Oh, Running through the Woods, How I've Missed You

Mark had an excellent idea this morning about taking the kiddies out to the Whitewater Center and letting me run free on the trails. I decided to say to heck with my physical malaise and jumped at the opportunity.

Five minutes before we arrived the rain started to fall, and I was beginning to think our morning of trail running, and letting Heath and Stella get the wild willies out of themselves, wasn't going to happen. But the Trail Status green flags flew high, and the nice fella at the parking check-in said he been not been told they would be closing, so on we went.

I took off into the woods as quickly as I could and immediately realized that this was exactly what I needed for my recent mental funk. Once again, I had no idea where I was, or where I was going, and I couldn't have cared less. But as I trotted along, wooden bridges, tree stumps, trail crossings started to look familiar from my race.

The rain began to fall steadier, and there was no doubt about it, I was officially getting soaked. Once again, I did not pack rain gear for the kids and started to wonder about their welfare. I was reminded that Mark is quite capable of getting them in out of the rain, not to mention the fact that they are not all opposed to getting wet.

The trails were rapidly becoming soupy, squelch-squerch, shoe-sucking puddles. I'd been at it for thirty minutes and had run into one woman running with her two dogs, and a turtle the size of my head. At this point I also realized that I hadn't seen a trail sign for quite some time either. I kept cruising along, happily splish! splash! splosh! in the mud.

Then boom! crack! sizzle! crashed the thunder and a searing, bright bolt of lightening. I thought, this is it. I'm running in the world's largest puddle and lightening is going to come zooming down to get me. I picked up my legs and the pace, and ran like a wild woman full speed ahead. But where am I? Where am I going? I don't know. I just ran like a maniac.

I kept waiting for a whistle, or a chopper, or someone official to come tell me (possibly yell at me) that I have to come in because the trails are closed. But no whistle was blown. No lifeguards came calling. Eventually I saw the back of a trail sign and a clearing. Turns out I'd been running on the Trail of Joy, backwards. The Trail Status red closed flags waving in the air, I continued on to find my sure-to-be-drowning husband and children.

They were with the rest of the folks seeking cover, under the main entrance roof. Yes, they were soaked. Yes, they had made lots of friends to splash in the puddles. And yes, they had big smiles and lots of tales for me about the time they heard the thunder and saw the lightening at the Whitewater Center.

Just the kind of morning we needed.

The Corn that Nearly Wasn't

I opted to not run today. That's how not right I feel.

Mark took Heath and Stella out for a long run this morning. I decided to hang back and drink coffee in silence. Guilt got the best of me, so I did a little laundry. Then the sun started to shine a bit brighter. I dressed for a run. Laid back down on the bed. Changed my mind about the run. Dressed for not running.

Fortunately some friends invited us over for a 5 o'clock cookout. The kids had a great time running around their backyard, kicking a soccer ball, trying to figure out how to play croquet. For Stella that mostly consisted of wandering around holding a mallet in one hand and a ball in the other.

We ate one of my favorite meals: veggie burger, salad, baked beans, and corn on the cob. Well, cooking the corn on the cob was very nearly forgotten by our friend. Let's just call him Piggy. Because that's his name.

My new obsession: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Just wish it would give me some much needed energy. I need some. And I need it fast. Thank goodness for Monday Memorial Day. I'm not ready to go it alone just yet.

Too Tired for a Title

Sore throat. Stomachache. Headache. Tired. So very tired. Not exactly what I had in mind for the Saturday of our three day weekend. Let's hope tomorrow is a better one.

On a brighter note, while Mark had the kiddies out at Speed Street getting their fill of race paraphernalia (including a Matchbox race care and a Team Chevy arm tattoo), and all that accompanies Speed Street on a Saturday afternoon, I took the alone, quiet time to do a little activity registration.

Despite Heath's Sorry, I have to work proclamation, I made an executive decision and signed us up for a summer Music Together class. We will be singing little ditties, shaking our maracas, and swinging our hips to the beat of the Tambourine MT collection on Wednesdays at 5. Should be a cool spot to be on those sweltering afternoons.

I also decided that my trail race experience was so delightful I need to head back out there for the July 17th 5K. Fun, fun, fun. Til then, on to feeling better so I can hit the trails for some more practice. I am itching to run like a maniac through the woods.

And for now, I just hope I can stay awake long enough for an episode or two of It's Always Sunny...I'm not sure I'll be able to make it.

Blah.

Hooray for Memorial Day Weekend

A three day weekend could not have come along at a better time. I am totally tapped and very much in need of recharge time, and reinforcements from my partner in the parental unit. Mark picked up a movie from the local HT Redbox. I don't know what it is. Don't even care, so long as it doesn't have anything to do with toddlers and preschoolers.

Typical Friday. The day was descending into an out of control downward spiral at the crack of 8am. It started innocently enough with a 4 foot long fire truck puzzle assembly project. Then a piece didn't fit the way someone wanted it to as quickly as this particular person wanted it to fit, so the world was coming to an end. And after a week of the world coming to an end over similar events, I found myself needing to find my breath. Crisis nearly averted, a piece of the puzzle, the front tire to be exact, went missing. Turns out it wasn't missing. It had been carried to another room by a runaway sister. Needless to say, quiet puzzle time ended with, count them, three people in tears.

I find when it's at this level of emotional dysfunction before 8:30, the only thing that can be done to start anew is to get the heck out of the house. So still in our pajamas, we set out to do some backyard bushwhacking. When all was realigned, we went out for a refreshing, pre-heat of the day run.

I'd like to say all was well from that point forward. The best I can say is the dial was set to survival mode until Mark came home. And survive, we did.

Mark just came in from putting Heath to bed. Apparently Heath's last words were, Tell Mama to have sweet dreams.

I think I will.

New Look, Same Great Taste

After a year of using Heath's shampoo, and nearly two decades of sticking to my rule that shampoo should never cost more than a dollar and conditioner is one of the more superfluous beauty products on the market, I finally decided to treat myself to some big girl shampoo and conditioner. It's not even a shampoo and conditioner combo bottle. Each product gets its very own special container.

It was an uncharacteristically out of the blue purchase at Trader Joe's. I deliberated between Tea Tree Tingle and Refresh Citrus only long enough for Heath to engage in eating leftover coffee grinds out of the red self-grinder. The smell of grapefruit has always won me over, and I am certainly game for being refreshed, so I made a quick grab-and-go of the pretty apricot-hued bottles, and moved on to remove my son from the grinder before he lost a digit, or became wild-eyed with caffeine.

