It's football season

A couple weeks ago, Mark tried out for the school flag football team. I was super proud of him, partly because he made the team, but also because he tried out last year and didn't make it.

"I'm most proud that you tried again this year," I told him. "Some kids might be mad they didn't make it and give up. But you kept trying and you made it. I'm very proud of you for that."

Yesterday was the first game of the season. I don't know who was more nervous about it, Mark or me.

We both played it cool at home. But as I slipped into the stands at starting time, I was nervous for him.

The game started when a whistle blew and the two teams charged toward each other full-speed. Mark told me the school league was tougher than the league he played in last spring, and he was right.

I watched the kids run, their mouth guard strings flapping around. It cracked me up. The plastic piece looks like a stick hanging out front. It allows the boys to easily pull the guards out between plays, but during the game, it looked like the kids were eating lollipops during the game.

The day before, I'd asked Mark what position he was playing, and he said, "Probably bench."

"No way," I said. "You're quick--I'm sure you'll get some field time."

But I was wrong. Mark stood at the sidelines for most of the game, jittery, constantly moving up and down the sidelines as the ball and players moved. He tossed a football around, continuously checking his cleats and flags. He also spent a lot of time obsessively removing and replacing his mouth guard. I think the mouth guard saw more action during the game than Mark did.

Mark was a trouper, though. He yelled encouragement to his team on the field. He stood at the coach's side, asking questions. He tossed footballs to the referees, and water bottles to his sweaty teammates running off the field. But my heart broke with each minute that passed as he stood on the sidelines.

Finally, he got his chance. Coach gave him the signal, and Mark ran on field during the kickoff. He hunched down seriously, completely concentrating, and took off like a shot when the play started. 

The play was over quickly, and Mark returned to sidelines. I silently cursed the coach, because I knew this game meant a lot to Mark.

Mark got to run another play during the game. I took a few pictures, but mostly I spent the time half-heartedly rooting for the team and trying not to obsess that Mark barely played. I didn't want to be that obnoxious yelly sports parent, and I didn't want to embarrass Mark. I just wanted to watch him play, see him run, and cheer him on. I wanted to be happy watching him be happy.

It wasn't to be. Mark was excited his team won, but disappointed he didn't contribute much to the victory.

I was disappointed, too, because I knew how much this meant to him. But I swallowed my own feelings--this wasn't about me.

"I know you wanted to play more," I told him. "It's just the first game. There are more chances--you keep going to practice, work hard, and be ready to go in when they need you. It's easier to pout and slack in practice because you didn't get to play in the game anyway, but Coach won't like that attitude. He's not gonna put in a bitter kid--he's gonna play someone who works hard all the time and never gives up."

Mark wasn't convinced. "I guess," he said glumly.

"I know it," I said. "You were great out there. I love how you cheered on your team, how you told them to watch out for players who weren't covered. You were really positive, and it helped the team."

"I talked to Coach, too," he said. "I told him which plays to run a couple times."

"See?" I said. "That helps! Maybe you weren't on the field the whole time, but you were definitely helping the team."

And with that, he smiled and hit the showers. I smiled, too, and then bit my lip. I wanted to scream with Mark how unfair it was he didn't get to play, but I knew that wouldn't help him. It wouldn't help for two of us to be angry and bitter. I couldn't poison what had so far been lots of fun for him.

He's learning about sportsmanship, I thought. About being a good sport, which really is the whole point of playing football. 

If I want Mark to be a good sport, I have to teach by example. I have to be positive and uplifting, even though what I really want to do is scream "It's not fair!!!" at the coach.

I forget that sometimes lessons aren't just just for kids--sometimes they're for the parents, too. And this, definitely, was one of those times.

Time management

Mark was very excited to make the flag football team at school last week. He was a little less excited that football and jazz band practice were at the same time.

I knew which activity he'd skip if given the chance, so I offered a compromise. 

"Go to the first half of jazz, then to football if you get out early," I told Mark.

"Then I have to take TWO bags," he grumbled. "My music bag and my football gear. I don't wanna waste my time lugging all those bags around."

I sighed. Sometimes arguing with Mark is like conversing with a foreigner--he knows I'm speaking, maybe even giving good advice, but all he hears is "Blah, blah, blah."

"You don't need your football stuff. Just practice in your school clothes," I said,
pointing to the t-shirt, shorts and tennis shoes he was already wearing. He just snorted, and rolled his eyes at how lame I was for thinking he could play football in his school clothes. (The very same clothes he plays football in every day at lunch.)

After Mark left, the music teacher emailed, confirming that it was the first day of jazz practice, but that she'd only keep the kids about 15-20 minutes. I knew Mark would be excited, and relayed the message to him when he called me at lunch.

When I got home, I asked how football went. I expected to hear rave reviews, or at least a little excitement.

"It was okay," Mark shrugged. "I only got to go for 10 minutes."

I was surprised. I figured he'd get in a good 45 minute workout at least. 

"The music teacher kept you the whole time?" I asked. Mark just grunted and went silent.

But the football talk picked up again around dinner. 

"I need new cleats," Mark announced. "Mine are too tight."

"Wear them to practice first, then we'll see," I said.

"I wore them today," he said. "They don't fit."

I looked at him, confused, because I know he didn't take his football gear to school. 

"I came home to get them," he explained. I was still confused.

Mark sighed like I was the most clueless person around. "I came home to get my cleats and PE clothes," he said. "Then I went to football. And I got ripped off, because I only got to practice for like, 10 minutes."

I did the math in my head--it's a 10 minute walk to school, or 8 minutes if you're a 13-year-old boy running. So 8 minutes home, 10 minutes to dump his backpack and search for his socks, cleats, PE clothes, and mouthpiece, then change into them. Two minutes to pet the cat, three minutes to down a glass of water from running, and one minute to tie the cleats he left untied when he put them on. Then, 8 more minutes running back to school (on cement, in cleats, trying not to slip)--for a grand total of 32 minutes. Which, added to the 20 minutes of jazz practice, did indeed give him only 8 minutes of football.

"You--" I started, but then I just stopped. I knew if I kept talking, this would become my fault (I made him go to jazz), his music teacher's fault (she made him stay in jazz) or maybe even Fernando the cat's fault (why does he have to be soooo cute and irresistible?). It would be everybody's fault but Mark's, who personally wasted all his practice time running back and forth.

Instead, I took the high road (which, in our house, actually is the road less traveled). "Bummer," I said, and Mark nodded sourly in agreement. 

"Oh well," I said, changing the subject. "At least you'll get another chance tomorrow." 

He nodded. Then I sighed, and hoped the kid is better at football than he is at time management. Because today, as far as that goes, he definitely dropped the (foot)ball. 
 

Conversations like this: Reason 5,374 why Mark might not make it to adulthood

Last weekend, I had a virtually free Saturday--something that never happens.

I just had a couple errands to run before my day was truly free. I told Mark, who didn't understand the importance until I spelled it out for him.

