The Hills Are Alive With the Sound of Sledding

After a 2 day running respite, the family said so what? to the icy roads and headed out into the amazing sun. There's something brilliant about the sun bouncing off the white snow/ice. I practically needed sunglasses. Our road wasn't so bad. Mostly slush. But we crossed Sharon and headed into a wooded, hilly terrain that will lead you to believe that you aren't in Charlotte anymore. These babies were solid ice. I found myself secure for a few moments, then Sliiiiide. Stable. Sliiiiide. I finally jogged off the pavement, or at least what I think was pavement, in search of more snow-solid off-road patches.

At the very moment I had a morbid thought of Mark suddenly slipping and losing control of the baby jogger, I saw him wrap the safety strap around his wrist. I think this was the first time we ever used it.

One of the more impressive hills, one that isn't taken lightly in the best of circumstances, was completely covered with a thick sheet of ice. When we came to the corner, we were met by the sound of a whizzing sled. The person on their belly was so quick all we could make out was a purple jacket. Of course we suspected that it was one brave little girl. You can imagine our surprise when we discovered it was a woman well into her 50s. The AT&T truck ruined my hill with the chains, she said, pointing to the intrusive van at the top of the hill. But this didn't stop her from heading back down again.

She wasn't the only ole timer getting their kicks on the very cool wooden flyers. We discovered a man in his 70s sledding down an equally admirable slope. I can't find any kids to play with, he laughed. He plopped his belly down on the slats, gave himself a little push, and zoom! He was off. Down the hill, round the bend and out of sight.

Eventually we made it back to our house and found a large crowd of folks sledding at the end of a nearby cul-de-sac. Heath and Mark were all prepared to give the ole cookie sheet a whirl, but some kind neighbors let them take a number of turns on a real deal sled. Once again all the great snow play and fantastic sunshine did a number on Mr. Heath. After a hearty lunch of ham rolls and grapes, he insisted on putting on his cozy, fire trucks--his fleece pajamas that were fresh out of the dryer. Without a word, he was out in seconds flat. Lovely, lovely hour and a half nap for the little guy.

Speaking of lovely, Aunt Debbie and Goma volunteered to watch Heath and Stella tonight while we went out for some much-needed alone time. We ate Italian, then stopped at Caribou for tea and coffee. Mark and I courted one another in many local coffee shops all over Charlotte. It's still my absolute favorite date.

I feel almost refreshed. Good thing, too. No preschool tomorrow.

Ice, Ice, Baby

Once again, Heath and I were moments away from leaving a friend's birthday party with my mommy dignity in tact, when WHAM! A police car in Heath's hand makes contact with a fellow playmate's face. Good grief. Just when I thought I had learned my lesson in the value of an early exit. And I knew I was pushing my luck when I heard it was minutes away from noon, and we'd been there for an hour and a half without incident.

I'm finding it a little easier to recover from such moments. It used to be unbearable, now it just stings with an annoying embarrassment. There's just something about it when these things happen with Heath, they feel so personal. Like I just must be doing something wrong. Some sort inept thing in me as a mom. Maybe it's because he's my first. Maybe it's because he's a boy. Maybe it's because I'm a neurotic freak. I don't know. I know I don't feel it with Stella. Her cries, whines, meltdowns and dissatisfactions don't hit me the way that Heath's do. With her, when she goes boneless at the Blockbuster and starts to scream bloodymurder because I won't let her rearrange the New Release wall, I don't think, Man, what am I doing wrong? What can I do to stop this? Oh no, everyone is looking. I see it for what it is, growing pains of a 16 month old, and I am ruining her good time. But with Heath, that's not my natural instinct.

When we woke up this morning and saw the condition of the weather outside, we weren't even sure that the party was going to happen. It was also going to be a two birthday party day. One in the morning and one in the afternoon. A scenario that I was a little nervous about. An overwhelmed and overstimulated Heath is tricky. The afternoon party was cancelled, but we were on for the morning at Noah's Art.

When there's talk of ice on the road, I don't drive. Mark helped me coat-up and load-up the kiddies into the car and headed out into the sleety-icy-slush. The party was great. The kids made spaceship hats. Heath kept calling them space alium hats. They painted pictures of rocketships and made robots. When Mark and Stella picked us up, Heath let Stella carry the red balloon party gift. I could barely pry it from her hands so she could eat her lunch and take her nap. I eventually had to tie it to her jacket so it wouldn't get away.

After a morning of playing in the snow, Heath was already pink-cheeked and sleepy looking while we were on our way to the party, so I thought a late-morning birthday celebration and rocketship art would surely be the ticket to a lovely, lazy Saturday nap. Sure enough, the little bear fell asleep. It was only 45 minutes, but after the week we've had, I'll take it.

After our short, but cozy nap, we got back outside to do some sledding like I used to do when I was little--on a baking cookie sheet. It's slick, it's fast, and on our decent hill of a backyard, it's downright daredevilish. Heath and Mark loved it. The more Heath slid off and rolled around, the more it thrilled him. Just when I thought he surely hurt himself, he would quickly recover and jump back on for one more turn. Stella, who does not own appropriate winter shoes, stood frozen in her wet Robeez, her red balloon waving in the chilly wind.

We braved the even icier roads and got a movie and Thai food. I picked out Motherhood with Uma Thurman and Anthony Edwards. It was a hasty, not well-thoughtout decision at all. I thought it might be light and breezily funny. Now I'm afraid it might just be not good.

My Tom Yum soup and Pad Kee Mao, now, that was good.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

Much better day. Heath helped me make potato soup this morning. He's becoming quite the little chef. He particularly liked washing the potatoes and adding the dashes of salt and pepper. At some point Mark called and suggested we not wait to do a weekend grocery store trip, in light of the possible snow and ice. I think I got hoodwinked into taking care of the dreaded task.

It wasn't so bad in terms of moods. Mine and the kids. But it was insanely crowded for a Friday morning. Everyone was buying milk and bread and beer and wine and ice cream and all those things that a person might need to hunker down for a winter storm. Too bad we won't get one.

But it was all very reminiscient of growing up here in Charlotte. These were days before Harris-Teeter and Trader Joe's. Food Lion was called Food Town, and they hadn't been busted for bleaching bad meat yet. Winn-Dixie was a popular choice, as well. That's where my mom shopped and anytime the threat of storm approached, you better believe we headed to the Winn-Dixie for bread and milk. I remember the shelves being completely wiped clean. And once a year, the predictions were true. We would get snow. A lot of snow. And school would be out for a week. And the world would just kind of, stop. I miss those days.

I got a surprise call from a friend this afternoon. She and her husband were in need of a sitter this evening for their 2 and a half year old. Heath and Stella joined me for the first hour of my time, and were terribly sad to head back home with Daddy. After the sweet little girl went to bed, I obsessively scrolled through many, many cable channels, lighting on nothing for very long.

I watched Grease, Along Came Polly, and Great Expectations. Then I turned to MTV and watched My Life as Liz and Teen Mom. These shows made me feel incredibly grateful that our children are 3 and 1. I am not at all prepared for teenagers.

Who knows, maybe it will snow all night and we'll wake up to wintery quiet that only snow can bring.

Thank You, Mr. Interior Monologue

Disagreeable, teething toddler. Clocked in the mouth by a monster truck. Day 4 of Heath's nap fast. A visit to the park that resulted in multiple egregious acts and one lame attempt at a public time-out. The mail came unusually early. Not such a problem, except I was late getting the return Netflix envelope out. Snookered into eating out at Salsa's with two (make that three... Okay, four) overtired children. And J.D. Salinger died.

