And We'll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet...

The kiddies are ringing in the New Year at Papa and HeHe's. My guess, and hope for Papa and HeHe's sake, is they are sound asleep by this point and will miss the actual midnight moment. From the feel of my eyelids, I, too, will miss the ball dropping.

Our date night included some delicious Pad Kee Mao with some dear friends and we are now channel surfing the last 35 minutes of 2010 away. Channel surfing on basic cable. It's as exciting as it sounds.

Of course the big topic of the evening news is New Year's Resolutions. I am grateful I don't have quitting smoking on my list. Last year my resolutions were 1) develop the patience of the man with the Yellow hat, and 2) blog everyday. Let's see, my patience and tolerance was maxed to every extreme. And I have to say, I failed miserably at times. But then there were those moments when I actually did what George's friend does in moments of sheer frustration: take a deep breath, understand that the trouble is that of a monkey, and help the little critter try, try, try again.

And if I can get this little blip posted, I'll have made 296 posts. An entire year of Heath and Stella-isms, running adventures, parenting bloopers, cooking trials (and errors), housemaking, holiday-gathering, movie-watching, birthday partying, baby showering, pool-going, ice cream eating, and weather complaining. My only regret: I let fatigue, boredom, fear, etc. get in the way of posting those 69 missing posts.

I haven't worked out my 2011 resolutions just yet. I still have 15 minutes left of this year. Hmmm...what to do with that time...oops...14 minutes...9 minutes...8 minutes...

Happy New Year, Charlie Brown!

We stumbled upon a little treat this evening. Actually, two little treats. Turns out there's a Happy New Year, Charlie Brown episode, and a wintry She's a Great Skate, Charlie Brown program. The kids were delighted. Heath loves the physical comedy antics--Peppermint Patty falling down on ice is sure to get a belly laugh. And Stella, ever-compassionate, felt Charlie's disappointment when he slept through The Little Red-haired Girl's visit to the New Year's Eve Party. Char' Brown sad, she sympathized.

I'm glad the kids liked the shows. I found myself mostly annoyed. The voices were all wrong, the Guaraldi-less music lacks the least bit of luster, and the animated colors seem too bright, too new, too...too somebody else is DOING Charlie Brown.

I will say one particular line captured my attention. As Charlie Brown was discussing his new year's resolutions with Linus, he mused, Rather than dread the entire year, I'm going to dread it just one day at a time.

Newfangled or not, that's stuff to live by.

Winter Wonderland

I have voiced my dislike for our abnormally cold temperatures at a ridiculously early date. 20 degrees belongs in February. For one day. Two, max. Chilly is an understatement for the entire month of December.

Complaints aside, on December 25th, around 7pm, we experienced one of the few perks of a flippin' cold night: a snowy Christmas. I figured the flurries that fell on the windshield of the Jeep as we headed home from Christmas dinner at Goma's were a momentary treat for the kids to witness, and we could finally begin a new We haven't had a White Christmas in Charlotte since...tale. And does it really count as a White Christmas? Do you have to wake up to find the world blanketed in perfect white powder in order to be able to claim this title, or is it simply a matter of seeing flakes on that day? The kids were thrilled to see the wet flakes splat on the windows, I decided it meant we would surely be treated to an early and incredibly warm Spring, and we all went to bed thinking very little about the snow.

Certainly not expecting to wake up and find this in our backyard...


It's been a while since I've seen and felt quiet like this.

But we didn't stay cooped-up for long. A snowy, peaceful jog around the 'hood. I don't think we saw a single car on the road. But we did encounter a fellow runner. He said, Are we addicted, or crazy, or what? I replied, Probably both.

You can't see it, but she's wearing a Robin (as in, Batman and Robin) costume underneath that jacket. It is her new favorite outfit, even in the snow.

The pure joy of throwing snow at your mommy.

Mark made a run to BuyBuy Baby where we'd spotted these sleds several weeks before when we were shopping for a baby shower gift. At the time, he said, Let's get one. I scoffed, We're not going to need one of those.

Stella loved it. Mostly just being pulled around like a Princess.

I just hope it won't be a one-time wonder, after all, it's only December. That leaves lots of winter days for more snow and sledding and Frosty building.

Or that early Spring could come and the kids can sled down muddy hills from April showers.

April showers that come in February, of course.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Still playing catch up with the holiday happenings, and struggling to figure out how to get my pictures to post in chronological order, I will have to tell this tale backwards.

We ended our day at Goma and Aunt Debbie's, eating dinner and opening presents with cousins, including one very special Baby Cousin Mia. It was her first Christmas, and she was wearing a bib stating just that fact. Cute. (But in the interest of picture posting privacy, particularly pertaining to other people's children, I will not include her picture.)

But I'll post the heck out of my own.

Stella. She just can't leave cousin Brian alone.

Prior to our lovely evening at Goma's, we opened presents, ate pancakes (made on our new griddle) and spinach and bacon quiche (bacon fried on our new griddle), and snacked on Trader Joe's coffee cake (not made on our new griddle). Papa, HeHe, and Granny Jen joined us for much of the frenzied gift-giving.

Stella playing with a Weeble Wobble Tree House circa 1976. Kept like new in my parent's attic over the last 34 years. My kids managed to crack the hollow, plastic tree stump in less than 2 hours.

Heath found that his new safety glasses have many uses, including fighting his way through the boxes, wrapping paper, bubble wrap, tag, tissue paper rubble.

Christmas wreckage piled high in the hallway. You'll see how it got here shortly.

Mark with his Maryland Terrapin memorabilia. My brother always one to indulge Mark's "Fear the Turtle" love.

Santa brought Heath a wheelbarrow. He instantly put it to the test. It will, in fact, make a giant pile of trash in your hallway.

Stella's new love, Angelina Ballerina. Mommy's new love, Augusten Burrough's You Better Not Cry. I'm almost finished, it's that entertaining.