"Let's get this stuff done by 10," I said. "Then we can do whatever we want all day."

"OK," he answered. "Let me eat breakfast first."

I glanced at the clock--8 a.m., plenty of time for him to mess up and then clean the kitchen.

"OK," I said.

He was still noodling around the kitchen at 9 a.m. I gently nudged him, reminding him we were leaving in an hour.

"OK," he called out. "Let me get dressed."

I took a shower at 9:30. I reminded him again (not so gently, this time) the bus was leaving soon. He laughed at me and my silly time frames.

When I got out, he was not dressed (surprise). Instead, he was in the kitchen cooking up a second breakfast (bigger surprise).

"I'm leaving without you," I huffed. "Did I mention that one of the errands is an ice cream tasting?"

"Wait--WHAT?" he asked, throwing down the spatula and turning off the stove burner. "Seriously?"

"YES," I answered. I'd told him very clearly the errands included a trip to the local farm stand, which was hosting an ice cream tasting.

That motivated him. He cleaned up the kitchen in record time. He also remembered he needed to put his clothes in the dryer.

And that he had to go to the bathroom. And that he had to pick up his room. And play with his cats. And shoot a couple baskets. And tell me about a new TV show. And--

"ENOUGH!" I finally yelled. "It is 11 a.m., and I AM LEAVING." I couldn't sit around watching him waste my free Saturday any longer.

"OK," Mark said, grabbing up his flip-flops. He stood outside the front door, waiting for me. "Well, aren't you coming?" he asked.

I stomped past him, fuming. Lucky for him he's quick, so he made it into the car before I drove away.

We finally made it to the farm stand by noon. Mark was thrilled when the lady told him he could sample any and all of the gourmet flavors. He opted first for the coffee ice cream, gladly accepting the tiny taster cup.

"Oh, no," the lady said as she scooped out the sample. "This one is melting. We'll have to replace it."

She winked at Mark, and handed him the whole cup. Mark looked at me gleefully, as happy as...well, a kid with a full cup of free ice cream.

In between bites, he sampled the other flavors. I thought he'd stop after five or six, but he never slowed down.

After we purchased a few pints, I herded Mark to the car.

"Let's get these home before they melt," I said.

He rubbed his belly contentedly. "That was soooooo good," he said. "I'm just bummed I couldn't try the lemon-lime basil. That one sounded awesome."

"That's why I wanted to be here at 10," I told him.

"Next time, we should come earlier," he said. "We need to get here before all the good flavors are gone."

I'd been backing the car up, but I literally jammed it into park and glared at Mark.

"What?" he said, honestly confused.

"Did you just tell me to GET HERE EARLIER?" I asked (in a maybe-somewhat-okay, very yelly-screamy voice). "After you goofed away the whole morning??"

"I--" he started, but my steely gaze stopped him cold. I finally turned away, but only because I thought I might melt the ice cream with my red-hot stare.

"I'm just sayin'," Mark answered, but it was in a much quieter voice. He was afraid I'd invite him to walk home and reflect upon his comments.

"I will get here earlier next time," I told him. "With or without you."

And then we drove away, only one of us truly understanding the irony of the whole conversation.

That's gotta hurt...

I am a sound sleeper--I sleep through earthquakes, thunder storms, you name it. Once my head hits the pillow, I'm out until that damned alarm clock goes off the next morning.

I'm also a restless sleeper--my mom was always amazed that even while sleeping, my little pinky finger would twitch. I'd tell her, "Mom, I never stop moving when I'm awake--why would I stop just because I'm asleep?" She just shakes her head and laughs at me.

But...seems my kid is an even MORE active, deep sleeper than I am. I entered his room the other day, and this is what I found:

Yup, that's his head, wedged in between the bed and the wall. I'm not sure how he ended up backwards, upside down and stuck like that, but it made me shake my head, just like my mom does with me.

Nice to know my kid's following in my footsteps in at least one thing...

He-man helps out

Last week I had the carpets cleaned in our house. Mark was a great helper, moving furniture and various decor out to the garage.

He also wanted to help put the stuff back, but this is where we ran into the problem. 

Turns out, his desire to help was stronger than his muscles. 

Mark was the very definition of persistence in motion. He pushed that couch, and he pulled that couch--he literally threw himself into that thing, grunting and struggling and trying to get it back in place.

He tried his best, but the couch totally beat him.

I finally chased him off before he could hurt himself.

"Gimme one more chance," he pleaded. I just shook my head, not wanting to point out that this wasn't even the real couch, it was just the loveseat.

"You'll move furniture some day," I told him. "You'll be big and strong for the rest of your life. But until then...I got this."

Finally, he stepped aside and let me move the couches. 

And even though he wasn't much help, I didn't mind. Because for a few short minutes, he didn't seem like he was growing so fast. He didn't seem on the cusp of adulthood, like he does so often these days. He'll be taller than me and full of muscles soon enough--but until then, this was a wonderful reminder that no matter how tough he talks, or acts, he's still my sweet young boy.  

At least for now...

 

Labor of love

Over Labor Day weekend, I drove to Monterey with Edra and Monica to visit our friend Vicki. I started writing about our whole weekend--how we went to a Greek fest, the aquarium, the county fair. I planned to describe the various places we drank wine (there were a lot!), and all the otters we saw. 

But then, I looked at our pictures. And I realized this one photo summed up our weekend better than any of my words could:

Because, yeah, that was our weekend in a nutshell. Lots of acting silly, and cracking up. It's us doing what we do best, and most often, when we're all together--laughing.

Can't wait till the next long weekend...
 
 

First day of school (eighth grade edition)

Mark and I had the best summer ever this year. We went on vacations big and small (family wedding in St. Croix, family camping trip in Santa Barbara), and while that was part of what made summer fun, it wasn't just that. The greatness came from being together without responsibilities--there was no homework to nag about or school activities to juggle. Instead, Mark and I just hung out together, laughed and enjoyed ourselves immensely.

We spent a lot of time with our family and friends at concerts in the park or the farmer's market. We went to movies and museums. We stayed up late, lazed around the house on more than one Saturday, and spent Sundays riding our bikes or at the movies. There was nothing BIG (capital letters) that happened this summer, but somehow, all the small things added up to a pretty great few months.

I was sad to see that all end yesterday, but not as sad as Mark was.

"I can't believe summer's over," he lamented at bedtime.

"I know," I said. "I love summer."

"But you don't even get it off!" he answered. "You had to work all summer!"

"I know," I said again. "And I still had a blast." 

Mark just snorted. I was debating which was worse--not having the summer off at all, or having it off and having it end. If Mark was any judge, it was definitely the latter.

And so, I knew to tread lightly when I woke him up this morning. I used a happy, sing-song voice, I approached the kid slowly, and I didn't make any sudden moves.

"Good morning," I sang cheerfully, opening his windows. "It's the first day of school!"

