Three Days...

I just had to confirm with Mark that our beach trip is, in fact, three days away. Oh, sweet oasis, I can't believe you are almost here. Of course, I've done nothing in terms of packing, but that's what 10pm on Friday is for.

Stella had her 18 month check-up today. The nurses referred to her as social, friendly and busy, multiple times. They're pretty precise. She said hello to everyone in that place. Waved, smiled, said hi, and stopped at every possible spot to check out someone's shoes, shirt, diaper bag, file folder, stethoscope, rolling computer, rolling thermometer/bp machine, etc. I forgot that I was staggering a few of her vaccines, so I thought she was shot free today. She wasn't. But she was incredibly brave, and impressively forgiving of the nurse who had to administer them. Heath stood at the end of table and watched with big eyes. He said, It's okay, Gigs, you get Band-Aids and lollipops. And they did. Snoopy Band-Aids. And Heath picked out a red lollipop. Stella picked out a blue.

After Stella's appointment, we headed to the ole Target to pick out a new swim suit for Heath. After his multiple attempts at insisting the 12 month Spider-Man was just what he needed, I finally got him to make the number connection. You need a 4T, help me find a number 4 on the hanger. He was thrilled to find the 4. Although Heath said he doesn't want his belly covered with a t-shirt, I got both of them rash guard swim shirts. He definitely leans in the fair complexion direction, so the less skin I have to worry about burning, the better.

Swim suits: check. Rash guards: check. Baby Jogger: check. I don't know, I think we're pretty much ready to go.

Oh, My Head Hurts

It seems when I stay at Heath's preschool for a parent's meeting, something not so good goes down. Last time was the Stella Barf-o-rama. Today, while attending a "Siblings Without Rivalry" forum, Heath's teacher pokes her head in and signals me to come out. My heart sank and my stomach flipped. I figured it was one of two reasons: 1) Heath did something to someone, or 2) It's Heath Barf-o-rama.

There was no barf.

Apparently there was a pushing/kicking incident and they felt like his day at school wasn't going to be productive from that point forward, and he should go home. My head is totally spinning from the information, and I somehow think they're saying he has to go home--forever. I start crying and try to gather my bags and Stella, while they get Heath. I'm trying very hard to stop the tears before I see him, but the more I try to stuff them, the more it becomes a full-on sob erupting.

I try to get a little more information. Is everyone okay? Can he come back? Then Heath and his class come into the hallway from outside and I'm still crying, Stella doesn't want to leave, and Heath is thoroughly confused. Mama, don't be sad? Do I have to go to my room when I get home? Why are we leaving school? I want to say sorry. I'll get you a tissue, mama. Why am I leaving?

It was awful.

I called the victim's mother this evening to apologize and see how they are doing. All is well.

(Heavy, heavy sigh.)

I Made Homemade Pizza, So...That Counts for Something, Doesn't It?

If I had to use one word to describe this day it would be inefficient. It wasn't all my fault, although most of it was due to my mush brain and lack of energy.

After I dropped Heath off at school, Stella and I headed off to Trader Joe's, hopeful to get a lot crossed off my "get ready for the beach" list. It was my intention to get the groceries we need to make it through the week, and load up on beach essentials: cereal, chips, salsa, rice milk (not sure if one can find rice milk in HB and one would be a very unhappy vacationer if one did not have rice milk for morning cereal), creamy salted peanut butter, rice noodles. TJ's shelves were barren of many of these items. I left with the few things they did have that were on my list, but mostly, I left feeling somewhat deflated, knowing I would have to return later in the week with two kiddies.

I returned home with the intention of taking Stella for a spin in the baby jogger before heading back to pick up Heath, and throwing a load of laundry in while I was at it. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but Stella and I ended up building a pretty twisty train track and raced Percy and James for a while, ate an extraordinary number of mandarin oranges, and read What Makes Elmo Happy? an even more extraordinary number of times. I did not run, and not a stitch of clothing got washed today.

After naps (all three of us indulged), we talked about running and going to the park, but somehow we ended up racing cars on a Hot Wheels track, then looked through photo albums that included our wedding and honeymoon pictures. Heath said we looked like singers. (When he sees people in formal wear, he says they look like singers.) I took it as a compliment. We did look incredibly well-rested and tan. Glowy, even.

Then he said, When I was Daddy's age, I got married in the Target Race car.

Now that's romance.

Sprechen sie Deutsch, Baby

We watched Cabin Fever last night. It was terrible. So terrible I managed to stay awake for the whole thing, then stayed up a little longer to watch SNL. Good thing I got some recharge-time this morning, while Mark took the kiddies to visit family. It's a strange station in life when staying home to run, mop, do two loads of laundry, and clean the bathrooms is somewhat of a break.

After naps we hit a new-to-us park, William Davies. The play structures were a bit wet from the rain, but they still had a good time. I think Heath's favorite part was catching the runaway soccer balls from the neighboring field and returning them to the players. I noticed a Tots & Tikes Soccer sign for 3 & 4 year olds and it got the old wheels turning about signing him up. We'll have to check it out.

Fortunately we were meeting Mark's family out for dinner, so getting them to exit the park wasn't too difficult. They were very excited to see their Aunts and Uncle and cousins. We met everyone at a German restaurant where Stella was able to get her fill of Potato pancakes and applesauce. Heath seemed only interested in sucking down his cousin's Shrimp Bisque and wandering around the place. Between the park visit and some enthusiastic eating (Stella HAS to wear her food), they were both desperate for baths and bed when we got back home.

And I feel like packing all our beach gear, loading up the car, and sitting in it until we leave Saturday morning. Six days.

Until then, Six Feet Under. We are almost through the series. What on earth will we watch next?

Got Sandals?

I had a pretty long list of To Do's today and I pretty much accomplished two of them.

I ran.

I got the kids some sandals.

With our upcoming beach trip, and recent warmer days, the time had come for kiddie sandal purchasing. For close to three weeks I have obsessed over this purchase. I had two objectives. 1) Get a good deal, and 2) Get Heath to have a Croc-less summer. Don't get me wrong, Crocs have their purpose. Easy on-easy off. And if you have a kid like mine who can find (and wallow in) a mud puddle in the driest of places, being able to rinse a shoe off with zero trouble has its advantages. But I felt like a heartier sandal to match his rough and tumble ways was in order.

I considered Tevas for a day, but decided that my "prone to trip and fall" children needed something to cover their toes. I reconsidered Crocs, mainly to avoid Heath having a meltdown and refusing to wear a new sandal and if tried something new, I would have to return it, and purchase Crocs anyway. I considered flip flops while on a recent visit to Target. Heath wouldn't even try them on, and Stella picked at the material between her feet and said, Ow, ow, ow.

I finally zeroed in on Keens. They seem to fit all my buying criteria. Straps make them airy and light, so they can still work for trips to the beach and pool. The toes are covered in times of the inevitable slip-and-fall. And their soles could withstand the desire, the need, the have to run everywhere that courses through Heath and Stella's bodies.

But the price. The price kept me skeptical and unable to pull the trigger for a week or so. I stalked a web site that a friend told me about that has frequent Keen clearance items. But their sizes never seemed available. Plus, they've never worn the brand before, so shoe size felt a little dicey to me.