Not too long ago I read something, somewhere, about a woman who would go through her day saying, I get to...instead of, I have to. Apparently this simple twist in phrasing was enough to change her perception, her heart, and her day.

So, let me try this again.

I played in the backyard with Heath and Stella this morning, taking advantage of the bright sunshine. Heath wanted to play hide-and-seek. He's terrible at it. I would hide my eyes and count to ten. Ready or not, here I come.

I'm right here, you found me, he would immediately yell. He hadn't moved anywhere. Stella didn't help much either. She would stand by him while I counted, saying, Bubba, Bubba.

After a nearly warm 3.6 run today, we met our friends at the park. It was crowded for the first time in a while. Shortly into our visit, Heath pushed Stella down. Before I said a word, he started heavy breathing and puffing his cheeks. He was overwhelmed and finding his breath.

And I didn't have to cook dinner or clean anything up. Kiddies in bed by 8pm and 30 Rock is on tonight.

I get to try it all again tomorrow.

The State of the Nap 2010

We're on day 3 of Heath's nap sabbatical, and I will call it a sabbatical because I refuse to believe that he has suddenly gone cold-turkey and it's never going to happen again. It is slowly, but surely, killing me.

It wouldn't be so bad if 1) he was a child who leaned in the direction of quiet play, 2) Stella didn't enjoy her two-three hour nap at the same time, 3) Stella would enjoy a two-three hour nap when there is something else going on in the house. She won't. If she knows someone is up, she seems to feel the need to join the party. And 4) the evening didn't turn into one cataclysmic meltdown after another when he doesn't nap.

So, Heath and I are basically camping out in my bedroom for 2 hours while I gently coax him into napping. We watch Between the Lions, a soothing choice from PBS. We read a few books. And then I whisper, Okay, we're going to rest. It's the same routine we've praticed every motherflippin' day for who knows how long. And now suddenly, No, thank you, he says. Polite, sure. But maddening, nonetheless.

When my sweet, soft urging falls flat, I move to a different tactic. Bribery. Maybe we'll have some ice cream when we get up from our refreshing nap. Won't that be yummy? Heath, not one to be a foodie, isn't impressed with this offer. Where's Santa?

He's at the North Pole. Maybe we can try to find Santa after our nap, I hopefully suggest, wondering how I'll swing a Santa sighting if this does the trick.

Santa. Ice cream. Playing at the park promise. This kid isn't budging. So I decide, maybe I'll just close my eyes and he'll follow suit, especially if I leave the choice up to him.

Here are the books. You can read through these, and chat with yourself and Puppy, that's fine. Mama's going to shut her eyes for bit. I roll over, feeling a little sure this has done the trick. He's flipping pages and muttering about Chinchillas. I've almost drifted off...

Mama, he whispers. Well, Heath's version of a whisper is more of a breathy, low-toned voice. Mama, you done resting. And that's when I get a finger in my eye and my eyelid is lifted up.

At this point, my only choice is to plead. And when I plead with Heath, the battle is over. And I never win. Please, please, please, let's just take this time to recharge. We'll feel so much better.

You can't say no, mom. This has become a favorite phrase. You can't say no.

I'm not willing to throw in the towel just yet. But everytime I close my eyes, even when I tell him I'm meditating, not sleeping, I get an eyelid jerked-up.

In an effort to preserve at least one child's nap time, my plan tomorrow is to have an even bigger stack of books and a handy remote control for some PBS shows.

Ah, Mark is home. It's ice cream and Six Feet Under time.

Heath, Where's Your Blowhole?

It felt great to run this morning, despite the cold. Sure beats running in the rain. Not to mention the fact that I was pushing only one baby. Stella is a light load.

We're working a new technique to help Heath in his more overwhelmed moments. It consists of little more than getting him to focus on his breath.

I'll do it out of my blowhole, he said, rubbing the top of his head.

I told him that would be fine.

So, this evening, after another no-nap day, we had ample opportunity to say, Heath, where's your breath?

In the middle of a Stella toy-takeover, both kids screaming, I said, Heath, where's your breath? He took a big gulp of air, puffed his cheeks, blew it back out with great force. Then resumed the hostile invasion. I said it again. Heath, where's your breath? He gulped his air. Finally on the third breath-blowing question, he made it into a calmer space.

Meanwhile, during the Heath-breath trial, Stella is running (yes, her shuffle has become a quick-step run) through the kitchen, puffing out her own cheeks, saying, Pfff, pfff, pfff.

Mark said, Stella, where's your breath?

She stopped, hiked up her dress and patted her baby belly.

Netflix came today. More Six Feet Under tonight.

Free the Lobsters!

Oh boy, another no-nap day. The early part of the evening was wrought with meltdowns. Fortunately, none of them were mine. I was very relieved to have somewhere I needed to be this evening, so Daddy was on his own. It's always nice to come home to a quiet house, full of sleeping children.

I can't complain, though, because Heath was downright angelic during my visit at school. I guess he held it all in, leaving himself in a puddle of pent-up emotions when we got home.

The smoothie making was a hit and so fun to watch. They all cut up their fruit with their plastic ware, some using various ends of the knife. Many choosing to toss a little greenery from the strawberry cap into the blender. They huddled up to watch it whirl.

At lunchtime they sit at little tables, on little chairs. Some eat their lunch quietly, taking slow deliberate bites. Others (like mine), seem to STAND BY their chair, as opposed to sitting. They're all pretty silent at first, unpacking everything. Then the chatting begins.

This is my sister's cup. I'm eating all my chips. I have ham rolls. (Mine, again. Heath and those ham rolls.) I like turkey. I like turkey, too.

They discuss the pictures hanging on the walls. Who painted that? What's that say? That's a lobster. Where's the lobster?

There was a poster hanging on a wall with various pictures of sea life. A lobster was in one shot. One little girl was intrigued by the picture of the lobster and had to move in for a closer look. Then she turned to me, got as near to my face as she could, and said:

Some people put lobsters in a pot and they cry so I don't eat lobsters because they are sad in the pot. And they catch the lobsters and put them in the pot. Do you like lobster?

I was very relieved that I don't eat lobster. Not for any humane reason. I simply don't like the taste. No, I don't eat lobster.

She nodded her head. That's good.

I'm glad there wasn't a picture of a dolphin. I would've been busted on the tuna campaign.

Smoothie, Smoothie, Smoothie...and a Whole Lotta Rain

Rain. Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain. Last night I had big plans for running 10 miles in the morning, but when I woke up, guess what I saw? Yep. Rain. I decided to be optimistic, and blind to the weather report for an all day rain, and hoped that it would stop by the time I finished my second cup of coffee. No such luck.

But I'm a lot like the Postal Service when it comes to weather and running. So we geared up and headed out for six. In the cold, annoyingly pelting rain. When I got home I had to ring out my pants. My least favorite kind of run.

We watched Inglorious Basterds last night. I managed to stay awake for the first hour and 4 minutes, but falling asleep was not the fault of the movie. I just couldn't hold my eyelids open anymore, so I got bits and pieces of the rest of the flick. I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised by how much I liked it. I'd been told by a reliable source that it was good. And he shared my "kind of over Tarantino" sentiment, too. Great story line. Brad Pitt as a Smoky Mountain "Point chur fanger here, Nat-zi," character was really well done.

I am the Cooking Mom volunteer at Heath's school tomorrow. Making fruit smoothies with a group of three year olds. Heath is actually very excited that I will be there. When we were at the HT buying all the makings, he explained what we would be doing to the cashier.

That's for smoothies for my class, he said, handing the guy a container of Vanilla yogurt.

