Marshmallow Plants

Mark and I spent a little time this weekend surveying our much loved, but overgrown backyard. We settled on a couple of plans. One includes hacking our way through weeds that have taken over an underutilized section. The other includes building two boxes for our garden venture.

One box for cucumbers, tomatoes, squash and zucchini. The other for watermelon, cantaloupe, eggplant, and marshmallow. The marshmallow was Heath's input. I haven't figured out how I'm going to be able to grant this candy-growing wish. I considered trying some white eggplant that my mom grew last year. But Heath isn't anyone's fool, so my big hope is that he'll move on to something else in the next 4-6 weeks.

And it's looking like it may be closer to six weeks. I heard talk about snow on Tuesday. Really? Really?! Come ON!!

Mark and I had our date evening. The middle part of it was spent at Starbucks, sipping hot tea and coffee, reading through an actual newspaper with our feet propped up. My deep and evergrowing disdain for this winter has taken such a toll, I found myself intently studying the weather section trying to find a more suitable location to continue living, because I'm not sure I'll be able to take it another day. Honolulu, Sunny and 80. We have a winner.

Tomorrow is Monday. Deep breath.

Good thing we have several episodes of Six Feet Under to watch before the week begins. I'm not ready. Another deep breath.

One Week...

Sunny Saturdays are always good for what ails me. It was particularly nice because Mark took the kids to his new favorite spot, Chick-Fil-A, to play on the chilly, but sunny, playground while he caught up with a friend. Apparently Heath was more interested in the three Girl Scouts selling cookies. And not for the cookies either. They ranged from age 8-10. Even better. Heath likes his ladies a little bit older. Good grief, Mrs. Robinson.

While all the Girl Scout flirting and Chicken burrito eating took place, I got my haircut and eyebrows waxed. I nearly fell asleep while I was lying on the table, having hot wax spread across my brow. Then she did the ripping part. Now matter how much I prepare myself, I always jump, and often, tear up. She told me a nine year old girl was the client before me, getting rid of her Bert eyebrow. Her mother was with her, of course. Of course.

My half-marathon is in one week. One last ten-miler tomorrow. I haven't run in two days. I am bursting at the seams to get out there. So glad to see there's more sun in the forecast. And Mark and I have a lovely date night planned for tomorrow. Woo-hoo.

In the meantime, we are watching The Informant tonight and eating loads of Cherry Cordial and Black Raspberry ice cream.

That's if I can get Mark to turn off Cops. That show makes my belly hurt.

Pin-Up Girl

Of course I have no idea what the future holds, but I get these occasional glimpses of what Heath might be like as a teenager. Recently he told me he has plans to get a Batman Jeep and drive it in the mud. At first I try to imagine this moment as having some sort of lucrative, environmental, scholarly purpose, then I have to shake off my next picture of him, parked in a field, sleeping in the back of the Batman Jeep, smoking Marlboro Reds, resting his feet on top of a cooler full of Busch Light with The Allman Brothers cranked full blast.

One thing is for sure, Heath is going to be all about the ladies. This school year he instantly developed a crush on an admittedly angelic classmate. He has gone through an assortment of imaginary girlfriends in the last couple of months. Dora. Alicia, Diego's sister. Strawberry Shortcake. From time to time I have found him sitting at the kitchen table with a J. Crew catalog, studying the models.

Who's she? he asks, pointing to a pixie-ish gal wearing the Classic Navy Serena bridesmaid dress.

She's a model for the catalog.

A model for the catalog, he sighs.

Today, while I was frantically trying to get us together for a morning playdate, Heath was standing on his stool at the kitchen counter flipping through my Weekly Calendar book. It's not my preference for him in terms of activities. There are lots of random notes and papers and birthday cards and invitations shoved in what may seem like meaningless order to some, but I know where it all is. I figure his shuffling around is going to cause a long-term reorganizing project for myself, but in the short-term...he's busy, no one is getting hurt, and I almost have three people properly dressed, a bag that is abundantly stashed (extra clothes, diapers, wipes, snacks), and we are totally on time.

So when he stepped down from the stool and asked me for some tape, I absentmindedly said, Sure. I grabbed my cell phone and the tape, then I noticed the pink paper in his hand.

What do you have? I asked, before I handed him any tape.

He proudly holds up the pink and purple greeting card. Abby Cadabby, Sesame Street's three year old fairy-in-training, pops out of the middle of the card. It reads, Have a Fairy Happy Birthday!

He wanted the tape so he could hang her picture on his bedroom wall. He was so thrilled to have his purple-haired girlfriend there, he gave her a big kiss.

I wonder who his girlfriend will be tomorrow?

Thirsty Thursdays

We found ourselves at Monkey Joe's again. Last night I was determined to have a fun excursion planned for the kiddies today. I had heard it was going to be yet another chilly day, so I was looking for two things: inside and energetic.

10:30am on Thursday was a great time for us to be there. Not crowded at all, so Heath could bounce and slide and flip and roll with as much fury as the plastic blow-ups could stand. Even Stella worked up the interest and courage to get inside the Toddler Zone specifically dedicated to all Emergency Response vehicles, which included a St. Bernard wearing a keg collar. I get the whole dog-helping-lost-travelers connection, but it still seemed rather odd for a Toddler Zone. But it was her favorite. The dog's pink tongue perpetually hung out of its mouth, so Stella kept sticking out her tongue in imitation.

They each made friends. Heath's friend was a five year old boy who seemed eager to have a jumping partner. And Stella met a little two year old girl who wanted to hug and kiss Stella at every turn. At one point, a hug ended with two little girls toppling over. Heath immediately ran to Stella's rescue, declaring, That's my sister! At this point, he rolls on the ground with the girls, pulls Stella to "safety," and promptly shoves Stella's face into the carpet. Who says chivalry is dead?

The highlight of the morning was the fact that we were there on what is called Thirsty Thursdays. $1 drinks. I'd gone for a run before we left and failed to bring water with me, so I was actually quite thirsty. They had Powerade on tap. The three of us had more than our fair share of the blue drink.

All that bouncing worked its magic on the two. Naps were taken. And the evening was practically meltdown free.

On a more important note, I have ordered a green plaid running skirt and I can hardly stand the wait for it to arrive in the mail. It's the little things.

Fred and Ted Come to Our House

Lately, Heath has been getting a lot of Are you a good big sister?, so that's my cue to get his hair trimmed a bit. Previous morning plans cancelled. Rainy day. Seemed like a good time to take care of this task.

He surprisingly makes zero fuss about getting his haircut. They have a train table. Movies playing. And he can take his pick of transportation rides to sit in. He usually chooses the fire truck. Today he decided to shake things up and sit in the Police car. The stylist snipped away at his hair, while he made siren noises. As soon as she trimmed his bangs he said, I can see! Poor guy. At that moment I realized his hair hadn't been cut since the week before Christmas. Yikes!

I picked up a few new books for Heath and Stella while we were out and about. One of them is Fred and Ted Go Camping. I thought it looked cute and the author's name seemed familiar (I later read that Peter Eastman is the son of P.D. Eastman, author of Are You My Mother? Another household favorite.) Little did I know it was going to be a huge, HUGE hit.