Mark just grunted and rolled over.

"No!!!" he mumbled. "Not yet!"

Eventually, he did get up, got fed, and got dressed. He even posed for his yearly first day of school photo, where he holds up the number of fingers corresponding to his new grade.

"What am I gonna do in 11th and 12th grade?" he asked, staring at his hands. "I won't have enough fingers!" 

I laughed and told him to put up eight fingers. Then I stopped laughing and told him to stop flashing gang signs with those same eight fingers. (Mark loves to push my buttons more than he likes being photographed!)

I asked him to smile, then begged, cajoled, threatened, and finally gave up. Facebook was full of smiling kids on their first days of school, but Mark refused to be one of them.

"Why would I smile?" he asked. "I'm not HAPPY about going back to school!" 

And so this is what I got...maybe not the most photogenic pic, but definitely the most honest. 

Good luck, my big eighth grader! And don't mind me sniffling in the corner, I just can't believe that this is your last first day at the K-8 grade school. I can't believe that next year you start HIGH SCHOOL. Ack!  

Trust me, you won't be the only on hiding under the covers and refusing to acknowledge the start of school next year...

Things I'll never understand

Number 1 on the list: Why boys stick their heads in weird places--like the kitty condo.

Number 2: Why those same boys are surprised that their decidedly large heads get stuck in said kitty condo.

Number 3: Why those aforementioned boys are surprised that I posted a photo of that ridiculous situation on the web.

**************
I was alerted to the situation by a cry for help.

"Mom!" Mark cried, immediately after jamming his head into the kitty condo. "I'm stuck!"

Some moms (more loving moms than I) might have panicked at the sight. Some moms (bad, mean moms) might have laughed at it.

The very meanest moms (who cannot pass up amazing opportunities like this, even though they bit their tongues and tried to really, REALLY hard for about three seconds) might reach for the camera and photograph the kid before helping him out. (The worst mom might also have filmed a brief video that you'll never see because the sync feature isn't working on her smartphone, and the video's too large to email. That mom also can't figure out how to transfer the video onto her computer, which means you won't ever see it, and therefore, she never filmed it, which means she's not really the worst mom ever, so stop judging.)

"Ummm...why are you in there?" I asked. I wasn't expecting a good explanation, but I really didn't know what else to say.

"Because I'm STUCK," replied my perfectly logical son, who missed the implied question of "WHY did you jam your head into the cat's play house?"

I giggled, and tried to discreetly snap a photo. Mark heard the smartphone click when I took it.

"ARE YOU TAKING MY PICTURE??" he roared, completely insulted.

"Come on," I laughed. "You cannot do something that...dumb...and expect me NOT to take pictures."

Seriously, it's the unspoken rule--if you do something that dumb, you WILL be mocked on social media. You can't just hand me these golden nuggets and expect me to keep them to myself!

The best part was our cat Frankie, who was napping in the perch above. He never even blinked an eye--just looked down briefly at Mark, as though it were completely normal to have a kid stuck in there, then yawned and resumed his nap.

Mark rolled around a bit, trying to pull his head out (how many times have I wanted to tell him exactly those words!). He finally gave up and made his second mistake.

"Fernando!" Mark called. I guess his decided that if he was stuck, he might as well be stuck with a friend.

But I knew immediately he'd picked the wrong playmate. Fernando's no Lassie--he wasn't interested in saving Mark. Nope, he ran over to the kitty tree, saw Mark's head through the opening, and swatted at him.

"Ouch!" Mark yelped. He swatted back at Fernando, who loved this game, and further attacked Mark's trapped head.

I'd like to say that I was horrified by the sight of my son trapped in the condo being attacked by the world's largest kitten, and that I ran to save him. But that's only partially true--once I wiped away the tears and stopped laughing, I DID help him, but only because we had an appointment and I didn't want to be late. (A good, quick yank on his ankles freed him, though he screamed while I did it.)

Seriously...sometimes life just hands you these moments on a silver platter. And boy, am I grateful for every one!

 

Well, this gives me hope...

Saw this product in a store yesterday:

At first I thought, "Why does a wooden dog need a toy chest?" but then I realized the chest is wooden, not the dog. (Ah, grammar is tricky!)

My next thought was, "That totally depresses me," because I've been asking my kid to put away his toys FOR YEARS, and he still can't figure out how to do that. And yet, there's Fido, all happy, showing off how he put all of his giant dog toys away in an equally giant toy box. He's staring at the camera, taunting me, smiling because he's more obedient than my son.

It was quite a discouraging moment, until I realized, no, wait, it's the very opposite! It's actually a very ENCOURAGING moment, because hey, if that little pup can learn to put his toys away, then maybe someday Mark will do the same! So now, instead of being bummed, I'm totally excited. Because if you can teach an old dog new tricks, maybe you can teach an old kid, too.  

I can't wait to show Mark this picture, although he may not share my enthusiasm...maybe I need to think outside the (wooden) box and focus my training efforts elsewhere. (I'm talking to you, Fernando!)

My etiquette lessons aren't working

Mark and I were driving in the car the other day, listening to NPR (see, I'm a good mom, exposing my son to intellectual radio programming). A story came on about the mayoral race candidates in New York City, but before I could change the channel, the damage was done.

"Did she just say what I think she said?" giggled my middle-school-aged son.

I sighed and put on my best mature mom voice. "Yes, she did. That's his last name--Weiner."

Mark laughed out loud. This was the best thing he'd ever heard on NPR--a man named Weiner.

I was about to flip the station when I realized this was, in fact, a teachable moment. Mark goes to high school next year, and his friends all text and send photos to each other. This was a good time to discuss the rules of texting, and to reiterate what is and isn't appropriate to send in a text.

I ended my impromptu lecture with words I never dreamed I'd have to say out loud: "No matter what you think, no matter what your friends say, no girl wants to receive pictures of your private parts. EVER. Understood?"

I glanced over at Mark and realized I'd totally wasted my breath. He was still giggling.

"Did you hear anything I just said?" I asked.

"I would hate it sooooo much if my last name was Weiner," said my child, acting every bit his age.

I dropped the subject. I also decided we'd heard enough NPR, and changed the channel.

A few minutes later, a commercial came on the air for a new waterproof smartphone. You can use it in the pool, in the bathroom, even in the shower, the announcer said.

Now it was my turn to giggle.

"Seriously?" I asked. "That's just creepy. 'Hey Mark, I'm texting you from the shower!' Really, who needs to text FROM THE SHOWER!!"

Mark laughed too, then smiled slyly and said, "Anthony Weiner would love that phone."

Now it was my turn to lose it. I laughed out loud at my completely inappropriate son. Apparently, he was listening to the story after all.

And that right there is the epitome of my life as a mom. An embarrassing story pops up, I turn lemons into lemonade by teaching about consequences, and Mark turns it into a joke. Which I find funny, thereby rendering all my serious words and lessons completely useless.

