Chuckie Wabbie

I am definitely ready for ice cream tonight. The day started off questionable as to whether or not the ole tummy was going to be back on track. But after the wobbly start, get the kinks out run, I can officially say (now that I've downed an entire take-out order of Pad Kee Mao and Tom Yum soup), I am back. And hungry.

In light of a yuck, cooped-up week, we decided to lean in the direction of "get out of the house," and made an early morning of loading up the wagon with the jogging stroller and headed over to the Greenway by the Trader Joe's (Rea Rd.) section. I was also feeling a little guilty that we had not done very well with showing our newest family member, Chuckie Wabbie, a very good time. Yes, she's been fed, kissed, and sponged bathed (in milk, soup, and juice). And yes, she's made an excellent bunkmate for Stella. But we've really not shown her all the sights of the Queen City. Granted, she arrived in the midst of what we will call "the low times of parenthood," but I still had this pang of motherly guilt that we needed to make up for lost time. So, Chuckie Wabbie came along for the run.

Our course was going to be an easy-does-it-don't-overdo-tempo of a run. (Yes. Even easier does than I usually dooz it.) Two miles in, two miles back, and end at the Starbucks for some smoothies and coffee and water. Two miles in, I started to feel very happy that we'd made the outing. The kids were happy to be out and about, not minding the stroll. And really not minding the treats waiting for them at the end of the run. The temperature felt as low as it's been in a long, long time. The overcast sky made it even better to be out amongst other runners and bikers and walkers and dogs and other stroller buddies for the kids to wave and say hi to. If a breeze had blown, I would dare to say that conditions were perfect. Not missing a thing.

Shortly after we turned around to head back 2 miles to the coffee shop, I had a sudden, truly out of nowhere, fear-striking thought. Where's Chuckie Wabbie? I blurted the thought out loud, Mark bringing the stroller to a near-screeching halt. I'd purposefully stuffed her in the side pocket of Stella's seat. To my horror, she was not there. I checked under Stella's bottom. Nope. She wasn't sitting on her. I fluffed her blanket to see if she was hiding in the green fleece. No. Heath rummaged around his seat, under Puppy. Chuckie Wabbie was gone.

Mark suggested we turn back around, but I had a sense that would be a waste of time. I had a gut-feeling she was along the original trail and we needed to keep moving. We picked up the pace and began our frantic search for our dear rabbit. Our dear new family member. Our dear new family member made by my dear old friend. Sure, she could make us another one. But it wouldn't be Chuckie Wabbie. And the guilt. Oh, the guilt. She's barely been with us a week, the week has been dreadful, and now, NOW, she is LOST.

Keep your eyes peeled, Heath kept saying. Find it, Stella peeped.

I spotted a couple of baby jogging women. I'd seen them earlier on the run. They seemed leisurely and chatty, like they might be the type to notice a sweet rabbit lying helpless on the greenway. Maybe not the type to pick it up, but certainly the kind who would see it and be able to point us in the right direction.

No such luck, though. They had not seen Chuckie Wabbie, but they briefly shared our pain for having lost a beloved lovey over the side of the stroller.

Just as I was getting ready to give up hope, I spotted a silver package. An open silver package, also known as trash. Stella's trash. Her open (and empty) pouch of consumed Trader Joe's Apple Strawberry Fruity Flakes lay irresponsibly on the trail. Rather than focus on the shame of letting my toddler litter without even realizing it, I grabbed the garbage off the pavement, threw it in the first bin that became available, and found a renewed sense of hope. Chuckie Wabbie was close. I could feel it.

We closed in on the end of our 4 miles, yards away from the stop light at the corners of Rea and Bevington. Simultaneously, Mark and I spotted a lump at the edge of the crosswalk. We couldn't see her face, but something about the pale blob was gentle, cozy. Our pace quickened, squeals (all four of us) grew louder. People stared in alarm. But we didn't care. It was Chuckie Wabbie. Face down on the pavement.

Stella was thrilled to be reunited with her bunny pal. And I tried to not worry that Chuckie Wabbie had been so disappointed with her home life that she wasn't accidentally dropped, but had actually thrown herself from the moving stroller. She enjoyed a refreshing box of organic apple juice at Starbucks, and didn't leave Stella's side for the rest of the day. Hopefully Wabbie understands that falling from the baby jogger is simply a rite of passage in the Ropko house. It means, we love you enough to let you do your thing, and we'll be back to pick you up later. Unless a dog takes off with you. In that case, Wendy will have to make us a new one.