I read it to them twice on the way home (while waiting at red lights, of course). Four times after lunch. Three times before naps. Twice after naps. Once after his bath. And, according to Mark, one more time before he got into bed. I also noticed him calling Mark, Ted, multiple times throughout the evening.

I guess that means Heath is Fred.

Swashbuckler

I cried at Heath's preschool today. I'd like to say this is the first time that has happened. It isn't. The best I can say is it has been a while. So maybe I was due.

The funny thing is it all came out of nowhere. Sure, there were early morning, before school moments of challenge, like when Heath decided to run into my bedroom and lock the door, so I couldn't get in. It took me five minutes to find and successfully use the key that is above the door. That set us back a bit. But I wasn't expecting Heath's Bruiser Bukowski personae to emerge the moment he stepped onto the playground.

It started with a truck tussle. It ended with Heath pushing a playmate down. This brought about a succession of pushes and grabbings and general frenzied escapades. After a few days of relative calm, I suppose we were due for this, too.

All of the sudden, I feel the tears well up. Mine start in my throat, and I was super hopeful I could just get out there and have my moment in the privacy of my car. That's when Heath, standing on top of the play structure with his buddy, gave a shove. No one came tumbling down. But enough was enough. Just as I was ready to yank Heath off the pirate ship and take him home, Miss Colleen intervenes.

No pushing, Heath. What if he fell off? she asked.

He would fall into a pile of pizza, Heath, the pusher, answered, pointing to the ground.

No, no, the pushee interrupts. I would swashbuckle down the rope.

Swashbuckling and pizza-landings aside, Miss Colleen goes about her business of helping Heath see the danger of the situation.

And now my tears have sprung into my eyes, and I realize I have about 20 seconds to get out of there before it's full-on waterworks. At this very moment, Heath decides he needs to go inside to the potty. And Stella decides to climb onto, and fall off of, a picnic bench. He wants to go potty. She is crying, because not only did she scare herself, she really doesn't want to leave the playground. And now an additional child would like to go potty. A quick, quiet, tearless exit is now out of the question.

Heath decides to run off. I've pretty much have Stella by the neck. And classmate is bringing up the caboose of this wayward, crying train.

They go potty. I collect my emotions. Shuffle them back to the playground. And escape in my car, looking very forward to my morning run.

And it was a good one.

How was your day? Heath asked, while I was putting him to bed tonight.

It was okay. A little tough at times, but good, I answered. How was your day?

Mine was tough, too, he confessed. You plan to watch 'Feet Funder and eat ice cream tonight?

Yes, Heath. Yes, I do plan to watch Six Feet Under and eat ice cream tonight.

Chicken in a Blanket

Cooking has never really appealed to me. For years I subsisted on cereal, bananas, canned soup and baked potatoes. When I had Heath I branched out into pasta making, frozen vegetables and take-out. But this summer I decided to try to make a concerted effort to cook meals at home. With two children it's the healthier option, as well as the least expensive option. And it turns out, I kind of like it.

Now it can't be anything too complicated. Vegetable stir-fry has become my specialty. You can mix it up with a variety of vegetables. Eggplant. Broccoli. Cauliflower. Cannellini beans can make it zing. And I've even tried my hand at tofu. But today, I decided to embark on a different journey. I made fried chicken.

Two weeks ago I was at Trader Joe's, obsessing over a cute package of chicken drumsticks. No antibiotics. No hormones. Great. I haven't eaten chicken in 20 years, but the kids and Mark love it. We'd recently had dinner at my mom's and the meal was fried chicken. All three of them happily inhaled an entire platter. But what was I going to do with these things? Do you put it on the stove? In the oven? How does one make the batter? Is that even the right word, batter? It was all just too much, so I put the package back and headed off to the noodles. Pan. Water. Boil. Done. That's all I need to know.

One week later. Back at Trader Joe's. Back to staring at the same chicken drumsticks package. This time a crowd is starting to gather, which makes my thinking process that much harder. A nice lady picks up her own package of drumsticks, smiles at me as she tosses it into her cart. Just like that. No thought, no hesitancy. It's clear, she's made them before. Do I ask her what she does? No. I have two children in the cart with me. I should know this. I move on to a package of thin pork chops. Aunt Debbie told me that Heath loved the pork chops she made recently. Pan. Cook. Flip. Cook. Done. Okay, I can do those.

Another week later. Today. Trader Joe's. Drumsticks. I grab, toss them into the cart, and go. If I think too much, I won't do it. Done.

While I'm sitting in the car pool line, I decide I'll try making the fried chicken for dinner. I try to call my mom to see if she can tell me how to cook it. No answer. During their naps, I go online and try to find a recipe. I google: Easy fried chicken.

Now, I should probably say at this point, there's something about me and reading directions. I have a habit of not. I skim, get the gist, and hope for the best. This rarely works out well in any situation. It's a bad habit. And one that is really unfortunate when it comes to cooking, when precision, especially as a novice, is key.

But why go changing my ways when I'm getting ready to make fried chicken for the first time?

I "read" a number of recipes. Some talk about baking at 425. My mom doesn't bake hers. She uses a cast-iron skillet. I do not have a cast-iron skillet. And my mom, who I usually talk to up to three times in one day, has decided to be somewhere, doing something else, besides waiting for my phone call about how to make fried chicken.

A lot of the recipes mention flour, salt, pepper, buttermilk. I've got all of that, except for the buttermilk, but surely whole milk will suffice. And for some reason I remember my mom using an egg. (She still isn't home. Where the heck is she?!)

Heath woke up and stumbled his way into the kitchen, Puppy in hand. He immediately wanted to help, so I let him dump all the batter ingredients into a bowl. Then Stella wakes up and she's in a mood that requires holding her. And I'm suddenly concerned about my olive oil bubbling pan and it splattering all over my children, and raw chicken meat and salmonella. So I'm trying to hold Stella, help Heath make the batter, rinse raw chicken, excessively washing my hands after touching anything, so I don't spread uncooked chicken whatever all over everything.

The pan is really popping now and I'm pretty sure the thick, kind of lumpy flour mixture isn't quite right, but it's too late now. I sequester the kids on the other side of the kitchen, lest a wild oil explosion land on them, while I get down to the business of rolling the drumsticks in the goop and throwing them into the pan.

I put the lid on and tell Heath he can take a peek in a few minutes to see the chicken cooking. I'm feeling nervous about the giant lump-logs inside the pan, pretty sure I've completely made a mockery of a southern tradition, and should probably have my license revoked. And my mom STILL isn't answering her phone so she can tell me where I went wrong.

After a few minutes, I cautiously open the lid and hope that whatever has happened is somehow salvageable, and maybe still edible.

Move the lid, I want to see it, Heath said, over the cracking and popping sounds.

It looks like a wet, mess of floured oatmeal covered chicken. I take the spatula, carefully scoop up the first leg, and turn it over.

It's a pancake! Heath screams with delight.

And that's exactly what it looked like. A giant pancake stuck on top of a chicken leg. Each one that I turn is the same. Pancake atop fowl leg. I start to wonder how I can pass this blunder off as some sort of a Pig in a Blanket (but Chicken) delicacy. But I continue to let it cook, and the pancakes sort of fall to the side. And suddenly, it starts to look a bit like fried chicken.

