down. He hopped away, still mewing, and swatting at the air. He's used to being the cutest thing in the room, and he did not take kindly to his loss.

Sore loser!

Quite an Endeavour

We had a visitor arriving on Friday, and the whole town was abuzz. The visitor was arriving as many often do, via plane. The difference was this guest rode on the OUTSIDE of the plane, was huge, and while traveling a far distance, this was not as long as its last trip--up to space.

That's right, the space shuttle Endeavour came to Los Angeles, its final resting place, and I was there. (Along with half the city!)

We'd been anticipating the shuttle's arrival all week. By Friday, the town was in a frenzy, and it was all you heard about on the local news. Maps and possible flight paths highlighted each segment. I had a live feed running on my computer, tracking the shuttle's flight around San Francisco and Sacramento.

Finally, around noon, it hit L.A.'s airspace. I could stand it no more--as the crowds on the Santa Monica Pier cheered, I hopped into my car and sped north. The shuttle was coming my way, and I wasn't going to miss it!

Up the 405 I zoomed. The shuttle was headed for Disneyland, and would then bank west toward the beach. It would fly up the coast toward Long Beach, circling the Queen Mary. I knew the Queen Mary would be crowded, so I set my sights a little south, toward Seal Beach.

Exiting at Seal Beach boulevard, I passed the Boeing company, where people filled the street. I took that as a good sign, that the shuttle hadn't passed by yet.

I bypassed the Seal Beach pier, knowing that would also be crowded, and offered little parking. I made my way to the very end of the beach, to a little restaurant called the River's End. It's along the marina, where Seal Beach stops and Long Beach starts.

There was one lone parking space on the street, and I grabbed it. I popped out of the car and raced down to the beach. The beach was crowded, filled with people gazing expectantly into the air. I'd only been there a couple minutes, and I was thinking, "Man, I should've brought my lunch down here!" I thought about walking back to the car to get it when the man beside me yelled, "There it is!"

The whole beach turned in the direction he was pointing. "Where?" shouted half the crowd, and suddenly, I saw it.

A jet, a HUGE, low-flying plane was coming over the top of the palm trees. There were two fighter jets on either side of it, and they were all coming fast. So fast, I almost didn't get any pictures! I hadn't planned to be here, so my good camera was at home. I tried aiming my camera phone at the sky, but all it saw was sky, and it wouldn't focus. I finally stopped fussing with the camera and LOOK. Just as I looked up, the plane flew directly over me, flashing its massive white belly. It was low, lower than any other plane I've ever been under, about 1500 feet. It roared by me, and all I could think was "Whoa!"

Since I was right under the plane, I couldn't see the piggybacked space shuttle at all. But it turned west toward the Queen Mary, and as it turned, I got a great view of the shuttle atop the plane. It was AWESOME!!

Here's a great shot someone took in Long Beach:

The whole thing lasted about three minutes. I was just in awe--a freakin' SPACE SHUTTLE had just flown by me! And not just any shuttle, the Endeavour, the last shuttle that went up to space. I was really sad to realize this meant the end of the space shuttle program, but wow, at the same time, I just felt, What a rush! I was bummed I didn't get any good photos of it, but was grateful I'd been present enough to put down the camera and just watch it. I may not have committed a good image to film, but I captured an amazing memory that will last me a lifetime.

I watched as the planes grew smaller and smaller, eventually trailing off toward the Queen Mary, and out of sight. I headed back to my car, and was back at work just before my lunch hour ended.

And boy, was that a lunch hour I'll never forget!

I'd *never* have this conversation if I had a daughter...

Yesterday, Mark went to band practice with some older kids. Older, thoughtful kids, I might add, as they provided Mark with protective ear plugs to wear.

We were driving around in the car, and I didn't notice them at first. It was only after I asked Mark a question three different times (while he was sitting next to me) that I noticed something was askew.

I tapped Mark on the shoulder, and he gave me a thumbs up. I repeated my question again, and he smiled and nodded, then asked, in a really loud voice, "AM I TALKING REALLY LOUD?"

"Yes," I said, growing ever more irritated. "What is wrong with you?"

Mark smiled, and fished the ear plugs out of his ears, showing them to me. 

At the next stop light, I turned to see Mark chewing on the ear plugs. I immediately yelled at Mark to take them out of his mouth.

"OK, geez," he snorted. "What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is, they were just jammed inside your ears!" I said. 

"I have A.D.D.," Mark answered, using his favorite new excuse for everything.

"So do I," I answered. "And I never shoved anything in my mouth that was previously in my ears."

He just stared at me, so I clarified.

"Please don't stick anything in any orifice, and then put it in your mouth," I said, as patiently as I could.

"What's an 'orifice'?" Mark asked.

"A hole into your body," I explained. "Your ears, your nostrils, your mouth." I knew to stop while I was ahead.

"What about my fingers?" he asked, wiggling them at me. "They're full of orifices!"

And of course, they were. He showed me the million tiny holes from pricking his fingers during his blood sugar testing multiple times a day. And suddenly, my irritation disappeared, and I just laughed out loud.

"OK," I said, admitting defeat. "Those are okay. You can shove your ear plugs in your finger orifices if they'll fit."

We both laughed. And then I smiled, shook my head, and realized I could only have these kinds of conversations with a boy.

Huh, and I thought the rear rack was handy...