Those are strawberries. For smoothies. Those are bananas. For smoothies. Smoothies for my mom and my class. We're making smoothies.

Poor cashier. He wasn't so skilled in feigning enthusiasm for three year old conversation, or our smoothies. I wanted to tell him, If you'll just give him a quick acknowledgement, you won't have to hear the word "smoothie" come out of his mouth again.

It's a Girl!

A great Saturday it has been and it's not even over yet. A friend of mine is due with her third baby (she has twin boys, 3 years old), and she had a fabulous baby shower today. It was a great affair. Delicious lunch. Yummy cake. And loads of pregnancy/infancy/breastfeeding toddler/preschool talk. My friend is also quite the Green Goddess. She used cloth diapers with her twins, and of course, plans to use them for the new baby. Cloth diapers. Cloth... diapers. I thought I was doing well with our Chlorine Free deal. Very impressive. Maybe the only thing more impressive would be the diaper-free infancy I read about a few months before Stella was born. So glad that isn't the AAP recommendation.

I was working on my long overdue Christmas gift thank you notes tonight, looking through my overstuffed and underorganized address book, and stumbled across Stella's ultrasound picture. It was taken September 2, 2008. 23 days before she was born. We had no idea what we were having; we didn't find out the sex with either of our kids. In this picture, her nose is smooshed down, her right fist is in her mouth. It looks just like her. Yet I was convinced she was going to be a boy. So much for mother's intuition.

I'm glad I found this picture tonight. It probably needs to go in a baby book or something. Too bad she doesn't have one. Poor second child. Not that Heath's is much better. He HAS a book. There are SOME things written in it. Things I wrote before he was born. But I never got around to embracing the idea of recording every little milestone. I wish I had. I think I was too tangled up in the day to day nuances that I found it too daunting to step back and observe what was happening. Or maybe the book didn't ask me the right questions.

It did not ask:

What day did your baby turn into a screaming, colicky mess?

Does your baby have any food allergies that are detected in your breastmilk, making it impossible to enjoy the motherly act of nursing, but there is no way you're going to quit, so you'll just take everything out of your diet?

What day did your N-I-P-P-L-E-S finally heal and you didn't wince in agony every time your baby latched on?

Even though they're only 22 months aparts, I find it hard to remember a lot of the details that occured with Heath, as I'm going through them with Stella. I know I gave him rice cereal around 5 months. I did the same with her. I know he was crawling (it was really more of a worm-like motion) some ridiculously early time, like 5 months. She never crawled. She scooted. He was walking way before she did. I think, around 10 or 11 months. He had his first lollipop when he was over two years old. She had hers when she was almost 4 months old. Heath gave her his watermelon flavored Dum-Dum when they were in the baby jogger. When I realized it was in her mouth, she'd already managed to suck most of it away. I've never seen a stickier, or happier, face.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that whether or not I am a good mom isn't contingent on how detailed my baby books are--or that I even have one for all of them.

On an entirely different note, we cashed in on a free New Release at Blockbuster. Inglorious Basterds. We shall see.

Luverly Weekend Time

By Friday I am often left feeling like I've been plowed down by a steam roller multiple times. Thank goodness Mark called on his way home and asked, Should we go out for dinner? Oh yes. Yes, we should.

That shows my level of poopedness. Eating out with Heath and Stella can feel like more of a chore than eating at home. But having to cook and clean up seemed unfathomable tonight. So we headed to our local child-friendly favorite, Eddie's. Their jukebox is loud. Their food is good. And the wait staff thinks our kids are adorable, so they just grin and distract them from whatever misery they are in the middle of making, i.e. not sitting down on their bottoms in a high chair or booth, trying to open every butter/jelly packet, poking a hole in the water-filled Styrofoam cup, screaming at the top of their lungs when I can't get the mac and cheese cooled down fast enough, throwing a fork into the man's plate in the booth behind us, licking the top of the salt and pepper shakers... Fortunately tonight, the food was out quickly and the kids must have been hungry, because it was a relatively event-free dinner.

Stella has quickly embraced walking, so she insisted on exiting on her own, giving the Queen's wave to everyone. Her slow, sideways shuffle (reminiscent of Tim Conway's Old Man character from The Carol Burnett show) has loosened up remarkably. After dinner we walked over to Earth Fare to pick up some milk and she wandered around the store, following behind various people, waving. The EF staff was already in the middle of an Apple Juice bottle display massacre, and I thought, Oh dear, here come the Ropkos to make another mess. (My behind and a recycling bag caused a nasty red wine display disaster not too long ago.)

Other than a few greeting cards being pulled and some rearranged jars of pasta sauce, we almost made it out without a hitch, until I picked Stella up to hurry the process. She went stiff as board with a full-on lung holler throughout the store, out into the parking lot. Her arms and hands flailing. Her little kitty cat claws grasping for any hair or skin she could latch on to.

Oh my, here comes Mark with an overflowing mug of Cherry Cordial ice cream. We've got a Six Feet Under episode to watch, too. All is right with my world.

Welcome Home, Fishers!

After a week long hiatus, thanks to our Netflix queue debacle, the Fishers are back in our lives. We watched the first episode of Season 2 last night and I spent the better part of the day imagining little scenarios that could qualify for Six Feet Under intros.

Out running, pushing the kids in the baby jogger. Heath is taking Stella's blanket and Stella is pulling Heath's hair. I stop to settle down the fuss. As I'm crouched down in front of them, the recycling truck barrels into me.

Andrea Dixon Ropko
1973-2010

Making stir-fry for dinner, I toss veggie peels and ends into the garbage disposal. Oops, the knife falls in. I stick my hand down into the disposal to retrieve it. I don't see that Heath has pushed his kitchen sink handwashing stool over to the counter. Before I can finish screaming no and get my hand out, he flips the switch. I've never taught him to dial 911, and neither can Stella. I bleed to death.

Andrea Dixon Ropko
1973-2010

Sometimes these, hmmm...daydreams?, daymares?, thoughts? happen to people I encounter throughout the day.

Elderly woman with oxygen tank shops at the Fresh Market. As she is exiting the store, her breathing apparatus gets tangled in the cart. The cart tips, her clementines roll out. She shuffles along to retrieve them. Uh-oh. Here comes the Diamond Springs water truck.

Old Lady Whose Rude Utterances Pissed Me Off Today at the Fresh Market
1800-2010

I have to say, I'm enjoying the show even more the second time around. Although when the show originally aired, I liked Brenda. A lot. I would even go so far as to say that I related to her. Well, a part of me did. This time I find her a self-absorbed, annoying drag. Last night when she was all, I'm trying to figure things out, I can't see you, Nate. (I'm paraphrasing here.) Then she's in her living room, dancing around in her yoga lounge wear, smoking pot, listening to music. I thought, Good grief, Nate's a great guy, what is your problem?

I guess that's the thing. I've been that chick, dancing in my living room in yoga lounge wear (probably wasn't yoga lounge wear. Maybe Levi's boyfriend jeans and a tank top), smoking, and listening to music, wondering, What's it all about? Life is so hard. Everybody's so awful. What's their problem? What's my problem?

Not that I don't love her as a character. I do. She's necessary in the mix of folks trying to make sense of their time here.

This week Stella has officially adopted walking as her favorite mode of transportation. Today we went to Michael's to pick out a new house flag. She was thrilled to wander around the store and not ride in a cart. Heath and I were a bit bummed to find not only do they not have any winter-themed flags, they don't have the ole Jolly Roger either. Think I'll have to go online for that one.

We settled for a flag with vibrant pink, green and orange stripes and flowers. Live*Laugh*Love. Much better than a snowman.