Lord of the Flies

Thursday at 4am the grim reaper of stomach ailments decided to do a little two for one visit. Mark and I were down. Flattened. Totally. Utterly. Completely. Incapacitated. Thursday at 7am the children were up. Energetic. Totally. Utterly. Completely. Ready.

The best thing I can say about it is we survived. All four us. Heath and Stella got to watch Curious George. Sid the Science Kid. Super Why. Dinosaur Train. Sesame Street. I don't really remember any of these shows; just hazy bits and pieces filtering through bathroom visits, body-slamming aches, and fitful sleep. They ate saltines. Drank ginger ale. Powerade. And for dinner, they dipped Doritoes in Chicken Noodle soup. (These items were thankfully dropped on our front porch by HeHe. Except the Doritoes. The short version of how those came into our possession is a poor and sickly Mark took our comforter to a laundry mat. The sweet lady behind the counter gave him Doritoes. The longer version is gross. Even more gross than Doritoes.) They rearranged furniture. They made "gotta put these in the trailer on the back of the truck" piles of books and toys. It was Lord of the Flies, the American preschooler version.

Only the results were not of catastrophic proportions. When Heath came into our room this morning at 7:15, I felt surprisingly well. A headache, most likely from no coffee the day before. Sore rib-cage from, you know, all of that. But pretty much what I felt was a certain elation from having made it.

I'm not sure I'm ready for ice cream just yet. Yeah. It was that bad.

The Sick-Ups: The Stomach Reaper Lives

Well, the Vomit Train's last stop wasn't Stella. I thought we were in the clear, and it was already becoming a distant memory, but no. At 2pm, just after I read Shaggy Dog's Halloween Party for the third, and last, time, Heath sat up in bed and said, Buh-luuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Poor guy. He was mostly upset that we were missing the last music class of the summer session. I had a half-hearted thought that it was something he ate, or choked on, and we would still be able to pull through and make it to sing, dance, and do our Lupie's Wednesday night thing. But I knew I was kidding myself, and it was pretty much a Greek vomitorium (minus the fun) at Whistlestop until about 7pm.

In the middle of the excitement, we got a ring at the doorbell. It was our dear Postman, delivering a much anticipated care package from my SC friend. Inside we found an adorable, sweet, handmade bunny, sewn by my dear pal herself. We've been looking very forward to adding this little creature to the Ropko family. The kids were in charge of naming the little girl rabbit. Stella came up with Wabbie, because that's how she says Rabbit. And Heath added the charming, and oh so feminine, Chuckie. Chuckie Wabbie.

Chuckie Wabbie has already witnessed sickness with eye-popping dramatics. She has been fed chicken noodle soup by an overzealous little girl. Kissed and hugged all evening long, and is now curled up in bed with a snoozing Stella. I took pictures of Chuckie Wabbie. With our Vivitar camera. Everything I said that is complimentary of the memory-keeper I would like to take back. If we can't figure out how to make it take decent shots inside, it will be taken back, too.

I'll have to upload the blurry pictures later. In the meantime, the care package also included a skirt pattern. Let's see what kind of mishap I can get into with that.

And to see Chuckie Wabbie and others like her, check this out: http://paisleygardenfriends.blogspot.com/

Lord of the Jungle

No sick-ups for Stella during the night or today. I would say her ability to devour multiple meatballs for dinner shows that she is pretty well-mended.

A neighborhood baby jogging buddy of mine has emerged from pregnancy and early days of newborn-dom, and is back on the circuit of looping our way around Sharon and Park Roads in a caravan of double strollers. I got her call this morning around 8:30 to see if I cared to join her for a spin before we headed off to Heath's swim lesson. I did care to join her.

But it meant that we made it back just in time to throw everyone in the car and head off, sweat and all, to the swim lesson. Thanks to my hurry, I left the camera behind. Again. And once again Heath had a great time, making amazing strides with immersing his head in the water, paddling his way (even being let go for an arm reach or two) to the pool wall. They even got to swing from a rope and fall into the pool. Heath was the only one compelled to give a Tarzan-like yell as he swung over the water. He's never heard of Tarzan. Must be innate.

The Sick-Ups

The morning started off beautifully. I mean, people were up at 7:15. Happy. Smiling. Agreeable. We had a playdate in the books for 10am at Princeton Park. All looking very forward to it. At 8:30, all children and even a mommy were dressed. Snacks and bags of possible extra things (wipes, diapers, shorts, shirts) were packed. I felt energized, patient, light. It was Monday morning, and that was just fine by me.