Heath and Stella's new tool set. She is sanding the tree, and he is, well, drilling a hole in it.

Quite a collection of Christmas morning bedhead, if I've ever seen one.

Heath asked Santa for a race car. I didn't really believe that this was what he wanted until Christmas Eve when Heath reminded us that he had asked Santa for a race car, and it was the only thing he wanted. I found myself, post 14 mile trail run, wandering through a Toys 'r Us, sweaty, cold, dressed in mismatched running garb, hungry, trying desperately to find the "right" race car for someone who already seemed to have a whole heckuvalotta race cars.

As soon as Heath opened this, he said, This is my most favoritest race car ever.

Well done, Santa.

Christmas Booty at midnight.

Twas the Week Before Christmas...

Apparently I need to get back to blogging more than once a week. I'm pretty sure a lot of things happened, but I can't recall them now. Good thing I took some pictures to remind me.

Heath was out of preschool for the week, Stella had her surgery, we finished decorating, shopping, wrapping, and managed to hit the trails not once, but twice in one week.

It was Take Your Son to Work week. Not really. But Heath did go to work with Mark Wednesday and Thursday afternoon. According to Mark, Heath worked non-stop on the yard, tossing anything and everything into dumpsters.

Mark also took Heath shopping Wednesday evening, and upon their return, Heath announced, We got you a new TV for Christmas. He also managed to tell me Christmas Eve that they got me more things from their morning trip to the mall while I was at the Whitewater Center. At least he was more discreet with this slip.

I suppose I'll get to the actual event of Christmas and the snowy day after Christmas. But ice cream and a movie are calling my name. Besides, I'm still trying to play catch up in my head from the last seven days.



We decked Whistlestop Road with this show of lights.

Christmas Cakes...

...made by two of the cutest elves Santa ever did see.

The only way I could get Heath in the jogging stroller this week was to convince him that he could run part of the way, while wearing my running gloves, hat, and Continental Divide 10K bib.

I attempted to clean out some of the old clothes that we have stuffed in closets, shoved under beds, and exploding at the attic seams. A bear costume for 18-24 months. He is insistent that it still fits.

Post-op, soup-face Stella. Surgery was good, Stella was the champ of the recovery room, infected nodes are gone, and we are well, well, well on our way to having this be a distant blip on the screen of life.

And we surely have enjoyed the heck out of this guy this season.

Tomorrow's edition: What it Looks like When Christmas Throws Up in Your Living Room, then Gets Wet from a Surprise Snowy Day After Christmas...

Thumpetty Thump Thump, Thumpetty Thump Thump

Heath's preschool holiday break has begun and he decided to kick his off with a 5:45 wake up time this morning, just 2 minutes after Stella's 5:43am awakening. Merry, Merry.

I reminded him that he did not have school this morning to which he replied, I'm not on vacation. I have work to do. It was 5:50am. I told him he would have to settle for watching Bob the Builder. He was satisfied with this activity.

Lucky for me, I didn't hear any complaints three hours later when I suggested we suit up and run to the park. No one fought me on hats and gloves and shoes. No one tried to chew their way out of the burdensome weather cover. They simply sat back, munched on fruit bars, and sang Frosty the Snowman for the first mile of the run. Over and over. And over. With very limited lyrics.

Just as my gloved fingers had become sufficiently numbed to the point of not feeling the cold anymore, the singing ceased. I peaked around the front and found both kiddies were fast asleep. Again, lucky for me. I took the long way to get to the park, where they played until they were frozen and requested going home for hot apple juice.

Not a bad start to the holiday.

Stella has her second (and hopefully last) surgery tomorrow morning. This evening Mark and I reminded her that we would be going to the hospital in the morning, and further explained to her and to Heath that she would have another bandage on the boo-boo. She lifted up her neck, pointed to the swollen spot, and with utmost assurance said, Doctor check a neck, mommy. It okay.

It's so nice of her to comfort us.

Holiday Dumpster Diving

As soon as Mark can convince Heath to call it a day, we will be eating ice cream and watching the holiday classic, Christmas Vacation. Christmas time is officially here.

We got a call this evening from our sweet little neighbor who lives across the street. She wanted to let us know how lovely the outside of our house looks. I had a moment of paranoia and had to ask Mark if he thought she was being sarcastic, and truth be told, she is sitting over in her living room, staring out of her window, cursing the day we ever moved into this establishment. She also seemed to emphasize the word outside, so I was struck by the worry that she had seen through our front window and witnessed the bomb of toys that exploded over the course of the weekend.

Mark agreed. I am paranoid, and she was sincerely letting us know how fantastic our Festival of Lights is shining. It is truly bright, colorful, and beaming from a place of love. Our blow-up snowman, with his green mittens and candy cane, seems to proclaim, I don't care how environmentally-unfriendly I am. I'm Frosty, dammit. Just when you think the lights are red, then they are green, then blue, then white, then orange, then red again. Some twinkle. Some sparkle. And some just flat out scream.

And where did my resourceful husband stumble upon this collection of glad tidings holiday light hodgepodge? A dumpster, of course.

There's more where that came from, according to Mark. Looks like we're going Griswold all the way this year.

O Tannenbaum

While attending a lovely baby shower on Saturday for a friend who is having twins, I received some devastating news. A giant Christmas mother blunder had been made and I wasn't sure if I would be able to make things right. According to several ladies, the kiddie Christmas television classics had already aired. Rudolph. Grinch. Frosty. The freaky one with the big-eared baby and the Heat Miser. They'd come and gone, and thus, a memory-making experience for Heath and Stella was completely missed. And I had no one to blame except myself. And Mark. (In the greater interest of parenting responsibility equality.)