Last weekend, Mark and I rode our bikes at the beach. Unfortunately, my bike is old, and a bit rusty. The front fender rubs against my tire, resulting in not only a loud, obnoxious sound, but decreased bike performance and increased rider frustration. I feel like an old lady pedaling as hard as I can, going nowhere.

It was, I realized, time for a new bike.

My first stop was Walmart, where my brother's girlfriend had purchased a really cute cruiser. I found two I liked. The only way to decide was to test drive them.

The first bike rode kind of rough. As I was pedaling the second bike slowly down the empty end aisle, an employee stopped me, saying I wasn't allowed to ride the bike in the store.

"Is there somewhere else I can ride it?" I asked.

"No," she said. "You can't ride it in here."

"How can I buy a bike if I can't test it out first?" I asked.

"You can't ride it here," she repeated yet again, as though I hadn't heard her the other two times.

I immediately dismounted and left the bike in the aisle. I refuse to give my money to stores with horrible customer service, and this was pretty bad.

My next stop was where I should have started in the first place--my beloved Target. They had the same bike, but in a deep blue, which I liked even better than the pale yellow at Walmart.

I like the women's bike, since I'm short, but all they had left were the men's bike. However, the seat was low enough that I could climb aboard without too much trouble. Within minutes, and with Mark acting as my lookout, I was zooming down the aisles at Target.

"I'll take it!" I told Mark. He then showed me the boy's section and tried convincing me to buy him a bike as well. I reminded him he'd gotten TWO new bikes in the past six years, and that my rusty bike at home was going on 20 years. Besides, I'm waiting for his next growth spurt, so I'm not buying him a new bike he'll outgrow in the next year.

We wheeled the bike out to my car, and realized they were both the same color (guess I'm in a blue mood these days). As we were loading the bike, I noticed a weird metal fixture on the front fork. I knelt down to inspect it.

"Hey, my bike has a bottle opener!" I called to Mark.

That totally cracked me up. I'd made a list of must-haves for my bike--a place for my water bottle, phone and Mark's meter; a rear rack; backpedal brakes; single gear coaster bike. Bottle opener was not on my list--don't think I've ever drank beer while riding my bike, but hey, guess there's always a first time for everything!

I recalled a concert in the park last month, when my brother Smed had called, asking me to bring a bottle opener. I realized now if I'd had this bike, I'd already have an opener with me!

So there you go...not only do I have a shiny new bike, I also have a new portable bar. Kinda defeats the purpose I bought it for--exercise--but what it lacks in practicality, it makes up for in humor.

Anyone up for a bike ride? Or a beer?  Or BOTH? ;-)

We will never forget...

Another September 11th, and another feeling of loss, and sadness. I remember the strange, shocking day 11 years ago. I remember the unbelievable live image of the towers falling. I remember calling my dad, who couldn't comprehend what I meant by "The Tower just collapsed!" I remember acknowledging the secretary when I got to work, both of us teary and unable to talk--we just nodded, as if to say, "I know. It hurts." 

I remember the silence afterwards, as all the airplanes were ordered out of the sky--I never realized how loud planes are, until I couldn't hear them at all for days on end. I remember my sweet, oblivious little niece Nathalie, who turned 3 the next day, and how we all pretended to laugh and enjoy her birthday pizza dinner because nobody could describe the intense pain we really felt; nobody could describe the profound loss we'd suffered as a nation the day before. Explain it to a three-year-old? Heck, we couldn't even understand it ourselves.

It's been very strange contemplating and reliving all this again, so many years later. And this year, especially, feels like I'm opening a wound again, because it's the first year that Mark understands, really, what happened that day. He always knew about it generally, but only in a comic-book kinda way--there were bad guys who attacked us, and killed lots of good guys. (I always kept it very vague, because he was a little boy and I didn't want to scare him.)

But this year was different in that it wasn't just anonymous good guys, or generic, faceless bad guys. We watched a TV special about the firemen and police officers who rushed in to help, and talked about the heroes in Pennsylvania who crashed their own plane to sacrifice themselves, and save countless others. 

For the first time, Mark really grasped what happened, and how big it all really was. He saw how random life is--how you can just go to work one day, like you always do, or get on a plane, and that's it. He finally pieced together the words he'd heard about before--World Trade Center, terrorists, planes, Osama bin Laden--and he saw how they were all connected (and he realized why, exactly, my mom and I were so moved and emotional when we visited the 9/11 memorial at the Pentagon this spring). It hit him kinda hard.

It was sad to see him go through all that, and to lose a bit of my innocent, trusting, baby boy.  But it was also kinda cool to see him grasp and process it, and to see how it affected him. Mark learned the world isn't full of random bad guys (like storm troopers in Star Wars) but very specific bad guys, and he understood why it was such a big deal that the U.S. killed Osama bin Laden. 

But more importantly, Mark learned the world is also full of heroes--police officers, firemen, all of the troops that serve and protect us each and every day. His respect for all of them grew, and he just...got it. Sure, life is random and bad things happen--but he also learned how amazing it is that when good people respond, step up, and help, without expecting anything in return. It was a lesson that no matter how big the bad, there is always a bigger good to counteract it.

I'm glad I was there to talk Mark through it all, and more importantly, I'm glad his new kitten Fernando was there as well. Because even with all my explanations and reassurances, it was a big, heavy, sad story. The kind that sticks with you, especially if you're just a 12-year-old kid. So I was glad that afterwards, when Mark went off to bed, he had a sweet, loving, fuzzy little kitten to take to bed with him, to remind him of the good things in life, and to comfort him while he fitfully drifted off to sleep.