The true test came when Mark walked in the back door. He immediately sniffed the air and headed to the stove. The look on his face said everything. It was going to pass for a decent first try.

Of course, the taste test was going to be the final verdict. Between the three of them, they ate 7 pieces of fried chicken. I'm sure Mark would eat them just to not hurt my feelings, but not Heath and Stella. They said, More chicken, please, and, mo-wah.

I think we should get take-out tomorrow night.

Refreshed, At Last

I did not get the GU today, but no big deal. For some reason Heath and Stella woke up early, so after an early morning game of tee ball between the boys, we headed out for a bright, barely brisk baby jog. Mark had an excellent idea (that's two in one weekend! Way to go, Daddy!) of taking the train downtown for lunch.

The original plan was to eat at Reid's, but sandwiches did not appeal to Mark. Their hot bar wasn't available at 11:30. So we rounded the corner and ate at Brixx. Never been a fan of Brixx, however, I'm really not sure I've actually eaten at Brixx before. I think it's another one of my dislike without really trying it things. Like Starbucks. And yoga. (Two things I swore I would never do. Tried. Then loved.)

Brixx. Not so bad. Whole wheat crust and vegan soy cheese options won me over instantly. And good grief, a salad with pine nuts. Nice. Heath devoured his child's cheese pizza, while Stella decided she wanted to be Grumpy Princess for our visit. She threw fruit. She threw silverware. She threw napkins. She threw her head back and gave a shrieking wail (the Manager stepped over at this point to see how we were enjoying our lunch, possibly checking to see what we were doing to torture the poor, little, innocent, precious girl). And lastly, she threw her body on the floor when we were trying to exit.

Grumpy continued to holler as we boarded the train to head back home. The conductor, as Heath calls him, asked us who has the lungs? He gave us a valuable piece of information about being able to use the trolley with our Lynx tickets. I wondered if he was hoping we would depart the train and go ruin someone else's trolley ride. Of course, I was being silly/paranoid. As soon as the train took off, Stella was lulled back into the sweet, agreeable side of her nature.

She sat like a big girl in her seat for a bit, but then she wanted down to hold onto a rail. Heath made a friend; a fellow three year old named Mason. An exuberant little guy who shared a seat with Heath. The two spent the trip bantering back and forth about tracks and water towers and Batman Jeeps and race cars and train stations.

Thankfully, monster naps were taken. By all of us. I began the day with a smarting left quad. The little jog, quick stretch, and rest this afternoon has completely cured it.

We are FINALLY getting around to watching (500) Days of Summer tonight. When did we pick up that movie? Last Saturday? It's time to watch it and get that bad boy back to the store before we start getting those troublesome phone calls from the Buster.

To Do Tomorrow: Find Fruit-Flavored GU

10 mile training run logged. And it felt so, so good. What wasn't so, so good was the Vanilla Bean GU I had at mile 6. I think I'm going to have to invest in some fruitier flavors. While I can certainly see (and feel) the benefit of the GU, it still smacks of eating candy mid-run and I just can't get totally on board with that.

While I was out running in the sunshine, Mark took Heath and Stella to meet a friend for coffee. Turns out the Chick-Fil-A was next door to Starbucks. I guess the playground beckoned them, so they spent the better part of the morning playing at the fast food joint I've spent so long scoffing. Heath made some new friends. Mark got to chat it up with an old friend. And Stella got to run around and beg strangers for a bite of their nuggets and fries.

When they returned home, they were ready for lunch (Heath, of course, ate nothing while he was out. Too busy. And Stella, well, there's always room for more, according to Stella) and naps.

We even managed to go out post-nap and attack the dreaded task of getting them both new shoes. I've tried to do it a couple of times solo, but apparently it's a two person job. They both came away with some very cool kicks. I'm really hoping Heath maintains his like for these shoes and doesn't immediately want to put on his fire fighter boots in the morning.

I returned home just in time to pick up my Mom's Night Out date. My friend and I made it out for a delicious dinner and a movie. We saw Crazy Heart with Jeff Bridges. He plays washed-up country singer drunkard very well.

And all the laundry is done. Now that is what I call a Saturday.

Happy Friday

Oh, how I have needed a glorious day like this one we had today. The walls have been closing in lately and I finally felt them lift a bit. And it wasn't just about the weather, although sunshine, 60s, and lots of fresh air will do anyone some good.

Heath woke up immediately looking forward to our big school field trip to the Metrolina Recycling Center. He said he needed to put on his work clothes and boots, and get to work. As of late he wants to cook eggs for breakfast, and I even managed to get him to take a few bites. Recycling workers need to eat their breakfast for lots of energy.

I got a lot to talk to the workers about, he said.

When I was getting directions to the center last night, Mark suggested we take the long way there and drive through town. Heath's reaction to a shot of the dowtown skyline is exuberant each and every time. A crane! Look at that big, big building! I'm going to work on top of that building one day! And going the longer route meant crossing train tracks not once, not twice, but four times. Even Stella has to point her little finger at the rail road crossing signs.

It was truckpalooza outside the center. I had to convince Heath that there was more excitement inside; he was pretty content with watching the fork lift show out front. There was a puppet show, some recycling cartoon movie tidbits, and Miss Paula, our tour guide.

We got to stand in front of a giant window and watch dump trucks back into the warehouse and unload the contents of our little red bins. It was an extraordinary mound of milk jugs and plastic bags and cans and plastic what-not on top of plastic what-not. I discovered that a lot of what I am casually tossing into my bin on a daily basis, thinking that it's the right and good thing to do, is not being recycled. Yogurt tubs, juice boxes, rice milk containers. Turns out I need to reevaluate my practices.

After the tour, we were invited to a classmate's house to play. Stella had a great time playing with two little girls around her age. And Heath had a fabulous time playing with his two friends that share his love for trains, trucks, dirt, and working hard. And I got to eat a very yummy treat of almond butter on spelt bread sandwiches.

When we got home, happily tuckered out, they both easily settled in for naps. I even managed a bit of one myself. I was grateful to have had the rest, because I had a special date at 4pm. A new tutee. A sweet, incredibly bright 9th grader in need of a writing tutor. It felt good to talk about thesis statements, supporting your ideas, citations, and being passionate about writing.

I'm scheduled to do a 10 mile training run tomorrow morning. Half-marathon in two weeks. Mom's night out tomorrow evening with a friend. And sunny and 60. Ahhh...

Love is in the air...

Move over, Dora, there's a new girl in town. And this time, she's real.

Heath and Stella had a birthday party for their friends this afternoon at Monkey Joe's. I was a little anxious about going. New venue; we've never been there before. Heath has had more than a little difficulty these days with physical interactions. I'd decided to bring both kids, instead of leaving Stella at home with a sitter, so having both can be a little hairy at times. One going one way, and the other, well, another way. But I took many deep breaths, said multiple prayers throughout the day, and when they were up from naps, I threw a little caution to the wind, and headed off to the bouncing heaven.