Of even greater concern was whether or not we'd missed Charlie Brown. Since the Great Pumpkin, the kids have discussed their excitement of viewing the Christmas Charlie Brown. Thanksgiving Charlie Brown was a mere tease. We've obsessively listened to Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas CD. On the radio, walking through stores, it takes only a single note of "Dr. Funk's" piano for the children to exclaim, It's Charlie Brown! They are, officially, hooked.

Fortunately for me, I was let off the guilt-hook when I got a wonderful tip Monday morning. Charlie Brown's Christmas would air again Thursday night at 8pm. I immediately shared the good news with Heath and Stella. They were thrilled, and immediately began a countdown to Thursday night at 8 o'clock.

The program did not disappoint. There was much guffawing over Snoopy's exaggerated sense of dog house decorating. They both tapped feet and bobbed heads to the jazzy, upbeat tempo. And in great protest, they smacked each other in the face when the show was over and bedtime was declared.

But what seemed to be universally appreciated in the Ropko house was Charlie Brown's tree. To most, it seemed frail, puny, and unfit to be used for true holiday decorating. Heath, however, instantly defended the tree when its pine needles fell to the ground. I like that tree. When Charlie Brown placed the heavy red bulb on one of its three delicate limbs, a concerned Stella whimpered, Oh no, Char' Brown Cribme Tree.

The roots of our heart-strings being pulled by the tree that upon first glance may seem to have nary a chance of making its way into any one's warm home for the holiday run deep. Much of my mountain folk family makes a living growing and selling Christmas trees in Western North Carolina. And as a child, I always found myself eyeing the tree that had an area that was going to have to be turned to the wall, because to some it would seem there was a gaping hole. To me, it had depth, although I wouldn't have known at the time that it appealed to me in that way. Ultimately it would be decided that there wasn't any sense in getting a tree that wasn't robust, and the "perfect" tree would be chosen.

The first Christmas of our courtship, Mark and I bought a live tree together. A few tree guys from Sparta, NC, living in a camper on Central Avenue for the month of December, have been our go-to fellas ever since. They always trim the tree to fit your stand, always help you get it on or in your car, always have some good-looking trees for not a whole lotta money, and always appreciate your business.

We almost skipped our guys this year. When we headed out as a family a couple of Sundays ago to get our tree, it was 5 o'clock. Heath had not napped that day. My patience was low. Stella was cranky. And the idea of driving to Central to get a tree, then have a late dinner, seemed to be pushing our moods luck. Not even two miles from our home, we passed a Christmas tree lot. It boasts NC grown Frasier Firs. It wasn't crowded. And it meant we could be eating and trimming our tree by 6pm. I shouted, Let's go there! So Mark did a quick U-turn, and with odd feelings of guilt, we pulled into a different tree lot.

I suppose the trees were grown in the mountains of North Carolina, but the tree guys working there were not. They were teenagers from Indian Trail. As I passed through the rows of Frasiers, while fragrant, I didn't find any that really spoke to me. Except for their price tags. They seemed to shout $85! $100! $75! I circled around looking for the irregular rack. There wasn't one. Or even one that muttered faintly, $30, $35, heck, even $45.

A mutual decision was made that we would grab our kicking and screaming children, try to explain to them that we ARE getting a tree tonight, but it will not be from this lot, and exit the premises and head over to the trusty lot in Plaza-Midwood.

It took five minutes to find our tree at the other lot. I spotted it before I had Stella out of the car seat. It's tall. Vibrant. Not too wide. And barely missing a limb. Oh, and it was $22. A guy helped us tie it to the top of the wagon, then said, Merry Christmas. We'll see you next year.

Yes, Mr. Man from Sparta living in a camper on Central. Yes, you will.


Mark straightening the tree. This is a long and tedious process. As a matter of fact, he will spend much of the holiday season asking me if I think it's straight enough. And I will answer, yes, whether I think it is or isn't.

With much angst around whether or not the tree was straight and being held in the stand with as much stability as possible, Heath decided to take matters into his own hands and began making a diagram of exactly how the tree should be straight, and exactly how to go about making this happen.

Stella. "Helping."

Decorating the reachable areas of the tree. Stella is wearing my headlamp. This was her solution to the "is it straight enough?" dilemma. I am busy sweeping up the first of many to-be-broken bulbs.

O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree, thy candles really do shine so brightly. Especially if you squint your eyes and have a crappy camera.

Thunder Road: The Race to Mile 7

Just one week after breezing through the BRB marathon, Mark was up at 6am, prepping for the ever-popular Queen City marathon. Thunder Road. It's packed. It's hilly. And it's a darn good time.

Oddly enough, I found myself up at 6am, equally excited about the race. In addition to my Crazy Runner of a husband, I had a handful of ladies running the half course. All women who have shared the joy and aching arms and backs that comes with pushing our children in joggers around the up and down streets of our city. And for the first time in a very (and I do mean very) long time, Mark and I shared a hot cup of coffee by the glow of the Christmas tree, bantering quietly about the morning's festivities.


I'd spent the evening before studying the TR course map online, plotting my best spot to cheer on my favorite folks. Between Mile 7 and 8 was most appealing. I could catch the halfers at one of their most "need a boost" moments. It was a spot off the main roads, and completely blocked by traffic cops; no cars allowed. And it was 3 and a half miles from the house, which meant I could squeeze a run in myself by tossing the kids in the jogger. The trick: having us all ready and enthusiastic about going by 7:45am.



When Mark left the house at 7am to pick up a fellow running neighbor, Stella and I were up, had consumed cereal and mini-waffles, and were cuddling on the couch, whispering about Christmas and running and train tracks.

At 7:15, we were dressed, tires on the jogger pumped, and snacks stashed.

7:20, Heath was up.

7:25, Heath and Stella were playing a mutually aggressive game of footsie on our bed.

7:27, Heath and Stella were in their separate rooms, screaming for each other.

7:30, Stella was running through the house refusing to put a jacket on.

7:34, a jacketed, barefoot Stella was running through the front yard.