Refresh Citrus (with Vitamin C) promises a "unique aroma-therapeutic blend" of citrus. It delivered. The aroma is delicate and fruity, and not a hint of flowers. (Not big on flowery-scents.) I will also say my hair is slightly less than straw-like. (Maybe. It's still wet, so we'll see what it actually looks like in the dry light of day.) But therapeutic? I don't know. I guess I need the Recharge or Wake-Up or Snap-Out-of-It blend. Then again, I suppose it was referring to my hair and not my mind. In that case, I got what I paid for.


And yes. I did change my blog background. And blog name. And blog address. I got tired of reading other people's blogs and thinking how cute their blog is. And how their blog has an address that clues you in to what their subject matter is. And how their blog seems to have an agenda. And a point.

Mine still doesn't have an agenda. Or a point. And I am only mildly concerned that my loyal fans (all both of them) will somehow be confused, or unable to find me.

But isn't it pretty?

Bushwhacked

Project Holy Moly! How Did Our Yard Get Like This?! is well under way. After an insane morning of Project Please Stop Bothering Your Sister (and while you're at it, the whining can stop, too), I let the kiddies loose in the backyard and got to hacking.

Phase One of our backyard reconstruction is pretty simple, and actually unbelievably therapeutic as it consists of mostly hacking and whacking and trimming and pulling and yanking and heavy-duty snipping our way through overgrown bushes and trees and plants that seem to have no beginning or end. And if they do have starts and/or finishes, they have been so completely overtaken with long, invasive, toxic strings of ivy that has such a density it proves to be impervious to even the most aggressive chomping of the hedge clippers.

My yard debris clean-up crew couldn't have been more helpful. Stella was in charge of the ride-on bulldozer, and chipmunk chasing. It seems our yard, in its foliage-free-for-all, is an excellent habitat for tiny, furry creatures. Chipmunks. Bunny rabbits. Opossum. Hopefully our clean-up won't leave them too terribly displaced.

Heath, however, was an incredible help. He shouted instructions to his imaginary co-workers.

We need to pull these limbs into the pile! Let's load 'em up on the trailer, guys! We need a dumpster for this area!

Every limb I slashed, he picked up and tossed in a pile. Every pile that was created, he loaded into his vehicles (wagon, police car, buckets).

Of course, he desperately wanted to use my giant, digit-loss-ER-visit-waiting-to-happen trimmers. I told him I would do my best to find something suitable for a three year old (not sure if that exists). Eventually he suggested his boy scissors, a pair of preschool scissors, and helped trim by cutting leaf after leaf after leaf on a bush of undetermined type.

We spent most of the day and evening out there, minus a nap and a run. It will probably take the entire summer to get the whole backyard in some sort of landscaped order.

Looks like that will coincide perfectly with Project It's Summertime: Keep 'em Busy and Wear 'em Out.

If You're Going My Way...

Last morning of preschool until September. After drop-off, and a quick milk pick-up at Earth Fare, Stella and I headed back home. With our recent late afternoon running schedule, I decided to use the a.m. time to start laundry, unload the dishwasher, empty trash, tidy bedrooms. Fun things.

While I puttered about the house, Stella latched onto Heath's latest prized possession, No Stall 123 hauler from the Cars movie. The likelihood of him sharing this particular toy is slim to none, and I could tell from the delightful humming that she did while she opened and closed the side-doors and placed a variety of items (Leakless race car, Little People fire fighter, Trader Joe's cat cookie, juice box straw) into the hauler, she knew what she was doing had an edge of taboo to it, that time was limited, and she better enjoy the heck out of it while she can.

While I emptied the garbage bags from upstairs I noticed that her humming had changed to full-on song singing. I peaked down the stairs and watched her roll No Stall across the train table. She interrupted her song with a beep-beep (No Stall was letting a fire truck know that he was coming through), then continued on with what was becoming a recognizable tune.

Hee, bee, dee, la, fee, eff, ga, hee, eye, jah, she sang to the tune of the ABC's. As soon as she noticed that I was enjoying her ditty, she immediately clammed up and came running. She grabbed my hand and led me back to the table, and handed me a truck to roll with her.

We pushed Mack and No Stall round and round, making occasional pit stops, and honking noises. Then Stella started to sing again. But it wasn't her ABC's. It took a few bars before I could recognize one particular word.

Are you saying highway? I asked.

She smiled and nodded. 'ighway. She started to sing again.

Are you singing Life is a Highway?

'ighway, she repeated with an eager nod. I had recognized her tune. Her Rascal Flatts tune from the Cars movie that she watched with Heath recently.

Now she not only sang, but it was loud and proud. And then it was accompanied by her signature dance move, a saucy side-to-side rocking motion with a very subtle head bob.) Then she enthusiastically pointed her finger at me, saying, Mama, 'ighway. It was duet time.

Then the sillies took hold and she threw No Stall down on the table and ran to climb into my lap.

You ready to go get Heath from school? I asked, taking note of the time.

She shot up, grabbed Puppy who was left on the floor with strict instructions from Heath this morning to rest because he's sick, ran to the back door, screeching, 'ighway. Hee. 'ighway. Hee.

Move Over Ben and Jerry...

The ice cream social was a fun affair today at Heath's school. The kids did some serious hand-cranking on a very old, wooden, days of yore ice cream maker of a bucket. I also brought my trusty Cuisinart (and a couple of pre-prepared batches) to make some "no need to hurt yourself, it does it on its own in twenty minutes" vanilla ice cream.

I have eaten more than my share of homemade ice cream over the years. My parents had one of those electric kind that is hideously noisy, and equally unattractive in its aesthetic lack of home decor appeal, but it made, without fail, the creamiest, most delicious ice cream. I spent many summer nights in my youth slapping at mosquitoes, anxiously waiting on our back porch for that blasted thing to churn and chill so I could dive nearly head first into the frozen delight.

The "cranker" we used at school today called for the same ice and rock salt combo that my parents used with theirs. As I reminded multiple children, multiple times, that we probably shouldn't eat the rock salt, I found myself remembering exactly how the rock salt tasted, because I, too, couldn't resist, despite being told multiple times, we do not eat the rock salt. A couple of kids did not heed my warning about the yuckiness and snuck a pebble into their mouths. Their eye-wincing grimaces and sudden urge to spit spoke volumes.

It took an hour today of constant hand-cranking, all the children happily taking short-lived turns. The teachers kindly put the real muscle into the deal. At 11:30 moms and dads and siblings and grandmas (and a Papa!) arrived to chat and eat ice cream made by our sweet little 3 and 4 year old babes. Toppings included granola, chocolate chips, raspberries, strawberries, and carrots (thanks for granting Heath's odd, yet nutritious request, HeHe!). Everyone eagerly dug into spoonfuls of their homemade treat.