I could have used a sweet, loving kitten myself.

It's the most wonderful day of the yeeeeaaaaaarrrr...

Mark returned to school last week, a few weeks after his cousins and seemingly every other kid in California.

I thought he'd be bummed about it, but he was actually pretty excited.

"You want to go to school?" I asked, astounded.

"I want to see my friends again," he clarified. I nodded; this, I could understand.

He woke up easily the first day, dressed and was ready to go an hour early. Clearly, someone had switched out my kid during the night.

One thing he wasn't ready to do, however, was say goodbye to his kitten, even for just a few hours.

"Kitty!" he yelled, as the little orange fuzzball darted around his feet. Mark scooped him up and scratched his ears, then repeated this about 50 times. Fernando purred each time; clearly, this would be a long day apart for both boys.

"Where did my boy go?"

Mark grabbed his new backpack, obsessively brushed his freshly-cut hair to the side, and made himself the same exact lunch he ate every day last year. He was ready.

His friend Sean arrived. Before they left for school, I positioned them on the front porch, and made them hold up seven fingers, corresponding to their new grade. (I do this every year--don't know what I'm gonna do when they start 11th grade!)

They humored me for a few minutes, even getting into it and making silly faces. Then a group of their friends passed by the house, and they immediately froze up, nodding at the other boys coolly. This is the epitome of middle school; it's all fun and games until someone sees you having fun with your mom.

"Bye," the boys shouted, collecting their bags, and running for the sidewalk.

"Mark!" I called out, sternly. He sighed, turned and dragged his feet slowly back to me. 

"Have a good day," I whispered to him. I hugged him, gave him a quick kiss, and sent him on his way.

Mark had a great first day, although I'm still not quite sure what he did.

"How were your classes?" I asked during dinner.

"Fine," he said.

"Did you find them all okay?" I pushed.

"Yup."

"What's your favorite class so far?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, school just started."

"How are the other boys? Anyone do anything exciting over the summer?" I pressed.

"I. Don't. Know." he sighed, ending the conversation. "I don't ask those kinds of questions."

I stopped talking, and just looked at him, questioningly.

"Seriously, Mom, we don't talk about that stuff," he said.

Suddenly, I realized what it really means to live in the now; it's to live like a 7th grade boy, not worrying about the future (full of looming homework deadlines) or the past (what my friends did last summer--that's sooo last week). If you really want to live in the moment, talk to a 7th grader during dinner. You will learn that being present means just one thing--discussing only what's relevant at that very moment, like why we aren't
having pizza for dinner. All the other nonsense is tuned out, stocked away, unimportant.  

And so ended our meaningful conversation about the first day of school. Later on, Mark mentioned band, and that he was a little nervous about being the drummer. He also mentioned, fleetingly, in passing, and without further elaboration, that he might try out for the school's flag football team. I just nodded, knowing this was all the information I was going to get today, and mentally stored these little informational nuggets away.

Sigh...my friend Jill is right. Motherhood is not for sissies.

This is a kid who knows his Grandma very well

Each week, I take Mark to drum practice at 7:30. And each week he complains bitterly about the cupcake store half a block away, which, to his dismay, closes promptly at 7 p.m.

I'm not sure why Mark believes I'd buy him cupcakes if the darn shop was open, but he does, wholeheartedly. (Hey, I'm all for the occasional cupcake, but EVERY week? Dream on, kid!)

But this week was a little different. Mark's lesson was Sunday afternoon, and since my mom was visiting, she went with us.

I parked in front of Mark's class, and told him we'd be back in an hour. Mark silently exited the car, and then, just before shutting the door, he popped his head back in and said quietly to his Grandma, "OK. Oh, and the cupcake store is open."

He shut the door, smiled at me slyly, and headed for class.

But the damage was already done. My mom, who has a wicked sweet tooth (and a propensity for spoiling her grandkids), called out the window, "Cupcakes? What? Where?"

Mark was walking into his lesson, but he turned and pointed down the street, still smiling at me. My mom obediently exited the car, and asked what kind he wanted.

"I don't know what they have," he answered.

He dropped his bag and sprinted down the block toward the bakery. He returned a moment later, still sprinting, and called out, "German chocolate!" as he passed us. I just shook my head, and watched my mom head in that direction. When she came back, she was holding a plastic box full of cupcakes (including one German chocolate) in her hand.

Well-played, my son...well-played.

Introducing...Fernando!

A few months ago, my cat Elvis passed away. I seriously thought my heart had broken forever--I'd raised Elvis since he was a little bitty kitten, and boy, did I love that cat.

Elvis was the sweetest cat when he wanted to be (but God forbid you catch him when he didn't want to be!). Yes, he had a bad attitude; he was definitely king of the castle, the alpha cat. But he was also a big ol' loving cat. He loved being scratched under his collar, for a little while, but you never knew when, exactly, that while was up until he suddenly turned on you, hissing, with fangs bared. I became adept at reading his signals, and could usually avoid it, but we all got bit by Elvis at least once. 

Elvis is the all black cat; he just looks like he will tear you up, but he only really did that occasionally.

He was a good cat--he never ripped up the house, like Frankie, or messed it up. He was low-key, and loved to hang out, usually napping right on me while I watched TV. Elvis was just an all-around great cat, and I miss him dearly.

So much, in fact, I refused to get another cat after him. I couldn't imagine replacing him; nobody could replace The King, and I wouldn't even try.