Can You Dig It?

Wednesday is usually my day off from running, but when it's nearly 70 in January, I can't resist going out. No gloves, no hats, no jackets. I didn't have to think twice about being sufficiently layered. What a joy.

Do I have to wear socks? Heath asked, when I handed him his Crocs.

Not today. This made him clap.

And no weather shield on the baby jogger. They were so thrilled to have the wind in their hair, they both sat super-straight upright and waved at all the people and cars passing. Hi, they yelled in unison.

I just checked weather.com. 45 and rainy tomorrow. Glad I went. And really glad Heath was able to get out and dig his hole twice today.

My mom brought cherries over today and as they pitted each one, Heath made a pile. Apparently my mom (HeHe) suggested the pits could be planted in a garden. As soon as Heath was set free in the backyard, the digging commenced. Every now and then he would stop his digging, take a step back to survey his work, and say, I'm just digging a hole, mom. Then he would hunker back down and continue the shoveling.

When I told him it was lunchtime, he said, Well, I'm just working on this, but I'll come eat, then I gotta get back to work.

He ate a huge lunch. Four ham rolls, two helpings of macaroni and cheese, and countless apple slices. I'm so hungry from working so hard, he said, rubbing his belly.

Fortunately for me, all that hole diggin' tuckered the little guy out and for the first time in two days, he took a nap. Phew!

What Is Under All that Mouse Fur?

There are certain words that make me blush and cringe and giggle, all at once. They are words that I can barely utter myself, and if someone else says them, I have to break eye contact. Call it immaturity. Label me a prude. But one of these words, a word that when I have to say it, I pause and consider finding a different word in the English language that could be used in its place so that I can avoid that moment of funniness, has become my three year old's favorite word.

Nipple.

There. I typed it.

It isn't terribly surprising that this word and body part has peaked his interest. Stella is still nursing, so it's around. Just last week I got the breastpump out so a friend could borrow it when her baby arrives.

What's this? Heath asked, holding a plastic breastshield.

It's for helping mama's make milk.

For your nipples?

His latest favorite in his Weekly Reader Animals on a Farm series is Cows. There's a picture of a large Holstein with an udder ready to explode, two calves standing by its side.

The baby cows drink mama's milk? he asks, grabbing the book so he can get a closer look at the picture.

Yes.

From its nipples?

In the car yesterday I had a conversation with someone about some special cream I used when Heath was an infant and nursing. I thought he was busy looking for trucks and construction sites, oblivious to my discussion, but apparently he was absorbing every word I said.

Nipple cream, nipple cream, Nip-PLE CREAM! he screamed, as I was unbuckling him out of his car seat. He jumped down onto the driveway and stomped his frog boots to the rhythm of his impromptu nipple boogie. NIP-ple cream. NIP! PLE! Cream-creamy!!

After a no nap day, I was super hopeful that he would take one today, but he was in the mood to chat. About nipples.

Does Spider-Man got nipples?

Yes.

Daddy's got nipples?

Yes. Here, let's read this book. I thought I could get him distracted by Mercer Mayer's All By Myself. The mouse dressed in a Police officer's uniform, directing traffic, always stops him in his tracks.

He's not wearing pants. He furrowed his brow and thought for a moment. He got nipples?

I started to say no, but I hesitated. I'm not sure.

Maybe mice do have those BPA and Phthalate Free things that go at the end of baby bottles.

Poo Shoe

I had to stop myself from doing the death-check twice this morning. It's become not uncommon for the kids to wake up around 7:45. In their short histories, this is actually quite late. Heath was a 5:30 riser for a year or so. But today when 8:15 rolled around, then 8:30 hit and still no word from either child, I thought, Oh no! They're dead.

They weren't dead. They were just sleeping in until 8:35. And it's actually no surprise when I remembered that they had a late night and didn't get to bed until 9.

Yesterday afternoon Aunt Debbie, Mark's sister, gave us a call and said that she and Goma (Mark's mom) would watch the kids for us if we wanted to go out. It's always a fabulous offer. We take them over to their house and they eat dinner and have their bath, then we pick them up, take them home and put them to bed. And Heath and Stella get to see some cousins and Sophie the dog and watch a little Nick Jr.

Our date was a Target/dinner combo. Target. Not very romantic, but being able to pick out some clothes for the kids without having to listen to complaints and screechings and beggings for another race car is sanity-saving. Some of Heath's shirts have become almost cropped tops and three-quarter sleeves, so it had to be done.

Dinner was luxurious as well. No kids. No ringing phones. Just sushi and miso soup and tofu and basil. So, so good.

We picked the kids up and headed on home. Very soon after we settled in the car, I noticed a funny smell. Certainly with two small children funny smells aren't unheard of, but when you spend a lot of time dealing with the same children and their funny smells, you kind of "recognize" them. Sort of a signature scent, if you will.

So when Mark said, Did someone poop?

I, without the hesitation, answered, No, no. No one pooped.

I didn't poop, Heath piped up from the back.

But the smell just kept coming and Mark, who has the worst allergies known to man and doesn't have the greatest sniffer, was no help in identifying the source. Well, what is it? Where is it coming from? he demanded. I think my search was starting to annoy him.

I don't know, but it's like something has d-i-e-d. Like an animal or something. The smell is definitely in the behiney family.

Behiney family? Heath inquired. What's the animal in the behiney family?

We concluded that it was something coming from outside and I tried to stop sniffing around. When we arrived home, we gathered the kids and our bags, including our Target bag of goodies, out of the car and into the house.

I walked into the back door, into the light of the kitchen, and that's when I saw it. A mud-type something all over the Target bag. Earlier in the day Heath had been very busy making mud and painting with mud, so I thought maybe I had rubbed the bag against our fence or part of our deck and picked some of it up. I leaned in for a closer look.

That's when I located the source of the smell.

It's poop! There's poop on the bag! Without thinking, I tossed the bag to Mark. I never actually touched the poop, but seeing it caused some sort of instinct to kick in and I had to clean my hands. I put Stella on the floor and raced across the room to the kitchen sink

Mark said, Check your shoes, you've stepped in dog poop. He shook his head with what appeared to be a bemused annoyance. That's something my dad would've done. As if there are certain people who step in dog poop, and then there are those who do not step in dog poop.

Not only have I stepped in the dog poop, I've managed to pretty much track the poop across the floor, and I am feeling somewhat defensive about what happened. I didn't want to step in the poop. And I really didn't want to spend the evening cleaning up the car (because apparently I smeared my shoes all about the passenger side) and the kitchen that is now smothered with stinky dog doo. But there we were. Cleaning dog crap. Trying to keep Stella from walking or scooting in it. Heath saying, Where's the dog poop? Where'd you get that dog poop? You got dog poop?

We didn't get everything cleaned, though. This morning as I headed out the door to a playdate with the kids, Heath spotted my doodie slathered hiking shoe sitting suspiciously by itself on the back stoop.

That shoe got pooped on, he said, stopping to check the bottoms of his frog boots. My shoes didn't get pooped on.

Gu Me

Why I chose to stay up until one o'clock in the morning the night before I was going to do my 10 miles is beyond me. As far as irresponsible things I have done, this doesn't even register on the list. But still...refreshed, I was not.

I could blame it on staying up to watch The Darjeeling Limited. I was so smitten with the movie, I stayed snuggled up with it for a good half hour after that. The characters are so regularly irregular and vulnerably feisty. If Wes Anderson's films were a hot sauce, I'd get a special belt buckle so I can take it everywhere I go, and shake a dash or two of it on everything. The soundtracks linger with me for days. If I could purchase that feeling from a Pottery Barn catalog, I'd decorate my entire house in it.