Yesterday I explained to Heath that we would have to take our shoes off and have only our socks on to play. He was kicking off his fire fighter boots before I could even have us inside the place. It wasn't as crazed as I had anticipated. There were a lot of children, and multiple birthday parties happening, but it didn't have the frenzied, out of control feel I had anticipated. Heath could barely wait to get his wristband on (something to identify the children so that no one can take off with a child that isn't there own) before he was off and running into the first bouncy area available.

He loved it. He climbed. He slid. He flipped. He bounced. Stella, on the other hand, was more interested in running around on the carpet than stepping into the Toddler Zone (a bouncy area for the littlest of the littles). Everytime I stuck her in the puffed, jello-like square, she'd immediately lift up her arms and say, Up, Mama. She wanted to get out and around on more secure footing.

Time zoomed by and next thing I knew it was time for pizza and cake. Stella sat at the table with all the big kids. Heath barely touched his pizza, but that was fine since his bottomless pit sister was sitting beside him. She ate all of hers, and quite a bit of Heath's. Same story with the cake. Monkey Joe even paid the birthday boys a visit. Stella squealed with delight and Heath gave him a Hi.

When it was time to go, they both ran from me. Heath climbed the tallest of the slides and announced that he was stuck. He wasn't. He just didn't want to go. Neither did Stella. Everytime I'd rally one, the other would take off. Then I'd get shoes on that one, and the other would run away. I finally decided no one needed shoes or jackets or anything on, so I concentrated on just wrangling the bodies and getting them strapped down in my car.

Tonight while Heath was in the bathtub, I asked him if he had a good time. He was quiet, busy sucking the water out of his wash cloth.

I suggested going back to Monkey Joe's to play again. Would you like that?

He slurped a little more water out of his wash cloth, pulled it out of his mouth, and said, Maybe we will go tomorrow and my girlfriend will be there?

This girlfriend comment caught me by surprise. He'd been so busy bouncing, I never really saw him interact with anyone in particular. Your girlfriend? Who is your girlfriend?

She was at Monkey Joe's, at the birthday party.

What's her name?

Anything, he said, not making eye contact.

At this time, Mark comes in the bathroom with Stella. Apparently he'd overheard the conversation while he was putting her pajamas on. What's her name, Heath?

I don't know, Dad, I don't know, he answered, already sounding like a surly teenager.

After a few more questions and minutes of parental badgering, he finally told us it was a little girl sitting beside Stella while they were eating pizza and cake.

I never saw them speak. I never even saw him look at her. But apparently, during that Monkey Joe's birthday party experience, Heath got himself a new girlfriend.

I wonder if she, whatever her name is, knows?

Sweet Treats and Sweet Dreams

It's widely known in most of my circles that my husband and I are, well, freaks for ice cream. Without fail, we eat it every night. We eat it in the City series Starbucks mugs that we have collected throughout our years and travels together. For those of you who aren't familiar with this mug series, they're huge. And I don't mean huge, as in they're all the rage, I mean girth-wise, they are huge. Huge.

It is an indulgence that I relish to the point that I can think of only two things that have kept me from diving into that sweet, creamy, yumminess on a nightly basis: first trimester sickness and the stomach flu. Ice cream overrides all else.

So every night, after the kiddies are tucked snuggly, buggly into bed, we let loose and party, on ice cream. Mark is the greatest ice cream scooper in the world. He packs it in, packs it down, and finds a way to stuff a little more in. The already, yes, huge mug is not only full to the brim, it's a mountainous, overflowing glob of goodness.

For a while it was sort of a secretive thing that we did. Ice cream isn't consumed by us during the day. Kids are always asleep when we bring it out. And if Heath ever noticed the ice cream when it was being purchased (often in copious amounts, depending on the sale of the week. We feel like we've hit the jackpot when the HT has a Buy Two, Get Two Free deal.), we would usually say, Oh, that's adult stuff. Mark would sometimes choose the It's yucky, you wouldn't like it, route. And that was a sufficient discussion for Heath. Until recently.

He's started taking note of our trail of ice cream shame. Empty cartons by Mark's bedside in the morning.

Daddy eat that? he immediately asks when he spies the telltale carton on the nightstand.

The Portland mug on my side. Dried chocolate residue lining the porcelain.

What's that? he asks, before climbing into the bed, clinking the spoon on the hollow, dirty mug.

We've started to get a little more industrious at night, and have been discarding our cartons and mugs in the kitchen sink as soon as we've finished our gluttonous dessert time. But Heath hasn't moved on. One of his first questions in the morning, shortly after, You got my milk?, he asks, Did you and Daddy have ice cream?

The answer is always yes.

I'll go to the sink and take a look. He pushes his stool across the kitchen floor to the sink and surveys the damage done with the curiosity of a CSI criminalist.

This looks like Bear Claw. You didn't eat Bear Claw. Daddy ate Bear Claw. You ate something white with spots. Maybe it had wheels (Oreos) in it.

If a carton or mug isn't in the sink, he continues his search. You already put your mug up? He opens the dishwasher and examines the mugs on the top rack.

Is there a carton in there? he accuses, motioning to the garbage can. Before I can answer, he opens the lid and pulls out the carcass. Cookie Doughs, he sighs, sadly dumping the dead soldier back into his tomb.

He's taken only mild interest in the actual eating of the ice cream. Every now and then he wants a little strawberry, but he has a few bites and quickly loses enthusiasm. He then passes it off to Stella who is more than happy to shove her entire head into the bowl, making sure to not miss a single drop.

But apparently, he has big, big plans for ice cream consumption in his future. Tonight when I tucked him into bed, he said, When I get older, I'm going to get in bed at night and eat Bear Claw ice cream with you and Daddy.

I'm not sure if I find that sweet, or if I am afraid he will be living here at 35, eating Bear Claw in the bed with us, unable to be a well-functioning member of society. For sanity's sake, I'll go with the sweet thought.

I'm So Dizzy, My Head is Spinning

I was the room helper in Heath's class today. Or den mother, as Mark likes to call it. Everytime he says that, I imagine the class as a group of little bear cubs. Or a bunch of little old men in Shriners Club Grand Pooba hats, like Richie Cunninghams's dad, Howard.

It was probably a good thing that I was there today. Heath is definitely working his way back to feeling better, so he was a bit anxious and tired and out of the routine after missing school last week.

Just before 10am they said that there was going to be a fire drill. In an attempt to beat the mad rush and be ready to go outside at the sound of the alarm, the teachers decided to get everyone suited up in their jackets, hats and gloves.

So there they all are. Puffy jackets, woolly hats and mittens, ready to go, and nothing. Now we're waiting. Have you ever seen a group of three year olds wait patiently for something? Right. People are rolling around on the floor. Where's the fire drill? Some are complaining that they're hot. I don't want this jacket on. Others are throwing toys on the floor (okay, that one was mine). Finally, the teachers decided to go ahead out to the playground. Fire drill, or no fire drill.

Last week when we weren't there, a playground switch was made. Now they are on the big playground with the climbing rope, castle (or pirate ship, depending on your take), and the tire swing.

The tire swing seemed like a good place to be. It was in the sun, and pushing it back and forth got the heat going for me. Most everyone wanted a turn. Or multiple turns.