Then finally, finally, REI showered me with its gift of the 20% off coupon. So today, we took the kids to the local REI for some kiddie Keens. When we told Heath where we were going, and why we were going there, he said,--no, he didn't say, he WHINED, I don't want any sandals, I'm too grumpy!!! Fun.

We lucked out and found a couple of pieces of construction equipment parked by the store, so that seemed to distract Heath long enough to get him inside. And once in, the mayhem of kayaks and bikes and tents and multi-levels took over and he pretty much forgot that he was grumpy and didn't want sandals.

When we made it to the shoe section, I immediately found the Keens and a helpful sales clerk who was eager to help us make this speedy and painless. While she is getting ready to measure their feet, Heath took off and returned with a surprise. Crocs. Infant-sized, of course. I say, Fine, we'll get those, but let's have this nice lady measure your feet so we can get the right size.

In the haze of shoe measuring, Heath forgot about the Crocs. The lady brought out blue and green Keens for Heath, and pink and light blue for Stella to try. Suddenly Heath is more interested in the green shoes. He tries them on and Mark asks him to run to the end of the store and back.

I ran so fast, he said, when he returned from his zippy trial spin. We have a winner.

And Stella was thrilled with hers, and wanted nothing to do with the light blue. She settled on the pink immediately and wandered around the store, pointing to her feet, saying, Shoes, to anyone who would listen.

They didn't even want to put their old shoes back on, and were completely thrilled to take a spin on a couple of bikes decked out with flames and daisies and training wheels, when the shoe purchase was finished.

Seven days 'til HB. Think mama needs some new sandals, too.

I Got Nothing...Totally Tapped...

Sometimes, after the kiddies are finally tucked into bed, you've had a nice warm shower, you're drying your hair, and you realize, Man, my hair is really gray. It's not the first time I've had this realization. Just the first time since the last time I colored my hair. I'm not even sure when I did that. October? November? And what was that box color? Cinnabonberry? Berryliciousness?

Eight days. Eight days until Holden Beach.

Minutes. Minutes until Cherry Cordial ice cream and Six Feet Under.

Ragtime Boogie

In the world of allergens, there are two that don't make Mark's list. Oddly enough cigarette smoke is one, and dogs are the other. Everything else is free to set off an attack that knows no boundaries. It doesn't matter the season, time of day, weather, environmental circumstance, Mark is an easy target for stuffiness, watery-eyes, and a faucet of a nose.

This physical challenge can be heartbreaking to see, and I know it is no picnic for him to experience. The inability to taste, smell, breathe, it's a real fun-crusher. And the constant, constant, CONSTANT use of tp and paper towels. I know how irritating it is when I have a cold for a couple of days and have to blow my poor raw nose with great frequency, I can't imagine having to do that everyday, all year long. I feel bad for him. I do.

What I don't feel bad about is the finding of the tp and paper towels in random spots. By the bed. In the bed. On the kitchen counter. Inside the washer, or even better, the dryer. There's nothing like finding one of these things in a load of warm, clean clothes.

Most recently, I decided to do some car clean-up. Amongst the thousands of stale goldfish crackers, sippy cups full of what used to be milk, but now resembles cottage cheese gone bad, dried diaper wipes, broken crayons, empty juice boxes, guess what else I found? That's right.

The birds and squirrels got hand fulls of cracker bits. I considered salvaging the sippy cups, but I couldn't bare opening the lid. In my attempt to do what's right, everything else was disposed of in their proper bins, garbage or recycling. Or so I thought.

Today the allure of the baby jogger centered around the fact that it was trash/recycling pick-up day in our neighborhood. We were able to see them hard at work multiple times on our run. And just as we arrived back home and the kiddies were set free, the recycling truck pulled up in front of our house. Both Heath and Stella watched the truck and its driver empty our bins of cereal boxes and seltzer water bottles and salsa jars and milk jugs. When our bins were empty, we waved good-bye and said, Thank you, and Heath eagerly grabbed the bins to put them back by our house.

As soon as he picked one up, he looked inside and said, Oh no! He looked down the street at the truck, now two houses away. The driver jumped into the cab of the truck, revved it up, and started to move to the next house.

Heath took off running down the street, one hand waving, dragging the red bin behind him with the other hand, screaming, Wait! Wait! You forgot Daddy's boogie rags!

TeeTiny Footie Pajamas

Heath has always had a thing for fleece. Pajamas, blankets, jackets, pants. Could wear it all the time. And I can't blame him. It's a favorite of mine, too. It's soft. It's warm. It's cozy. And it holds the fragrance of fresh laundry detergent better than any other fabric. So last night when I tackled the project of putting away some wintry/Christmas/too small pajamas, while trying to take stock of what needs to be purchased for Spring, I ran into a little Heath snag.

In Stella's closet, I'd found two pair of zip-up footie pjs completely smothered in Skating Penguins and Sledding Snow Bears. The blue pair, sized 12 months, was worn by Heath and Stella. But no one is fitting into that size these days, so I set them aside for storage. The red pair, 24 months, was worn by Heath, and Stella might be able to wear them in the Fall/Winter, so I put them in a use-later pile. Early this morning, Heath upended my piles, and discovered the pajamas.

All day long, he carried them around, insisting that he could wear them tonight after his bath. He took them in the car with us when we went out this morning. He took a nap with them. He ate lunch with them. He took them in the car when we went to the park this afternoon. And sure enough, after his bath, he was determined to wear one of them to bed.

Despite my insistence that they are both WAY too small, he demanded that he try them on. The red 24 month were three -quarter sleeves. And when he shoved his big old feet into them, he couldn't zip up the front.

These are too small, he said, and I was relieved that this wasn't going to be a big deal. But I forgot that he was giving up so easily because there was another pair to try. Sized 12 months.

He got one arm in, pretty much short sleeves, but they are so tiny, he could not get both arms in. Then he tried repeatedly pulling the pj leg down, so he could cram his leg in, but of course, it was too short, so he ended up sort of chasing himself around in a circle trying to catch the uncooperative fabric. He pulled and yanked, and I said, You've just grown so big, Heath, and he got angrier, pulling at the Sledding Polar Bears and snowflakes, stretched beyond their capacity. I kept waiting to hear Riiip! Finally, he just fell over, stumbling over the infant jammies that were unwilling to let Heath have one final spin in them.

I expected more of a meltdown about not being able to wear the snowy sleepwear, but he just threw them back into Stella's room and put on his Fire Truck fleece. While we were reading Curious George Goes to the Chocolate Factory, having a sleepy, cozy, quiet moment, Heath sat up straight and said, Hey, I got an idea. I'll let the snow pajamas grow and when they get bigger, I can wear them tomorrow.

He settled back into me, ready to hear the rest of the story, obviously pleased with his problem-solving.

If he doesn't move on to another project by tomorrow night, where, oh where, am I going to find Christmas fleece pajamas in a 4 or 5T in March?

No Biiiting, Stella

I cannot believe that Stella is going to be 18 months old on Thursday. It seems like she has really dropped the whole baby act and has blossomed into this little girl with thoughts, feelings, interests, and a hand on each hip sassiness to match her brother's feisty tendencies. She babbles and expresses and articulates and chatters from sun-up to sun-down.

If she had to choose a favorite word right now, I would say she would have a tough choice between No and Bite. In Stella's world, no has become a necessary evil. And she has perfected its sound. It's quick. It's sharp. It's to the point. And if you didn't catch it the first time, she's happy to repeat it. A lot.