7:36, Heath and Stella, shoed, were begging to go in the car.

7:45, Stella kicked at the weather cover I desperately tried to attach to the jogger.

7:47, Heath continued to play a non-mutual game of Catch Me If You Can.

7:50, both children were in the jogger, while I sat on the front porch and cried.

I was convinced that I had missed my opportunity to see Mark and friends at mile 7ish. And it would be pointless to jump in the car, because the streets were shut-down. At 7:53, still on the front stoop, defeated, I finally noticed that the children were in the jogger, silent, and staring at their frantic mother.

Don't cry, mom. Let's go, Heath soundly suggested.

So we went.

At a 1/4 mile, I had to retrieve fruit bars from the basket. 1/2 mile, milks were handed out. 1 mile, lost a pink boot. 1.2 miles, lost another pink boot. 1.5 miles, was told about lost pink boots. Buzzed back around to retrieve them, check my phone. 8:30am. The lead runners would be cruising through mile 7 around now. I picked up the pace, the children noting my increase in speed and began to shout, Go, go, go!

We passed the quiet mall, resting up for a day of Christmas shopping. A closed Christmas tree lot, supplies already dwindling. And then the kiddie chattering came to a sudden halt. At the corner of Colony and Sharon, three police cars sat, directing SUV after SUV elsewhere.

Road race, the officers yelled to the impatient drivers. Streets are closed.

We easily zoomed across the street, onto the forbidden path to the course. And just as suddenly, I saw them. Runners. Group by group, one by one, they whooshed down Sharon Amity right onto Sharon.

My original plan was to turn into Foxcroft neighborhood, but seeing Sharon Amity was actually closed, I darted down an additional quarter mile to the corner of Foxcroft and Sharon Amity. Mile 7ish.

8:42, and not a moment to spare. In no less than five minutes, familiar faces started to pass. We parked ourselves on a friendly lady's lawn to hoot and holler.

And oh, did we hoot. And we hollered. And we clapped. And we woo-hooed for the next 45 minutes.

Our friend, Julie, was first. I was so excited to see her, I forgot to get my camera out and snap her picture.


There goes DeDe. His exact words when he passed by: What have I gotten myself into? He ran an awesome race. Like Mark, he is a Training Minimalist.




We got kisses and high fives from Daddy before he took off into the pack again.

And there goes Jen. We were happy to take her baby socks, fingerless gloves, and big ole smurf hat.

Our friend/neighbor Laura. Had a baby in May! Go, Laura, Go!

It was great to see all the runners on the course, especially so many mom friends from the preschool. The comment that buzzed through the crowd: Charlotte is surprisingly hilly.

Mark's goal was to run in under 4 hours. His time for TR was 4 hours and 10 seconds. He was minorly bummed about those 11 seconds. Still, back-to-back weekend marathons. Not too shabby.

And it was a great entertainment for the kids. They argued the entire run back home, which only made me run that much faster. 3.5 miles in 30 minutes. I think that's a PR for me.

Like Donkey Kong

It's on, that is.

In our long relationship of running, Mark has been nothing short of a marathon enthusiast. But this weekend, he will be committing a first. Running marathons on back-to-back weekends.

Our week has been so jam-packed with preschool potlucks and PreK Open Houses and swim lessons and Christmas prepping and on and on, I still don't have the full report on what transpired at the Baton Rouge Beach Marathon last Saturday. I know he ran it under 4 hours. I know he enjoyed the post-race fare of Jambalaya (no bagels and bananas for Louisianans). I know he was home by 3am on Sunday. (I also know he was grumpy as all get-out upon his return, but whose counting.)

I waited for him to hobble around on stiff, sore legs on Monday. Or complain of aching muscles and back. Nope.

On to the next one. Thunder Road tomorrow morning.

Go, Crazy Daddy, Go!

Dump Trucks and Heavy Loads

It was no joke when I was talking about the load of the baby jogger I was pushing last night. Turns out Heath is a whopping 42.8 pounds and in the 97th percentile for height. We found out today during his 4 year check-up. And the little miss of the house is a stunning 25 pounds. We know this because she insisted on being weighed, too. As a matter of fact, she insisted on having a turn with everything they did with Heath. Blood pressure check. My turn. Vision test. My turn. Weird beeping ear thingie. My turn. Immunizations...

...she didn't request a turn. Instead she stood beside the nurse and said, It okay, Heef.

It was okay, but that didn't stop Heath from periodically mentioning that lady who did that to me and his plans for telling her not to do that again next time he sees her.

A couple of lollipops and a trip to Mark's work eased the pain. Rows of dumpsters, a tour of the inside of a dump truck, and watching a busy worker separating the contents of a dumpster with a mini-excavator on a concrete pad makes everything better.


And a solo, pushing no one but myself 6.5 miles on the greenway does the trick, too.

22 Days, According to the Penguin

I am flying solo with the kiddies until Sunday. Mark is in Louisiana for the Baton Rouge Beach Marathon, checking off yet another state in his quest for running at least one marathon in all 50 states. He's really outdone himself in prepping for this one. Let's see, he ran Grandfather Mountain...in July, and then...he pushed the kids 8 miles every Saturday since then, and...he pushed them a whopping 15 the day after Thanksgiving...

...yep. He's ready. After all, this marathon is merely training up for Thunder Road. One week after Baton Rouge. Marathon Maniac, indeed.

I, too, have been feeling a little wacky with my running desires as of late. I won't go so far as to say exactly what I am deliberating, but it's more than I ever imagined considering. So, with a new pair of trainers, the need to push through the idea of not running today, and really wanting to avoid the 5-7pm frenzied meltdown fest that has been occurring these days, at 5pm I loaded the kids in the jogger--cajoled by fruit bars, a stop at HT for milk, and the promise of a neighboring house with a glowing Penguin/igloo Christmas countdown on their front lawn--and set out for a chilly, nearing-dark run.