While I was in the kitchen getting French Toast and cereal together, Heath and Stella were joyfully (and amicably, I insist on adding) playing a new favorite game called, Run the Grandfather Mountain Marathon and Get a Medal. The game pretty much consists of the two running in circles around the kitchen, dining area, and living room repeatedly, while we all hoot and holler things like, Way to go, wooooo!!! And, Keep up the pace, alright!!!! Then they both stop and get a medal around their neck. More hooting and hollering. Then the race begins again. Just as they were working their way around for their fourth lap, both loaded down with multiple Mark (and a couple of mommy) marathon medals clanging around their necks, I hear Heath say, Oh no, Gigs, she sicked up.

I round the corner and there she is, and it's barf city. All over Marshall University's marathon medal. Thunder Road, smothered. Girls on the Run 5k (that's mine), a dripping mess. It takes me a moment to figure out my best course of action. Clearly just standing there and staring at her wasn't helping, because she begins to cry and say, Mess, and reaches out for me. And it is. A mess.

I clean everyone (because I end up in the, uh, mess) and everything up, and decide to proceed with the day, ready to chalk it up to a running belly shake-up, or a medal choke-hold incident. Then fifteen minutes later, it happens again. And then another fifteen minutes, again. And just as I was deciding we will not be attending the playdate, guess what? Yep. Again.

Heath was sad to miss seeing his friends, and as sure as I am that the belly disruption is probably due to Stella's love for drinking the pee-poo-pool water in copious, thirst-quenching amounts, I err on the side of overly cautious when it comes to not being part of the germ chain. I also like to think that I am building some good stomach virus karma, as it would seem the Ropkos are currently in the red. Remember the Parent Council Meeting/Stella Barf-o-Rama? While we are taking a trip down throw-up lane, let's not forget the Heath on the Tire Swing with his Preschool Pals Puke-Up at the end of the school year. Christmas 2009 (pre-blogging days) our little foursome gifted one another with an epic stomach "flu" of Exorcism/head-spinning proportions. As much as I love Autumn, and all the string of birthday celebrations and holiday and brisk weather and Pumpkin-related tidings it brings, it also wells up a sense of dread deep in the pit of my stomach, because I know eventually, just when we're comfortable and healthy and really living up life, the grim reaper of gastrointestinal hell will strike his wicked, beastly bug upon us, flattening the entire family for at least 10 days.

But I'm optimistic. Despite a barfy noon and nap time, sweet Stella hasn't "frowed up" since, and was doing an excellent job of eating her "keep her hydrated" popsicles, and doing her darndest to keep up the race pace with Heath. Perhaps the up-chucks will begin and end with her (the bravest one in this group, by far), and more importantly, we've finally built up enough sick-up credit to avoid the slap upside the gut this winter.

Crowders Mountain

My friend who occasionally accompanies me on the roads for a little double baby jogging caravan with our four children asked me earlier in the week if I would like to hit the trails, sans kiddies, sometime very soon. With zero hesitation, I said, yes, yes, yes, sign me up. We worked schedules out with the husbands and settled on Sunday morning, Crowders Mountain.

As a native Charlottean I feel a sense of shame, a lack of upheld duty to say this, but I've never been to Crowders Mountain. Ever. I've been all around it. Dallas. Gastonia. Up and down the mountains of Western NC. Heck, I've even been down to Pumpkintown (or is it Pumpkinville)and Table Rock State Park in SC. But not Crowders. I know lots of people who have gone. I've seen dozens of Facebook "on the Pinnacle" shots. So it also seemed like a statehood obligation that I finally make it to the mountain that is essentially in my backyard.

Amazingly enough, I managed a relatively early bedtime for the first evening in quite a while, which made my 6:15 rising and out the door by 7 easy enough. I made it to my friend's house by 7:15 and she was up and at 'em as well. I was surprised by how quickly we were on 85 and to the mountain area within the hour. And that included a stop at the local Food Lion where my wise and experienced pal made a purchase of ice, pretzels, and bananas.

I had my water bottle. Full of ice, expecting that it would be melted by the time we started our run. I also brought my camera, our new handy-dandy Vivitar. I had little experience with the camera before we began our run. I can now officially say that I love it. It was slim and light enough to fit into the pocket of a hand-held water bottle carrier--speaking of love, that was a borrowed piece of equipment from my friend before we began our run. It's the little things that I think, eh, I can get by without it. And that's true, but holy moly, the freedom the old hand-held system gave me was incredible. It's on my wish list now. Back to the Vivitar. The screen is larger than the bulky Fuji we've had for a few years. I can actually see the picture I've taken. Unless the sun is shining so bright, but that's by no means the fault of the camera. I will say it would be nice if it was waterproof, but after sweating and water bottle drippings falling upon it for several hours, it didn't seem to be bothered.