It's time to change your diaper.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, she answers.

But lately, bite has become a popular word. It, too, has a certain succinct quality. Biiite. The i is ever-so-slightly drawn out, but the t is sharp; perfectly enunciated. And its use has various meanings. Mostly it has to do with her great interest in eating. At dinner, after she has eaten multiple helpings of Rotini Marina, she will eye everyone else's plate and say, Biiite.

When we are making our way through the Trader Joe's and she sees someone enjoying a sample, she practically falls out of the cart, leaning in their savory delectable's direction, staring at them, screeching, Biiite. And until that person acknowledges that she is asking for a biiite of their food, she will continue to say it. Biiite, biiite, biiite.

Bite took on a new meaning for Stella this morning. While Heath was at school, I took her out for a spin in the jogging stroller. Elmo tagged along, as he so often does these days. She was holding him by the neck, chattering and giggling away with her red furry friend. Then she grabbed him by the face and said, Biiite. Chomp! Right on his orange, ovally, honker. She took his nose out of her mouth and gently touched it with her pointer finger, sweetly muttering, No' (nose). She gave Elmo a big hug, then she said, Biiite. Clamp! An unsuspecting Elmo gets it again, right on his monster snout.

I just hope her pointy, dinosaur, meat-tearing snagglers don't latch onto any of my parts.

Watch Out for Elmo's Eyes

Nothing says, I love you, Mommy, like refusing to get into the car after school and tying up the car pool line. It was a rainy pick-up this afternoon, so all the kiddies were waiting inside by the door. As soon as it was my turn to pull up and the school door opened, I saw the sleepy, cantankerous mood written all over Heath's face. We made eye contact, and I immediately knew his plan. He slid down the wall, then collapsed into a tired heap. Miss Robin finally shuffled him out the door. Then he went AWOL into the bushes. I vaguely considered driving away. A little cajoling and a possible threat of his turn being skipped finally did the trick.

The drive home was relatively quiet. He told me they made pretzels, Cheerios, and something that looks like beans. Mostly he just sat back in his seat, holding Puppy over his face. Stella was holding her green blanket and her latest love, Elmo. The number of times each day that Heath swipes these items from Stella's grip, leaving her in an emotional puddle of tears and betrayed anger, is innumerable. Every time this happens, I capture Heath (you can be sure he is running like he stole it), and say, Did you ask Stella for a turn? He has three responses to this technique. 1) He wrestles his way out of my grip and continues on the lam, leaving me in an emotional puddle of tears and betrayed anger, 2) he throws the blanket and stuffed animal with all his might at Stella's head, or 3) he actually stops, looks at her, and says, Can I have a turn? And she always says, yes.

But today, on that drive back home, a magical moment happened. While we were stopped at a light, Heath says, Gigs, can I have a turn?

I was stunned. This was the first time he's asked her for a turn without me prompting him to do so. I looked in my rear-view mirror. He was reaching out for Elmo. Stella grinned, said, Yeah, and handed him Elmo.

A few moments pass, and Heath says it again. Gigs, can I have a turn? I am brimming with delight. Such a lovely, cordial exchange between brother and sister. I look in my rear-view mirror and see he is reaching for her green blanket. As I am on the verge of showering them with praise for such a respectful (and painless) way of interacting, I see Stella look down at her blanket, then back at Heath. She pulls the blanket with both hands as tight as she can to her chest and loudly says, No.

Now it was Heath's turn to be stunned. His reaction to her refusal is to simultaneously swipe her blanket and throw Elmo at her head, Elmo's big plastic eyeballs loudly clonk her cheek. The screaming and crying ensues.

(But they had that moment of amicable communication. I won't, can't lose sight of that. It can be done.)

Weekend, Where Did You Go?

You don't know how much you love the computer's space bar until it's gone. Mine was dislodged this morning by a grabby little girl.

My parents picked up Granny about two hours ago. It was a quick 36 hour stay. Of course, in the world of Alzheimer's and Dementia, it can be a bit longer. She thought she'd been here for days. She also thought it was Christmas a couple of times. In her defense, today was much gloomier-looking, and certainly chillier, than yesterday. And we were eating cookies out of a Christmas cookie tin. I'm just relieved she didn't mention it around Heath. He's finally stopped singing Christmas carols and asking about Santa's whereabouts.

Mostly, Granny settled into our lives quite well. We were even able to get her to talk about her childhood this evening during dinner. I sometimes forget that this woman was born in 1927, the oldest of nine children, and was a small child during the Great Depression. A small child during the Great Depression in Hays, North Carolina. Where is Hays, you ask? It's the holler in between Trap Hill and Mountain View. Where on earth are those places? Right by North Wilkesboro. And it's not such a fur piece from Winston-Salem. Granny is straight-up, home-grown, mountain girl.

She talked about her siblings. Two were in the Korean War. One was named Raymond. The other was named Ray. (Think: This is my brother, Darryl, and my other brother, Darryl.) She talked about meeting my Grandpa at a church revival, and her father not liking the fact that his daddy was a bootlegger. (Think: O Brother, Where Art Thou?) And she talked about keeping cow's milk in cans in the spring during the hot summer months. All weekend she kept saying, I can't believe I made it this long to see Great-Grandchildren. Her time with us clearly meant a lot to her.

And it meant a lot to us. She can play the longest, most enthusiastic game of Peek-a-boo with Stella, and made an excellent dance partner for her, as well. Heath found multiple uses for her walking cane, including setting it up as a ramp for his race cars.

And I keep getting this image in my head; a flash of my favorite picture of her. It's a black and white photo taken when she was in her early teens; maybe 13 or 14. She's standing in the middle of two of her brothers. They are dressed in bib overalls and have clearly been working in the field. She has a toddler on one hip, an infant on the other. And two preschoolers are sitting on her feet. She's wearing an apron, a slight smile, and look of exhaustion. If you didn't know any better, you would think they were her own children, not her brothers and sisters.

When she was leaving tonight, she hugged me and said, I reckon I've been enough of a burden on ya, I better get on now, and then let out a nervous giggle.

It's the least we can do, Granny.

Two Kids and a Granny

Our week at Holden Beach in April is official at last. I am hoping the weather will cooperate, but frankly, just a change of view and perspective is what I'm really after. Heath is very excited about sand castle building, ferry-boat riding, finding a starfish, and sleeping with Papa. (My parents and Grandma will be joining us for the first few days.)

Speaking of joining us, while my parents are away this weekend, my 82 year-old Grandma is staying with us. Heath and Stella have had a blast having Granny around. We spent the entire day outside. Mark handcrafted two garden boxes with two elfin helpers, one granny, and a somewhat MIA (and bossy) wife. (I wasn't MIA, really. I was just out running in my rockin' Shamrock Green plaid running skirt. And when I returned, I was only mildly bossy. Someone had to tell them where to put the boxes.)

Mark trimmed bushes, while Granny swept the trimmings into piles, and Heath rolled his ride-on Thomas and bulldozer over them. Stella ate leaves. And I told her to not put them in her mouth. Mark loaded the boxes with dirt. Granny swept up the excess dirt. Heath pushed his tricycle-riding sister into the dirt. And I told him not to do that again. We were an excellent team.