It seems my running these days has consisted of solo runs on the weekend, or pushing teeny tiny Stella while Heath is in preschool, so I was surprisingly stunned by the unbelievable load I was struggling to push. Finding my rhythm was nearly impossible. With Heath on the left, the stroller constantly veers to the lighter right, so I spend most of my time adjusting, desperately trying to keep the contraption rolling straight.

The sun was down before we made it to the HT. The kids opted to stay in the jogger while we awkwardly wheeled our way to the dairy section. Heath sighted that it was too chilly. And midnight. So they stayed under layers of fleece blankets, while I opted for a half gallon of milk. We'll need more by noon tomorrow, but the idea of adding a giant plastic jug to my jog seemed terribly unappealing.

When we exited we were met by the ringing Salvation Army bells. I let Heath put a dollar in the red donation bucket.

What do I get? he quietly inquired.

The warm feeling in your heart for giving to others, I answered.

He was bummed and sank back into his seat, covering his face with Puppy.

We took the longer way home. The Christmas decorations, bright traffic headlights, and a brisk chill in the air were plenty of entertainment. Home by 6:30. And barely a peeping whine for the rest of the evening.

5 miles. Pushing 100 pounds and a half gallon of milk. In the dark. Am I in training? Not really. But it certainly smoothed the witching hour ruffles.

Hot Wings and Crunchy Leaves

It's hard to blog over the noise of two grown men consuming 1 million chicken wings. I smell the heat. They sound delicious, and they are giggling like a group of tween girls at a slumber party. Mark has a display of demeated bones on a paper towel before him. It's hideous. He's thrilled with himself. After all, he's in training. Two marathons in two weeks, beginning this Saturday in Baton Rogue. But more on that another time.

Our buds are heading back home tomorrow. We will miss them terribly. Especially the kids. Built-in, 24/7 buds, it doesn't get any better than that. For all of us.

Now they're breaking into the ice cream, which means I need to wrap this up.

Much of the weekend was spent frolicking in the leaves.


Surveying the giant pile being prepared for jumping.

Thomas the train and Stella crashed into the leaves.

Getting ready to crash Thomas and herself into the leaves.

That's some high-stepping.

Pure elation.

ManDate

It's 10:06pm and Mark still isn't home from his date. The minutes are slowly ticking by and I am starting to wonder where on earth they are. I'm not worried. They are bringing home the ice cream. Apparently after two days of round-the-clock eating there is still room for ice cream.

My SC BFF is in town for the weekend. Her husband and Mark have quite the bromance. Mark was tickled pink when he discovered he'd been gifted with some Bobcats box seat tickets and was going to be able to share them with someone who has a shared affinity for shrimp cocktail, wings and blue cheese dressing, and buffets of assorted meats and more meats. The game and the fact that the hometeam is a miserable 5-10 barely mattered. You had me at chicken wings.

The ladies (and one gentleboy) held down the fort while the men went off to enjoy manly mantime things. We opted to eat take-out Welcome to Moe's! then were treated to a lovely concert of rockin' piano playing and singing about rock stars and cowboys and yeah-yeah-yeahs!

No worries, though. The moms will get their evening out tomorrow. Whatever will we do?

Redrum, Redrum

Heath's doppelganger is a boy born in 1973 who happened to play one of the creepiest kids in scary flicks history.

Friday evening, while we were on the hunt for Redbox movies and ice cream, a very sweet teenaged clerk at the HT told us that our son looks just like that kid from The Shining. This isn't the first time we've been told this. Or the second, or third. But it is the first time someone has told us this and offered up a very interesting Halloween costume suggestion. And not just for Heath, but the whole family. She even thought Stella could pass for one of the twin girls standing in the hallway. It's a great idea. Too bad it's mid-November.

Heath is incredibly sensitive to smells, light, sounds, textures of clothes and food, motion, other people's moods...but psychic abilities? Might as well.

Beanky Roadkill

The preschool bake sale is tomorrow and I'm pretty sure I don't ever want to see another Pumpkin Bread loaf for as long as I live. Well, at least after the sale, and after the sweet smell of nutmeg and cloves and ginger and sugar sugar sugar leave the house. When Heath woke up from his nap yesterday, he instantly complained, the house is too smelly. Sweet cakes--he leaves them more than he takes them.

Speaking of Sweet Cakes, I've been far too neglectful in recording my little Heath and Stella ditties these days, and there have been quite a few. It seems my mind is mostly fixated on stopping the madness of sibling playfulness that always goes too far. On a positive note, they really do enjoy each other. And then they don't. Their games of tag, no matter how often I state the rules (Don't push. Don't scream. Don't sit on each other's heads when you ignore the don't push rule), I still find them collapsed in a pile of raucous laughter that is deafening and always ends in...you guessed it...crying.

But it isn't all refereeing. I am currently at a loss for conjuring up a moment of sweet bonded bliss, because I am tired and our bedroom smells like a giant Thanksgiving muffin brownie pound cake with peanut butter vanilla glaze, and it has penetrated my brain like a hyperglycemic brain fog. I really just wanted to tell a Stella Beanky tale.

Stella's and Beanky's bond continues to grow. Where there is Beanky, there is Stella. And where's there's a Stella, there'd better be a Beanky. Or else. As I have blogged before, washing Beanky can be tricky. It is a covert operation, because if she should spot the green blanket just before it is tossed in the washer, I better be prepared for two things. 1) Relentless crying that will not cease until Beanky is back where it rightfully belongs--wrapped around Stella's neck. Or 2) Letting go of the idea that Beanky is going to be washed at that time and giving it back to Stella, no matter how much marinara sauce or blue paint or milk or mud or marker or juice is on it.

After dropping Heath off at school on Wednesday, I decided I would make use of the one child time and head to Trader Joe's. Once again, we were mid-week and out of most every food in the house. As I waited at a No Right on Red light, I heard the sound of Stella's window open--a trick her big brother taught her just two days earlier. The light turned green and I turned right, blinded by a scream of horror coming from the back of the car.