Heath was thrilled that Papa was coming to school today. All morning long he said, My Grandpa's coming to eat ice cream with me. Then as an afterthought, And my Gigs. Stella was certainly excited to be a part of the ice cream social. She sat next to her friend (another class sibling) and the two ate multiple bowls, and have a shared passion for a particular topping: chocolate chips.

The ice cream party was a perfect wrap-up for the 3's class experience. It officially comes to a close for Heath tomorrow. Then summertime is on. Oh my...

Til then, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and, if you can believe it, more ice cream.

Where is My Mind?

I lucked out and managed an early morning trip to Trader Joe's and Target, while Mark took the kiddies out in the baby jogger for a long run. He is heeding my absolutely under no circumstances are you allowed to run the Grandfather Mountain marathon without being properly trained advice.

As much as I complain about my pained shopping excursions with Heath and Stella (due to blood-curdling screaming meltdowns, produce pinchings, peeing in places one shouldn't pee, escape and hide buffoonery, shopping cart tipping (with or without sister in the cart), buying things we really don't need to avoid aforementioned meltdowns), it seems I often have a harder time staying on task when I'm going it alone. Today it wasn't so much a task-mastering dilemma, so much as a plain ole la-la land, spaciness that seemed to have me in its grip.

Made a phone call on the way to the store and forgot to discuss my reason for calling.

Forgot an item or two. Okay, it was three. (With a list in my hand.)

Hit my head on the car door, while exiting.

Hit my head with the back door, while grabbing the bags to take into TJ's.

Hit it again, while putting the now-loaded-with-groceries bags back into the back of the car.

All the while, feeling very much like I strained something very important in the belly area yesterday while running that trail.

But I made it back home, with my head still on, ready to tackle the last minute scramble of getting Heath together and out the door for a very fun birthday party at My Gym.

Fortunately I mustered up a late afternoon three miles and worked out a few physical and mental post-race kinks. Phew. Think I can face the week.

First up: ice cream social at Heath's school tomorrow. Oh my.

Riverbound Race

My expectations are frequently exceedingly low, much like those of a surly 15 year old boy, I find myself quite sure that something is going to suck. It's nothing more than a nervous habit that has been slow to shed itself. So it is no surprise that I woke up this morning with a nervous belly and sense of what the heck was I thinking when I signed up for the 10K instead of the 5K trail.

The troops and I made it to the Whitewater Center with nary a second to spare. Mark dropped me off at the front, so I could run to pick up my race packet, clumsily fiddle the shoe chip and bib on while running to the potty, then running over to the start line, I scanned the rock wall area to see if I could spot a man and two kiddies roaming around the grounds. Finally I caught sight of fellow wearing a red Maryland t-shirt, carrying not one, but two children, one on each hip, while, yep!, running to catch a glimpse of mama at the start. I waved furiously and I hoped Mark would telepathically know that I was telling him, I am leaving my new shirt here on the rock, so pretty please come over here and pick it up for me while I scamper off into the woods.

I also did a quick scan for the two ladies I know who were running today, but no luck. And before I could take a better scan of all the folks running, the crowd began to shift and I suddenly realized the race was on. No gun shot.

Off we went. Down a wide gravel path. Then a turn. I spotted a cheery familiar face and red plaid running skirt, and got a boosting shout-out. Then another familiar face, and we gave each other hearty waves. Then another slight turn, into the woods on the North Trail.

And then quickly, despite my concerns that a small trail would make it hard to find a rhythm, trying to get out of the way of others, and lo and behold!, negotiated my way around other people, all while digging into the dirt and stomping on roots and rocks, I found it. Although there were people in front, people behind, the solitude of the run in the woods was exhilarating. And to be so pointed with what was happening right then and there was a level of being I don't often reach.

So when the 5K'ers broke off and went left, and I headed right, I remembered why I signed up for the 10K. Because I wasn't finished yet.

My inability to come up with a water bottle plan fortunately turned out to be a moot point. They had a couple of water stations. I grabbed, gulped, spilled, then debated whether or not I should just hold onto the cup instead of tossing onto the ground. Yes, they expect that. Yes, they are prepared to clean it up. But I feel guilty every time.

On the way up Goat Hill loop, I took five walking steps. Everyone around me seemed to be walking at this point.

On the way down Goat Hill loop, I had an amazing epiphany about Heath and life, and I'm sure it had to do with ups and downs and peaks and valleys. And I felt some rain begin to fall. I wondered about the kiddies. I failed to pack their rain jackets. They will be okay, I decided.

Then we were back in the wide open clearing of the reddish dirt, where I was sure I was lost last Sunday. Now I know I wasn't lost, I was just practicing.

Back into the woods some volunteers cheered and shouted and said, You're almost there. I thought, wow, I haven't fallen. I immediately stumbled. In quite a flat spot, too.

I knew the finish was the same as the start, so as soon as I began to recognize that we were, in fact, almost there. I ran back onto the original wide gravel path, and began to look for Mark and thekids. Like a beacon in the night, my friend in the red plaid skirt stood on top of a rock (of course she was finished already, Miss Speedy), cheering my name. Mark woo-hooing for me, holding Stella, Heath standing by his side. My friend's husband and kids jumping and cheering. It was just the last little boost and goosebump-filled moment I needed to speed across the finish line.

Every now and then something exceeds my expectations.

Why Run on a Trail if You're Not Going to Get a Little/Lot Dirty?

While I was busy carbing up on whole wheat spaghetti for tomorrow's race, the rain was busy coming down, and I began to wonder/worry if my pasta face-stuffing would be for naught. (Of course, I've certainly been known to carb-up with nary a race in sight, so...) I'm aware of the trail sensitivities, and apparently the Whitewater Center closes them down with relative ease. I could tell that if the race wasn't on tomorrow, there would definitely be some feelings of disappointment.

But in the midst of Stella bath time, I received a shout of good news from Mark in the other room. The race is on rain or shine! I am officially excited. And now it seems the possibility of not only getting dirty, but quite a bit muddy is looking bright. Pasta load-up ready to kick in when it's needed. (Still don't have a water bottle and I refuse to carry a sippy cup, so I do have a little work cut out for me this evening.)

The real trick will be having the clan up and at 'em, out the door, on the road, and river-side for packet pick up before the 8am start time.

Should've slept in the car.

Jam-Making Fool

It seems when I state "the rules according to mama" to Heath and Stella they automatically feel some sense of flexibility in them, and not because I am necessarily a lenient, permissive parent, they just frequently don't seem to care what I have to say in some instances. So, I've learned a bit of a trick. They're not my rules, they are someone else's guidelines.