All that hard work and great sunshine made for some tuckered out kiddies (and Granny).

Movie and ice cream time.

Ahhh...Lovely, Lovely Friday

If you want to know how to get my morning started on a sour note, just reach up and pull my coffee cup off the kitchen table. I was glad that it wasn't hot. I was glad that it didn't spill on Stella. I was not glad that it was full and I was looking very forward to consuming it.

Not to be deterred from having a decent sunny Friday morning, I made another cup and plugged right along. Heath was definitely in a cantankerous, nothing is right mood. He peed in multiple places, none of them the potty. He did not want to wear clothes. He did not want to eat pancakes. Or eggs. Or cereal. Or fruit. He wanted green ice cream. We have a lot of ice cream. Green, however, was not available. And just when I thought he had settled in to a fun activity outside, I discovered he was removing the wooden slats from the deck fence. When I tried to get him to stop his "construction project" he let go a blood-curdling scream and launched into a full-on, can't bother talking to him, limbs flailing meltdown.

None of these acts are particularly horrific. But it's Friday. Patience does not exist.

When he was settled I managed to get the kiddies into the baby jogger for a much needed run. Fortunately for Heath (and me), there were multiple truck sightings and construction zones to pass. The outlook on the rest of our day was just like the weather: warm and sunny. We even managed to eat an enjoyable lunch outside and headed to the park after naps for some hard working playtime.

Tired babies easily to bed tonight. Phew.

And I'm Still So Sleepy

At 12:30pm today I was wondering why I felt so unbelievably tired, then I remembered that I'd been slapped awake by good ole insomnia at 2:30am last night. I was awake for about two hours. It's definitely something that happens to me from time to time. Certainly during the last trimester of both pregnancies I would find myself awake for hours at a time during the middle of the night. When I was pregnant with Heath, we still had cable, so I passed the time watching Sex and the City episodes and Movies On-Demand. I have this oddly crystal-clear memory of watching Boogie Nights two nights before Heath was born. I can't think of giving birth to Heath without the scene with the kid lighting the firecrackers in the house, Sister Christian playing loudly, popping into my mind.

With Stella, we no longer had cable, so I got into using a night-reading light. Not too long ago I found Stella watching Sesame Street, munching on the light. I hid it somewhere so she couldn't find it again. I hid it really well. I have no idea where it is.

No cable. No night-light. I find cruising the internet in the middle of the night too nauseating. So what I typically choose to do with my time is worry and fret and obsess. I have no idea exactly what the dire stressors were last night. I'm sure they were the usual suspects. Heath, Stella, Mark-related. And if I managed to solve any crisis last night, I have no recollection of that either. Time well spent.

Today after lunch, I cleared the kitchen table and played "crash" with Heath and Stella. This is a popular game at our house. It includes around 6 Matchbox cars, and crashing. I am usually folding laundry, or preparing a meal, or emptying a dishwasher while this game is being played, but today I joined in. If you are not a participant in this game, it can seem excessively noisy, overtly destructive, and ultimately, disturbing. I've always listened peripherally to Heath's car play. The cars have names, accidents, and dialogue (he always adds, he said, she said, when his cars talk to each other--love it). And it's usually a game I try to discourage, but today I thought, if you can't beat 'em...

Stella had a green Baja Jeep and an Ambulance. Heath had a Prisoner Transport bus and a Sheriff's car. And I had a Medic van and a Sheriff's Crime Technician SUV. If the cars flew off the table, this meant they'd fallen off Trevor's bridge (I have no idea who Trevor is). If they spun around or flipped, this meant they were trapped in a mud hole and needed a tow truck. And if they crashed, well, this meant we screamed with delight and pounded our fists on the table.

Heath did a lot of traffic directing with his Sheriff's car. Something was a bit "off" about the Sheriff. Every time he would wave his right hand and tell a car to move forward, BASH! Another car crash.

Stella zoomed her cars on the table in front of her. When Heath made siren noises, she made siren noises. When Heath said, Beep-beep, she said, Beep-beep. And she did a lot of holding them in her hands, snug to her chest, saying, No, mine. No one was trying to take them. It's just habit.

And I knew the game was over and it was time to move on to something else when the cars started to go airborne--at our heads. Good thing it was nap time. This mama needed a rest.

Golf...Ladies...Hmmm...This Story is Starting to Sound Familiar

Because I was born in Charlotte, and lived the first eighteen years of my life here, it's easy to ride around town and point out various historical markers in my life as a kid growing up in the Queen City. And Heath has taken a particular interest in the fact that I was once his age, and loves to hear my tales of being a little girl. Anytime we're in the car, Heath and Stella hear, Mommy used to (fill in the blank) there.

I've explained that there wasn't a Target. Not in Ballentyne. Not in Midtown. We had to settle for K-Mart on South Boulevard. Or Richway on Tyvola. They both had Cherry Icee machines and the butteriest popcorn that would put any movie theater's popcorn to shame, and took multiple hand-washings to remove.

The beloved steam train at Freedom Park is always a popular attraction for Heath. His eyes almost popped out of his head when I told him that they used to have a red caboose you could play on, too. I, of course, left out the sordid details about the teenaged goings-on that took place after dark that led to its eventual demise.

My Junior and Senior High Schools aren't far from our house. Every time we pass them, I tell the kids, That's where Mommy went to school. Lately Heath's response has been, Why? I tell him about reading books and being on the newspaper staff and being absolutely dreadful at Math, and thank goodness for the Swim Team. He adds, I'm going to play football. I suggest various other activities, in addition to football. He says, No, thank you, just football.

This evening as we were driving down Park Rd., heading home from our afternoon at the park, he insisted on having his window down so he could feel the wind. Just as we were passing Park Road Park, he threw his little arm out the window, pointed wildly at the tennis courts and yelled, Hey, when I was your age, I used to play golf there with all the ladies.

Why golf, I have no idea. It is the spot where Mark and I played tennis when we were first dating. It's never been mentioned on my tour of Charlotte with Heath and Stella. My only guess is Mark has at some time pointed out this particular landmark. Perhaps Mark played tennis there with all the ladies when he was Heath's age. I will have to ask him when he gets home.

Feels like Wednesday Already

When Heath woke up this morning he immediately told me he was NOT going to school, he did NOT want me to go to school with him, and he was NOT going to change out of his pajamas. I took a few deep breaths and continued on preparing breakfast and getting ready to be at school with him for the morning. After some milk and eggs, he mellowed a bit and got dressed (with a slight compromise on the pj wearing. His Lightening McQueen night-shirt stayed on under a different t-shirt). It also helped when I told him I would pack an Apple Carrot Crusher in his lunchbox, and if he didn't come to school, I would be going without him and eating the Apple Carrot Crusher myself.

As soon as we arrived at the school playground, Heath was delighted to find a slew of Fire Fighter, EMT and Paramedic costumes to wear. He immediately put a hat and jacket on, and transformed into Rescue mode. I'm here to save the day, he announced. He and his friends responded to many emergencies. Fires--some lasting two weeks. Kitty cats in trees. Garbage trucks stuck in the mud.

As the morning moved on, Heath eventually removed his uniform, then quickly snatched a basketball from a playmate and took off running. The friend zoomed after him, saying, That's not sharing. That's not sharing.