My first thought, Oh no, she's rolled the window up and crushed her little fingers and ripped one off! But through the screams and tears of terror, I understood one word: Beanky. I immediately turned into the first parking lot entrance, parked the car, and spun around. Sure enough. The tears were about Beanky. And Beanky was nowhere to be found.

Then I recognized another word: window. Then another: throw. Well, 'fro, to be exact.

Did you throw Beanky out of the window? I asked.

Beanky 'frowed da window, she pitifully howled.

I parked the car in a spot closest to a grassy knoll beside the busy intersection. I jumped out of the car, fought my way through a nasty hedge of prickly bushes, quickly spotting Beanky lying helpless in the road. Fortunately I arrived at a moment of light traffic, so my wait to retrieve the lovey was minimal. I grabbed the lifeless body from the street and rushed back to a still hysterical Stella.

That is until she spotted Beanky in my hand. I opened her door and placed the soft sage fleece in her lap.

That's when I saw it. Beanky was smothered in tire tracks and dirt. She'd been runover. According to the wheel prints, not once, but twice.

Stella rubbed her little finger over the embedded grooves, flicking at the debris. Oh no! she cried. Beanky doi-ty! And she buried her face in her dear friend's fabric.

Beanky didn't leave Stella's side while we did our grocery shopping or on the ride home. But later, while she was eating lunch, she said, Beanky 'frowed da window. Beanky doi-ty. Wash Beanky, mommy. And for the first time ever, she handed over the blanket, still covered in dirt and fabric wounds.

Overmountain Victory Trail Revolutionary Run 25K

There's something about a weekend without a trail race, or trail run for that matter, that pales in comparison to last weekend. While I look forward to the preschool bake sale and all its preparation for Saturday and Sunday, knowing I won't be heading to the Whitewater Center for some running in the woods makes me feel a bit glum.

Last Friday, I wasn't the least bit glum. Trail Pal and I headed to back to the mountain cabin for a Saturday morning 25K at W. Kerr Scott Dam & Reservoir Visitor Center in Wilkesboro. It was around 6:30pm when we arrived in the foothills of the NC mountains, but we decided to do a quick race site drive-by. In the dark, we could hardly tell what we were in for, but we had a good idea of where we would be heading early in the morning. Getting lost, or sidetracked, on our way was not going to happen.

We made a quick pit stop at the Lowe's grocery store, the last possible place to pick up anything we might need. With much of the parkway closed and its amenities shut-down for the winter, it truly is the last place to stop before winding our way up the mountain to the cabin. We got the essentials. Pasta, sauce, salad, muffins, and ice cream. A pint per person is most necessary for pre-race eating.

We carbed and ice creamed up, then headed to bed. Actually, let me back up here a minute.

The cabin. Since our last race visit a few things had been added. A fully usable potty. Running water for the sinks. And a family of small critters. At some point during our pasta dinner a tiny mouse scampered his way from one side of the kitchen to the other, then hunkered its body down to slide under the stove. I had my back to the open area, so I missed the whole episode, but I felt its creepy wake for the rest of the evening.

Including when I went into my room to bed down for the night. As I tried to enjoy a quiet moment of reading How to Generate Values in Young Children by Sue Riley, I was interrupted by a more than faint scritch scritch scritch on the closet door. At first I tried to imagine it was simply a tiny mouse, more frightened of me than I could be of him, no worries. Then I thought about his entire family living in the closet, so very hungry from the lack of food as cold weather had officially rested upon the area. Then I thought of the mouse family, so very hungry, and so very angry that they have been disturbed, and they were fervently trying to claw their way out of the closet. To get me. I couldn't seem to shake the idea that I was going to be awakened in the middle of the night by a pack of wild-eyed mice on my face.

So I moved to the couch.

Before I knew it, alarms were chiming and it was time to get ready. I ate my Grape-Nuts, drank a reasonable amount of coffee, and dressed in my colorful layers of hodgepodge running gear. The temperature in the car read 26 (snowflake light clearly lit). I believed it. It was C.O.L.D. Too cold to belabor the point that I was a bit out of whack, bodily, from having slept like a coiled snake on one end of the sofa. So cold in fact, picking up the race packet and having a brief wait before start is a bit of a blur. I remember the porta-potty. I remember thinking, man, I can't stand using a porta-potty. But not a lot of other facts were committed to memory. Too cold to create a new brain wrinkle, I suppose.

Except one particular moment. About a minute before the race started, the Race Director mentioned the trickiness of measuring a trail. Our 15.625 miles is actually 17.25. Miles. I'd pretty well wrapped my head and body around 15ish miles, but 17.25. I thought, well, I have a choice here. I can obsess over not being prepared for 17ish, or I can run along and know that 17 is 26.2 preparation. (Not that I'm preparing for that.)

And then it was time to go. And I forgot about the surprise additional miles. And I ran. And I do mean, ran. I was pleased with my speed. Pleased with how well I felt. Pleased with the invigorating chilly air. Pleased with having trained on a comparable trail. Pleased with the woodsie smells and the fallen leaves smattering the trails. Up and down they rolled. Before I knew it, the 10Kers broke off, and I kept running. And then it happened.

Somewhere around 9 or 10 miles, there was a turn around spot to head back on the same trail. At this point I tried to open my Clif Bloks. My fingers, gloved the entire time, were still so cold, I could barely get a grip on the package. After far too many moments of struggling, I finally got it open. I also decided to add to my frustration by trying to remove my top layer--a zipped jacket. My hands, still paralyzed by the cold, fumbled with the zipper. By the time I got it off, I decided I was now sweating and cold, so I wanted it back on.