It was 8:30 when we headed off onto a trail. I wish I could remember the name of the beginning of our spot. It was the Ranger's station, and I think it was off Sparrow Springs Road. Wherever it was, it was already hot, so getting into the woods was refreshing.

And everytime I run off into the woods, the same thing happens. I lose all concept of time, place, worry. And I just run. Or in the case of trail running on Crowders Mountain, run gravel trails, climb rocky spots, leap over large roots, and hoof it up a straight-up, never-ending staircase that at moments made me feel like I was climbing to meet my maker, but what I found was a stunning view. And a bit of a breeze. It was very welcome, especially in light of our next adventure: rock climbing across Rock Top Trail. It is a trail. With a rock top. Not so much running at that point. Just a whole lot of careful foot placing and thinking, man, if I break my ankle, that's going to be tough on the ole Ropko fam.

But no one broke an ankle. Just a sweat. A big one. We made it back to the Ranger's station. It was 10:30. I was feeling a little sad that our time was up, then my friend said, Want to go on Pinnacle Trail? Yes. Yes, I did. So we took a potty break, refilled our water bottles (for the first time in my running life, I had demolished an entire bottle of water while running and was going in for a second), and headed back into the woods for more.

More sweat. More up the hill. Then REALLY up the hill. The top proved to be another stunning view. And it became clear just how hot it really was today. The view didn't stretch out as far as one might think, because it was stifled by a layer of steamy haze. But it was still stunning. And still physically gratifying to have chugged up that hill on our own two feet. The trip back down was both easier and harder. Easier, because it was downhill. Harder, because I didn't think I could produce any more sweat, and running on a trail means you MUST pick up your feet, and my feet weren't wanting to cooperate. And surprises of all surprises, I had managed to down another bottle of water, was completely out, and really wanting more. My good ole CamelBak-ed friend was kind enough to share some of hers.

She was also kind enough to share a warm banana, very cold Gatorade, and some pretzel rods. It was probably one of the best bananas I've ever had, and the salty pretzels hit the spot, too. I made a mental note to be better prepared next time. Post-run dry clothes. Water, water, and more water. Post-run snacks. A bag of ice. Next time. Already looking forward to next time.

But I can now say, I've been to Crowders Mountain, and I've run to the Pinnacle. And I've got the pictures on Facebook to prove it.

Two Lessons and a Noodle

The morning run today was hot. And cranky. All four of us seemed to be just funky with bad attitude. I'm not even sure what the problem was, but at one point I just got fed up and took off in a different direction. No. That's not mature. But it actually worked in my favor (and everyone else's), as I was really just feeling fed up with myself, and needed a moment of peace and quiet. It has not been peaceful or quiet around these parts in DAYS. People say it's the heat. They might be right. Or I just have two really loud children, and it's hot.

The Ropko Four was able to reconvene back at the homestead, feeling a new resolve to get through it, and decided the best place to be is at the pool, so we packed up some lunch, loaded up the wagon, and headed down to the swimming hole. Once again, the cool water, change of venue, and splish-splashy, frolicky fun did the trick. And with Mark along for the outing, we were able to get in the big pool.

Heath immediately latched onto a green swim noodle. I was amazed that not only did he stay afloat, he was able to swim independently the entire time we were at the pool. He showed us his new face dunking, bubble blowing, feet kicking, long-arm reaching (not so much while holding onto the noodle, but he sure tried) tricks, all while moving about the length of the pool at will. It was a huge confidence-building, big-boy-acting experience. Even Stella was happy to stay in her pink princess race car float for quite some time. And then she wanted out. And she, too, wanted to swim independently. Once again, I got my bicep curl action in without having to head to the gym. Good thing she's still a teeny-tiny one. I'd have a broken back.

In light of my dinner cooking last night, we headed out to good ole Eddie's tonight. Then even got a little ice cream for the kiddies. I passed. But will indulge here shortly. I was thinking about pulling the sewing machine out and trying my hand at making a crooked-seamed, possibly too big, uneven skirt for myself.

But I'd rather eat ice cream and watch TV.