Today we headed out bright and early to Hall Family Farm to do a little strawberry picking. (Last week's preliminary/trial jar of strawberry jam making went so well, I thought I could handle lugging the children to a patch to pick pounds upon pounds, then lug the kiddies back home for a late-morning of jam-making.) I'm no fool. I know who I am dealing with when it comes to my kids. I am definitely going at my own risk, but I figured I could at least pin down the usual suspects when it comes to egregious "mis"behavior.

So after strapping them both down in their car seats, I took a long sip of my coffee, a deep breath, then turned around in the front seat of the car to face the the small, but freakishly large in mischief-making possibilities, crew.

The gist of what I told them (with a cheery voice and smile!) was:

So we're off to Hall Family Farm to pick some strawberries. The Halls have some rules that we have to follow while we are there (I'm pretty sure this is where Heath sort of smirked). One (I counted the rules with my fingers, Stella mimicking right along.), if you have to go to the potty, we go to THE potty. (I'm pretty sure this is where Heath frowned.) We can't pee-pee in the strawberry patches.

Two, the Hall Family wants you to stay with your mommy at all times. (I get a why? from both kids at this point.) Because you might get lost in the strawberries.

And three, the Halls do not want you to eat the berries until we have purchased the berries, so we don't eat them as we pick. We'll have containers to put them in and we'll bring them home to eat and make yummy jam and smoothies.

I felt good about my little speech, and everyone seemed, well, they seemed the way they always seem, but I felt very prepared. I turned back around in the car and headed on out to Ballentyne.

We were first to arrive, which was great. Pick of the strawberry litter. I headed to the little store/register/information/person-on-duty shack with my kids and my containers. Turns out I didn't need the containers, they had some excellent brown boxes with some handy-dandy handles. The young gal who was sitting behind the cash register, amongst the strawberry slushie machines and canned jams, told me the box could hold up to 5 pounds. I looked at the container, repeated 5 pounds in my head as I imagined what one does with more than 5 pounds, looked around me because both my kids are already missing...one box will be plenty.

Heath had already found the kid-pen (a tented box of a playpen beside the rows upon rows of strawberries), and it was loaded with trucks--dump, digger, backhoe, the list went on. He was a goner. But I gave him the old we'll come back and play after we finish picking the berries. For a minute, I thought it worked. He followed me into a row, picked a very white berry, threw it into the box, announcing, I'm finished.

Help me find some really, really red strawberries, I suggest. He picks one more. It IS red. But he's done. Off to the trucks, and I figure that's okay. He's in eye-shot, shout-shot, and I won't be there forever.

Turns out Stella wanted to be quite the strawberry-picking helper. She wanted to hold the container, while we searched out the ripe strawberries (that were unbelievably plentiful and unbelievably fragrant, I could hardly abide by my, I mean, the Halls rule #3.) Three minutes into Stella's excellent holding and following behind me assistance, she begins to, one berry at a time, crush them betwixt her little fingers, strawberry juice running down her arm, then tossing the smooshed berry back into the container. I added a fourth rule, no squishing the berries. Mashing not an option, she handed the brown box back to me, and took off for the trucks.

I picked berries. The kids played with trucks. Next thing I knew, the box was full, and the kids were eyeing the strawberry slushies. We got our berries and icees, did a quick tour of the strawberry patch maze, had a scary visit with the three of us in the Porta-Potty, played with some water-pumping, tube, push a rubber ducky to the other side of the plastic tube game. Nice little morning (all rules followed, give or take a strawberry and one run-away incident.).

Close to 4 pounds. I've already made one batch of jam. Heath has requested strawberry smoothies for breakfast. And if anyone wants to eat some berries and doesn't feel like picking, come on by!

Fresh Start

The wagon was picked up this evening. Heath was very sad to see the car seats taken out of the Jeep. He perked up when I assured him that the Jeep is his when he turns 16.

Before we (Mark) put the car seats back in the newly fixed, better not break down for another year or so, car, we were able to clean what can only be described as one of the most disgusting sights I've ever seen: the areas that lay beneath the two car seats. Milk splatters. Sticky, but dried, juice puddles. Park wood chips. Goldfish crackers that had so firmly adhered themselves to the leather that it took a wash cloth, cleaner, and some serious scrapping elbow grease to remove.

Our new series, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, arrived from Netflix today. If I wrap this silliness up quickly, we might even be able to watch an episode before we (Mark) conks out.

Captain Ahab

We get the wagon back tomorrow afternoon. No more Batman Jeep. I've actually enjoyed driving it around the last few days. Heath really loves how old and rumbly it sounds, and that we're jacked-up enough that he can see into other people's cars.

I love that it only has a tape deck. Fortunately I was a mixed tape making fool back in the day and have rather enjoyed my flashback to the 80s and 90s. But I think my favorite Memorex tape that I stumbled across is the Depeche Mode 101, the live album from 1989. Good evening, Pasadena!

I listened to it yesterday on my way to pick up Heath from preschool and I had a very clear image of when I copied that tape. I'd borrowed it from someone who was in my 11th grade English class. We were in the middle of reading Moby Dick, quite possibly my singularly most painful experience in literature. Sitting in the middle of my pink and white plaid comforter, trying to read Call Me Ishmael (I have a bad feeling that may be as far as I got) without losing consciousness, I taped 101. A tape of a tape of a tape. On what the kids called a Boombox. You can imagine the warbly quality now, 21 years later. 21 years. That can't be right.

Today was a school day, but we didn't go. Coughs (Heath and Stella), stuffy noses (Heath), and general malaise (me) were the culprits.

The last two days we've actually been treated to Mark getting home early enough to head out in the baby jogger with us. That's helped the malaise somewhat. It hasn't helped the sore feeling I have from my trail excursion on Sunday. Let's just hope I'm soreless and malaise-less by Saturday's race.

Blah.

Batman Jeeps and Ice Cream, and That's All I Need

Stella was up first this morning at 7am. Five minutes into our milk and coffee time in bed, News 14 weather update blitzed off and the ceiling fan stopped whirling. Uh-oh, Stella said.

My sentiments exactly. Then I thought, as long as the ice cream doesn't melt, it will be okay. When Heath woke up I told him the power was off and Duke Energy would be out to fix it.

Hope the ice cream doesn't melt, he expressed with a little concern. I am relieved his priorities are in order.

The kids ate cold cereal, and didn't seem to mind not having their usual eggs. My coffee stayed relatively warm. And Heath managed to put on his boat shirt and brown shorts with minimal insistence, and we made it to school right on time.