Some wanted to swing fast. Some wanted to swing slow. Some wanted to swing fast, when in fact, they really wanted to swing slow. Some wanted to swing slow to begin, then would insist that it swing faster, then no, no, no, swing it slower.

There were various confessions made on the swing.

Remember when I lost my shoe on it last week?

I fell off the other day.

Don't spin it too fast, I got sick last time. (I checked in with this one with great frequency. You're still okay? I saw the others eyeing the kid with caution, too.)

A few of them would get on, take their turn, then topple over onto the ground when they got off. And there were a couple that took turn, after turn, after turn. And everytime they got on, they would giggle with the same delight as the time before.

Everyone wanted to share the tire swing; three could fit on at one time. And each time they wanted someone to swing them. Except one. One leg over the tire, while spinning wildly, round and round with the other foot, she would swing. The others stepped back, careful to not get a tire pop in the mouth.

Pink-cheeked, dizzied, and out of breath, she would stop, push her hair out of her eyes, and giggle, That feels so good.

When I Grow Up

Finally, finally, my sweet little Heath bear is back. Today was the first day he seemed almost normal. He started his day immediately discussing his plans to be a race car driver.

I need race car pants and a race car helmet. I'm going to drive the Target race car. Apparently he caught a few moments of a race that was on television yesterday. Mark said Heath was thrilled to see a car sponsored by Target.

But he has a lot of plans for when he grows up. He also caught a few minutes of the Olympics just before he fell asleep for his nap yesterday. He was lying in the middle of our bed. Mark on one side, watching the Olympics. I was on the other side, reading One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish. Suddenly I could feel Heath's attention diverted. Sure enough he was staring at the TV.

I'll be honest, I don't know the name of the event. There was skiing. And there was a bow hunting/gun type something or other. Heath was so enthralled, he even sighed a little.

He's got a good job, he said, emphasizing the he. HE'S got a good job.

Maybe I'll do that when I get older.

At first I thought it was cute of him to say such a thing. But then I started to worry that he was attracted to the gun, and it was probably the first one he'd ever seen, and now my little innocent baby had been exposed to something entirely inappropriate, and now, thanks to this Olympic sport that still remains nameless to me, my boy is going to grow up to be a gun-totin', good for nothin' ruffian/skier.

So I start to mutter things about safety and career choices, careful to never use the word gun. (I don't know that he's ever even heard that word before, so there was no WAY I was going to be responsible for bringing it into his vocabulary.) I suggest snowboarding, or better still, cross country skiing.

Then he cut me off. He tapped the page with Mr. Gump and his seven hump wump. Just read, mama. Just read.

Today was Good. Today was Fun. Tomorrow is Another One.

I just put Heath to bed with socked-feet slathered in Vicks VapoRub. We did the same trick last night, and I have to say, it's helped the cough tremendously. Plus, Heath enjoys the hilarity of tickling his feet with the ointment.

After Heath and Stella had their baths, Mark went back out to Blockbuster to exchange our movie. Our copy of (500) Days of Summer had a technical problem, so we didn't get to watch it last night. Fortunately, we had Six Feet Under to watch. It's official. I cannot stand Brenda. And I am loving Ruth.

When Mark returned with what we hope is a workable movie disc, Stella was already in bed, talking to her Pig, and kicking at the crib rails. And Heath and I were in his room, sitting in the rocking chair, reading Green Eggs and Ham.

My new, new favorite book, he said. We had to read it three times tonight.

Mark peeked in his room to say goodnight and give kisses. Heath said, I love you, because of your hearts.

We're going to prolong our weekend for maximum and much-needed enjoyment and watch our movie tonight.

Too Bad Saturday Night Can't Have a Few Extra Hours

Saturday night, dinner at Jade. Saturday night, dinner at Jade. That's been my go-to thought during my darker moments of this worst-week-ever. One weekend plan after another didn't pan out. It was looking like my reason for living wasn't going to happen. But a last minute deal fell into our laps.

Saturday night, dinner at Jade.

Miso soup. Sushi. Vietnamese tofu. And not only did I find a reason to smile, I think I may have laughed a little. Our two hours went fast.

A Six Feet Under disc arrived this afternoon. We picked up (500) Days of Summer (for free). Ran a little 3.6, planning for 8-10 in the morning. And I hear some puttering about in the kitchen, which means my overflowing mug of Strawberry Cheesecake and Cookies and Cream ice cream is being prepared.

I think I'm going to make it. (I hope.) (Maybe.) (I don't know.) (I might need a long sans kiddies weekend.)

Actually, I'm not going to make it. This week cracked me, for sure.

I'm done.

I'm going to make it.

Really.

S is for Snow

It's been a big week on the verbal front for Stella. Her new words include: up, apple, shoe, Elmo, Papa, book, and last but not least, snow.

When the kids woke up from their nap, we stepped outside to get the mail. Suddenly, a lovely, fluffy snowflake appeared. Then another. Then five more. Then ten. And then they were coming too quickly to keep count.

It's snowing, it's snowing, Heath sang, jumping up and down.

Of course, Stella followed suit. Well, her version of jumping up and down is more of a drunken, back and forth swagger, but you can tell what move she's going for. She pointed at the floating flakes and said, 'no.

That's right, Gigs, it's snowing. Heath grabbed a handful of the quickly accumulating snow and made the tiniest snowball known to man.

'no, she screeched with delight. 'no, 'no, 'no!

She pointed and said 'no with wide-eyed enthusiasm throughout the evening. By the time she was in the bathtub, she'd even managed to add the s to her 'no.

This is my kind of snow. Big flakes, measurable, and ice-less. I look forward to some early morning snowman making and hot apple cider.

Just When I Didn't Think I Could Complain Anymore...

I am trying to pretend that I did not note Stella's snuffly nose when I put her in her crib for the night. There's no denying Mark's, though. And poor Heath. I keep waiting for his little head to pop off from the coughing.

80 and sunny. That's all I keep thinking about. Where can we go that is 80 and sunny?

Heath's Spring Break is in April. I'm thinking a house at the beach for a few days is in order. But April. First, who wants to wait until April? Second, April is tricky around these parts. Last year, 65 and rainy. The year before, 65 and sunny. The year before that, 80 and perfect. I'd like a re-do of that last one. 80 and sunny.

I just checked weather.com. 37 and PM Snow Showers. Are you kidding me? (Insert expletive.)

And to top it all off, we are in between Six Feet Under discs. It's time to upgrade to 2 discs at a time.

C is for Cookie, That's Good Enough for Me

Oh, this day, this day. Wait. That was yesterday. Well, today was pretty much the same, minus the fever, plus additional agitation/aggression by Heath. I feel mildly sorry for him because he coughs every fifteen to thirty seconds, so that's got to be driving him nuts. Listening to it is no picnic either. But holy moly, he had to pinch, scratch, swat, push, throw everyone and everything in sight. Time outs were of little consequence. At the end of the day, he said, Stella, wanna get in my bed and play?

No, she said, and ran as quickly as she could out of his room.

I hate it for him. I hate it for her. Heck, I hate for me. But I am trying to understand and work with it.