Coca-Cola and Lucky Strikes

We got a new camera about a week ago. I still haven't taken the time to figure out how to upload our pictures. Maybe I can add that to my My Word, Why Haven't I Taken Care of That Yet list for the weekend.

I managed to finish Heath's tractor pants and Stella's nightgown. Don't anyone look too closely. My stitching gets a little wacky-do here and there. Oh well. They are going to be thrilled with their new duds. I'll take pictures. And upload them. One day.

Heath is really just a 42 year old single (because he says he won't have time to have a girlfriend. Too much work to do.) man who works in construction, stuck in the body of a three and a half year old. Throughout the week he has dropped little pieces of information regarding plans for what he will do with his time when he gets older. One most recent obsession is the drinking of the Coca-Cola. No one in this house drinks soda, or soft drinks, or pop, depending on your word flavor, but my mom (HeHe) and Grandma have certainly been known to show up at our house with a red and white can of the cola. Heath is ever-intrigued about the forbidden liquid that awaits his taste buds when he's older.

This week he asked me exactly when he could have it, when he spotted the Coke truck heading down Tyvola Rd., about a mile away. Twelve was the age I gave. Totally arbitrary, but it satisfied him.

Later that same day, we'd just finished our baby jogging, and he'd been set free to roam Whistlestop Rd. Tucked between the cracks of sidewalk squares, Heath spotted a stubbed out cigarette. He hunkered down to point to it, and I could tell it was all he could do to keep from picking it up. After a minute, he stood up, put his hands on his hips, and made a declaration about his future.

When I'm twelve, I'm going to drink Coca-Cola and put cigarettes in my mouth and smoke them like this, he did a surprisingly dead-on imitation of someone smoking. (And I would like to thank the guys he saw wandering around NoDa for Heath's accuracy.)

I immediately went on a verbal rampage, blind with worry, about the dangers of smoking, the disgusting, expensive, not good at all habit. (I left out the part about being a former smoker myself. He's got plenty of time to hear that chapter of the story.) The more I seethed and fretted and tried to talk him out of smoking, the more he seemed to want to smoke. For the next hour, he would refer to cigarettes and smoking, and I would freak out.

And then he stopped and moved on to something else. Phew. Crisis averted.

Tractor Pants

Another great swim lesson for Heath today. As far as I could tell. Once again my attention was mostly on Stella, learning the tough lesson of keeping her hands to herself. She was already in a grumpy, tired mood, so she was not interested in watching Heath enjoy the pool from afar. And sharing the limited poolside toys with other waiting siblings proved to be harder than it may seem. Not to mention the fact that we were in an indoor pool, and an indoor pool on a hot and humid day is like sitting in a personal steam bath. So not only was she shrieky, sqwaky, scratchy, pinchy, pushy, and frequently boneless, she was also heavily pink-cheeked and sweaty-headed. All she needed was a little foam about the mouth, and she truly would've looked like a little rabid West Highland Terrier.

But we made it and Heath had a great time. Then we headed off to Hancock's fabric on South Boulevard. This time Stella was confined to a stroller. Like a Golden Retriever, Heath immediately sniffed out the John Deere tractor prints row. He chose a lively green and yellow plaid (with tractors, of course) number. He picked it up and wandered around the store, saying to no one in particular, I need a yard of this for some pants to wear to work in the mountains.

I found a few more pieces to attempt a skirt for myself and shorts for Stella, and made our way to the cutting table, so a nice lady behind the counter could measure our fabric and cut it to the appropriate length. She wasn't very speedy, was incredibly chatty, and Stella was growing more and more restless (and loud, screaming, Out, and practically throwing herself out of the stroller). The more I tried to speed the process along and not pay too much attention to Stella (because letting her roam around was not going to be an option), the slower our dear fabric helper became. Then she began to give unsolicited parenting advice. Mmmm...my favorite.

Eventually she cut our fabric (and eventually let it slip that she doesn't have children of her own, but she has nieces and nephews and dogs and...), and Stella resettled into the stroller, realizing her attempt to escape was futile. And we were finally out the door. With our fabric.

A decent start was made on the tractor pants this evening. And I got Stella's nightgown cut. Big, BIG oopsie made with that one. Nothing that isn't fixable. It's just going to have four seams instead of two, but a night-night dress, nonetheless.

#201

Little boy was not buying the idea that a nap would be good today. The only thing I could get him to comply with (sort of) was the idea that we had to at least be quiet. At 3:30 I threw in the towel and got myself dressed for a run. I knew it was going to be a hot one, but I needed to clear the ole head. Fast.