Three and a half hours later (and power back on), I pulled up to the car pool line and immediately noticed something different about Heath. He was in his red squirrel-playing-a-snare-drum t-shirt and navy blue pants. Something had happened. And if the outfit change wasn't enough to clue me in that things had gone down, his dazed look told me there was a tale to be told.

I got out of the car and was immediately met with half a dozen-plus three and four year olds shouting, Heath 'frowed up. All his friends were deeply concerned about his well-being.

Heath handed me the plastic baggy of clothes that I was not looking forward to dealing with, and said, I was spinning too, too fast on the tire swing, then he spun his hand around and around to demonstrate how dizzily and throw-up producing his spinning had been.

I peeled him up off the sidewalk, and walked him over to the car.

I'll be okay, guys, he reassured his classmates, before hopping into the Jeep.

As I buckled him into his car seat, I immediately pressed him for additional details, but he had moved on already. You still driving the Batman Jeep, he observed with a smile. Good.

Priorities.

Oh, So That's Why People Carry Water Bottles While They Run

I spent a lot of time and energy fretting over directions, parking, and passes for the Whitewater Center that it never occurred to me that I might get there and need additional information like, what trails to take? Where are the trails? And after an incredibly quick drive on 485, and the easiest parking experience possible, I arrived at 9:15 this morning and had not a clue what my next move should be. Nothing was open yet, very few people were around, and I could feel the clock on Mark being at home alone on a Sunday morning with the kiddies ticking, LOUDLY.

Fortunately there is a very large, and very clear, sign that points a person in various directions. One read, Trail Head, with a giant bike icon. Another read, River Trail Loop, no icon. Now what?

I decided I would make use of the restroom (clearly marked--Boy, Girl), and would hopefully just ask someone where do the runners go. Sure enough, while I was using the potty, ladies' voices began to echo through the small room, and I happily spotted some Salomon trail shoes in the stall next to me. Yes! Runners. I would get some information.

The lady runners were geared up with Camel Baks and Garmins and the right shoes. I had nothing other than my car key. Thankfully it fit quite well in my running skirt pocket. I do not own a water bottle. I filled up a sippy cup of iced water before I left the house with every intention of not running with it. And my shoes. I looked at the women giving me directions and began to have doubts that my footwear was proper. In my business of checking out the garb these ladies had on and worrying that I was unprepared, I failed to pay much attention to the instructions they gave. Something about Green trail. North trail. Don't take the South trail. Run it backwards, so you don't get in the way of a bike. Things are not well-marked. People get lost.

Good information, and I hoped my ability to catch only the gist of it would be sufficient. They even offered to let me run a bit with them, but they were waiting for a friend, and I was really itching to get started. Besides, I kind of just wanted to go it alone. So I said, thank you, saw a trail opening, and took off.

For an hour, I ran. With the most wild abandon I think I've ever experienced with running. I have no idea, NO IDEA where I went. I saw arrows. I followed them. I heard bugs. I heard myself breathing. I heard water. I heard the whizzing of bikes, long before I actually encountered them. I came to forks in the trail. I made quick decisions. When I saw the sign for South Trail: Trail of Joy, I thought of the women telling me not to take it. I took it anyway. How can you not take a trail called the trail of joy? I saw the sign for Goat Hill Loop. When you see a sign for Goat Hill Loop, don't you have to loop it?

While on Carpet Trail, I encountered a biker. I jumped off the path to give him some space. He called back to his biking buddy, Larry, we have a runner. It felt like a compliment. A runner. I felt strong, composed. Then I tripped over a very humbling tree root.

I had no idea how long I'd been running, but I became incredibly aware of not having water with me. Suddenly I would've given anything for that sippy cup (and made a mental note: Must Get Water Bottle). I knew it was probably time to wrap up my run. But where was I? How do I get back to the parking lot?

I still don't know. I know I followed a bike out to a now broiling hot opening with some reddish clay dirt, and continued my run. There were giant power lines, and I thought, there's no way this is right.

It wasn't. But I eventually found the Main Trail sign, hopped back on, and continued on my way. When I began to pass people who looked as though they hadn't broken a sweat yet, I knew I was close.

When I was finished I decided to try to pick up a trail map to see if I could get an idea of where I'd been. They were $2. I still only had my car keys, and I was ready to slug down my sippy cup of what would surely still be chilly water.

The water was quickly gone, and as I was backing out of my parking spot, I felt beyond what I had even imagined I would feel after running on a trail. My street running has always had an element of escapism in it for me. Being in the woods certainly felt otherworldly with the earthy smell and sounds, but in my attempt to watch where I was going, and not fall down, and use my muscles in ways that I don't usually use them, I felt very much there.

And then my car lurched, and lulled, and lurched again. The Check Engine light came on. And it was clear I wasn't going anywhere. So I spent the next hour waiting for my sweet parents to come get me and help me wrestle the car seats out of the car before the tow truck came. I was back at the house at 12:45, just in time to take the world's fastest shower and get Heath to an afternoon birthday party.

Heath was thrilled that we had car trouble. I got to tell him about the tow truck man, the initial spark plug diagnosis, and best of all, we got to go to the party in the Jeep.

Happy trails to you...

Weekend Musings

Our morning run was pretty steamy despite our 8:30 start. I cut it short at 3 miles and headed home, leaving Mark with the baby jogger full of kiddies to continue on his run. Grandfather Mountain marathon is in 6 weeks (?), so Mark is officially training.

I opted to run back to the house, shower (quickly, but undisturbed), and make my way out for a self-indulgent meandering of a morning. My forehead caterpillars were shaped, I found some wonderful books for birthday celebrations tomorrow (when I asked Heath what he thought the birthday girls would like, without hesitation, he answered, They like princesses.), and unhurriedly grabbed a few things at the ole Earth Fare before heading back home.

When I returned, Mark was elbow deep in moving our garden boxes from one spot in the backyard to another. After taking a look at my mom's bountiful growth of lettuce, tomatoes, strawberries, and who knows what else, my suspicions were confirmed. Something wasn't right with ours. Water, planting depth, love, attention, all those seemed to covered. Sunlight. Not enough sunlight. So they've been moved to a sunnier patch of the yard, and I am hopeful they will like their new home.

Mark and I had a lovely date night, and we were able to discuss the state of our union, while eating yummy sushi and miso soup and Vietnamese Basil Tofu. And now, to complete a great Saturday, we have the series finale of Six Feet Under. How many months did it take us to get through the whole deal? Quite a few.

Trail run attempt tomorrow morning. Good grief, this weekend just might clear my foggy head after all.