As much as I tried to pick my pace back up, it seemed my momentum and sheer drive from exhilaration was not coming back. Heading on the same trail I had blazed through going the opposite direction, seemed harder to run, and harder to find a rhythmic steady click. So I ran in quick bursts, then slow-running trudgery. Speed bursts, beat-down trotting. Back and forth, up and down.

Finally, like music to my ears, I heard the sounds of cheering. The trails were not marked, so there were no mileage signs, no white flags to indicate go this way. So I have little comprehension of where I was or when I was there. But I heard the voices and figured we were within 2 miles of the end.

We were. And then the trail snaked back into the woods for another three miles. The sounds of cheering, fading fast. At the last aid station they said we were two miles to the finish. I don't think they were telling us the truth.

And at this point, there was an us. Me. The guy with the iPod (don't know that it was an iPod--we'll just call it that. What I do know is it was music, and it was loud.) in front of me. And the guy in the orange jacket behind me. I was desperate to pass the iPod guy. At every burst of energy I would work very hard to get around him, and he worked very hard on not letting me.

I don't remember when it happened, but it finally did. Orange jacket and I got around iPod, and I started to recognize the area. We were about a mile from the finish. And then it really happened. I tripped on a root. It was a trip that 2 miles into the race you have all your faculties and balance. At 16 miles, I had nothing. So I tripped, thinking, Uh-oh, I'm tripping. Uh-oh, I'm falling. I landed on both knees and both palms, and just as quickly as I fell, I got back up again. And within a few feet, it happened. Again. Root. Trip. Uh-oh. I'm falling. Orange jacket helped me up and said, There's no way I'm passing you, go!

So I went. Just before I emerged from the woods, Trail Pal came running along. Having had a super-speedy run (and placing 4th overall!), she was finished. She took the picture of me above. So glad I still felt like smiling. I think I smiled all the way to the finish.

And every time I've thought about it since, I can't help but grin.

17.25 miles in 3:16:21.9.

Rainbowlicious

Heath decided 5:45am is a nice wake-up time this morning. It's been a while since that's happened, so I can't complain. Not too much, anyway.

Trail Pal and I are off for the mountains this afternoon. A 24 hour mommy getaway. Funny how our break includes a 25K trail race. Crazy, funny, isn't it all the same?

My race gear is packed and I am ready for a chilly start--30ish degrees, and a reasonable finish--50ish. The only rhyme and reason to the outfit is function; fashion continues to escape me. Basically, the picture above is a nice representation of what I will look like traipsing down the Wilkesboro trails. Minus the ponytail, of course.

I do, however, plan to toss colorful stars of happy running well wishes to all my passersby.

On your left!

I Do Not Vant to Suck Your Garlic Blood

In just a couple of days my Trail Pal and I will be heading up to run the Overmountain Trail 25K on Saturday. I am still feeling relatively ready. My plan has been to keep my runs this week in the 4 mile range, be driven batty by my children, and eat carbs like a piggy piggy. This strategy should leave me ready to explode at the seams, and will translate into some happy, and hopefully, not so very slow running through the woods of North Wilkesboro.

Too bad I got this silly cold that's been lingering for about three weeks. Actually, ten days ago I recollect being able to breathe and not cough for about 12 hours, so my guess is it's actually been not one, but two colds that have been keeping me from feeling my absolute best. So when I was given an interesting tip--eat loads of roasted garlic--I ate it.

While I was drizzling the garlic bulbs with olive oil and folding them up in tinfoil for baking in the oven, Heath wanted to know what I was doing and why I was doing it. I explained that it would help my cold, and then I added a little helpful tidbit about keeping vampires away as well.

He watched the process of folding the bulbs and placing them in the oven, while mulling over the vampire idea. After a heavy sigh, and with much relief, he announced, I think I better have some of that, too. I got this yucky cough, and those dag-gone vampires get in my bed at night.

Filling in the Title Space

After a lovely evening out with Mark, my brother (visiting from CA), no children, and a delicious plate of sushi and tofu, we made a quick on-the-way-home pit-stop at Harris-Teeter. We needed milk, as usual, and to return a Redbox movie before it became a five dollar rental.

Christmas wreaths have been hung by the HT logo with care. Rows of glittery, plastic tree bulbs and HoHoHo mugs and red stockings are piled on shelves at the front of the store. And I think, I think, I saw packages of red and green M&Ms.

I am not ready.

The Overmountain Trail 25K is in 6 days. Trail pal and I will be heading for the mountains in 5 days. We hit the trails at the Whitewater Center this morning for a brisk 12ish miles. My car said it was 36 degrees with a snowflake icon, in case I missed the point that 36 means cold. But that was just fine by me and my legs. I had unearthed an excellent pair of Adidas running tights from Mark's trusty running garb drawer. They're slick. They're shiny. They're warm. Perfect for chilly mountain running.

I am ready.

It's Not Really Fire, It's a Fruit Roll-Up

A fire-breathing dragon cake...

...for one very special birthday boy.

At various times throughout the day, Heath has said, I'm four. I was three, and now I'm four. Sometimes he would hold up three fingers, then four. Sometimes he would count to four. And everytime, he said it with an air of amazement, like it's even shocking to him that he could possibly be so very old.

I know the feeling. I still can't believe it.

But I can celebrate it. And celebrate it, we did. All day long.

He has been anticipating this day for weeks now. And he had three requests for this special deal. 1) A party with his friends. 2) A party with basketball playing and a bouncy house. And 3) A Dragon Cake. A red, wait, no, orange. No, blue. No, no, yellow. No, orange. No, red. No, orange dragon cake. Made with Tootsie Rolls and Hummus.

I am all about accommodating as many requests as possible for my children, within reason, of course. But a hummus cake? Hmmm...that's going in the unreasonable pile.

We managed everything else, though. So after a morning of Heath inquiring how much longer until we go to my party, we went, and we gathered with his friends and family. Basketball was played. A house was bounced in. A little bowling ball was tossed into some easy, free-flying pins. And a dragon cake--orange, no hummus (at least not in the cake), with a tootsie roll nose--was happily consumed.