We were actually finished with the movie by 11pm, but I decided to stay up and watch SNL. I was hoping there might be an Andy Samberg hip hop song I could obsessively You Tube all week, but no such luck. As a matter of fact, I think I started to drift off sometime around midnight, when suddenly a delightfully different sound pulled me back from sleep. The band was quite peppy and catchy, but not overtly Pop-ish. I found myself interested in staying up to see their second act. This was even better with the tinny guitar sound, not unlike the tinny guitar sound in The Rolling Stones Play with Fire that was featured in Darjeeling.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm a lot like an old fart in that I frequently find myself saying, They just don't make music like they used to. And, for me, used to, covers a lot of time ground. I still don't think I'm quite over the grunge period of the 90s. And I am definitely not moved like I am when I listen to Pink Floyd's The Wall. As far as new stuff goes, if it ain't Radiohead, it ain't much.

But The Ting Tings got me. The Ting Tings got me to stay up until 1am. Only crying babies have succeeded in doing that for over three years now.

Fortunately, going to sleep at 1 is nothing a couple of cups of coffee won't cure. So I made it out for my 10 miles. I was grateful to have company for the first six. Mark pushed the kids in the baby jogger. When we parted ways, he insisted I have some water and Gu. Gu is disGUsting. This one was Vanilla. Very reminiscient of a Charleston Chew, with a snot-like texture. Not my idea of refreshing. But I guess it did the trick, because I zoomed along for another 4 and felt remarkably well. When I returned home, Heath greeted me outside, smothered in mud. I'm painting, come see my painting, he said, holding out his sopping, dirt-covered hands.

But I am starting to feel the mush brain. As Stella would say, Nigh-nigh.

Beaucoup de bruit pour rien

I had a lovely self-indulgent morning of eyebrow waxing and hairtrimming. I'd barely noticed that I'd been perusing a copy of French Vogue for ten minutes, trying to see how much French I remember from high school (pas beaucoup), when the esthetician came rushing over. Sorry, sorry. My client before you had a baby two months ago and hasn't been able to make it over, so... I was relieved that she'd just dealt with hacking through a brow forest; maybe mine wouldn't seem so out of control.

To really make me feel like I haven't a care in the world, Mark braved the HT with the kids and got our groceries. Phew!

And, AND! I used a Blockbuster coupon and rented The Darjeeling Limited...for FREE! I have such a crush on Wes Anderson's films.

Tomorrow is the big 10 miles.

At Least It Wasn't Freezing Outside Today

Coffee drinkers will agree that the first cup in the morning is as delightful as it is just down right necessary. Mine was knocked over when Heath began his day with a run-crash maneuver into my bedside table.

In terms of rambunctious physical behavior, the day didn't improve from that moment. The back door was repeatedly banged into the wall; paint and plaster pieces crashing down. The fire fighter ax was beaten into any piece of furniture, wall, or sibling head that crossed its path. Playmates were pushed. Stella toys were ripped from her innocent grip (x 100). Heath toys crashed into Stella (x 100). The bathroom wall was peed on. And it was all accompanied by call of the wild screaming.

And that's just the stuff I can remember, and can even bring myself to type; my brain is officially mush.

Mo', mama, Stella said, when I gave her goodnight kisses.

I love you so, mom, Heath said, when I gave him goodnight kisses.

Slate completely wiped clean.

And here comes my mug o' ice cream. All is well.

Glass Houses

We are no longer on for the Myrtle Beach full and half, and have moved our sights onto the March 6th Charlotte race. When we tried to register a couple of weeks ago we were stunned to find that MB was already full. Maybe with the few extra weeks of training, I will win.

And everyone is clear that when I say "we" registered too late...

I was all ready to sink my teeth into some more Six Feet Under tonight. I even found myself racing to the mailbox this afternoon, practically giddy when I saw the red envelope. Holding Stella with one hand, I eagerly ripped it open with the other, and...Reno 911! RENO 911!!!! What the what?!?!

In disbelief, I raced inside to check the computer. There must've been some sort of computer glitch. Or, I know, someone got our Netflix account information, went online, and totally jumbled up our queue, just to mess with my life.

Heath, who had been in his fire fighter uniform most of the day, was intrigued by my frantic need to log on. It's an emergency, I told him.

I'll get my fire extinguisher, he said, racing off. He, in fact, did return with his fire extinguisher, and his ax.

Before I even finished typing in our password, I remembered what happened. I forgot to move Seasons 2-5 to the top of our queue. I went ahead and made the necessary changes so we can be back on with the funeral home freaks on Monday. I even let Heath smack the computer a couple of times with his ax before I told him to stop.

So, we're racing in Charlotte in March and we'll be watching Reno 911! Season 2: Disc 1 tonight. I could use a good belly laugh, I suppose. Besides, if that's as disappointing as it gets, that's not so bad.

A Boatload of Sushi

Well, Mr. Heath has done it again. He has managed to get a cold and spread the love all over us. My nose is now not working. Oh well, at least it's not stomach-related. I'm thinking we're good to go on that front until next year. Knock some wood.

I am so glad the kiddies are in bed. Heath was in no mood to take a nap this afternoon, so the late afternoon and early evening have left me feeling like I was hit by a three year old Mack truck. He was literally punchy and everything was wrong and unacceptable. For both of us. There were multiple time outs. For both of us.

Oh my, Mark has surprised me with some Cookie Dough ice cream. That makes everything better.

Wednesday is my day off from running. I have to say that I am looking very forward to getting out tomorrow and doing my 3.6 loop. The high is supposed to be 54. That's practically sweltering.

Oh my word, the evening just keeps getting better. Turns out there's some Chocolate Fudge Brownie mixed in with the Cookie Dough. Too bad we're in between Netflix discs. Hopefully we will be getting more Six Feet Under tomorrow. I am officially reobsessed with this show.

I am thinking me and the Mr. are way overdue for a night out. Visions of a sushi boat at Nikko's and eating without tending to anyone other than myself is in order.

Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy (and Well-Groomed) Mom

It's really no secret that I am a huge, BIG fan of getting my eyebrows waxed. I think it's one of the easiest, least expensive things a person can do to feel completely pampered. Most of the spa rooms are candlelit and smell like eucalyptus and tea tree oil. They always have soft music playing, maybe even sounds of nature sweeping through the room. Not to mention the fact that it really "awakens" the face, and for someone like me, who is going on nearly two decades of not the greatest sleep, I like this fact.

It's no secret, but it may be a lesser known fact that in order to get Heath to take a nap, I let him lie down in our bed. And if he is really going to go to sleep, I have to lie down with him. Sometimes I use this time to steal a few zzz's myself, or I meditate, or I get up and go about my business after he's fallen asleep. This is a habit that started, well, it's a habit that started when he came home from the hospital.

Heath was a sleep fighter the minute he came out of the, uh, gate. He loved to cat nap. Twenty minutes here. An hour there. Desperate, we searched out every trick we could use to get him to sleep. Someone told us about swinging. We purchased a Fisher-Price Papasan swing. He would only sleep if it rocked side to side. Out of the five "music" choices, the only one that he would fall asleep listening to was the awful sound of crickets and katydids, turned up full-blast. And as soon as the noise stopped, his eyes would immediately pop open and the screaming would commence.

We took him out in the car. He would fall asleep as soon as we rolled out of the driveway, and he would crank up again just as quick if we had to stop at a red light. We did this so often that we were able to fine tune the process. Routes that didn't include stop lights. Loud 70s rock, preferably Lynyrd Skynyrd, would keep him from waking. And while this was super helpful for getting Heath some beauty sleep, Mark and I were sleep-deprived zombies, driving aimlessly around the streets of Charlotte.