Like my friend Jill always says..."Motherhood is not for sissies."

Rocking out

I've always loved music, from my very first record album (John Denver's Greatest Hits!) to my very first stereo (OK, it was actually a clock radio, but it was mine, and only I could change the stations).

As a teenager, I became obsessed with music. If there was a New Wave band playing, my friends and I were there, and we even managed to get onstage (General Public!) or backstage (Thompson Twins!) a few times. We waited for the bands after concerts, collecting signatures on whatever was available--a drumstick, a program, even our own clothes. We pretty much met every 80s band that played in San Diego--a-ha, Howard Jones, The Cult, Simple Minds, INXS, Madness, Spandau Ballet, Fishbone, the Untouchables, even my boyfriend Harry Connick Jr.

I spent the better part of my teen years loitering by tour buses or theatre exit halls after concerts. But I'd kind of forgotten about all that until last week...

I took Mark to see last year's American Idol winner Phillip Phillips at the Grammy Museum. 

Phillip did a Q&A, then played six or seven songs with another guitarist and a cellist. It was AWESOME. Those three guys rocked, and the only thing I hated was not being able to dance without causing a scene or extreme embarrassment to Mark.

Mark was really excited to see Phillip, and even more excited to get his autograph. He told me he had the perfect idea.

"I'm gonna have him sign my drum head," Mark confided, holding up the snare head he'd just replaced. "Then, next month, I'll have Macklemore and Ryan Lewis sign it." He beamed, and I told him that was an excellent idea.

The only glitch in the plan was Phillip Phillips. The venue was small (only about 200 people), but as soon as he finished singing, Phillip darted upstairs, leaving young Mark at the bottom of the escalator, clutching his drum head and a Sharpie. It was a sad, pathetic sight.

Mark was visibly bummed. I tried consoling him, but he just shrugged it off, and tossed it aside as only a teen can do.

"Whatever," he said, heading for the exit.

But as we walked out the door, hope once again appeared. A black van sat before us, doors open, the driver nervously scanning for his passengers.

I pulled Mark quietly off to the side.

"That's his van," I whispered, nodding toward the driver.

"How do you know?" Mark asked, and I scoffed. Amateur! Ye of little faith!

"I know," I said.

Just then, some lady asked the driver the same question. The driver, who had no idea who Phillip Phillips is, said no, he was waiting for .

Mark sighed. "He's waiting for some woman," he repeated.

I stood still. I knew what was coming. "Trust me, Mark," I said. "Give him 20 minutes."

We weren't the only ones waiting. A small group formed, including a young girl who jumped every time someone left the building.

"What if he won't sign it?" Mark asked, biting his nails.

"Of course he's gonna sign it," I said. "If he won't sign autographs for little kids, he's a jerk."

After a few minutes, the trickle of museum employees stopped. The backup guitarist and cellist came out and loaded their instruments into the van. Mark shot me a look of excitement.

And then, the door opened again. The little girl ran forward, and Mark followed right behind her. There was Phillip Phillips, and the kids could barely contain themselves.

I watched proudly as Mark let the little girl go first ("She was soooo excited," he said later. "I couldn't jump in front of that!"). She got her program signed, and then Mark held out the drum head, which some lady used as a table for her own program. Phillip signed both, looking up at Mark as if to say, "A drum head? That's cool, kid!" He smiled at the kids, then hopped in the van.

Mark was thrilled. He played it really cool, but he couldn't stop staring at the signature.

"How'd you know he'd come out there, Mom?" he asked. He had that surprised tone he uses when he can't believe I actually know something valuable.

"They have to come out somewhere," I said. "They always wait until the crowd is gone. You just have to figure out where the exit is, where their ride is, and wait."

He nodded. Seemed reasonable.

And I nodded, too. I never thought my groupie knowledge would come in handy, but it sure did that night. Seeing Mark so happy felt awesome.

I'll never be able to share stock tips or explain quantum physics to Mark...but who cares? He isn't interested in those things, either. He loves what I love--music--and I can certainly explain that.

Which is the most awesome thing of all.

Handyman

I am good at a lot of things...OK, maybe not "a lot," but certainly a couple things. (Don't ask for examples--I can't think of anything specific right now, but there's gotta be something.)

What I'm not good at is Ikea furniture--you know, putting it together. I used to be able to put it together when the pieces came with like, four screws and a turny S-shaped metal tool to screw them in. But now the furniture is so complicated it comes with a set of 97 pegs, screws, nails and a 10-page set of instructions (all pictures) with 17 steps.

It makes my head hurt, all that attention to detail and all those little parts. Which is why I am thankful to have Mark around, now that he's old enough (and far more patient) to put this stuff together.

He wanted a nightstand for his room, and suggested Ikea. He picked out the stand he wanted, complete with a drawer for all his stuff and a shelf for all his books. He showed me a picture of it, but all I saw was a ruined afternoon and a lot of frustration.

"I'm gonna put it together," he told me later that night, making him my very favorite kid in the world. And put it together he did!

He did have some problems along the way, but none of them were with the furniture. The biggest problem was the world's largest kitten, who harassed Mark the whole time.

Mark dutifully took out all the wooden pieces and placed them on the floor--Fernando immediately laid on them.

When Mark took out all the screws, nails and pegs, separating them into neat piles, Fernando's eyes grew huge. He creeped in to send them all flying, but Mark caught him, saving us from chasing a million loose pieces.

Mark brought over the cat's new kitty condo. Each time Fernando interfered, Mark put him on the condo,  distracting him with a toy. Then Mark returned to the floor, attaching the pieces, while Fernando swatted him in the head. 

Mark did an awesome job. I helped him occasionally, but he did 95% of the work himself. He worked on that nightstand for an hour and a half, with a rotten cat trying to ruin it every step of the way.

Finally, he turned to the last page, installing the drawer. We studied that page over and over, but couldn't figure out exactly what the picture wanted us to do. I finally figured it out, and put together the rollers and wheels.

"Are you ready for the big reveal?" I asked Mark, and he nodded.

He flipped over the nightstand, and I slipped in the drawer. The wheels clicked in, I shut the drawer. But instead of a smooth glide, it rolled in clumsily, stopping with a thunk an inch out of place.

"Uh oh," I said. I tried prying it back out, but the wheels had clicked in, and there was no way to get it back out. Mark had just worked on this stand for 90 minutes, and I ruined the whole thing in five seconds. Apparently, Fernando wasn't the only one impeding his progress.

But unlike Fernando, I know my limitations. I tugged and pulled on that drawer for a good three minutes, until I realized that it wasn't coming back out. I was dangerously close to just ripping it out, which would have ruined all of Mark's hard work.

So I did what I do best with Ikea furniture--I walked away.

"Uncle Brad will fix it for you," I promised Mark."He's super good at detailed stuff like this." And sure enough, he did.