When his sweet, little friends departed, and we were heading to the car, a beaming Heath proclaimed, That was a GREAT party.

I am so glad my sweet boy thought so. My sweet boy who was three, but is now four years old.

That's going to take some getting used to.

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

I was the den mother for Heath's class today. The cooking volunteer, to be exact. We made Yogurt Parfaits. Heath misunderstood me when we were heading out the door this morning and thought I said, Carfaits. Needless to say, he was a bit bummed that layering vanilla yogurt, granola, blueberries, and strawberries did not include a single car. I suppose he thought we would dump out all the yummies and run Matchbox cars through it.

But we didn't. While he didn't pay much attention to the yogurt delight while we were in the classroom, he did, however, have his interest peaked on the ride home. He managed to inhale what was left of the blueberries, straight out of the bag, leaving his face tinged blue, looking very much like Willy Wonka's Violet Beauregard.

I got invited into the Boy's Only Club while I was in class. Because Heath is your brother, the little guys explained.

What do the boys do in the club? I inquired.

They drink wine and watch football.

You're Everything a Big, Bad Wolf Could Want...

My mom emailed me this picture tonight. I don't know why it strikes me as shocking that it's Heath. I keep obsessively staring at it. He was, I think, 11 months old. He was walking, but not steadily. There was no Stella. Not even pregnant with Stella at that point. I think it stuns me how much a child grows in such a short amount of time. Three years pass by, and next thing you know...



...you've got this guy, who clearly needs more candy.

Being Spider-Man for 48 hours isn't for the faint of heart. As a matter of fact, it left poor Heath feeling a little puny. He woke up early this morning, complaining about being too tired, and coughing, and not wanting to go to school. I thought staying home to rest would be helpful.

And it would be. If he would rest. Instead, he was just under the weather enough to be irritable and agitated and cranky, but well enough to do everything he could do to drive Stella zany. (Before anyone says, Poor Stella, let's remember she is becoming the master of her own Heath Goat Getting Skills. And get his goat, she does.) Most of my day was spent keeping them off of each other. And repeating, Please stop that. Please don't rip that. Please get off your sister's neck. Please stop tapping your foot on Heath. Please give that back to (insert child's name here). No, you can't have anymore candy.

Just when I was thinking we would boycott Halloween next year, Heath informed me he already knows what he wants to be. Little Red Riding Hood.

I wouldn't mind seeing that.

It's Party Time is Code for I'll Be Asleep in Ten Minutes

Spidey chasing a pillaging Viking.

Who needs a mask when you can just cover your face with your hands.

Meandering her way down Candy Lane.

The parade. Way ahead. Stella and me. Way in the back. She took her time getting her treats.

Mark just informed me It's party time. Not entirely sure what he has in mind. Currently he is flipping back and forth between Ballroom Dancing on PBS and games of the football and baseball variety. He must be referring to the Edy's Hot Cocoa ice cream thawing on the kitchen counter and the Horror movie, Session 9, sitting on top of our DVD. It's the Eve of Halloween, after all.

Our Boo-tastic weekend has certainly been jam-packed already. We kicked Friday morning off with an appointment with CMC's Pediatric Infectious Disease group. Creepy, right? Stella has an additional noxious antibiotic to add to her twice a day regimen and a looming second surgery that seems to be dialing in on inevitable.

Being scheduled on the Friday before Halloween is actually the perfect time to visit the practice. You get a brainy doc dressed in an orange wig, oversized orange glasses, and a Fisher Price guitar strapped over his shoulder. He looked a cross between Bozo the Clown and a member of Deee-Lite, the long defunct house/dance music group from the early 90's. You also get more than your fair share of candy while they poke you with big needles and draw more blood than you can imagine a tiny girl having in her body.

I managed to throw a 13ish mile trail run in this morning. It was just what this mommy needed to face the afternoon of power outage, no naps, and buzzing children wanting 4:30 to desperately get here so they can dress up in a costume, wander down a neighborhood street, and get lots and lots of treats.

Some time ago, HeHe gave Heath a Spider-Man costume. Some time more recently, Heath talked Mark into getting a Batman costume. And some time even more recently, Heath tried to talk me into getting an Iron Man costume. Or Bakugan costume. Or Snow White costume. Or Cat in the Hat costume. Or some other costume, any other costume, besides Spider-Man or Batman. I held firm--Batman or Spider-Man. Those are your choices. And how nice to have two to choose from.

At 4:20, he made his choice. Spider-Man. No mask. And if anyone wants to know what footwear Spidey wears--running shoes. To run so fast after bad guys.

Stella was, of course, a Pumpkin.

The cutest, I mean, scariest couple of Vikings I have ever seen showed up at our house with their Viking mom and beleaguered Cameraman dad. We all made our way to the start of the neighborhood parade, led by our neighborhood Fire Truck, good ole #16. Stella and I were the caboose of the parade. She preferred stopping at each driveway to collect a piece of candy, then ask me to open it. I would say, No, let's wait until the end of the parade. And we would SLOWLY walk to the next basket, while she would proceed to try to eat the candy anyway, wrapper and all, until we reached the next driveway or person with a bowl of candy.

Heath was ahead with Mark and our friends. When we met at the end of the street, it was clear he had managed to hit all the candy bowls, and had also managed to quickly sneak a few pieces of chocolate in. No naps, jacked up on candy--party, indeed. (I think the party Mark may be referring to is the sound of sleeping children.)

The celebration continues tomorrow with a Halloween party in the morning at a preschool pal's house. We'll see if Spider-Man goes, or if Bruce Wayne will emerge from the Batcave as Batman. Either way, going out again tomorrow evening to collect more candy feels daunting at the moment. I'm starting to think Clover, SC had a good idea with Saturday night Trick-or-Treating.