Heath turned around, faced the friend and said, Can I have a turn?

The friend said, Okay.

Heath promptly chucked the ball over the side of the fence.

About this time, we moved inside, stopping for a bathroom break. While everyone was waiting their turn to take care of whatever business they needed to take care of, Heath decided to lift up his t-shirt to show a girl his Lightening McQueen pj top.

Look at this, he said, proudly.

The girl grimaced. I don't think I'm going to like things that boys are going to show me, she said.

During circle time, everyone attentively listened to How Fletcher was Hatched. One girl showed me her pink nails. My sister's nails are pink, too, she whispered.

Did you paint them? I asked.

Oh no, I'd make a mess.

Hold On, Beach, We're Coming!

I am on a mission to find a place at the beach for a week in April. I know that traveling with the little ones can feel like more of the same, just a different location, but I am so in need of a new venue for a bit. I hope the one I just emailed works out for us.

A well-oiled machine, we were not today. The time change has us slightly out of whack. The kids waking up at 7:45am isn't so bad, unless it's on a school day. In that case, the day begins with a crazy whirlwind of getting 3 people dressed (I only managed 2--Stella stayed in pajamas), fed (I think maybe two of us ate), lunch box packed (there was a slight miscommunication about grapes vs. clementines), coffee slurped (down the front of shirt number one for me), tossed in the car before the mud puddle beckons (all over pair of shoes number two for Heath. The first were still wet from last night's waterhose debacle), and to school by 9. Needless to say, my frenzied behavior was contagious, so Heath was a buzzing Tasmanian Devil by the time we arrived (4 minutes late).

I'm still not sure how Heath's day at school went. Every time I asked, I was met with a glassy-eyed, faraway look, and eerie silence. I'm the woodworking volunteer in class tomorrow. Good luck to me.

Nyuk! Nyuk! Nyuk!

It's too bad Mark doesn't have a "Daddy's Supportive, Helpful Deeds and Non-Inflammatory Acts or Remarks" chart, because he would have stars all over the place these days. Once more, he took the kids out this morning, while I went for a run and did some piddling house stuff. I'm not even sure where they went this time. Based on the empty Grande cup I noticed in the car and trainspotting tales from Heath, I would have to guess that it included a visit to the Cotswold Starbucks (the tracks are close by). When it was close to noon, he called me on the phone to see if a pancake brunch sounded like a good idea. It did. So he swung by the house, picked me up and we all headed out to eat an insanely large pile of tasty cakes at Eddie's.

We've had this "Daddy takes the kiddies out in the morning" weekend plan in place for a few weeks now, and it's been great. I feel recharged by Sunday evening, (almost) ready to face a week of epic tantrums, diaper changes, loading small people in and out of car seats, strollers, clothes, bath tubs, wagons, grocery carts, high chairs, swings...

And Mark gets to spend some quality time with Heath and Stella. Tonight while we were having dinner, Mark sighed and said, Monday again, back to work. Heath's big brown eyes welled-up with tears. His lips puckered and quivered. He was truly, deeply saddened that Daddy-time was up. He asked to go to work with Mark. He begged Mark to stay home. And ultimately, he crawled into Mark's lap at the dinner table, put his sweet little head on his shoulder and softly boo-hooed.

Of course this "You rock, Daddy" chart that has all the fire truck stickers and thumbs-up for being a useful member of the Ropko family wouldn't be complete without (at least) one sticker of a frazzled mother, grimacing what has become an all too familiar look of disapproval.

After I put Stella in her room for nap time, I returned to our bedroom and found Heath and Mark snuggled up on the bed under a cozy fleece blanket, Puppy sitting between the two. They were both staring at the television, faint smiles on both their faces. I thought it might be basket ball. Maybe a travel documentary on PBS. Or perhaps Mark put in a Thomas the Train DVD. No. No, it wasn't any of that. It was The Three Stooges. And Heath was loving it.

I immediately cleared my throat loudly; a sign to Mark that was supposed to mean, This isn't really appropriate, I think you should find something else to watch that's more suitable for a three year old. But I don't want to micro-manage out loud, so I will clear my throat and cough until you change the channels.

Then Moe took a mallet to someone's head. Heath cackled. My feigned coughing fit was ignored.

The buffoonery that is The Three Stooges continued. Curly poked Moe in the eye. Heath giggled. (There goes my We don't poke Stella in the eye, it hurts reasoning.) Larry whacks some man over the head with a stick. Heath shrieks with delight. (So much for my Be careful with sticks, you could hurt someone.) A man gets a plate of grapes in the face; total Grape Jam face. Heath explodes with laughter. (We don't throw food at your sister. Oh well.)

Mark finally changed the channel. I don't know if it was my Whooping Cough attack, or if he was looking for a basketball game score. But it was over, except for my lingering worry that Heath might think the physical comedy was real and okay to perform on Stella and friends. I stifled a lecture about the difference between television and real-life.

Heath said, Those guys are scary. I was relieved to hear him say this. Then he started to crack up and said, He got bashed with grapes.

Shower Me With Cupcakes

I am officially banned (again) from watching SuperNanny or 20/20 (when the story involves any childhood disease, fatality, or kidnapping) before I go to bed. I didn't even watch full episodes. Of either one. I caught thirty seconds of a foul-mouthed, spitting three year old on SuperNanny. Then got sucked into ten minutes of 20/20--childhood schizophrenia. And all night long I had terrible nightmares. At this point I can't even tell you what the dreams involved. All I know is I woke up feeling incredibly unrested and defeated.

At least it was a Friday night when this happened. Mark got up ready to go on a morning outing with the kids, and I got to hang back and do what I do best. Piddle. I went for a run. Did two loads of laundry. Cleaned out my horror of a diaper bag. (I found a dollar-fifty in change, a Matchbox ambulance that has been MIA for a few weeks, a used sample pouch of Boudreaux's Butt Paste, and hundreds of cracker crumbs.) Cleaned out my wallet. Although I don't know if I really cleaned it out as much as I just transferred my essentials into a new wallet, leaving the old wallet full of what I now consider unnecessary crap. I have many old wallets in that state. Mark returned with two hungry children. We were able to have some lunch together before I headed out to a baby shower.

Heath was disappointed that he was not able to go to the baby shower with me. He had been involved in the baby gift purchasing and seemed a little bummed that he wasn't going to be involved in the actual celebration. I explained it's for ladies. He explained that it's for big boys, too. I, then, further explained that they would not have race cars at the shower. The subject of him coming was immediately dropped.

Some favorite games were played at the shower. Everyone taking guesses at the mom-to-be's belly circumference. A baby item word scramble. And one that I had heard about from watching The Dugger's: 18 Kids and Counting (another show I have been banned from watching. Not because it gives me nightmares, but because it makes me think three or four more kids might be a plausible idea for me) involving diapers filled with microwaved chocolate candy bars, so that the contents look like baby poop. Peanuts. Almonds. Rice krispy-thingies. They were all in the Pampers. I got them all wrong. I don't eat candy bars. And if I did, I would never be able to look at one the same after this game.

The mommy and baby (gender to be announced upon arrival) got lots of goodies. Onesies. Diapers. Diaper cream. All the great essentials. And I devoured a Vanilla cupcake that had actual vanilla bean flecks in it. This thing was so good I kind of have tears in my eyes right now just thinking about it. Lots of laughs were had, then I opened my cupcake-hole and talked about Postpartum Depression. Good grief, Debbie Downer.