However, the boys in my house convinced me otherwise. Mark the Cat Whisperer has always wanted a kitten, and man, did he turn up the sales pitch. But he wasn't the one who finally changed my mind. My cat, Frankie, did. He was lonely. Whenever we came home, he told us off, meowing loudly and angrily at us.

And so, I caved. I'd get a companion for Frankie, and fulfill one of Mark's dreams. I'd make everyone happy, right?

What I didn't anticipate were my own feelings. I figured I'd like the new kitten, because really, who doesn't like kittens? What I didn't anticipate was how much I'd like this little kitten.

Here he is. Go ahead. Oooh. Ahhhh. You know you want to. 

His name is Fernando. Mark named him after a seagull at Boy Scout camp, who'd steal all the boys' fishing bait. 

We got him from a friend, and picking out just one kitten was almost impossible for Mark. (In fact, the little snit tried smuggling two kittens home in the carrier!) Fernando was the first cat Mark picked, but then a little silver cat caught his eye. Mark wavered between the two, right up until Fernando crawled into his lap and fell asleep. Turns out it wasn't Mark's choice after all--it was Fernando's, and he chose Mark.

He was the littlest, tiniest guy. Seriously, he was smaller than a book! 

And fluffier than anything you've ever seen. Which, while adorable, turns out to be something I'm highly allergic to. But I don't even care! I still pet and kiss him non-stop, which probably doesn't help. But I did rush out and spend hundreds of dollars on HEPA air purifiers, which I hope will.

Fernando's a wild cat, obsessed with feet and shoes, which means he stalks us and attacks our toes whenever we're sitting on the couch. He also chases us down as we walk through the house, clutching our legs with all his might.

"Hurry up and set the table," my mom told Mark this morning.

"I can't," Mark sighed. "There's a kitten biting my foot!" Sure enough, Fernando was locked on to Mark's leg.

It's been hilarious to watch him grow. Every day, he learns something new. Last week, it was running. He'd pranced and bounced sideways everywhere, but one day, he started running! He was so proud he spent the whole day running, then napping, then running again, then tripping us while running throughout the house.

The kitten looooooooves Mark. He sleeps on Mark's bed, and runs off to Mark's room when he gets tired of being held. ("He's going home," my mom says, when Fernando runs off to Mark's room.) He's so cute, Mark and I actually fight to hold him, and my mom yells at us to leave the little kitten alone. 

Even the kids next door love him--our little neighbor Sage, who's 6, comes over every day to play with him. I thought she was looking for Mark and her brother the first day, so I told her they were playing at her house.

"I know," she said. "I came to play with the kitten." She's been back every night since, slinging him over her shoulder, or cradling him like a baby.

The only one who doesn't think Fernando is the cutest thing ever is Frankie. He's slowly accepting the kitten, which I'm not surprised about, because Frankie is always jealous when anyone else gets attention. He always refused to come when called, unless we called out for Elvis. The minute he heard Elvis' name, he'd come running over, meowing and acting all cute, as if to say, "Hey, who needs Elvis, look how cute I am!"

At first, Frankie hissed at Fernando, which scared the crud out of the kitten. But that little cat won't be dissuaded. I'm not sure if he's super brave or just has a death wish, but he actually stalks Frankie now, running by and swatting him on the tail. Frankie just gives him the stink-eye. Everybody but Fernando knows Frankie could send him flying across the room with one swat. But Frankie tolerates him, which I think is about the best we can ask for right now.

And so, our household has been conquered and is now being held captive by a little ball of fuzz that weighs less than half a pound. The fuzzball is, however, intent on changing that. I'm not sure if he's a little piglet, or if he's just trying to grow quickly so he's no longer a potential Frankie snack. But that baby cat eats nonstop, and he's 90% belly because of it. Seriously. He looks like a tiny baby cat who swallowed a tennis ball. 

But boy, do we love that big-bellied, mewling, hyperactive, little baby!

The cook quits

I was foraging through the fridge for dinner when Mark asked if we had any eggplant left. I told him he was in luck.

"Oh, I'll make some spaghetti, too," I told him.

"Nah," he answered. "I just want the eggplant."

"OK," I said. "I'll just add mozzarella and spaghetti sauce like I did last time--it'll be eggplant Parmesan without the pasta."

"No cheese," he said. "And no sauce--I just want the eggplant."

So I made just the plain ol' breaded eggplant. And you can guess where this is going in 3...2...1...

"Hmmm, this was better last time you made it," my unappreciative gourmand observed.

"Oh, really?" I said. "You mean when it had cheese and sauce on it???"

He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. I silently told my hand not to smack him upside the head. Surprisingly, it listened. Barely.

"Next time, I'm just gonna make it with cheese and sauce," I said, getting up. I reminded Mark it wouldn't kill him to listen to me every once in a while, and that sometimes, I actually know what I'm talking about.

But in the meantime...I still made him eat that eggplant. Because sometimes life lessons are more memorable when they're served up piping hot, breaded and plain.

Mark loved his camp, too

I was not the only one worn out by camp--Mark returned quiet but happy from his own time away from home.

I was very excited to see him--he'd been away from home for two weeks before but this year, I really missed him. I was ready for the little guy to come home!

Despite his denials, I could tell Mark was equally excited to see me, as he waved briefly out the bus window. (Yes, it was a small wave, but he made eye contact, too! That is huge for my non-emotional child.)