I was so proud of Mark, and the awesome job he did. The nightstand turned out great, despite me and Fernando's best efforts to ruin it.

And now I no longer fear Ikea furniture--because I have Mark! He'd better get his little metal S-shaped Ikea screwdriver ready, because I'm gonna put that kid to work.

This is why I'm slowly going crazy

In my house, one conversation occurs on an almost nightly basis:

Me: "Mark, get in the shower."

Mark (incredulous): "WHAT? I just took one THREE DAYS AGO!!"

Me: "Exactly."

After five minutes of complaining, three minutes of stomping around his room, and one minute of slamming, then re-slamming the bathroom door (to make sure I heard it), Mark gets into the shower.

Where he stays for at least 30 minutes, until I pound on the door.

And then he screams, "WHAT??? Come on, I just got in!!!"

And I sigh, and pound my head on the wall.

The back-and-forth doesn't irritate me as much any more, mostly because I go on autopilot immediately after telling Mark to shower. Most of the time, I don't even remember the ensuing negotiation.

But last night...last night was the night that reminded me Mark's real purpose in life is to drive me insane.

Mark went into the bathroom, and eventually started the shower. It was running for a good five minutes when I walked down the hall, and suddenly heard the sink faucet go on. (Who's turning on the faucet if Mark's in the shower??)

I frowned, opened the door, and there was Mark, wrapped in a towel, head down in the sink, hair sopping wet, with the shower running full blast directly behind him. 

I immediately knew what he was up to--faking a shower. (He was dumb enough to tell me he does this at camp to fool his counselors--and I was dumb enough not to check him every time after he told me that.)

Mark then did what he always does when I catch him misbehaving--he freaked.

"SHUT THE DOOR!" he screamed, tugging tightly on his towel, as if I'd intruded on his modesty, instead of his ethics. "What are you doing???" He slammed the door, then clicked the lock.

I just stood there, stunned. I wondered how many years this has been going on for, and how many times I've been duped into thinking Mark's showered, when really, he's just hanging out, reading his books and relaxing. And running up my water bill.

I walked to the guest room, where my sister-in-law Mari was sitting. With barely contained laughter, I relayed what I'd just witnessed, including the panicked look on Mark's face when I opened the door.

"That is Mark in a nutshell," I said. "He'll spend 30 minutes faking a shower, and 15 minutes pretending to dry off, instead of just getting in the stinking shower for five minutes!"

We laughed our heads off, stopping only when Mark turned the shower off and could hear us. Even then, we reverted to silent giggles.

Seriously...anyone want a half-clean (but full attitude) 13-year-old?

To answer your question, yes.

Yes, Mark had a fantastic time at camp. How do I know? Because:

• He returned from camp wearing an inner tube. (He wore it the whole bus ride home.)

• He was grimy. Like, seriously brown with dirt.

• He was tired. Fell asleep in the car (still wearing his inner tube).

• He was hungry. Although he did say the camp food was good, especially the snacks.

"What was the best snack?" I asked.

He immediately answered, "The ice cream sundaes. I had three."

"They let you eat three?" I gasped.

"Well, no," he admitted. "We all got one. Then, I turned my baseball cap around and went up for a second. Then I took my hat off completely and got a third sundae. It was awesome." He was so proud at his ninja disguise skills, which I'm sure fooled no one.

"And how was your blood sugar all week?" I asked.

"Well, it was 400 after those sundaes," he said, smiling sheepishly. "Totally worth it, though."

"Don't worry, I also drank a lot of milk at camp," he said. "Strawberry milk."

"They had strawberry milk at camp?" I asked.

"No, we added strawberry Crystal Light powder to the milk. It was AWESOME!"

I gagged a little bit at that.

Mark told me about the other activities--mountain biking (his group was the fastest), shooting pellet guns ("WANT. ONE. Pleeeeease, Mom?"), rappelling down rock cliffs ("No. Just no. I did NOT do that!") and even quiet time ("We couldn't even leave the cabin!"). He swam, and danced, carved watermelons, and even did a little shopping (he was super proud of his new basketball shorts that belonged to nobody. "I asked around," he said. "Nobody said those were their shorts." I sighed and explained again that this is called "stealing.")

But the easiest way to tell he had a good time? It was the second sentence he said, right after, "Hi Mom."

"Next year can I go for two weeks?" he asked, jumping up and down. "Please? PLEASE??"

And what other answer could there be that question except "Of course!"

Mommy Camp 2013

Mark went off to sleep away camp this week, and I enjoyed it every minute of it.

Day 1: The kid is gone. The sass is gone.

"You look so much calmer already," my sister-in-law observes. It's true, I feel like my blood pressure's dropped 50 points.

Day 2: I wake to an eerily quiet house, the silence finally broken by maniacal laughter. It takes me a full three minutes to realize it's coming from me.

"Time to get up!" I say, then I do. Nobody pulls the covers over their head or ignores me. I say what has to be done, and it. is. DONE. I could get used to this.

I shower, make breakfast and am sitting at my computer, working, 20 minutes later, without a single argument (I completely forgot that's how mornings can be).

With the kid around, this process takes a good hour and a half. I wonder what the heck he does with all that time each day.

Day 3: This morning, I walk into Mark's room, and in a stern voice, say "Make your bed." Nobody snarls back that "It DOESN'T MATTER." I look at the bed, which is already made, and walk away. If anyone saw the weirdly contented smile on my face, they might wonder about my sanity.

Day 4: I do miss Mark, but the cats miss him more. Each day, they pounce on him, smacking him around, nagging for food. I sleep with my door closed, so now they've taken up residence just outside, waiting for me to emerge. When I do, they scramble down the hall furiously, tripping me or steering me into the kitchen toward their dishes.

Fernando misses Mark the most. I act as a substitute play mate, but he's almost angry when I play--he just bites my arm and runs away. Fernando is not happy that I'm here and Mark's not.

Day 5: I'm tired, but it's a different kind of tired. Usually, by Thursday morning, I'm emotionally worn out, having spent the week debating with the little lawyer (everything's a case to be argued). But today, I'm physically worn out. I've been out every night this week, trying to pack a year's worth of social activities into one week. I've seen two movies, one concert in the park, had three dinners with friends.

Since Mark's not around, there are no nightly blood sugar checks, and I should be in bed early. But I'm not--instead, I'm like a teenager away at college for the first time, staying up as late as I want, just because I can. Unfortunately, I'm not really a college kid, I'm actually a grownup with a real job that starts early in the morning, and I now have the bags under my eyes to prove it.

And I still have two more nights to go! I contemplate, briefly, staying home tonight but dismiss the idea immediately. It's book club night, and for once, that doesn't require a trip to the ATM to pay a babysitter. I can do this--weekends were made for sleep!

Day 6: Still scouring the camp Facebook page, but no photos of Mark. I know he's having a great time up there, and I can't wait to see him tomorrow.