Desperate, I consulted many books. Solve Your Child's Sleep Problems. Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child. The No-Cry Sleep Solution. They all told me the same thing. Everything you're doing is wrong, and you are never going to sleep ever again.

And then one night, Christmas Eve to be exact, Santa brought me a gift. Heath fell asleep while nursing and I sat back on the bed, Heath on my chest, and I fell asleep. I think it was a total of five hours. I was a brand new woman. A brand new woman who believed the only way her baby was ever going to sleep was by keeping him on her chest at night. And so that is how I slept for the next nine or so months. With Heath. On my person.

When I didn't think I could get anymore batpoop crazy, I reconsulted those books and settled in on my own combination of suggestions. The first night we put him in his crib was excruciating. Mark and I sat in our bedroom and listened to Heath cry for two and a half hours. Mark would go in every ten minutes to rub his back and tell him that we loved him. The next night, twenty minutes. The night after that, not even one minute. And it's never been an issue again.

So, today at nap time, after reading Hippos Go Berserk, for the third and final time, Heath yawned and clutched Puppy, all the classic signs that he was ready to drift off. But then he said, Let's talk.

I thought I would indulge him for just a moment. What do you want to talk about?

You have pretty eyes, he said. Before I could be truly touched by such a sweet notion and say thank you, he said, Your eyebrows need a haircut.

It's time to rest, I whispered. He buried his head into Puppy's face and was immediately asleep.

Good thing I have an appointment on Saturday to take care of these squirrel tails napping on my forehead.

Tidbits du Jour

When I picked up Heath from school today he was unusually forthcoming with what had happened while he was there.

We cooked eggs. I ran with the bad guys. So and so cried. So and so was angry. So and so was angry and wouldn't play with me. I built a downtown, then knocked it down.

I pressed him for details. Were the eggs scrambled? Were you a bad guy? Why did they cry? Why were they angry? Were you sad that they wouldn't play with you? How many buildings were in your downtown?

Silence. Then, I didn't finish my ham rolls. I'll eat them now. And he unzipped his Fire Truck lunch box and dug into rolled up deli meat.

I guess I should be grateful for the tidbits of information he gives, when he gives them.

Stella really got brave with her walking today. Many, many unassisted steps were taken. Even Heath was impressed. Look, mom! She's not holding anything!

Darn that Six Feet Under we're getting from Netflix. I have to go watch it now. Mark just asked if Heath has messed with the thermostat. Probably. He messes with everything.

It's on 67, he said.

Oh, I did that. Like Jimmy Carter said.

Well, I just put it back on 70, like Ronald Reagan.

Memories...Like the Corners of My Mind...

Okay, so I can barely concentrate on this blog because of a silly little 20 year anniversary show for The Simpsons. D'oh! It makes me feel quite old. Not because of the 20 years, but because this is the second time today that I have had a Has it been X amount of years? moment.

The first happened while I was six miles into my 8 mile run this morning. Still, it was pretty cold this morning, cold enough to spot a frozen patch of ice and for some reason I thought about the time I slipped on some ice in the parking lot of Bub O'Malley's, landed on a wooden post and cracked a couple of ribs.

Then I tried to remember exactly when this happened. I know it was January, because it was the start of a new semester. But did it happen before Kurt Cobain died or after. Why his death is such a time marker for me, I'll never quite understand.

I smoked Camel Lights back then and obsessively used the stair master at the Student Rec Center. My Sports Walkman was bright yellow and waterproof and I always listened to mixed tapes I spent hours making.

It was after Kurt Cobain died. January 1996 and I was living in an apartment on Airport Road, trying desperately to finish my undergrad degree. One last class. Logic. This was the second time I'd taken Logic. The first time was actually another Bub O'Malley's related debacle.

The night before the final exam I thought it would be reasonable, perhaps, Logical, to study for my Logic exam at Bub O'Malley's. They had big, dark booths. It smelled like skunk beer, but I rather enjoyed that fragrance. And if I'm not mistaken, they had a cigarette machine that took quarters.

I never made it to that exam the next morning. That was 15 years ago.

The cracked ribs--14 years ago.

I finished my 8 miles feeling quite good, ready to try for ten next weekend. The family went to a postponed New Year's party at Mr. Cleve's this evening. The kids had a great time and were definitely ready for bed.

I, myself, am ready to watch an episode of Six Feet Under.

Sometimes it's just about the weather, and chili, and colds

Another brrr chilly 3.6 this morning. This time we did stop at the park and let the kiddies out to play. Heath enjoyed a great game of chase with Daddy. I don't know if she was too cold, or her coat is so impossibly big that she couldn't move, but Miss Stella sat perched on top of a slide, watching the action. I asked her if she wanted to run. Yeah, yeah, she answered, but she didn't move. Their cheeks were so perfectly rosy when we made it home for lunch.

While we were sitting at the table eating lunch together, I suggested making a pot of chili for dinner. Must've sounded good, because Mark immediately headed out the door to the HT for the ingredients. We made it with Boca crumbles, black and kidney beans. It was quite yummy, if I say so myself. I'm already looking forward to leftovers tomorrow.

I'm afraid Heath may be getting a cold. After his nap, he complained that his nose isn't working and asked for a tissue. He still doesn't seem to get the idea that you hold the tissue over your nose, blow, wipe, then discard. His method is more of a pick, blow, wave the tissue about his nose area, then wipe his nose with his shirt sleeve. Or better yet, wipe his nose on MY shirt sleeve.

Speaking of cold and tomorrow, I plan to do my long run in the morning. 8 miles.

Six Feet Under episodes and a mug of Bunny Tracks ice cream are waiting for me.

The Color Glitter

It was a brisk 22 degrees when I woke up this morning and a scorching 26 when I decided to bundle the kiddoes up and run my 3.6 mile loop. I am really missing the days of summer when I could just toss them into the baby jogger. No shoes? No worries. Still in your pjs? No one will ever know. Now it's pants, long sleeve shirts, shoes, socks, hats, gloves, blankets, and good grief, their giant puffy coats. These beasts are so stuffed their arms barely fit through the straps, and getting the buckles locked is maddening. Once I get them into their seats, wrap the blankets around their bodies, shove Puppy and Miss BunBun into a space for cuddlin', load them up with snacks and milk, and strap on the weather shield, I feel like I've already had a workout.

Heath was particularly cantankerous about going today, because the promise of stopping at the park at the end of my run was not extended. Thank goodness for those blasted Dora Fruit Snacks. When I told him he and Stella could have some, he happily strapped on one Frog and one Fire Fighter boot, ready to go.

The cold made it a tough run. I was, of course, glad I did it when I was finished, but it took more than half of it to warm up. Fortunately, Heath was in a chatty mood, so that kept my mind off the cold air whipping at my face. That weather shield keeps them oblivious to the cold. It also makes it tough to hear everything he was saying, but I got the gist of it.

When I get older, I'll work on the roof. Maybe Dora will come to my house. You like, Diggers, mom? I'll work on the roof in the digger. Hey, I got an idea. I need a monster truck. A blue, blue, red, red one. And you get one. Yellow and green. And Daddy, too. His will be blay-yack.

And he said it just like that. Blay-yack. Two syllables. Now, I'll be the first to admit, I don't always keep my native Charlottean tongue silent. I let some words have more syllables than are truly necessary, but I know for a fact, the color black is not one of those words.

What color, Heath? I wanted to see if he would say it again.