The first words out of his mouth were, "Hi, Mom," and then "Can I go to camp for two weeks again next year?" Yes, the boy who'd been grousing about camp non-stop since I paid for it in March, wanted to get back on the bus and return to camp, right then and there.

Of course, I said yes. :-)

He shocked me again, asking if he could shower when he got home. My nose agreed right away, and my head screamed, "Hallelujah!"

Of course, I said yes.

I asked if he'd showered at all while he was gone--he'd said everyone had to shower on Thursdays, and he was gone for two Thursdays.

"No," he answered. "I didn't shower at all--I just washed from the waist up in the sink."

And all I could think about was how gross boys really are. And how, the next time Mark asks why I always say that, I will use this story as proof.

Even he could see that was bad, and amended it with, "Well, I mean, I wasn't totally dirty. I did go swimming a few times."

And hey, that's the same as bathing, right? I mean, you wear a bathing suit in the pool.

The cool thing about this year was that the camp has a Facebook page, and they posted camp photos. In previous years, I'd ask Mark what his favorite activities were, and he'd just shrug. And that was pretty much all I had to go on.

But this year, I could reference the pictures and ask him what they'd done. He told me all about the Halloween party where they carved up watermelons. 

He talked about his favorite activities, shooting BB guns and doing archery, he described the vampire comic strip his cabin all acted out in photos. I heard more about camp this year than I ever have before!

I did notice one curious picture, however--a photo of three baby ducks.

"What's the deal with the ducks?" I asked him. He just shrugged.

"Yeah, they have ducks," he said.

"What for?" I asked. "As pets?"

"Maybe to eat," he said. He saw the horrified look on my face, and pretended to chew.

"You know, like duck fries," he said, referring to a local restaurant's specialty dish.

"You're a sick puppy!" I told him, hugging him tight. "I've missed you!"

I asked about the dance, and he told me he was too busy playing pool to dance. I asked about camping out, and he admitted it was fun, albeit cold and a little scary because of the coyotes howling.

I asked if he saw any wildlife, and he said there were squirrels all around. He even hand-fed a chipmunk.

He totally dug his cabin mates, including one kid who's gone in years past and bugged him. I was proud of him, and his budding maturity.

Mark showed me his eye glasses, and how he'd broken the side of them. I was sooooooo glad he'd left his brand-new glasses at home.

"How'd they break?" I asked.

"Under a mattress," he explained. "You know, we were wrestling, and they got shoved under the mattress. Then everybody jumped on the mattress."

And I just smiled, knowing that was exactly what camp was supposed to be like.

Mark even got a new neckerchief. It said, "Ragger" on it, and Mark described the Ragger's creed. He couldn't exactly remember all of the words (any of the words!), but he remembered the main idea, which was to take care of your health. He's worn the neckerchief faithfully every day since he's returned from camp.

So all in all, Mark had a fabulous time. He keeps talking about camp, and sharing stories about his adventures. He's talked more about it than previous years, and I'm just so grateful. Grateful I can afford to send him, grateful for the amazing staff of counselors and medical staff to watch over him, grateful he gets to prove his independence and just be a kid away at camp. And, most of all, grateful he has a safe place at camp, the one camp where he's not the only kid with diabetes.

And so he can't wait for next year. He's even more excited because he turns 13 this year, and will move up to the teen camp (which totally freaks me out!!!). 

As for me...I just got him home. I can't even think of him being gone another two weeks yet. 

Heather and Michelle master the art of relaxation

My mom and I had such a blast in San Francisco--we literally exhausted ourselves so much that when our flight home was delayed, we didn't even care. We were just glad to sit still and rest for the extra few hours!

But I didn't rest long. Mom went home on Wednesday, and I headed east for a little wine adventure with my friend Michelle. We arrived in Temecula that afternoon ready to get in to the grape.

Our first stop was the Ponte winery. The wines were okay, but the air conditioning was better. It was a scorching 108 degrees outside! Which is hot enough, but considering I'd just come back from 60 degree weather in San Fran, it was pretty. damn. hot.

We were staying at the South Coast Winery, which I love because they have villas right on the vineyard. But the villas are set back a bit from the main winery restaurants and tasting room, so we decided to enjoy happy hour before checking out our room.

That was a good move. Not only do I like happy hour, I also like cute men, and firemen. Which worked out well, because our young waiter was starting fire school in a couple weeks, so he was kind of like a fireman-to-be. We really enjoyed our wine, our appetizers, and our cute, smiling waiter.

We checked in to our villa, which was right next to the pool. I was indeed a happy girl. We were in that pool in about 10 seconds, sipping a complimentary bottle of wine, and smiling at our good fortune. Physically, we were only 85 miles from home, but it felt like a million.

That last bottle did us in. We realized around 9:30 that WE NEEDED PIZZA, and we were not to be dissuaded. Even though we were in the middle of nowhere, and could not figure out the phone system or even our address, we knew that we needed pizza. And we finally got it, too, although I fell asleep before it finally arrived. (Michelle once again saves the day by waiting up for the pizza--just like our good old college days!)

We slept in late the next morning, and after a breakfast of cold pizza, we hit repeat: pool, wine tasting, pool, dinner. The wine tasting took place at the end of a winery tour. 

The tour was really nice--I've been on a lot of tours before, so I always worry the info will be the same. But this tour guide taught us lots of new stuff, and did a very nice wine and food pairing. It was nice and relaxing.