Rumble and Ramble in Strawberry Jamble

My neighbor/comrade-in-motherhood moved to Texas this week. She will be missed terribly, and Heath is already baffled by the lack of boys playing on the other side of the fence. Besides being good-humored and sweet, my friend was a walking source of organic, natural, all that is green goodness. Around this time last year, she made an incredibly tasty batch of strawberry jam that was so delightful, I have a very vivid (and only mildly embarrassing) image of myself licking the inside of the jar when it was sadly at the point of not even being scrape-worthy for an additional dibble for my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

So this morning, the kids and I were outside playing in the yard, and I glanced over at my friend's house. The bounty of kiddie toys, gone. Familiar sounds of boys riding tricycles, just an echo of a memory. Suddenly, I had to make Strawberry Jam.

Fortunately, my mom has quite the strawberry patch in her backyard, and earlier in the week she'd mentioned that it needed some picking. So I got Heath and Stella in the car and headed over to Papa and HeHe's for some strawberry picking, and some tips on making the jam. You see, as I have mentioned many times before, when it comes to cooking, I am a total and complete novice. And while I have eaten many a jar of jam, making it myself seemed like one of those, Oh my word, that's much too complicated, I'll just buy some activities.

Heath insisted on wearing boots and bringing his toolbox. Not sure what he had in mind in terms of what it would take to pick a berry, but he was very eager to do some work. And it was already hot, so everyone got a nice yard working glow. My mom and I picked the berries, while Heath busied himself with some tree tramping. (If anyone is looking for some weeds pulled, branches trimmed, or holes dug, I am totally willing to hire Heath out for the summer.) Stella tried desperately to climb a tree and nibbled on a questionably ripe plum.

Berries picked, recipe confirmed, written down, and reconfirmed, I headed back home with enough berries for a manageable first attempt at jam making. The kiddies were great helpers with the washing and the mashing. Heath is the house "dumper" so he got to put the berries, lemon juice, and sugar in the pot.

And then it came to a boil. And then I left it like that for less than twenty minutes, stirring occasionally. And then I had a nice jar of yummy homemade strawberry jam. And that's it. That's all it took. How odd to have gone so many years thinking something would require so much, when it required so little. And it was fun, too.

So tomorrow, while I am eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (because I always eat a pb and j), I will load it up with my strawberry jam, and think of my dear friend settling in to her life in Texas. I can't say that my jam is as good as hers, but knowing that she inspired me to make it will make it that much sweeter.

Tiny Baby, Watermelon, and Bin Dodging

Tired, distracted by 30 Rock, and waiting for my ice cream in bed to be delivered by Mark.

I got to hold an 11 day old this evening. It's true. They really are small. They really smell good. And they are really snuggly buggly.

It's also true that it goes so fast. A friend of mine put it very well this evening: long days, short years.

Today was a longish one. We did manage a trip to Trader Joe's. Heath helped me pick out a watermelon. We gave them knowledgeable thumps, listening for the "think, think, think" sound. You don't want that. You want the one that has the deep, hollow "thump, thump, thump" echo. Our second thumped-upon melon was a winner. Between the three of us, we very nearly polished the whole thing off.

We spent a lot of time in the backyard, trying to beat the heat in the shaded police station/oil changing station, and beat the rabid mosquitoes that are unfortunately already on the loose. Deep naps were taken by all three of us, then with a surprising amount of zero coaxing, I took them out for a scorcher of an afternoon run. It was recycle/trash truck day--the bins were all over the sidewalks, so I had lots of off-roading "trail" practice.

I'm totally going to win next Saturday.

I Don't Have to Win, or Even Do Well...I Just Don't Want to Get Plowed Over...

Mid-toasty 3 and a half miles this afternoon it dawned on me that I will be running a trail 10k in 10 days, and I am horrified to say that other than a tenth of a conversation I had with Mark about going to the Whitewater Center this weekend to give it a test run, I have made zero effort to make any real plans for getting there.

Now, yes, in terms of big deals, it really isn't. Except that it is. When it comes to trying new things, I have to mull the idea over for a year or so, consider it, talk myself out of it multiple times, then maybe, eventually, try it with great trepidation. In terms of readiness, I suppose I am. I've walked trails. And I've done a whole heck of a lot of running. But the two together, in a venue I've never been to before, well, while I was running my old familiar neighborhood streets, I felt a very strong wave of nervous heat run through my body.

I've already had two conversations and multiple peeks at the parking information for the spot. I'm pretty sure I still don't understand the pass and where I'm supposed to go, and it's a panicked morning of a situation ready to happen. If I can make my trial drive-to/run-through, I think I'll feel better.

I have no idea what I'm in for. What I imagined, while I was safely coasting down the sidewalk of Sharon Road, was a booming crowd comparable to the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona (I've never been, but I've read enough Hemingway and watched enough television to have an image in my head), only it's set in some forest and everyone is wearing Garmins and compression socks and all the right gear. And I somehow wind up in the front of all these people who come and do this all the time, and I am totally wearing all the wrong gear, and the gun fires (because, surely, in the woods they fire a gun) and I get completely trampled by hundreds of lean, muscular, avid trail runner-types, leaving me in a giant puddle of mud, thousands of Vibram, Mizuno, Salomon, Vasque shoe-prints stomped upon me, like trail racing road kill.

Rather than bog myself down in negative thoughts, I decided to have a prep plan, and there was no time like the present. I picked up my speed, pushed the ole double jogger off the hard concrete, onto the grass. Not a trail, not even a hill, but it gave us a bumpier ride. And I figured I could do a little speed work, so at least I can be fast enough to get the heck out of every one's way.

Heath perked up and said, Mama, what are we doing on the grass?

I'm practicing, I explained.

Slow down, he advised, then resumed eating his Goldfish cracker/raisin combo snack.

I slowed down a little, popped a wheelie back onto the sidewalk, and resumed my jog, my off-roading experiment derailed due to a poop-scoopin' lady and her white Maltese (and the sinking feeling that I wasn't practicing for anything, unless the trail is magically covered in astro-turf).

When Mark gets home I plan to make a date this weekend to give the real deal a whirl, so I can at least have some general idea of what is going to happen. Until then, I plan to run as fast as I can through everyone's yard in the neighborhood, especially those with hillier terrain.

Beginnings and Endings

Heath has two weeks of preschool left. I can't believe it's coming to a close. For a while I was feeling a weight on my shoulders about a long, hot summer with two antsy kiddies, but suddenly trips and plans and events have started to fill in the calendar and it's actually looking like one jam-packed extravaganza. Phew.