I had a sort of epiphany today. I told everyone that I'm on a mommy vacation, which isn't really true. Vacation means you go away and stop worrying about all the stuff in your everyday life.

I realized today I'm not on vacation, I'm just on Pause. You know, like when you're watching TV, but you need a snack, or a bathroom break--you don't turn the TV off, you just press Pause.

That's what happened to me. None of my maternal duties or instincts went away while Mark was gone--I still worried that he was warm enough at night, eating enough, brushing his teeth. I worried if his blood sugars were in range, or if he had any super highs or lows. I never stopped worrying, I just took a little break.

Don't get me wrong, I've really enjoyed the break. Tomorrow I resume my mommy chores like cooking, cleaning and driving that kid around. I'm not looking forward to any of that. But I am looking forward to the actual kid. I miss that little rascal--I miss his laugh, his smile, his sassy (and funny) little self.

I've certainly enjoyed Pause--but I'm equally excited to hit Play once again.

I'm not the only one who's bad at math

This weekend, we went to a wedding reception for my brother Smed and his new wife, Shanda. A lot of our friends and family missed the wedding in St. Croix, so this was a chance to celebrate with them.

Shanda's parents, John and Debbie, hosted the reception. They did a great job.

The reception featured lots of desserts, like red velvet cake (my nephew Johnny's favorite!), chocolate cake (Smed's favorite), and cheesecake (Shanda's fav). Debbie also put out a huge basket of caramel and chocolate covered pretzel sticks, which turned out to be Mark's favorite. (Ironic, because Mark HATES pretzels. Won't touch them, unless they're covered in caramel and chocolate, apparently.)

The pretzel sticks were individually wrapped, which was perfect for slipping them into your pockets and running off to play. I watched the huge pile dwindle over the afternoon, and eventually, when I saw Mark swoop in for the fourth or fifth time, I called him on it.

He smiled and ran out to the garage. I followed the little stinker.

"Let me have it," I said, holding out my hand.

"What?" he asked, flashing me another huge grin. He slipped behind my mom--he knows Grandma will protect him.

"Hand over the pretzel stick," I repeated. "You've had enough."

"I don't have any!" he protested, and then, in the same breath, he cried, "I just have one!"

And of course, Grandma did step in.

"He said he doesn't have any," she said, in her most protective-Grandma voice ever.

"No," I clarified. "He said he has ONE. And that one is, like, his FIFTH pretzel!"

"Let him have it," my mom said, all sympathetic. THIS is the Grandma the kids love, the one who passes out cookies in pairs, saying, "One for each hand!"

I sighed. Once my mom and Mark team up, there's no beating them. I had to play equally dirty.

"OK," I sighed. "You win."

I knew what was coming, so I didn't stray too far away.

"That looks good," my sweet-toothed mom told Mark. "Go get me one."

"There aren't any more," I said. "The kids ate them all."

Then I smiled and stood back, ready to watch the fireworks.

"They're gone," I said. 

"Then give me that!" my mom said to Mark. She held out her hand, and with a sigh, he handed over the pretzel stick.

I just smiled. I realized that if you just wait it out, sometimes you actually can beat the bad math--and the Mark/Grandma team.

Adios, my son

Let me preface this by saying I love my kid. A LOT. With all my heart. But he's like a puppy--no matter how cute and sweet he is, he's also a lot of work.

So once a year, he goes to summer camp, and we both rejoice. He gets to spend a week in the mountains getting filthy and running wild (well, somewhat wild) and I get to spend a week...breathing. Relaxing. Recharging. It's amazing for us both.

This is that week. Saying I was a little wound up before he left is like saying there's a little media interest in that new royal baby.

On Saturday morning, I laid out Mark's duffel bag and sleeping bag.

"Your bags are ready," I told him. "I taped the packing list to them. Follow the list and you'll have everything you need."

"But--" Mark interrupted. I raised my hand to shush him.

"Follow the list," I repeated and walked away.

"Fine," he said. "But I have to do laundry first, so I have clothes to pack."

I congratulated him on thinking ahead. I didn't remind him that I'd been reminding him to do this all week.

We went to a wedding reception for my brother and sister-in-law, then out to dinner with her family. We returned around 8:30, which was when Mark realized he hadn't turned on the dryer. His clothes were still wet. With a giant sigh, I went to bed.

I awoke Sunday morning, realizing I'd miss Mark a lot this week. That lasted all of 10  minutes, when I found him in front of the TV, where he'd been for an hour.

"Are you packed?" I asked.

"Almost," he answered.

"Did you eat?" I asked.

"In a minute," he answered.

A minute turned into 30, when I reappeared, showered and ready to go. He was pulling pans, butter and eggs out to make himself breakfast. Our scheduled departure was 25 minutes away.

"Into the shower!" I cried, shooing him away. Nobody showers at camp until the last day, and Mark doesn't even really wash then. He just wets his hair so it looks like he showered.

Twenty-five minutes turned into 45 as I waited for Mark to dress, finish packing and load his stuff in the car.

"He really has no concept of time," my sis-in-law Mari marveled, watching him play with the cat. I sighed.

"I'm ready!" Mark exclaimed. He said good-bye to the family, climbed into the car, then ran back inside for his lunch.

"Bye, Mark!" the family cried, but two minutes later, Mark returned for his rain slicker.

"Bye, Mark,"  they repeated, a little less excitedly, when he came back for his hat.

"Mark's back AGAIN," Gabi exclaimed when Mark returned for his breakfast.

"It's not a return if he never left," Scott clarified.

Finally, somehow, we were off, a mere 15 minutes late.

"Did you bring a pillow?" I asked, halfway there. He forgot when we camped last weekend, and complained until his grandma brought one.

"Uh, NO," he sniped. I gave him the side eye, and he very smartly did NOT ask me to return home to get one.

His behavior at the camp drop-off was no less surprising. He stuffed his bags into the luggage trailer, all proud of himself until I asked where his lunch was.

"In my bag," he snorted. 

"Go get it!" I yelled.

"I'm not gonna eat it," he sighed. "I'm not even hungry."

He took one look at me and realized he'd better get. that. lunch. He scarfed it down 10 minutes later, then asked me to buy him more food because he was starving.

Mark hung out with some kids from last year's camp while I talked to their moms. We were having a great time, sharing war stories about our kids, when the bus was finally ready to load. The counselors called for the kids to use the restroom, and all three of our kids immediately announced they were good.

I looked at Mark, who'd just downed a soda.

"Don't have to go," he said.

"Go try," I said. "Or I will make a big scene about how much I'll miss you."

He looked at me, and I just sniffed. Then sniffed again. Then dug deeply, and shouted, "My baby! Mama's gonna miss her baby SOOOOOOOO much!" I raced toward Mark as the other moms laughed. The other campers laughed too, but only because their moms weren't chasing them.

"Fine!" Mark yelled. The boys ran off to the restrooms.

The bus was ready to go, but still missing a counselor. The head counselor called out his name.