What Michelle and I learned on this trip is that we aren't, in fact, still reckless party animal college kids who can go big every night. Which might have bothered me before (my fleeting youth!), but now, as a more mature adult (stop laughing), I really appreciated the nice dinner and the guitar player in the restaurant. And of course, after dinner, it was back to the pool. (Did I  mention it was hot out there??) It was a lovely way to spend a vacation day.

We slept in late again the next morning, then feasted on the house specialty--bananas Foster pancakes. Oh my God, they were good! We dined al fresco on our attached patio, with some fat alligator lizards nearby for company. We had just enough time for a quick dip into the pool before check-out at noon. We arrived at the office at exactly 11:59 a.m., to return our keys.

It was an awesome, relaxing way to end Mommy Camp. San Francisco with my mom, Sasha and family was a blast, and Temecula with Michelle was equally fun. I think it was one of the best Mommy Camps so far--so thank you to everyone who participated with me! :-)

Mommy camp in San Francisco, Day 2

Sasha returned Sunday morning bearing good news--she was taking us to the Golden Gate Bridge! It was overcast in the city, and you could only see half the bridge, but Sasha turned that into a positive.

"This is the true San Francisco experience!" she told us. "This is how it really looks most of the time." I smiled at her optimism, and embraced it, screaming with joy as we drove over the foggy bridge.

We parked in the massively crowded viewing lot and got out--there was no way I was gonna drive this far and NOT walk on the bridge! It was cold and windy, so my mom improvised, wrapping her head in a scarf. Sasha and I cracked up, teasing that she looked like a Russian woman with her babushka.

We walked about a quarter of the bridge, giggling the whole time. I was super excited to hug one of the supporting cables. In a moment that seemed just out a movie, I posed, smiled for my close up, and then tripped on the sidewalk. For a brief moment, I thought I would fall, but I caught myself just in time. Of course, my mom was watching the whole thing--I saw her expressions go from laughing, to scared, to "You are an idiot!" all in a microsecond. 

But then it was time for our next adventure--lunch with the family! Tim, Kim, and their kids live about an hour away, and came to visit us. They even brought along Kim's mom, Susan, who was in town visiting them.

I was so excited about the bridge, and seeing the family, and just vacation in general, that I popped out of the car a little too excitedly--sending my smartphone into the gutter for a bath. I stood there, disbelieving, but Sasha was on it--she dove down and grabbed it, immediately removing the battery. She saved the day! (And my smartphone!)

We met them for lunch at their favorite restaurant, Tarantino's. I was a little worried when we walked into the restaurant, which was very quiet--we are not a quiet bunch, and I realized we were about to ruin everyone else's peaceful meal. Luckily, the server  seemed to sense that, and guided us to a separate empty room.

The room was great, though.

It had a perfect view of the wharf, where we watched the Bush Man scare unwitting tourists. The Bush Man is this random guy who sits on the sidewalk behind a bunch of branches he's picked. If you're not paying attention, he just looks like a bush--but then he jumps out and scares the crud out of you. We could've watched that all day, if he hadn't earned enough money and gone off to lunch!

Hannah and Nick also kept me entertained with photos of the previous day, when they unintentionally went hiking at a park filled with little kids.

"There were toddlers EVERYWHERE!" Hannah exclaimed. She wasn't sure why until they heard a train approaching--which turned out to be a life-sized Thomas the Tank Engine! I was laughing so hard at that, and the pictures they took at the nearby Sasquatch museum.

After lunch, we headed to Nick and Hannah's favorite SF hangout--an arcade. But this wasn't just any arcade--it was an old-time arcade, filled with creepy games of times long ago.

There was a creepy giant doll you could make laugh for a quarter, but she freaked us out. We moved on to a fortune telling machine, and laughed at everybody's fortunes but mine. I got some creepy fortune, so I put in another quarter to cleanse my spiritual palette. It still wasn't a happy fortune, but it was less dark and ominous as the first.

The kids crowded around a more modern game--hockey. It was Tim and Hannah against my mom and Nick, and it got so heated, it actually drew a crowd. They were loud!

Sasha and I cruised around the arcade, becoming more and more troubled by the "games." They looked like dioramas, with figures that came to life when you put in a coin. There were some funny ones with old Western towns or rodeos in them, but there were also creepy ones reenacting the Spanish Inquisition, the English taking out Native Americans, and this one, the creepiest one of all:

That's right, an opium den! We had to see what happened. The addicts didn't really smoke opium, but they looked a hot mess. We put in a quarter and the machine came to life--skeletons and the Grim Reaper appeared, and Death was lurking behind all the addicts. There was a guy in bed who started convulsing--I'm telling you, it was all CREEPY! I try not to repeat myself, but the whole arcade was creepy like that! (One "game" had a sign warning "If you are easily offended, do not play this machine." Another sign said, "Warning! By today's standards, this does not sound like music.")

There were actually a couple games that were funny--we all tried a strong-grip game. Tim was the strongest, getting up to Gentleman. Nick got Nullity, Hannah got Sucking, and I got between Madly in Love and Boy. (Guess I'm madly in love with a boy! Lucky fellow!)

we strolled along the wharf, stopping only when Nick and Hannah found a place they liked--a candy shop! Sasha and I pushed them inside, saying we'd buy them whatever they want.

But they proved to be the exact opposite of what you think when you hear the phrase "like a kid in a candy shop." They were quiet, reserved, walking through the displays, just staring at the candy.

"What's wrong with them?" Sasha asked. "Why aren't they picking out any candy?"

"I'm overwhelmed!" Nick confessed.