So we made some Valentine's Day sugar cookies. Ingredients were happily dumped into the glass bowl. The mixing with a whisk was fast and furious. Heath rubbed flour across wax paper with every little digit. The rolling pin spun across the dough, and the heart-shaped cookie cutter was pushed in with all his strength. Heath topped each cookie with cinnamon with as much ferocity as the shaker could handle.

He insisted on having the oven light on so he could watch them bake, and was completely thrilled when we got them out. But he doesn't eat cookies, so he just carried one around for a while, giving it an occasional lick.

Stella, on the other hand, quickly devoured one and said, I want, I want, while pointing at the red cookie tins.

Here, Gigs, you can have mine. Heath handed Stella his licked-upon love cookie. In the interest of good sharing, I decided to stifle my you've-licked-that-and-you've-got-a-cold comment.

Besides, she'd already shoved the whole cookie in her mouth and ran off into another room. I think she was afraid he might change his mind and take it back.

Sure Doesn't Feel Like It's Only Tuesday

Oh, this day, this day. Heath woke up with a fever again this morning. Cough, stuffy nose and the mood of a disturbed hornet. No school. Again.

Mark and I seem to be only able to produce strong-willed children, and Stella is really tapping into that trait. She wants to go where she wants to go. Do what she wants to do. And all when she wants to do it. Changing her diaper is nothing short of a nightmare right now. It's not a matter of wiggling. She thrashes. She flails. She screams. She puts her hands where you just don't want them to go. It's messy. It's loud. And the more I try to distract her with singing, books, toys, blankets, goofy facial expressions and noises, the angrier she becomes. Lately I take care of this by attacking vertically, and change her while she's standing up and busily playing with something. But, you can't always take care of everything properly by doing it this way.

I tried to explain the situation to her today. If you would settle down, this would take half the time, Stella.

She kicked her pink socked foot into her dirty diaper and knocked it to the floor, then used an already soiled hand to grab the wipes and throw those down, too.

Later I found her in their bathroom, sitting on the little Elmo potty, fully clothed and reading Richard Scarry's Cars and Trucks from A to Z.

I see you on the potty. That's a good way to rid yourself of that pesky diaper-changing thing I torture you with, I said.

Yeah, yeah, she answered. I think I detected a note of sarcasm.

Keep Your Britches On, Lady

Heath's fever was gone by the morning, but no school today. He was able to be perked up enough to drive Stella (and me) just a bit crazy, but not well enough to get out and about. Our day was a bit cooped up. I was very happy to have a couple of places to be this evening.

One place included Park Road Montessori. They had a guest speaker discussing The Nurtured Heart approach to parenting and educating the "intense" child. When my friend invited me to come with her, I jumped at the chance.

At first I thought it was going to be a wonderful opportunity for me to feel like everything I do with my children is wrong and I am a lousy parent. I was grateful to move past that initial reaction and started to hear some practical, useful suggestions. Generally speaking, it opened my eyes a little more to the idea that focusing on the positive in any relationship is where I should try to place my energy. I took a lot of notes and look forward to going through them when I'm a little less bleary-eyed.

Stella woke up from her nap today around 3:30. I listened to her play around in her crib for another half hour. When I went in to get her out of bed, I found that she had thrown her blankets and stuffed animals over the rails and onto the floor. She'd also managed to remove her socks, shirt and pants, and tossed them out. She was standing in the middle of her crib, wearing next to nothing, looking very pleased with what she'd accomplished.

Looks like you forgot your diaper, I said, picking up Reba, her Rhinoceros.

She looked down toward her baby belly, grapped one side of the diaper, and started to rip it off. She stopped short and plopped down on her bottom. No, no, no, no, no, no, she giggled.

Rain, or no rain, I look forward to a little running tomorrow. And I do believe a Six Feet Under disc should be arriving in the mail, too.

10 Miles Logged, Grogginess Set In

We just put Heath to bed with a fever of 104.1. He came in this evening from playing outside and said he was cold. Mark wrapped him up in a blanket and he sat on the sofa with Puppy, seeming very puny. He managed to eat a bit, but was only interested in getting into his pajamas and into bed. Not at all like our Heath. Poor little guy. No school tomorrow.

Into the Wild was not quite what I expected. I must've shelved the storyline deep in the recesses of my mush brain, because I assumed it was going to inspire Mark and I to load up the wagon with our children and the bare essentials and head west to live off the land. That didn't happen.

I did, however, remember my a plan that I had in my very early twenties. I was living in an attic on Carn Street at the time. This attic was almost suitable for living. Critters certainly enjoyed it. (On more than one occasion I had chipmunks and raccoons removed from my closet.) I spent a lot of sleepless nights consumed with the worry that I would be awakened by a rabid creature, gnawing my face off.

The people who lived across the street were a local band that went by the name of a not-so-popular, but tasty, candy. They were never there.

A group of Sigma Somethings lived downstairs. They all had chocolate labs named Dakota and Montana. They all drove Nissan Pathfinders. And they all planned to move to Colorado after graduation.

There was a man named Pete that lived in the shed-like building behind the house. It wasn't much bigger than my attic space. He was somewhere between the ages of 35-65. A Gremlin was parked in the back of the house, but he never drove it. Come to think of it, I rarely saw him. But I knew he was back there, because every couple of days a fresh recycling bin would appear in front of his door. Each bin was overflowing with cans of Olympia (It's the Water). He never spoke, but he always had a smile. If anyone ever came to see him, I completely missed the event.

Pete's scaled down existence was intriguing. My existence, as a 22 year old college student, seemed complicated, and futile, and ridiculously aimless. And super sick of people. So I toiled with the idea of dropping out of school and moving to the mountains. By myself. To live off the land. My specific plan was to have a goat farm. I planned to make goat cheese and goat milk, and sell it to local stores. Now, here's what I knew about goats. Nothing. Making cheese and milking animals? Nothing. But this was incidental. My Aunt Edna in Trap Hill was dabbling in chicken farming and had a few goats. I could get goats from her. I don't even know if I had ever been camping more than a day or two at that point. I had no idea how to cook. Cleaning my attic was a terrible bore. But I had this idea that I was going to have fields of vegetables to tend and make my own clothes. By myself.

My Grandpa was born and raised in the NC mountains. His father was a ranger on the Parkway and made $52 a month in 1939. His mother made extra money by making tobacco bags. They had 30 chickens and two cows, and tended to 15 acres of produce. They lived off the land because it was their only choice. His aim was to get out of there and never have to live like that again. So I told him about my goat farming plan. The supportive optimist that he was, he told me, You can do anything you set your mind to, but WHY would want to do work like that when you don't have to? It made no sense to him.

And when I realized how much work it would take, I agreed with him and registered for another semester of classes instead. Most of my plans at that time were, at best, half-baked.

Now I just dream about living somewhere that doesn't require getting in the car so often. And I think I might try to grow some cucumbers, tomatoes, and watermelon this summer. If not, there's always the farmer's market.