Blay-yack.

Did you say black?

Yeah, and Gigs will have a monster truck, too.

What color will her truck be? I hoped it would be black. One syllable.

Glitter. Two syllables.

Ho! Ho! Ho! to Yo-Ho-Ho

Christmas is officially over at the Ropko house. Well, I suppose it will be officially, officially over when the Christmas decoration boxes have been moved from the catch-all room to the attic, and Heath stops wandering around singing, Rock and Roll the Christmas tree, have a happy holiday. As of this afternoon not a single blinking light or Santa is in sight. I'd planned to take everything down this weekend, but the poor tree had other plans

While the kids and I were sitting at the table eating lunch yesterday, I glanced over at our Frasier Fir. It was a vibrant green and deliciously fragrant when we selected it at a local lot. North Carolina grown, straight outta Sparta. Now it was drooping and browned, and many of the ornaments were sliding off the down-turned limbs. The time had come to say goodbye.

Stella sat with an incredulous look on her face, and a fir twig casualty hanging out of her mouth, while she watched Heath and I dismantle the tree. Heath was quite the little helper. He carried one ornament at a time over to the kitchen table and placed it in its proper box. This one's really, really fragile, he'd say on every trip. His fire fighter boots were on opposite feet, so I was sure this activity was a broken bulb waiting to happen. When he carried Mark's 26.2 bulb, I was sure it was a goner. Nope. Everyone made it safely back to their home box until we unearth them all again next year.

I think Heath was most sad to see the Peanuts gang Happy Holidays flag hanging in front of our house go. We don't need to take that down, he whined. I told him we could pick out a new flag tomorrow. Something snow related, perhaps. He seemed only vaguely perked up by this idea.

Later in the day he was sitting with his pirate treasure map, muttering about his treasure hunting plans. Then he said, Hey, I got an idea. We can put this flag outside. It was a skull and cross bones flag on the bottom of his map.

I have to say, I am tempted. Argh!

Maybe Gralillas DO wear Underpants?

Despite a no-nap day, it took a little longer to get Heath settled tonight. We had to read an assortment of Weekly Reader books about Black Bears, Tigers, Sharks, Pigs and Gorillas. He insisted on returning to the picture of the Gralilla's bottom, inquiring, Do Gralillas poop? Yes. But Gralillas don't wear underpants? No.

Heath has become quite a fan of underpants. I say this with odd delight, because for a while I was wondering if he was going to have to go commando the rest of his life. Sure, there are worse things, but I just kept imagining him in certain situations and finding himself embarrassed that he didn't have on underpants. Why aren't you wearing underpants? someone would ask. My mom potty-trained me using the naked method and never insisted I learn the joy of having cloth between my pants and my privates. Typical Heath style, this "problem" resolved itself. And typical Heath style, resolved itself, then went somewhat haywire in the opposite direction.

You don't need to wear two pair of underpants. This is what I had to tell him just before he went to bed tonight.

I do, I do. I need Batman on the motorcycle AND Batman flying over downtown.

Now, as I'm writing this, I am realizing, two pair of underpants? So what? Let him wear two pair of underpants. But again, in these moments of supremely odd requests, that really aren't odd from a 3 year old who is not only new to Batman, but new to underpants, I am imagining that he is 33 and wearing two pair of Batman underpants and unable to hold down a job BECAUSE he does not have the ability to wear only one pair.

Two pair could be uncomfortable, I reasoned.

Puppy can wear Batman flying over downtown, he decided. He pulled Puppy, his stuffed best friend, out from under his blanket, snickering while I put Downtown Batman drawers on his well-loved furry pet.

Puppy might need two pair of Batman, too.

You only have two pair of Batman underpants. One per puppy and person is plenty. Sleepiness must've set in, because he had no retort.

I turned the light off and kissed his head, taking a few extra seconds to sniff his Orange-Mango scented hair. Post-bath smell is always so good.

As I was closing the door to his bedroom, Heath whispered, We'll have coffee and milk in the morning, Mom, then go to Target and get more Batman underpants.

Scooter

After dropping Heath off at school this morning, Stella and I stopped by Earth Fare to pick up a few essentials--milk, cereal, Ben and Jerry's Half Baked. Pre-Stella I used to think shopping with Heath was impossible, now it's nearly a luxury to have just one child with me.

We returned home from the store and I put the groceries away and cleaned up the breakfast mess that was left when we had to make a mad-dash for school. Stella quickly made her way to the train table and began to play with all of Heath's things that are typically off limits. The Fire Station, fire trucks, Super Hero figures. I can tell that she relishes the moments of solitary play when he's at school, and there was a slight glimmer in her eye while she chewed on Incredible Hulk's green foot. She's usually having a toy swiped from her possession, or is being plowed down by a fire fighter responding to an emergency.

Lately, though, there are some moments of amicable play between the two. It doesn't usually last very long. When they're playing with the doctor's kit and Heath is insisting that the shot device goes in the nose, and I hear him say, Hold still, Gigs, you might need a band-aid after this one, I know this will soon be followed by Stella's cries. But those short moments when I hear them giggle together, or see him hand her a race car, or they're involved in their latest shared activity, chasing each other around the house, each of them holding a push toy, I can't help but feel delighted. A year ago he couldn't be in her presence without presenting her with a kitty cat claw scratch across her face.

From the kitchen I saw Stella let go of the train table, SpiderMan dangling from her mouth. A police car was on a chair about six steps from the table. She wanted it and I could tell she was considering doing her usual plop down on her bottom and scoot like a chimpanzee across the floor.

Then she did it. She took six steps to the chair and grabbed on to the police car, then hunkered down on the floor to safety. These were not her first steps. I've watched her take three here, five there. And these steps she takes, I mean, they are skillful and strong. But her preference is still the bottom scoot.

So she scooted back over to the train table, police car in one hand, SpiderMan and Incredible Hulk hanging from her mouth. She stood up and placed all her goodies on the table beside the fire truck. When she realized she had an audience she looked up at me and gave me her biggest gapped-tooth pumpkin grin.

I saw you walk, I told her.

No, she said and giggled.

Working So Hard

I knew it wasn't going to be an easy feat getting the kids together this morning so I could get Heath to preschool by 9am. After a two week Holiday break, we were a little out of practice getting up at 'em. So I was totally prepared for, I don't want to go to school, when I tried to sneak a t-shirt over his head, while shoving a mini-waffle into his palm. For some reason I thought I could get him fed, dressed and into the car without him realizing what was happening until we pulled into the school parking lot.

Magically, and through no reasoning, cajoling or trickery of my own, something must've clicked in Heath's mind, because he said, I need to get back to school. I got work to do.

And just like that, he dressed himself, happily chowed down an additional waffle and banana, and even put on his Fire Fighter boots without having to be told multiple times then thrown in the car without shoes, because it's growing later and later.

I got him strapped into his carseat while he rattled off his work plans for the day, including various classmates he planned to work with. Maybe I'll get the digger and go to the landfill. He looked over at Stella and said, I gotta go to school, Gigs. I got work to do.

I am not entirely sure how Heath's "working" obsession started. I've occasionally wondered if it blossomed when I was pregnant with him during the time period I, for some unknown reason, listened to Workingman's Dead on my iPod over and over. I've been balling a shiny black steel jack-hammer/Been chipping up rocks for the great highway. Maybe the messages of the working man's plight traveled from my headphones down to his tiny, newly formed ear buds. Now I don't know but I've been told/If the horse don't pull you got to carry the load. Of course, Mark's in the construction business so it's more likely that household Nextel conversations riddled with early start times and pulling cans with trucks and landfill dumpings talk have been a strong influence.