I was as confused as Sasha was--seriously, who has to beg a kid to buy candy?? Finally, Sasha took matters into her own hands. She grabbed and opened a bag, shoving it into Nick's hands. 

"Go!" she told him, opening the closest bin of candy. "Fill it up!"

Hannah also overcame her initial reluctance, and was off like a shot. They filled their bags with peanut butter cups and every kind of sour candy you can imagine, and they. were. in. HEAVEN.

We continued on with our stroll. Well, most of us did, except Hannah, who was not strolling at all. She walked quickly, hellbent on some unknown destination. I just followed along, unnerved at how much faster I have to walk now that she towers above me. (Dang kid is all legs!) Nick and I joked and acted silly, but Hannah walked purposefully.

We reached our destination--Ghiradelli Square! Hannah pushed right on through the crowd, straight up to the register, and ordered a mocha ice cream cone. Suddenly, she turned around, as though seeing us for the first time; as if remembering she was actually with her family. Talk about hyperfocus--that kid's got it!

Nick and I ordered ice cream, too. The line was long, but the kids didn't mind--they were seriously tucking into their candy bags.

"You have to put that away when your ice cream's ready," I told Nick. "You can't be eating candy AND ice cream at the same time!"

He just looked at me, truly shocked, and said, "What? Why???"

I didn't have to enforce the rule, though. Tim came by and scooped up their bags.

Alas, he was too late. By the time Nick got his ice cream, the candy sugar had kicked in, and he was smack dab in the middle of a full-fledged sugar rush. I don't even think he finished his cone--he was bouncing around so much, we sent him to run laps. He ran a giant circle around us about 10 times, while Hannah, Sasha and I cheered him on, cracking up.

After leaving Ghiradelli Square, we ambled down the street again. A gallery was showing off some Dr. Seuss artwork, and Sasha took the kids inside.

"Do you think it's a good idea for Nick to be jumping all around priceless art right now?" Tim asked, and we all agreed probably not.

When they came out again, I passed out the San Francisco postcards.

"Write a message to your cousin!" I said, so they did.

Hannah was trying really hard to concentrate on hers, but Nick was too distracting. He was still bouncing around. He wrote that he'd just eaten candy and an ice cream cone. I debated sending it to Mark--it didn't seem appropriate to send to a kid at diabetes camp, after all.

Before we knew it, we were in front of the Buena Vista again, in front of Sasha's car.

"Well, okay then, goodbye," Mom said to the rest of the family.

Now I felt like Nick--"Wait, what?? Are we done then?" She caught us all off guard--it was only 4 p.m.!

But she was done. So we hugged everyone and bid them farewell. Apparently, Mom was done for the day and needed a nap.

Sasha said she'd return after my mom's nap, but I wasn't tired, so I said "Let's keep playing!" We pulled up to the hotel to drop off my mom, but when we told her we were going to Twin Peaks to view the city, she waved and told us, "Let's go!"

"I thought you were tired," I said.

"I am," she said. "But it won't take long." She just didn't want to miss out!

And so, we kept going. Sasha navigated us through the city, pointing out Haight-Ashbury and the beautiful houses. She showed us the Opera House, and a community garden that had previously been a freeway off ramp. It was great.

She zipped through the narrow, windy streets. In one quiet residential neighborhood, my mom said, "Hey, there was a bride in that car!" It seemed kind of random.

When we arrived at Twin Peaks, we were blown away, both figuratively, and literally. The view was amazing--you could see the entire city, from the Oakland Bridge all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. It was sunny, clear as a bell, and the city below was magnificent. 

It was also windy. So windy, in fact, that we saw a group of kids laughing and pointing. Turns out they were pointing at a bird who was trying, unsuccessfully, to fly in the high winds. He was flapping wildly, but going nowhere. It was really funny!

And then, out of nowhere, the bride appeared! We saw her bridesmaids first, at the top of a close-by ridge. You could only see their matching dresses around their legs--the rest of them were covered in coats and boots. They'd climbed to the top of the ridge.

The bride and groom were being photographed about halfway up. Her hair was flying all over the place, and when she attempted a "king of the world" move, her veil went flying!
 But she had a good groom--he immediately chased it down, recovering it. (A little dog also chased after it--poor guy flipped himself over, he was running down the hill so fast!)

 

They also had good groomsmen--two of them carried a bench up the hill for the photo session. The happy couple sat down, and someone held her veil above them--it flew right out, flat as a sheet above them! We really enjoyed the whole show, watching for about half an hour.

Sasha darted through the city, driving us back. When we were a block or two away, we hit an unexpected traffic jam--a cop was guiding the cars, and the street was just teeming with people. I looked around quickly to see what was up. The street sign said it  all--Lombard Street, the famous crooked street!

"Turn right, Sash!" I yelled, and without hesitation, she did! She almost clipped the police officer, and she totally cut in front of another car, but she did it. She was driving down Lombard's eight gnarly hairpin curves, and I was laughing like a crazy little kid.

You can't really get a good photo of the street as you're going down it, so Sasha pulled over.

"You want a picture?" she asked. I hesitated--signs all around said no stopping.

"I do," I admitted, so Sasha pulled over directly in front of a no stopping sign. I bounded out of the car, took my photos, and quickly returned.

We stopped for a quick dinner, then Sasha delivered us back to our hotel. Within minutes of arriving, text messages from Hannah and Nick were blowing up my phone.

"They want to know if you have their candy," I said, puzzled, to my mom. When I turned to get her answer, she was holding up the bags and looking guilty.