At Last, the Sun is Shining...Soon, I Hope

Gray without rain will do just fine. For a little while, anyway. We managed a chilly 6 miles this morning. Mark pushed Heath and Stella in the baby jogger. Since no one napped yesterday, they both took little morning snoozes along the way, so there were no complaints about the extra length. (They're usually only reasonable for 4 miles.) Good thing they slept, too. We had a one o'clock birthday party and I wanted Heath to be rested, fed, in clothes that were to his liking, have all the stars aligned in the correct pattern, take many deep breaths, and figure out how to hold my mouth just right, so that he could have an incident-free experience.

We arrived shortly after the party began, were the first to leave, and it was a pleasurable experience. Heath enjoyed seeing his friends from school. Played with some toys. Helped the birthday girl unwrap her presents. And when he wanted to leave the party WITH the present he brought her and I said, no, he put the car on the table and walked away without a word.

Stella was at home with Mark taking her afternoon nap, so I even managed to get the grocery shopping done with just one child. And without Stella to bang up, that excursion was event-free as well. It occured to me that I don't get a lot of one-on-one time with Heath. Because of preschool, I probably get more with Stella than I do with him. I think Heath liked it, too. He let me smooch on his head while I pushed him in the rocketship cart and called me Mommy.

On the drive home, I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw Heath's eyes start to roll freely, and his head start to bob, so I took the long way home. Turned up the Led Zeppelin, a car favorite these days, and marveled at the mandolin in Battle of Evermore. The louder the music, the deeper he fell into his sleep.

Heath immediately woke up when I turned the car and music off. The fifteen minutes seemed to to be enough to get him through the evening.

We're watching Into the Wild tonight, thanks to another free non-new release coupon. Crossing my fingers for a sunny, no kiddies, 10 miler tomorrow. (Hopefully Mark will join me for the first 4. I like the company.)

If It Keeps On Raining, the Levee is Going to Break

Another day of rain and a to do list that consisted of taking our tax info to our guy and getting Stella some shoes. While they are cute, her black patent Mary Jane's aren't exactly suitable for the rain/cold weather we've been having. Our tax fella is in the University area, so I got a wild hair to try something I've never done before.

Concord Mills.

It's everything I hate. Getting on 85. Random people, wandering aimlessly. Flourescent lights that seem to suck out the tiny shred of what's left in my brain that helps me think clearly. Public bathrooms. Food Courts that have three options: meat, grease, or meat and grease. And discount prices, that really aren't.

But I thought, hey, we're out that way. I've never been. I heard they have a Gymboree and The Children's Place outlet. It's a rainy day. Let's give it a try.

My mind was immediately spinning, or swimmyheaded (as my Grandma would say), as soon as we walked into the first bright, loud store. Next thing I knew we'd been there for two and a half hours. What happened in that time is a bit of a blur.

The shoe hunt was a bust. I chased Stella around The Children's Place, shoving various shoes on her foot. None of them worked. Meanwhile Heath settled in on a pair of pink Croc-like shoes. They didn't have any in his size. (That is the story I am sticking to. And it's the same story for the Dora sneakers he spotted in The Rack Room.)

At some point Heath needed to go to the potty. Instead of telling me, he just pulled his pants and Batman unders down, right in front of the Nike Factory store. I managed to catch him in time and scooted us off to the nearest restroom where Stella put her hand in one of the toilets while it was in use by Heath.

I decided some of the mall fog could be lifted if we had something to eat. Fortunately, Starbucks was an option. Heath did a nice job of drinking most of my Orange Mango Banana smoothie, while I interrupted Stella's project of destroying the Valentine's table display too many times to count. Everytime I would swoop in for a bite of her Blueberry scone she would hold it above her head with both hands and say, No, no, no, no, no, no. And Michelle Shocked's Anchorage was playing and I started to have a mini-flashback to being in high school.

Now, what I didn't know about Concord Mills is that it's also a mini-amusement park inside. Ride-on toys. A carousel. A train that takes you for a spin around the entire mall (for $3 per person. Something I didn't know until we were settled inside the little red caboose. I had two dollars. The teenaged boy, who oddly enough wasn't in school on a Friday at noon, was happy to point me in the direction of the nearest ATM.). Multiple arcades. The arcades are a huge hit with Heath and Stella. Sitting in a race car and pushing buttons is fun enough, I don't even have to plunk in the quarters. (I'm sure they will wise-up to that soon enough.)

Finally, at 2 o'clock we manage to almost get out of there. We have to walk back through The Children's Place and at this point they both decide it's time to explode with sleepiness. Heath is insisting that he needs a pair of fleece Christmas footie pajamas. Sure, they're $2.99, but they're also sized 0-3 months. I tell him no and he starts chasing after me, waving the red baby pjs. I need these, I need these. Stella has decided to go boneless on me while I'm trying to get her back into the stroller, and she's screaming, her body oozing out of her seat. I lean in to get her buckled and she grabs onto a fistful of my hair.

After a soggy dash to the car, I miss the ramp to 85 South. U-turns are completely unavailable. I finally turn around. Expecting the turn for 85 South to be on my left, it isn't. I miss it. Again.

And they completely surprise me by not passing out in their car seats immediately. The rain and the trucks and the near-hydroplaning was too exciting.

Still, no shoes. I'm thinking I would've had better luck had we just gone to the Target 10 minutes from our house. But we would've missed all that fun.

More Rain, Again

I know. I know. It could be worse. We could be in Bangor, Maine where the low tomorrow will be a whopping 2 degrees. High of 21. And will be like that for daaaaaaaaaaays. Or the South Jersey blizzard of up to 24 inches of snow. It can always be worse.

Nevertheless, I am tired of the cold. The rain. The layers. The bleak days. I need sunshine and tank tops and running in shorts and 50 plus SPF (that I, to this day, stubbornly won't use, but I want the option of at least needing it) and warmth. Oh, to be warm.

Even Heath, who is generally oblivious to the rain and cold and inclement weather, said at breakfast, Let's go find the highway and go to the beach.

I am, however, looking forward to my 10 mile run this weekend. Rain, sleet, whatever. I'm going.

Puppy got his bath today. From the smell of things, he would've done well to go through two cycles.

The Smell of Love

Wednesday evenings are Mark's turn to be out, so I get the pleasure of putting both kids to bed. After we read a book or two in Mama's bed, we go to Stella's room, turn all the lights out while I sit in the rocking chair and she nurses, while Heath sits on the floor in front of us and discusses his latest evening topics, monsters and the moon, and drinks his milk.

Tonight was only slightly different. He wanted to sit in the rocking chair byside you. It was a tight squeeze. Me. Stella lying across my lap with her blanket. Big ole Heath and his Puppy and his milk cup, straddling the edge of my knees. Very cozy, close quarters in the chair. As a matter of fact, Puppy was pretty much shoved into my face. This was most unfortunate, because I remembered my morning plan to discreetly toss Puppy into the wash with the towels. It never came to fruition, so Puppy is now even smellier than the whiff I got of him earlier in the day.

I just went through the same sneak-the-lovey-into-the-wash process with Stella's blanket. Her blanket is a sage green, super soft number that was actually Heath's when he was a baby. It was handed down to her and it HAS to go everywhere she goes. It went two weeks without being washed because I could NOT get it away from her without her crying these giant, shiny tears that broke my heart. But I got a deep-inhale of Miss Greenie on Monday. Stella's short lived tears were a small price to pay to get this thing sanitary again.