"He's in the bathroom!" a girl answered.

"He just WENT to the bathroom!" said the boy counselor, exasperated.

"He's high," I cut in, and the counselor nodded. I meant his blood sugar, not drugs (high blood sugar makes you go to the bathroom a lot).

"Only in a group of diabetics could you say that and nobody even blinks," he said, and we all laughed.

And then, suddenly, it was time. The bus was loaded, and ready to go. We waved to the darkened windows our teens were hiding behind, and the camp leader announced we were free to go. There was a loud cheer (from the parents) and just like that, my blood pressure went down 50 points. I giggled to myself, and danced all the way to the car.

Like I said, I'll miss that kid of mine. But I'm planning to enjoy every moment until he returns. :-)

I wasn't expecting THAT

I have to admit, kids DO make life more interesting. For example, sometimes, pre-kid, I was surprised to find an old magazine in my car, or maybe even a sweatshirt previously thought lost.

But I never found anything as exciting as this:

Yup, that's a shark egg Mark found at the beach. My nephew Nic found one last year, and this year, the kids found a bunch of them. Guess Mark's ended up in my trunk, where it scared the bejesus out of me. (I wasn't sure if it was some giant bug or...I don't know what. All I know is that I screamed like a little girl when it fell out of the trunk.)

My fear subsided once I realized what it was. And the egg was empty, unlike the one Nic found last year, so I don't have to worry about the baby shark. (Hannah said the Nic found last year was stashed somewhere in his room--she visibly shook at the thought of that.) 

But now I have a new fear--the kids found three eggs on the beach this year. In like, a matter of minutes. Which kind of freaks me out--if there are that many empty eggs on the beach, then there's an equal number of baby sharks swimming there in the water.  Probably even more. A lot more.

And maybe that thought makes me scream like a little girl all over again.

Life's a beach

Last weekend was our annual family beach camping trip at Refugio State Beach, about 20 minutes north of Santa Barbara. It was, as usual, a blast.

We spent our time rotating from the beach to the camp site, then back again. The kids spent all of the daylight hours in the water, body surfing and laughing. They came home tired and very tan.

My parents spent their time at the campsite, relaxing and tasting all the food we prepared. My iron Dutch oven was a big hit again--Kim made some killer cinnamon rolls, and I made a new family favorite, Meatball Monkey bread. I also made cornbread and French Toast, to celebrate Bastille Day. I'm glad my family enjoyed my cooking, I just wish they weren't always sooooo surprised that my food is yummy. (I'm pretty sure "Wow, this is actually pretty good" in an awestruck tone is NOT a compliment!)

 

Refugio is awesome because no matter where you camp, you're only a few steps away from the beach. That's especially nice at dusk, when the sun sets over the palm trees and ocean. This time, we also got to see the moon rise.

The only bummer was that certain new family members (hello, Phoebe!) were obsessed with the beach, but not technically allowed on it. (It was kind of funny that the No Dogs Allowed sign featured a silhouette that looked exactly like Phoebe.)

Turns out young Phoebe is pretty strong--and strong-willed. She did not like Hannah's plan of walking near the beach--she wanted on the beach. When Phoebe took off running, Hannah lost hold of the leash, but luckily, Mark dove into the sand and caught it.

At one point, all four kids were tugging on Phoebe, trying to get her back to the road, but Phoebe was having none of it. Finally, the kids gave up and let her go. Phoebe ran off down the beach, victorious, with a giant smile, attacking the waves and washed-up kelp. You've never seen a happier dog than Phoebe was at that moment, trust me.

Phoebe was cold and wet by the time she came home, so Tim and the boys built the world's largest fire--I'm not gonna lie, at one point, even the boys worried we'd catch the camp on fire.

 
The funniest part was watching the boys prepare the fire, as only boys can do. As Nic and Mark gathered up wood for the fire, Hannah and I were distracted by a cute little gopher breaking through the ground nearby. We called Tim and Kim over to see it. 

"What're you guys doing?" Mark called out to us.

"Watching a gopher!" Tim answered. 


I turned to see Nic and Mark, in flip-flops, chopping wood.

"Who's watching the boys with the axe?" I asked, as Nic heaved the heavy ax over his head. I worried someone might be down a toe or two before we even lit the fire.
Miraculously, they kept all their toes intact. Tim and the boys worked together to build a giant wooden tee pee in the fire pit, which eventually grew into the flaming masterpiece above. Unfortunately, it burned so hot, we had to wait another 45 minutes to get close enough to roast marshmallows and not our faces.

Tim bought the kids a big new tent we dubbed "the teen dorm." All the kids AND their stuff fit inside, along with Phoebe's crate and bed. Mark was thrilled to stay with the kids. However, he hadn't taken his ADHD pill, was driving the kids a little bit crazy (he was literally bouncing off the tent walls at one point). But Hannah and Nic are good troubleshooters, and figured out how to solve the hyper Mark issue. Here's what I found when I went looking for him Sunday morning:
 

Nic tried convincing me Mark put himself in there, but who knows. Whose ever idea it was, it worked--the only reason I looked in the tent in at all was because it was too quiet in camp. 

Mark and I left just before a bizarre hot sand storm came in, threatening the camp and all the tents. I'm glad we got out just in time, since Mark took a shortcut while putting up my tent, and left the tent stakes in the car. (The rest of the family survived by escaping to a local brewpub until the winds died down.)

It was so much fun. Can't wait for next year!

A lesson in selective hearing

Mark's been out of school for a month now and I just found this. It's a report he wrote for health class about his latest obsession, energy drinks. (Seriously, Mark, you're a kid--how much more energy do you need???)

In addition to the report, the kids sampled the various energy drinks. I'm not sure how the health teacher survived that day, with 300 middle schoolers hopped up on mega-doses of caffeine, but I'm glad I wasn't there to witness it.

However...this post is not really about energy drinks or reports. It's about the fact that EVERY DAY I tell Mark to make his bed, eat his breakfast, brush his teeth and wash his hands. And yet, if grilled about his daily chores, Mark would not remember a single one.

It's about all the good advice, the life lessons, the words of wisdom I instill in my son each day, and how he completely ignores them. Instead, he chooses instead to focus on the stupid, random stuff I say when I'm tired or grumpy. Answers like the one I gave--without thinking or censoring myself--when he asked for a Monster energy drink. (That answer was incorporated into his report--see the highlighted area.)

Sigh...OK, fine, yes, I may have told him his heart would explode from all the caffeine. I said it in a funny, joking way, not that it came across that way in the report. I did not say you would die, although I agree with Mark that dying would be bad. (And apparently, I'm not responcable--err, responsible enough to raise a kid!)

Oh well. At least I got a little bit lucky in that Mark failed to cite his references for the report. Maybe his teacher will assume he got that golden nugget about exploding hearts from the Internet, and not from his mom.

Here's hoping...