Heath was right; he had a lot of work to do today at school. As soon as we got to the playground, despite the brrr chilly start to the morning, he was off and running with a soccer ball. He kicked it back and forth a couple of times with a friend, then took a flying leap into a leaf pile.

Stella and I are going to go, I said, thinking we might get a bit of a protest.

Bye, mom, I got work to do. He couldn't even look up from his rake.

I walked back to the car, feeling so pleased that he was such a hard little worker, really enjoying his preschool experience. Thinking about him kicking the soccer ball, I couldn't help but wonder, if he continues his hard work ethics and sporty ways, maybe he'll have a hard choice to make when he gets full academic and athletic scholarships to Chapel Hill, Duke, and Stanford. Of course, I'd really want him to go to Chapel Hill, and it would be really hard for him to be on the other side of the country if he chose Stanford, but we would just have to make sure we could get out there as often as possible. But who knows where Stella will be in school. I mean, she's really taken to that Doctor's kit my parents gave her for Christmas, knows exactly what to do with the blood pressure cuff and everything, so she could be at Yale and Heath could be in California and...

...and then I remembered that Heath hadn't pooped before he left for school. Hopefully he will stop his hard work and go, because I'm not sure if he has an extra pair of pants in his cubby.

Backpack, Backpack...Backpack, Backpack

I don't know how we've made it through three years of parenthood without Dora the Explorer making herself cozy in the Ropko household. Our not having cable has probably been a huge help. Save for a few DVD rentals here and there, we've pretty much escaped many of the popular commercial characters out there. I've heard of The Wonder Pets. I don't know what kind of pets they are, and I have no idea why they are wonderful. It's also probably helpful that my son's run, crash, banshee scream personality persuades him to seek his fun in the form of running with wild abandon outside. Throwing sticks over the fence into the neighbor's yard and "making mud" are great activities.

Don't get me wrong, he's like any other kid who likes to watch television. He just gravitates toward the likes of Thomas the Train. Cinders and ashes! Thomas yells as he crashes over the edge of Farmer McColl's broken bridge into the muddiest of muds. And Curious George. George! Don't climb into that excavator parked at a construction site! His new favorite is The Electric Company. It was actually a personal favorite of mine when I was little, too. I found it delightfully lively in a way that Mr. Rogers wasn't. Hey you guys! So mysterious and nearly spooky with the shadowed profiles. Sh. Ut. Shut. (They still build the words, only now the faces are visible.) They still dance. They still sing. Heck, they even have a pretty good beatboxer named Shock. But apparently what has been missing from my son's life is a cute, brown-eyed, adventurous, bilingual girl who wears a purple shirt. Someone he can grow so quickly attached to that he has already pronounced her his girlfriend.

New Year's Day my husband and I took the kids to a local video store. In all honesty, we were looking for something for ourselves, and I foolishly thought we could get out of there without having to rent Hero of the Rails, again. Heath, however, made a quick-dash beeline for the Kids section of the store. As I'm standing in front of Paranormal Activity, trying to decide if I'm willing to be disappointed when it doesn't scare the bejeezus out of me, I feel a tug on my leg.

I want this.

I don't even see the title. Just pink and purple. I must have looked skeptical.

I want this, he says again.

It's not just a Dora DVD. It's Dora's Christmas. Like I said, it was New Year's Day, but I guess you can't blame him. Our tree is still up. The Christmas DVD section is still on major display. It would be too hard to explain to him that I've had my fill of squeaky-voiced characters talking about Santa and elves and presents and reindeer. And I was sure that Dora was going to drive me over the edge. Or at least, the newest edge. Turns out I have a lot of edges.

So Dora came home with us. Turns out there's a lot to like about her. There's a lot of math: counting and sequencing. Over the snowy mountain. Around the blue tunnel. To the duck pond. There are preschool pauses, so there's lots of opportunity to be engaged. What was your favorite part of the adventure? Pause. Pause. Pause. Me, too! Dora and her pals like to sing. Where are we going? Clap, Clap, Clap. To the looney bin. Where are we going? Clap, Clap, Clap. To the looney bin. And who wouldn't want to spend time with a thrill-seeking girl whose best friend is a monkey named Boots.

It's been three days since she arrived and she's really made quite an impression. As I was heading out the door on my 8-mile run, Heath said, Mom, I need new, new red, red boots and a purple jacket, like Dora and Boots. 5 miles into my run, I'd finally settled into my groove, my feet rhythmically bouncing off the sidewalk. I found myself singing, Backpack, backpack...backpack, backpack. 7.6 miles into the run, my husband drives by in the station wagon on the way back home from the grocery store. Heath is hanging out of the car window holding a box of what I can only guess is some sort of snack void of any nutritional value. Mom, he yells. I got Dora fruit snacks!

I think Dora is due back at the video store tomorrow.

How are you on your bedding?

My husband is a funny bird. His enthusiasm crops up in the most unlikely places. Seeing a hawk in a backyard makes him squeal like a little girl. A man doing 100 push-ups in one minute and twenty-five seconds. "I challenge you to find anyone who can beat that?!" When I originally mentioned that we could use a new bedspread, it was pretty much met with silence. Maybe a half-hearted, Mm-hmm, was about all he mustered.

New Year's Day, during our morning 3.6 mile baby jog, I told him we should go to Dillard's and check out their comforters. I figured they might have some decent post-Christmas sales, not to mention the fact that I had exchanged some exercise clothes I'd gotten for Christmas and had $17.00 on a gift card. I thought he could keep an eye on the kids and I could make a quick, but well thought-out decision. And hopefully, he wouldn't do too much heavy sighing and wondering how long we were going to be there.

I immediately found a few comforters with the chocolate brown and blue I like, and was even more pleased to find that they were marked down an additional 50% off. I took a moment to look around and take stock of where my husband and children are, here comes a man, barreling through the store with an arm load of comforters. I can't even see his face, I just recognize the running shoes. He drops a lovely espresso duvet that's blocking his face and says, Do you realize what is happening here? I mean, they are already marked down, but then you take an additional 50% off. We should get one for the bedroom downstairs. Do you think your parents need one? Should we call them? We could get some and give them as presents next year.

I was glad to see he was excited, but we don't need three new comforters.

Look at this. Don't you see? It's $80. Then 50% off of that. That's $40.

I managed to get us out of there with the one comforter we needed. I did, however, let him talk me into some new sheets, and I am so glad he did. They are delightfully soft. (And only $25. Originally $70.)

His excitement hasn't died down, though. He's letting everyone know about the amazing deal at Dillard's. Everyone he's talked to on the phone, or seen in person has received the same question today. How are you on your bedding?

Resolution

I've quit a lot of things, but I've never been one to make resolutions. But it's the beginning of a new year and a new decade and I've resolved to not only have the patience of the man with the yellow hat, but I've also resolved to blog everyday. I suppose some days will be more mundane than others, but I'm going to do it anyway.

Both kids (3 and 1) are finally tucked into bed. We had a great day of babyjogging 3.6 miles, playing at the park (even though it was cold and soggy), buying a new, unbelievably cozy bedspread and sheets, napping for an hour and a half, then eating our traditional fare of black-eyed peas, collards, and ham. Now my husband just brought me a giant mug of Cherry Cordial ice cream and we have a movie, Lymelife, to watch. I have to say, the new year couldn't be off to a better start.

5 weeks til my half marathon in Myrtle Beach, so it's an 8 mile run for me sometime this weekend. I'm just justifying my ice cream consumption, not to mention the fact that it just feels so, so good.