Good thing I took care of that yesterday. She has a yuck cold and was in definite need of the blanket all day and tonight. I heard her coughing last night at 10:30. That lovely seal-bark cough. Then at midnight. Then 3. And Mark said he heard her around 5:30. I expected a not well Stella today, but the cough was nonexistent. Her nose on the other hand is a slimy faucet. And she's really into kissing right now. A delightfully loving, wide-mouth, toothy kiss, too. I didn't have the heart to not take her sweet smooches, so I got quite a few treats of SSS (Salty Stella Snot).

As soon as I put her down tonight, the coughing started. I was sitting in Heath's room reading Koala Lou, and we heard the hacking begin. He looked up and said, She sickin' up?

No, just coughing. She has a cold.

He nodded his head, relieved. I like to hold Puppy's ears when I have a cold. He held Puppy's ears up to my face. I tried not to breathe in and made an important mental note. Puppy. Bath. TOMORROW!

But all is quiet on the Ropko front. Hopefully Mark will be home soon, and the ice cream and Six Feet Under fest can begin.

Who Do You Love?

After dinner tonight, I was on laundry folding duty, while Mark took care of baths. As I passed by the bathroom with an armload of Heath and Stella clothes, I heard, Oh Heath, don't pee on her. Not on Sissy's face. I guess she didn't mind, because I didn't hear any tormented screeches coming from her.

Stella was, however, one sleepy little girl this evening. She had a big treat of being able to hang out and play in Heath's class this morning for an hour, while I helped decorate the front hall bulletin board. She loved getting in the mix with the other 3's. She squeezed clay. She pushed comb-like blocks together. She played in the kitchen. She colored. And generally wandered around with curious delight. Every now and then I would hear her sound a squeal of pure pleasure.

The bulletin board's theme is Love. Each parent brought in a picture of their child and helped them create a Love List. The Love List consisted of some pretty standard questions. Food, Books, People, Colors, Animals that they love. Should be simple, right?

Six days. It took me six days to get this list finished.

And when I say finished, I mean finished to some sort of satisfaction that wouldn't embarrass me.

The first attempt was made last Wednesday during Heath's nap furlough. In an effort to use my time wisely, while we were held hostage on my bed during Stella's nap, I got my laptop out and tried to get Heath to talk about what he loves.

Hey Heath, let's do this fun list for your class bulletin board. What books do you love to read? I'm thinking this is an easy one. We just read half a dozen. They're sitting on the bed beside us.

He licks the computer screen.

Okay, bad timing. We'll try it again tomorrow.

Next day. Heath, what's your favorite animal? We just finished reading through his favorite Weekly Readers book about Gorillas.

Shockee.

What animal? I pick up the Gorilla book to see if I can subliminally get him to give me a straight, acceptable answer.

Lockee.

Maybe tomorrow.

Tomorrow. What food do you love?

Puppy bones.

What color do you love?

Poo-Poo.

Who do you love?

Poo-Poo.

Maybe it's the formality of trying to type it in while I'm asking him the questions that is throwing him off. So I try random attacks to squeeze out some reasonable answers.

Out babyjogging and we pass by Fire Station #16. Tell me about some people that you love, Heath? I'm positive I'm going to get him to say Fire Fighters. Maybe mention of my dad, Papa.

What's that construction cone doing there?

Playing at the park on the big, green slide. What color do you like, Heath?

Shockee. Shockee. We're back to Shockee. He's hip to my game.

Finally, just before he took his nap on Monday (hallelujah!), he gave me some appropriate answers for his list.

It's a Love List for a three year old. No big deal. As co-room parent I was responsible for bringing this nearly impossible task upon myself, I couldn't help but wonder if other people were having the same difficulty. I came very close to posting my Final Draft list and his original that would've read like this:

Heath Ropko's Love List

MTW 3's

Books I Love Poo-Poo Books

Food I Love Puppy Bones

Color I Love Poo-Poo Colors

Animal I Love Shockee and Lockee

People I Love Construction Cones and Poo-Poo People

Spider-Man, Spider-Man, Does Whatever a Spider Can...

My expectations for the day were negatively low when I woke up this morning. Monday. Cancelled preschool. Raging headache. No car (Mark had to take mine to work when he couldn't get his truck out of the ice at 5:30am). And I was nervous about taking the kids out in the baby jogger on the icy neighborhood roads by myself, so I figured, no run. The day was starting out in survival mode.

When I couldn't bare the idea of Heath watching Thomas the Train Splish! Splash! Splosh! one more time, and he seemed mostly interested in taking everything Stella managed to get her hands on, and sitting on her, and taunting her by taking her beloved blanket, I decided to brave the treacherous roads and jog my 3.6 and end up at the park. A definite mental health run.

As soon as I had the kiddies cozy in the stroller, layered, snacked and blanketed, Heath decided it was a good time to take Stella's stuffed pig. If this wasn't enough to get her screaming, he also thought it was appropriate to give her little hand an overzealous squeeze. Wanting to remain consistent in our latest attempt at 1-2-3 Magic plan, I had to do the inconvenient thing and take him out of the stroller and take him to his room for a time out. While he's screaming, I'm settled down, Stella starts screaming, Bubba, Bubba. Despite the fact that he tortures her all day long, she has started to express a deep dissatisfaction when she is separated from him.

At this point, I notice that I have a nearly flat tire, so I get our cheap pump out of the closet and attempt to hurriedly get the air in. In my haste, I manage to dislodge the pump from the metal shaft and slam my pointer and middle finger into the incredibly sharp, metal edge. Now I've got two screaming children, a flat tire, blood dripping everywhere, and a distinct feeling that I may pass out.

After a few minutes of closing my eyes and letting the kitchen sink water run over my finger wounds, I pump up the tire, slowly, then search for Band-Aids. Thankfully both children have managed to calm themselves down. Before I can even open Heath's door all the way, he says, Mama, you got Spider-Man Band-Aids?

Yes, I hurt my fingers.

Let me see them, he says, reaching out for my hand. Over time I have learned to not do this. He wants to see the boo-boos, but he also likes to press his fingers INTO the boo-boos to see what happens. So I just sort of wave my hand in front of him to see the Band-Aids and move us along.

I load him back in the baby jogger, and 45 minutes after I started getting us ready, we headed out.

The majority of the roads were completely clear, but there were a few tricky areas left, mostly all going downhill. So I had to sideways, carefully, slowly, tiptoe across the ice and search for dry patches, all while I held onto the great weight of the stroller with a white-knuckled death grip that killed my ripped up, Spider-Man bandaged fingers.

But definitely worth the trip. My mood was changed. Headache was gone. And the park play was fun. When we got home for lunch, they were both cold, hungry and ready to play with each other, or at least side-by-side, with minimal interference. I even managed to tackle a project I've been needing to get to for weeks, but kept avoiding. Mopping the floor. Lovely.

And to make it all that much better, Heath took a two and a half hour nap this afternoon. And Stella, nearly three hours. Ahhhh...