Netflix came in the mail. More Six Feet Under.

Pumpkin Guts

I woke up this morning feeling unsure as to whether or not I could brave one more day this week. Fridays often find me feeling pretty tapped in the energy/patience department(s). Fortunately the morning rain subsided and I was able to take my injured foot for a quick run with the kiddies. Happy to report that the foot is better and my mood was improved. We even managed to wander our way over to our neighbor/friend's house for a delightful impromptu playdate.

After naps we headed out to an afternoon playdate. (Hopefully all this playing will leave them all tuckered-out.) The rain held off at this point so the kids were able to run around the backyard, piling bricks into dump trucks. Early into our playtime Heath managed to find (and wallow in)the "pumpkin patch" section . Not to be deterred from running trucks with his friends, he simply took off his pumpkin-slimed pants, and continued on his way in his Batman underpants for the rest of our visit.

It's all very interesting to me because 1) I made a point of making him wear underpants this afternoon, 2) As we were backing out of the driveway I thought, I don't have an extra just-in-case pair of pants with me. Ah, it will be fine, and 3) We also have a "pumpkin patch" in our backyard. It's a place where our Halloween/Thanksgiving pumpkins are laid to rest when they have passed on. Heath frequently finds his way into the guts of the patch.

During our playtime Mark called and asked if he should pick up Chinese for dinner. Twist my arm and I'll say okay.

Mmmm...chocolate fudge brownie ice cream is here. (But no Six Feet Under. Bummer.)

Not Bad for a Rainy Thursday

Today was one of those extremely rare days when the household ran like a well-oiled machine. We had our morning milk and coffee without anyone getting pushed off the bed. Breakfast was consumed in a nearly polite manner. When our list of morning errands (grocery store, Target, gas station) was rattled off, no one refused to put on clothes, or threw themselves on the floor in protest. And I was able to strap everyone down in their car seats without the mud puddle by the driveway sucking anyone in.

And it pretty much went that way all day. Plus or minus a few minor transgressions. (The mud puddle was eventually not left alone. Neither was Stella.) But I'll take it.

Our neighbor/friend went into labor early this morning. I had a few phone conversations about this throughout the day. I told Heath that Miss Dana would have the baby sometime today. When Heath woke up from his nap, I was checking my phone to see if there was any news.

When he asked me what I was doing, I said, Checking to see if Miss Dana had the baby.

He took a deep breath and said, Did her water break yet?

I was surprised by his informed question. I guess he wasn't just playing trains when I was talking on the phone. Yes, yes, her water broke.

Is she pushing the baby out? he asked, making a big push motion with his hands.

She is, I said, feeling curious about the direction of this conversation, and not entirely sure how to address all that could come up.

He paused for a minute, grabbed Puppy's ear, and scrunched his mouth to the right side. Wow, I gotta go potty.

Guess all that water/pushing talk got to him.

How Many More Days of Rain?

I got crazy today and decided to try making barbecued chicken. This time my mom was available for some directions. I did, however, fail to ask her exactly how much BBQ sauce one uses. Based on the laughs I got from Mark, I dumped on a lot more than was necessary. But there isn't a single bit of leftover dinner in the refrigerator, so something must've gone right.

As a matter of fact, there isn't a single bit of anything left in the fridge. As much as it pains me, a morning trip to Trader Joe's is inevitable. Of course, I checked the weather and I see we have another rainy day ahead of us, so at least we'll be getting out of the house.

Between the rain and the hurt foot, no run today. I think it was a wise move. The foot feels significantly better. Not sure I'll be able to hold out too much longer.

We had a fun afternoon playdate today. Heath was on the frenzied side. Incredibly excited to have his classmate and classmate's sister over to the house. Tonight while he was taking his bath I asked him if he had fun. He dumped some sudsy water on his head and said:

Maybe he'll come over tomorrow after naps and he can stay and have dinner and take a bath and sleep in the bed with me and get up and eat breakfast...and then we'll play in the mud.

Excellent plan.

So Springy

9:30am and it was already 64 degrees. I ran in short-sleeves this morning. My foot was smarting more than I would've liked, but the warmth made it completely and totally worth the pain.

After school I decided we needed to continue taking advantage of the gorgeous outside time, so we played in the backyard before naps. The three of us climbed into the tree house, or castle, or spaceship, or boat, or pirate boat, or (for today) Heath's work truck.

We lugged various tools up the ladder into the truck to head off to the job site. We've got houses to work on, Heath announced, carrying a glue spreader he found in the tool shed.

In the middle of the heavy duty house work, Heath said, I gotta get in my truck and go pick up my girlfriend.

Who is your girlfriend? I asked.

A girl at school.

What's her name?

He took a deep breath. I was asking too many questions. But I wasn't going to leave this one alone, so I asked it again. What's her name?

Emily, he sighed, and tried not to smile.

Emily? No one in his class is named Emily. I don't know an Emily in your class.

She's in the 4s class. She plays on the playground. He looked down at his hand and got a serious look on his face. Sorry, mom, I have to take this call. It's my girlfriend.

He stepped down the ladder, put his cell phone hand to his ear, and began pacing back and forth. You did? You did?! Well, I gotta get back to work. He closed his pretend phone and put it back in his pocket.

When I asked him what she "did," he shook his head, rolled his eyes, and said, I got work to do.

Women.

Bye-Bye, Winter. I Will Not Miss You One Bit.

Heath woke up at 7:15 this morning, sorely disappointed that it was Monday again, which means Mark was back at work. He stayed in his bed a little while longer, whimpering, I miss Daddy. I miss Daddy.

No preschool today. Some sort of teacher workday. At 7:30, sipping on coffee, sitting on our bed with Heath and Stella watching Curious George, still in our pajamas, I didn't mind so much that we didn't have any particular place to be, at any particular time.

At 8:30, Heath is taking Stella's blanket repeatedly, grabbing any toy she had the audacity to play with, and finally, giving her head a nice shove into the kitchen floor tiles, I was deeply saddened that there was no school today.

Fortunately for us, we'd made plans to meet a couple of playmates at the park in the afternoon. My mantra was, Just make it to 3:30, all morning long. And the sun quickly warmed the air, so I managed to get us into the backyard to play until lunch. Then persuaded early naps to make our park date.

70 and sunny at last, so of course the park was packed. Heath ran like a wild man with trucks and truck-loving friends. Stella did her share of dissatisfied whining, because I was a fun-squashing mom. No, you can't jump off that play structure ledge that's four feet off the ground by yourself. No, you can't pull on the dog's tail that seems to be mysteriously without an owner anywhere in sight.

No run today, though. I thought I had managed to come away from my race completely unscathed, but this morning I felt a not-so-good pain in my right foot. Good news is, after some good stretching, it feels much better this evening.

Good thing, too. 70s again tomorrow. Won't be able to stay run-free on another day like that.

Is it Sunday Night Already?

I can't believe what I just saw. 69 and sunny tomorrow. My winter-chilled body might actually begin to thaw.

When Mark suggested he take the kids to Freedom Park this morning while I do whatever I felt like doing, I said, Why, sure...sounds good.