Running on island time

I love a good vacation, and I love a happy wedding. And when the two are combined... well, that's the best of all worlds!

My brother Smed and Shanda tied the knot a couple weeks ago in St. Croix, and we went along to celebrate with them. Unfortunately, our whole family couldn't make it, so me, Mark, my parents and cousins John and Julie went to represent them (represent!).

It was a blast. Shanda's awesome, and we're all thrilled she said yes to Smed (trust me, we held our breath the whole time, exhaling only when she finally said, "I do"). Her family's also great, so instead of losing a son/brother, we doubled our family!

The wedding was wonderful. It was short and sweet. My brother is all stupid-goofy in love, and happy, happier than I've ever seen him, and it is truly awesome to see.

Happy family!

And in case you have any doubts that these two are soul mates...here's what I captured one night when I told them to smile at dinner time. Is there any doubt these two were made for each other???

I'd never been to St. Croix before, and I didn't have very high expectations. When I Googled "what to do in St. Croix," the only results that returned were snorkeling at Buck Island and beer-drinking pigs. (I don't even want to admit how excited the beer-drinking pig made me!)

I figured St. Croix would be beautiful, but I was more anxious it would be very hot. (I don't like hot.) I figured I'd suck it up for Smed and Shanda, and run off to the air conditioning as soon as the ceremony ended if need be.

But St. Croix surprised me. Our resort was right on the bay, which provided constant tradewinds to cool us down. As long as the winds were blowing, it was nice. As soon as the winds stopped, we moved into the pool, and life was good again.

The resort was all-inclusive, which meant all the food and drinks were included. (Or, as Mark observed, they were "free." So much to learn, that one.) I'd never been to an all-inclusive resort, but I kinda liked it--I never had to decide where to eat, or when.

Mark LOVED it. Every time I turned around, he was at the bar, ordering virgin pina coladas or dirty bananas (a pseudo-banana smoothie with chocolate sauce). I did panic once when he gave my 6-year-old nephew a drink, then proudly (and loudly) exclaimed, "Hey, Johnny likes pina coladas now!" I hurriedly explained to every one in ear shot that the drinks contained no alcohol.

I was also worried about the people of St. Croix, because my favorite thing about traveling is meeting new people, and learning about their countries. I've been to the Caribbean before, and the people I met were cranky, bitter, and not at all interested in conversation. I'm happy to say that was not the case with the younger Cruzans we met. They were happy, joyful, and welcoming. The older people who worked at the resort were not as openly friendly, and not much inclined to work on their people skills. When we placed our orders, we were never sure what we'd get--if we were lucky, we'd get half the food, and a few extra plates of stuff we didn't order.

One day, we asked for shrimp wraps, two orders of mozzarella sticks and a hot dog. We got the wraps, one plate of mozzarella sticks two orders of coconut shrimp (???), and no hot dog.

Mark and Johnny shared the plate of mozzarella sticks. Mark never did get his hot dog, or the second plate of mozzarella, but he filled up on the shrimp, so it was all good.

"Guess they forgot my other food," he said, as he ran off to the pool.

Suddenly, I heard laughter at the table next to us. I looked over to see the waiter dropping off a plate of mozzarella sticks, and the giant two-foot long hot dog. Maybe it was a coincidence that they ordered the same food we were missing, but I doubt it. Luckily, those kinds of things don't bother us--as long as the kids were fed, who cares.

But overall, the food was pretty good. Our favorite was Rok Star night, when they deliver your (raw) dinner on a 750 degree stone. I kind of gagged when I saw my raw shrimp and scallops (I'm not a sushi fan), but within minutes, the food was completely cooked through (I actually over-cooked it the first time, but it came out perfect the second time I ordered it). It was so cool!

Mark ordered the steak, which arrived equally raw. (It was dark, so I didn't notice until I looked at this photo later.) He loved it, too.

  
The resort had lots of fun activities, including paddle boards, sailboats and kayaks. Smed took Shanda and the boys out kayaking one day. It probably seemed like a good idea at the time, until he realized A) he and Mark were the sole paddlers and B) OMG, is that a giant squall coming toward us in that humongous black cloud? 

I tried taking my mom for a walk while all this was occurring, but she was too busy panicking about her grandchildren out at sea. So instead of walking, she stood under the deck having mini-heart attacks and fretting about how (or if) they'd get back to shore.

Apparently, Mark had the same concerns.

Most of the group stayed at the resort the whole time, but some of us wanted to see the island. We took the shuttle into town, a 20-minute ride with gorgeous views of the bays and wild iguanas. We arrived in Christiansted, the island's biggest town, to find it was approximately five streets down and five streets over, and filled with unopened stores. I began to fully grasp the concept of island time when I saw this sign:

For the record, we passed this place on three different days, all after 11 a.m., and never saw it open.  

My cousin John, Mark, and I went in to town one day for a snorkeling trip out to Buck Island. I am not a huge fan of boats or the open ocean, but Google insisted this is the best thing to do in St. Croix, hands down, so I sucked it up and went. I'm super glad I did. (One reason I was nervous about getting in the water? This guy, who Smed found during a walk on the beach.)

This was our boat--a wimpy little Catamaran. I immediately broke into a nervous sweat when I saw it.

"Is now a bad time to tell you boats make me anxious?" I asked John, as we sailed out of the harbor. I tried to play it off with a casual laugh, but I don't think he bought it.

The water was amazing--a turquoise blue you only see in paint tubes, not in real life.

 This was Buck Island:

This was the friendly local who greeted us upon arrival. He scared the crud out of the little boy who spent the whole boat ride over telling us how afraid he is of sharks. His sister ignored him, finally admitting the only thing that scared her were barracuda. She did not think it was awesome when he pointed and screamed, "Look, a giant barracuda!"

The snorkeling was unbelievable--we saw all sorts of tropical fish, including blue tangs, parrot fish, wrasses, and even an eagle spotted ray. (I didn't see that guy--I was too busy telling myself to stop freaking out and snorkel.) We snorkeled through the underwater national park, through coral reefs and fish. It was amazing.

People who had an equally amazing time? My dad, who never actually left the resort until we went home. He found a nice, comfy spot and enjoyed himself.

We had a blast--snorkeling, swimming, eating, relaxing. I didn't think I could do nothing for a whole week, but turns out, I'm pretty good at it. The activities were awesome, but the best thing about the whole trip (besides the wedding) was the company. I had such a great time hanging with my parents, my kid, my cousins, my brother and new sister-in-law, and all of Shanda's family. It was great for my parents, too, who got to spend lots of time with their grandsons. 

I'll always remember those blue, blue waters, and the pelicans dive-bombing the ocean in front of us. But I'll remember the little moments, too--my son wrestling with his cousin while I laughed and laughed at those silly boys. 

Because truly, the one thing that traveling's taught me is it really isn't about the destination, it's about the people on the journey with you. And I can't think of a better group to have spent my summer vacation with...