Speaking of endings, we have two Six Feet Under discs left. I think we're going to rally tonight and have a three episode marathon. I know, crazy.

And what's next?

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

Think this Race Calls for a New Running Skirt

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but a little trail run could never hurt me. At least not badly. I hope.

I took the plunge and registered for the May 22nd trail race at the Whitewater Center, and I have to say, I am totally exhilarated by the idea. Nervous. My hope is to get out there and do a test run, so to speak. Then have the whole family out there for race day.

Speaking of runs that could hurt someone, Mark has registered for the Grandfather Mountain marathon in July. Time to get crackin' on the training. I would hate to have to drive the Volvo up the mountain to pick him up off the road, DNF (did not finish). Or DOA. Oh my.

Heath, on the other hand, has not only expressed interest in running, but also bike racing. Today while we were at Carolina Bicycle Company, having our BOB front wheel tube replaced, we spent a little time checking out the bikes. Stella picked out a lovely pink Trek with training wheels, complete with pink and green ribboned bows and a lovely white basket. She put on a red and black ladybug helmet, backwards, of course, content to just sit and say, Wow.

Trek was the brand of choice for both kids. Heath's was a lovely purple with yellow flowers. The helmet he chose was not at all for toddlers, and not at all toddler-priced. His was some $140 number with black and red lightening bolts. He wanted to scoot around a bit, but still very cautious about the pedaling.

Don't worry, I found one for myself. An Electra Cruiser. Blanc et Noir. The handlebar bell sounds like it belongs on a door. So lovely. Add a basket and a kid trailer and it would be perfect for my dream life of never having to drive a car. Ever.

But I don't see that happening here in the QC. Too bad.

Happy Smother's Day

This will be a quickie. A favorite (embarrassingly) guilty-pleasure 80's romantic comedy is on and I need to go watch it. Baby Boom. Sam Shephard. Diane Keaton driving a Jeep Wagoneer in Vermont. Bennington College shots. Cute baby. I had you at Sam, didn't I?

Happy Smother's Day. This was the first (coached, I am sure) thing out of Heath's mouth this morning. And it was a lovely day. A little chilly breeze to a beautiful sunshine. Great morning run. Another guilty-pleasure: pancake brunch at the Pancake House with my mom, dad and grandma. A who-am-I-what-day-is-it-did-I-sleep-through-the-night kind of nap. Playtime at the park and dinner with Goma.

My absolute favorite part of the day was riding in the back of the car in between two car seats (Goma sat up front with her dear boy, Mark) and getting lots of (uncoached) deeply heartfelt hugs and kisses from my two babies. Heath even wanted to hold hands with me and Stella kept rubbing my arm. Too, too sweet.

Now, back to my movie.

I Could Use a Few Days Like this One...in a Row

Everything, everything, everything, everything I read about the Girls on the Run 5k spelled out a very clear 9am start time. To be honest, it was on my list of reasons I was drawn to the race. Fantastic organization, yes. Proceeds go to financial assistance for girls wanting to participate in the program who otherwise may not be able to, super. A fun running event, love it. 9am start time for a family of four who requires much gear, patience, and encouragement to get it together and out the door, perfect.

And it would seem that we needed that time, because at 8:10 our dear boy was still sleeping. But we managed to be out the door, in the car, on our way, and to the sweet smelling 'hood of Elizabeth by 8:30. So you can imagine our great surprise when (time check: 8:35), a block from the start line, we started to see pink and green t-shirts whiz by, cheering already in full force.

We tossed the kids in the stroller and ran our way up the street, confirmed with some other shocked folks that we, in fact, had the correct information, and jumped into the race. The dad's running with their daughters, the moms holding hands with a crowd of girls, other fellow baby joggers, all moving at various paces, all various ages, it was a sweet sight. (And incredibly well-populated.) My immediate day dreaminess of doing such an event with Stella took over, and the awkward false start quickly vanished.

Heath and Stella sat up and watched the crowd, and enjoyed some mile 2 beaded necklace giveaways. Big brother passed them along to baby sister. (Later he told me boys don't wear those.) I'm not sure I've seen a more exuberant end-crowd at a race. The kids got medals and we saw some very impressive girls finish running their 3.1. Watching them was as much of an uplifting experience as it was to actually run it myself.

We decided to continue on with our run around the lovely spot in Charlotte, quick pit stop at the 7th Street Starbucks, then concluded our morning at the downtown Target. The kids "helped" pick out some Mother's Day cards for the various mama's in our lives.

After naps today, we went to a going away shindig for our sweet neighbors. Heath and Stella had a great time running around with all the neighborhood kiddies, eating pizza and cake. They are sacked out for the night.

And I can't seem to get enough of this PBS Make 'Em Laugh: The Funny Business of America. Good stuff. Good Saturday.

Girls (a Mama, two kiddies, and a Daddy) on the Run

It seems that Heath has inherited his dad's propensity to be deeply affected by allergens populating the season. A hacking cough has been seizing him for days, coinciding with the free-flowing cottonwood floating through the air. At 5am I heard the poor little guy, sure that he was going to be up for the day, completely unrested, and completely agitated. Again. And I was feeling less than prepared for an early morning rising due to the fact that I had put in a late night of watching Friends and reading blogs about Unschooling and "barefoot" running.

Fortunately, he fell back asleep. Unfortunately, I did not. I watched the news. I puttered around online. And at 6:30, just as I was ready to catch what I hoped would be at least another hour of zzz's, our dear Stella began her Mama chant.

The early morning internet fiddling around wasn't a complete waste of time. I managed to stumble across a Girls on the Run 5k being held tomorrow morning. After a small amount of deliberation, Mark and I decided to head to Run for Your Life this evening and register ourselves and our baby joggin' kiddies. Should be a great way to begin our Saturday.

Whether You're a Brother or Whether You're a Mother...Stayin' Alive

It's official. This day has made me completely and utterly stupid. Brain is gone. Up and down went the emotions of one little boy I know. One minute coherent and calm and agreeable. Next minute, a whirling dervish, if whirling dervishes knock down and plow through and bang on everything in their path.

And all day long I redirected and sensorially engaged and gave choices and blah, blah, blah. When we were able to bring it down a number of notches and rest (after all, they were up at 6:30), I consulted my trusty ole copy of Raising Your Spirited Child. It reminded me that it does happen, we will get through this, and I am not alone. Phew.

On a more positive note, I managed to get in a nice 3 and a half mile run, got through with the grocery shopping to the tunes of David Bowie and the Bee Gees (thanks, Joe!), and enjoyed a toasty afternoon splash-around in the garden hose with two very cute naked kiddies.