"I do," she said, "But I have no idea how I got them."

We figured out that Tim had given them to her to stop himself from eating it. This bit if sleuth work did not impress the kids, however--they were super bummed and immediately started working in a plan to get them back. My mom and I went the other direction, plotting how to further torture them about this.

All giggling aside, we were exhausted. It was only our second day there, but we'd ticked off all the sights on our list, and we still had another day in town! It's tiring to be an overachiever...

Mommy Camp goes on the road (Day 1)

Mark spent the past week and a half at sleep-away camp. I refer to this time of year as "Mommy Camp," because honestly, I'm out there whooping it up and trying to be as irresponsible and carefree as possible (OK, maybe not that wild, but I did go to happy hour every night and see four movies while he was gone!). As Homer Simpson said, "That was fun--and I mean, before-we-had-kids fun!"

This year, my mom and I planned a long weekend in San Francisco during Mommy Camp. She had an exhaustive list of sights to see and restaurants to visit, and we hit all but one of them in the first two days. Not only did we wear ourselves out, we also wore out everyone who came to visit us--our family friend Sasha, my brother Tim, his wife Kim, and their kids Hannah and Nicholas (what up, Hannah and Nick-ay! :-).

We left early on Saturday morning, arriving in San Fran for breakfast. Sasha picked us up, shuttling us from the airport to our hotel, and then around the entire city. We walked around Fisherman's Wharf, marveling at the giant crabs at a fish market trying to escape their open tanks. 

We walked along Hyde Street Pier, pointing huge telescopes at Alcatraz, which was clear and easy to see, and the Golden Gate Bridge, which was not. (I also used my telescope to stare at my mom's face up close. It's amazing what you can see for just a quarter!)

We stood along the edge of the pier, watching swimmers go by. There were a whole lotta swimmers out there, which was crazy, because that water was super cold! (Even the air was cold--60 degrees!--and we were shivering on the dock, fully clothed and wearing jackets!) A curious seal was swimming along one swimmer, occasionally popping his head out of the water.

Sasha had to leave around noon, so we said goodbye, and consoled ourselves with Irish coffees at the historic Buena Vista.

It was cool to watch the bartender make them--he lined up a whole mess of glasses, then drenched them in steaming hot water. He then went down the line, dropping two sugar cubes in each glass, filling them first in coffee, then with whiskey. At the end, he topped each with pure cream, which melted into the coffee. 

 

I usually hate whiskey, but man, those were good!

Warmed up by the whiskey, we started our next adventure--the cable cars, which were just outside the door. We waited in line with all the other tourists, a great many of whom were European. It was fun to hear French, German, and other languages spoken all around us.

The cable cars seem like a cool idea, except that they pack you in so tightly, you can't even see out the windows. So we rode up and down the steep hills of San Francisco staring at some French guy's backpack. Oh well, we still had a good time!

The cable car dropped us at the end of the line, in Union Square. That's when I realized what a busy, bustling town SF really is--I mean, it was Saturday, and the streets were jam-packed. I can't even imagine how busy they are during the work week!

Mom and I meandered up a few blocks, toward China Town. Along the way, we passed a Scottish store, with a big cut-out in front. I coaxed my mom into it, where she stood and gave me her sweetest smile.

"No, Mom!"  I told her. "You're Braveheart. Look mean!" So she did.

(And if you ever wondered why I am the way I am, look at the following pics of my mom. They address that pretty well!)

I wanted to get a pic of my mom in front of the China Town gate, but she had other ideas. She kept acting silly, taking pictures of me, taking pictures of her. This was as good as I got.

We walked the pseudo-Chinese streets, curbing the urge to buy $2.99 t-shirts (good quality!) or other cheesy souvenirs. (OK, I admit it--I couldn't pass up the 7-for-a-dollar post cards--Mark got a whole bunch of postcards from SF!) 

I was astounded by the herb shops, which had a huge supply of weird, dried stuff and giant jars of powders, all labelled in Chinese. I loved the red lanterns lining the streets, and the occasional dragon crossing with the band.

 

But the craziest shop we saw was the fish seller. There were gigantic tanks of live fish in the window, and smaller tanks all around. The store was as crowded with people as it was with live fish tanks, and as I stepped inside, I was assaulted by a strong odor. It emanated from a big box on the ground, which I saw was filled with live frogs. Tons of them, crawling all over each other. I quickly stepped out.

Sasha, an avid animal lover, looked at me in horror when I relayed that story.

"For pets," I said quickly, amending the story to protect her sensitive nature. "I'm sure they were selling the frogs as pets." Sasha remained unconvinced.

We'd walked halfway back to our hotel, then somehow found the returning cable car. We got on the wrong line, which we didn't know at the time, but proved serendipitous, as it dropped us off a block from our hotel.

Our day had started at 5 a.m., but we still had a little left in us. After a quick nap and a wine reception in the hotel lobby, we rallied and walked to dinner at Scoma's. The seafood was fresh, and amazing, and definitely worth the wait!

We were exhausted by the time we left dinner, but I refused to go home until dark.

"Come on, Mom!" I told her. "We have to wait for sunset! We're on VACATION!"

She didn't want to, but that's the great thing about my mom--she can rally with the best of them. And like me (and Mark!), she doesn't want to miss a thing. So she did it--finished dinner, strolled slowly, and humored me, arriving at the hotel just after dark.

We were exhausted, but dang, we saw half the city that day!