It was too sunny to resist heading out for a quick 3 miles. And it was good to work out some post-race kinks. Then I attacked the necessary, but less fun, task of desicking and defunking our house.

Mark and the kids came back at noon for some lunch. Then Heath and I headed out for a birthday party, while Mark stayed home for Stella's nap. The party was at 2:30, smack in the middle of Heath's usual naptime. I tried to stay optimistic about his mood and headed out to Ballentyne in search of Sports Connection, the party locale.

Before I knew it, Heath's head was bobbing in his car seat. I could even hear the beginnings of some snoring over the roar of the wind flowing into the open sunroof. He was OUT. I'd left a little early for the party, because I knew this might happen. So I did some Sunday joy-riding.

Down 521. Onto Ardrey Kell. Passing shopping area, after shopping area. All unchartered territory for me, so when Ardrey Kell ended, I pretty much had no idea where I was. Heath was still snoring up a storm, and drooling just a bit. I felt like a left turn was a good idea. So glad I did, because it turned out I was on Providence Road. I wound my way back around to Ardrey Kell. Past shopping area, after shopping area. And not the same shopping areas the first time around. These were totally different shops and restaurants.

Fortunately I found my way back to Sports Connection, and Heath managed to get a 20 minute or so snooze. And most fortunate was the fact that Heath was in a decent mood when I woke him up to go into the birthday party zone.

Sports Connection. What a venue. He got a few minutes in the bounce area. Then the birthday group was moved on to bowling. I wasn't sure how that was going to go. He's never bowled before, but is a big fan of taking a ball and throwing it with all his might. And throw, he did. Down his aisle. Down the aisle beside him. Down the aisle on the other side of him.

Pretty soon we were shuffled off to the party room for cake. On the way we passed by the video games. Race cars. Motorcycles. Guns. He nearly tripped on himself, looking around at all the flashing screens. I kept having to direct him back into the line to get him to the party room. Cake and Matchbox car party favors. A little boy's dream afternoon.

And I ended my evening with a Mom's Night Out with a couple of friends, while Mark took the kids to celebrate Goma's birthday.

It's official. I am bleary-eyed. (But maybe not too bleary-eyed to have some ice cream.)

And Then I Ate a Steak the Size of My Head for Dinner

I was awakened at 6am by the sound of the Rocky theme coming from Mark. I was delighted by his cheery enthusiasm, and the sight of a steaming cup of coffee for me in his hand.

Get me my raw eggs, I said, feeling surprisingly excited about the race. And then he said, I think I'll register and run with the kids.

Originally there had been some loose talk about Mark running the race with the kids. Or having my parents come over in the morning to watch the kids while Mark and I run. Be we came to the conclusion that I would do the race solo. So his early morning suggestion was met with a number of flying thoughts. Stella's been sick all week and we don't know how she is yet. They don't want to be in the baby jogger for 6 miles--you can forget 13.1. It's so cold and Heath has had that cough. I need to be there by 7:30 and there's so much to do to get them prepared and they need snacks and what if Heath has to go to the potty and what about late registration and what if they don't wake up soon and...

And then I surprised myself by saying, Okay. And that was that. The unspoken, but well-understood race stipulations were: 1) If they are screaming and unhappy and you (Mark) have to stop mid-way, I keep going, and 2) If anyone is pukey, the deal is off.

Everyone was up by 6:15, puke-free, and totally on board with running a race downtown. Mark handled all the details with the kids, and I got to drink my coffee, get dressed, grab my bib and GU, and jump in the car.

Downtown was buzzing with loads of runners. We let Heath wander around for a while before getting into the stroller. He was thrilled to see the light rail, the cranes on top of the buildings, and all the people suited up to run their race. We were also meeting a few of our friends and Mark's co-workers, so Heath was doubly excited to talk construction and dumpster shop with them.

While Mark registered, I tried to find a bathroom that didn't have a long and winding line around the Wachovia atrium. No such luck and I realized that I was going to have to brave the Porta-Jon. This is frightening enough by myself, but I could only imagine all the disgusting possibilities that could happen with me and two children inside the dreaded stink-hole. But there was no way I was going to be able to NOT go before I ran. So, I went back outside with the kids, took my place in line for the Porta-potty, and hoped for the best.

Before I could even get cold, a kind fellow walked by and said, There are bathrooms in there; no lines. He pointed to the hotel beside Wachovia One. Woo-hoo. I picked Heath up, left Stella with our friend, and raced off for the lineless, inside, so much cleaner than the gross Porta-potty potty.

Mark and I returned at the same time. He was the last person to register. Just in time to slowly walk our way to the start area. It was crowded (around 750 participants), but it was the first race that I wasn't bothered by it. When we finally crossed the start line, I actually found myself enjoying the process of finding my pace and my place. I zigged to get around some walkers. I zagged to move by some 5k runners with their dogs. And eventually, the crowd dispersed, I found my stride, and I was feeling pretty good. And then a peppy younger guy on the sidelines said, Almost to one mile, way to go! One mile? One mile?! Only 12 to go.

Around 3 miles, I was definitely in the zone. The 5k-ers broke off to the right, and the halfers kept moving straight. I knew Mark and the kids were behind me somewhere, but I didn't want to turn around. If I saw them, my total concentration would become about their comfort. Are they warm enough? Is Stella okay? Is Heath having fun? And then my race would be, well, different than what I was experiencing, which was just blissful. I was totally and completely enjoying myself.

And I was so happy to have my husband and my children running behind me, cheering me on. (I think I had that realization around the time we passed St. Mary's chapel on 3rd Street where Mark and I got married). Then I noticed that we were getting pretty close to mile 6 and it was time to have some water and GU. As if he read my mind, Mark appeared out of nowhere, pushing the kiddies. I disrobed a bit--gave him a couple of layers and my gloves. Grabbed my Orange Burst GU. Heath took note of the GU exchange and immediately began whining for GU. Good thing I packed an Apple Carrot Crusher in his snack bag. I started to give Mark directions. The Apple sauce is in the lunch box. Take the top off, but don't let him have it because he might give it to Stella and she might swallow it and...I yammered on, my micro-management sucking the energy right out of me. I started to slow down.

Go, go, go, Mark said, waving me on. Say go, go, go, mama. Heath continued to whine for GU and Stella said, Mama, mama, mama...and then I couldn't hear them anymore.

So I went, went, went. I sucked down my Orange Burst GU. So much more refreshing than the Vanilla Bean I'd been consuming while training. And at the next water station, I grabbed some water. Running and drinking. I'm not coordinated enough to do that gracefully. I got a little in mouth, but most of it went down the front of my shirt. So now I've taken layers off, because I was hot and sweaty. But now the sweat is cold. And the water droplets that made it in my mouth were deliciously chilly. Soaked down the front of my shirt, a little less delightful. Now I'm freezing.

Mile 7, but I somehow get it in my head that it's mile 8. Mark passes me--going uphill, pushing 100 pounds. I get my gloves back. Mile 8. The real 8 mile. I have a What the frickity frack? moment, because I thought it was going to be mile 9. And then I push, push, push through some up, up, up hill. And relish the moments of down, down, down hill. Mile 10. Queens Road and still feeling strong. I notice a stopped baby jogger and see a little boy peeing on a tree. I get a little closer. That is my baby jogger. That is my little boy peeing on a tree.