A Couple of Meetings with Morrissey (and a Perceptive Little Boy)

Another day of Heath not taking a nap. I did, however, get him to lie down on the bed for a little reading time. He is deeply immersed in his current book, Cars the Collection, and spends much time perusing the pictures of the characters, pointing to various vehicles that he needs to get next time we're at Target.

I took the quiet time as an opportunity to continue on with Meetings with Morrissey. When I got to the midsection of Chapter 3, Used to be a Sweet Boy, I found various black and white photos of Moz. Some alone. One of himself, lying in the middle of the floor, pictures of Oscar Wilde strewn about. A couple with Johnny Marr. The shots diverted Heath's attention away from his I need that one, no, that one ramblings. He peeked over my shoulder and pointed at the skinny fellow singing into a microphone.

Who's that? he asked.

That's Morrissey, lead singer for The Smiths. His little fingers reached across my arm and turned the page to see the additional pictures.

You're friends with him? I've grown accustomed to this question. It's never asked when I run into someone I know at the grocery store. It's always someone with some amount of relative fame. And the answer is always no.

He's afraid, Heath said, matter-of-factly. I thought maybe I misunderstood, and it was a question--is he afraid? So I got him to say it again.

He's afraid, he stated again. I looked at the picture, particularly Morrisey's young eyes. It was a publicity shot in 1984, and I have to say, Heath was right. He looked scared, vulnerable.

Why do you think he's afraid? I asked.

He's afraid I might talk to him.

And then Heath got a little gibberishy/silly, and then quickly returned to his catalog/wishlist.

We ate dinner at good ole Lupie's tonight. Vegetable plates all around. Guess what they were playing? Morrissey.

Hit the Road...or Trails? Hmmm...

Awake until 2am. No nap for Heath this afternoon. Mark home late this evening after a daytrip to Hotlanta. My bed is full of rice cake bits (and I'm not the one who was doing the snacking). Tired. So very tired.

But not so tired that I can't get online and do some activity contemplation. I am interested in signing up for a 5 or 10K. The Twilight is coming up this Friday evening, but that is seeming out of the question. So I am trying to decide if I should dare try a little trail running race. Crazy, I know.

A friend, and someone I would consider a reliable in source in things that are really, really good, swears by it. But grace, in terms of having steady footing, is not something I possess. I'm a terrible dancer. Unless I'm in child's pose or downward-facing dog, yoga is giant trip-up of a mess. And I hold on for dear life when I've had to suffer through a run on a treadmill. So...do I take off traipsing over the river and through the woods? What if I fall down? Twist my ankle? That might hurt, right? And we all know, the Ropko house doesn't need a mama down.

But I am curious. And when I'm out running the roads, and we all know I do love running those roads, sometimes as I breath in the exhaust pipe fumes and try to think my thoughts over the sounds of traffic, I wonder, maybe there's a fresh way to do this.

In the meantime, I look forward to running the roads tomorrow morning.

The Morning After...

Early (and cut-short) naps and partying hard at a 4 year old's birthday made for an incredibly tuckered out duo last night. I didn't hear from either child until 8:15 this morning. The time crunch to get everyone dressed, fed, and to school by 9am didn't really set in until 8:50, when we were still in the kitchen, chugging coffee, packing a lunch, shoving on shoes, and choking down some cereal.

But we made it by 9:15. And I didn't speed (because Heath will give me a ticket, if I do). With a rainy start to the day, the preschoolers were all in the classroom instead of their usual playground spot. The boys of the class, who were also birthday bash participants, all had matching dinosaur tattoos on their forearms. Heath immediately joined them in the circle for some train playing. Quietly engaged in track building and locomotive attaching, they seemed to have a "what happened at the birthday party, stays at the birthday party" air about them.

When I picked Heath up later that morning, they'd been on a very wet playground. He was happily covered in mud. I asked him if he had a good morning. He initially answered, yes. When I dug for additional information, all I could get him to say was, He didn't pull the string and he was sad.

I'm guessing there is quite a bit more to that story.

Bye-Bye Spring Weather...Hello Humidity...

The small people of the house woke early and were quickly restless, so I opted to take them out for a run close to 9am. Good thinking, too. By 9:02 I was beginning to glow quite a bit in the already steamy, thick air.

Shortly after we passed Fire Station #16, and waved at the pumper and hook-and-ladders receiving a morning wash down, Stella decided that she would reach over and give Heath's hair a little tug. I have to say, he's a relatively good sport about her viper-like, grab-and-tug-and-hold-on-for-dear-life attacks. She is familiar with Heath and knows that she is taking a big risk by disturbing the bear. Before I could even stop the baby jogger and intervene, Heath reached his hand out with a "stop"motion, and said, No, no, Gigs. That hurts. I'm going to have to give you a ticket.

He wrote her a hair pulling citation on his palm, handed it to her, then pulled his sun canopy down with a resounding thud.

Stella took the imaginary ticket, studied it, then sat back in her seat. After a few sulky seconds, she reached up and grabbed her own sun canopy and jerked it down. No more hair pulling.

(Well, at least not in the baby jogger.)

May Showers

I am distracted by two things. Meet the Parents is on. I've seen the movie many times. It isn't the greatest movie, but it has it moments, so I have to stop and watch them when they come along. My attention is also wayward because the "r" key keeps sticking, so I keep having to 'etype wo'ds with 's in them. Someone small in stature is surely to blame.

After a family breakfast of french toast, and an excellent 3 and a half mile run, I headed out to finally, finally, FINALLY take care of my wanton white hair that was slowly, but surely, taking over my entire head. From that moment forward, Mark was pretty much on duty with the kiddies.

When my locks were returned to their natural state of auburn, I made a brief appearance back at home to eat lunch and get ready for my niece's baby shower. I departed again, leaving a napping Stella, a nearly out Heath, and a sleepy, fluttering-eyed daddy.

Great punch, great eats, and great essentials for the mommy-to-be and her guests. I have finally learned my lesson: I am not allowed to play the "measure the baby belly circumference" game anymore. I always seem to over-or-under estimate, then feel like a giant turkey goofball. Think I'll stick to the Word Scrambles. eltotb. bottle. Of course, there were a few that had me stumped. One had the letter "v" in it. I tried very hard to move the letters and make it "vaginal birth," but that seemed odd for a baby shower game. Then I noticed the "k"--receiving blanket.

By the time I arrived back home around 5:30, I found a daddy and two children sitting around the kitchen table, two of the three in hysterical tears, and all three very much on the verge of cracking. I suggested eating out tonight. That was a very, very good idea.