Mile 11. I start to notice my body. My upper thighs. They don't hurt, not yet. My feet. I'm overly aware of having to lift them off the ground and propel them forward.

Morehead Street. I almost ask someone if they can tell me whether or not I am actually moving anymore. It feels like I am running in place. And not running in place all that well. I don't even remember passing mile 12.

The last mile. I am positive that I am not only running in place, but I am running in place at a 20 minute mile pace. Turn right on College Street. The end isn't in sight. Not yet. But I know it's there. I don't speed up. Not yet. I'm still thinking about my legs and the effort it's taking to move them forward.

And finally, finally, finally, I see the finish line. Where are my children? I know Mark finished ahead of me, so where are they? I scan the crowd on both sides of the street. I can't find them anywhere. Everyone seems to have a baby jogger, but none of them belong to me.

I dig deep, speed up, stare straight at the finish line--and there they are. Heath is out of the baby jogger, wrapped in a blanket and a huge grin. Stella is still in the stroller, but I can see her little smile that has been missing all sickly week long. And Mark, clapping and hooting and hollering.

I leap across the finish and immediately scoop Heath up to give him many, many kisses. The lady who was handing out medals apparently tried to hand one to me, but I was too busy kissing on the babies. Mark got it for me and put it around Stella's neck. Heath was already wearing Mark's.

Look at my medal, he said, holding it up for me to see. I ran so hard and fast through downtown. I'm starving.

2:14:41. Not too shabby.

Run, Forrest, Run

My race is tomorrow and I'm really trying to feel a little more enthusiastic. This week has been less than restful and getting up to go run 13.1 miles at 8am sounds...ambitious.

And I need to get cracking and find out where the heck this race-thingy is anyway. I was in a "hope Stella doesn't throw up in the Run for Your Life" daze when I picked up my race bib and t-shirt, so I failed to get any additional information like, where do I go? Where is the start? Where do I park? Where am I? What's my name? How old am I? Good thing some of those details are on the back of my bib. I was initially sore when I saw that they have me listed as 37. That is wrong. For another month, that is wrong. My hurt feelings over their error didn't linger, though. Too many other things to focus on.

Like, why is my baby girl still sick? My appointment at the doctor yesterday was only mildly reassuring. The diagnosis was pretty much, Yep, that's a stomach bug. I wonder what's making her vomit at night? If I were a different person, I would've said, That's your job, right? But I'm not. So I didn't.

Instead, I woke up this morning and found Stella in the same condition I've found her all mornings this week. After a mostly lethargic day, I called the doctor back. Push liquids, push liquids. Heath and I finally got her to drink some apple juice out of a syringe. It helped. She even managed some crackers and bananas, too.

Speaking of lethargic, I'm off to watch an episode or two of Six Feet Under before I pass out. Here's to a puke-free night.

Thursday and the Creeper

Honestly, if we could just get on a plane and head somewhere really warm and germ free, I would so do it. Maybe temporary bubble housing is available somewhere until May.

Heath has spent the entire afternoon coughing. And he's still awake in his bed. Coughing. I can't complain (but I will), because it hasn't resulted in upchucking. Yet. I'm staying positive on that front.

Poor Miss Stella. My wish for her last night did not come true. My experience with stomach bugs has been that they attack suddenly, with great fury, and about twenty-fours later you're well on the road to being 100%. Not this one. This little critter has been quite the creeper. Just when you think it might be getting better, no. It's still there, creating havoc.

Shortly after she woke up this morning, I was cleaning her room and getting her dressed. Before I could even get her clothes on, she stretched her little body out on the bare hardwood floors and just fell asleep. Completely wiped out.

She did manage to perk up a bit this evening and have a little to eat. She's even managed a new word. Bite. As in, Stella would like a bite of whatever it is that you are eating.

So let's try this again. I have two hopes for this evening: 1) Puke-free night. 2) No one else gets this thing.

And Heath is STILL in there coughing. (Close my eyes and shake my head.)

The Mid-day of the Week

When Heath screamed and cried out for us at 2am, I was sure I was going to open his door and find the dreaded attack of the stomach bug vomitorium. Fortunately, I found a half-asleep Heath, sitting in the middle of his (vomit-free) bed, mumbling incoherently. All it took was a pat and kiss on the head, and he was back asleep.

At 5am, I heard Stella crying. Unfortunately, I found a different story. It was more like the one I expected at 2am. Poor Stella. Another tough day.

So, I have two hopes. 1) A puke-free night for my little girl. 2) The virus starts and stops with her. (She's by far the toughest one in this house, anyway.)

My race is in 3 days and I couldn't feel more tired. (And slightly nauseous.) Let's hope it's just from dealing with the unpleasant subject for the last two days.

Heath immediately went outside this morning to make snow angels on the patches of snow he could find on the deck and in our backyard. When he came in he kicked off his boots and said, I'm finished with the snow.

My sentiments exactly.

Tuesday's Gone With the Rain? Snow?

Two days in a row I have been successful in not only getting the kids together for school on time, but we've even managed to be a few minutes early. A calm start to the day makes all the difference.

But before I start to feel a sense of ease in life...

Yesterday after naps I noticed Stella just didn't seem quite herself. No fever. No running nose. Little cough, but that's nothing new for us this winter. So, I just figured she was tired. Period.

I had a meeting to attend at Heath's school this morning and sweet Stella tagged along. She happily ate a blueberry muffin. Sat in her chair. Smiled at everyone. Said hi to everyone. Repeatedly. Then wanted to sit in my lap.

As she was lying on me, I thought, Wow, she's really tired. Then I thought, Wow, she's really tired, maybe she just isn't feeling well. Then I thought, Wow, she's really seeming not well, I should go.

And before I can stand up, she (as Heath would say) sicked up all over. All over me. All over herself.

And it's true, it really does take a village, especially when you've got a sickin' up child on you and you're both smothered in it. Moms gave me wipes. They helped me get Stella to the bathroom. Got us disrobed. One got an extra shirt for Stella from Heath's cubby, then gave me her sweater to wear. Hallelujah for help.

Tough day for the little gal. All she wanted to do was rest on top of her green blanket. Even Heath has given her some much needed space, occasionally checking in on her. Any little noise or movement she made, She sickin' up?

So, how about that rain-snow? Good grief.

Monday, Monday

After preschool drop off, I bundled Stella up and headed out for a quick 3.6. I could tell she was grateful for the opportunity to take a mid-morning snooze, because she was asleep before I had the baby jogger rolled completely out the back door.

Unfortunately, today has been no exception to these frequent raging headaches that have been plaguing me. The run, ibuprofen, post-preschool nap, multiple neck and back stretches...nothing is touching this guy.

I did, however, get a nice surprise in the mail today. My Shamrock green plaid running skirt arrived. I can hardly wait to take it for a spin. Heath was very disappointed in what was in the package.

You got a car in there for me? he asked, peering into the US Postal envelope.

The best I could offer him was a mini-Boden catalog to peruse. At first he liked looking at all the skull and crossbones attire.

Then he found the girls section. Who's she?

Then he wanted me to find the race cars in the catalog. I found a couple of t-shirts with trucks and cars on them. But that wasn't what he had in mind.

They don't sell actual cars, I explained.

Gigs, you can have this, he said, handing Stella the now useless book.

Excellent sharing.