I also knew it was going to be a time-sensitive venture. Our music class is at 5, so this meant running to a desired fulfillment, getting myself showered (I have this down to a 45 second science), dressed, everyone loaded in the car, and on Park Road by 4:42. At the latest.

It WAS hot. My water-bottle bringing remembrance has been keen as of late, so I actually sipped as I chugged along. Heath even managed a five or 6 minute snooze toward the end of the run, so that was a pleasant bonus. I did get that shower. And our car turned on to Park Road at 4:43. To the class by 5:01.

Our music teacher announced that next Wednesday is our last class of the summer session. Where did that six weeks go? I'm going to miss Wednesday night at Music Together and piggying it up at the Lupie's. Tonight they were playing Tribe Called Quest, The Low End Theory. It doesn't get much better than that.

Except it does. Season 4, Disc 1, It's Always Sunny in PA arrived today. And I didn't eat all the Brownie Mud Pie ice cream last night.

Merheath and his Grumpy Mermaid Sister

I just finished updating my resume for the first time in a long time. Like, had to change my last name, address, email, phone number, long time.

Apparently before I had children I used to do some stuff that requires descriptive words like facilitate, and collaborate, and oversee, and instruct, and edit. I have some fancy thoughts in my head about it all, but I'm just too beat to play around with them. Must've been all that facilitating and collaborating and overseeing and instructing and editing I did all day.

Heath had his first formal swim lesson this morning. Shortly after he got up, I started preparing the troops to head out, cautious of not overselling the adventure to Heath, but certainly keeping an upbeat attitude about it. My decision in referencing the fact that he will be learning to swim in a big pool, and this will eventually lead to swimming all the time in a big pool, was a smart one. He was sold. He was excited. So excited that he was ready to get in the car at 8:45am. The lesson was at 10. Less than 10 minutes away.

We have a few more things to do before we go, I explained. We'll leave soon.

I'll just wait in the car, he offered.

As much as I wanted to revel in his enthusiasm, I needed to put my focus on the little lady of the house. When she saw Heath putting on his Spider-Man swim suit, she began squealing, Pool, pool, while stripping out of her pajamas and running to her room to get her pool attire. When I explained that the lesson was for Heath, well, she was nothing short of pissed. Throw yourself down on the floor, scoot on your back with enraged fury, pinch every limb or toy or wall or furniture or sibling that gets in your way--pissed. It lasted twenty minutes. She composed herself when French Toast became available.

Until we were at the actual lesson. Then she let loose again and ran like a wild banshee toward the pool, repeatedly. I spent most of the half hour keeping her occupied, taking an occasional peek at Heath, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. They blew bubbles. They placed one ear at a time in the water. Then up to their eyebrows. Then kicked (while being held) to the wall. Then slid down a slide to the waiting arms of a couple of very sweet, patient, and ever-encouraging instructors. By the end of the half hour, all five had pretty much submerged themselves in water, without even really knowing that's what had happened. Heath loved it. And I'm already daydreamy about swim practices and meets and medals and favorite strokes and spending much of his youth (like much of mine) with the constant, glorious smell of chlorine on his person.

When it was all over he requested we come back after lunch. Glad I signed up for the twice a week lesson plan.

In the meantime, I'm getting ready to eat Brownie Mud Pie ice cream out of Heath's Spider-Man mug.

Blue Monday

It started off relatively well. The kids were up at 8:20, a very good thing since I had a bout of insomnia last night. Another good thing was the fact that we were scheduled to meet our preschool pals at Princeton Park at 10am. Up and at 'em is always best for the crew.

When we returned home the day's disintegration began. Stella was ready to nap after a little lunch. And so was Heath, but he was so completely wound up, the word scrappy barely covers his regard for everything that was happening. He finally passed out around 3, just in time for me to head off to see my new tutee at Starbucks. HeHe came and held down the fort while I went and talked Literary Analysis with a rising 9th grader.

Despite Heath's hour and a half nap, he was frenzied beyond return when I got back home.

Long day.

First swim lesson tomorrow. I am trying to maintain an attitude of quiet, yet cheerful, optimism meshed with a healthy dose of low expectations.

11:15 on a Sunday Night...Seriously? Already?

Apparently I picked out a movie called Valentine's Day at the Redbox last night. It was cute, which means I fell asleep halfway through and didn't feel too bad when Mark took it back to the store this morning.

Our morning plan was for me to take the Jeep to get my hair colored, while Mark took the kids to do the dreaded grocery shopping and Target run. The Jeep had other plans. It wanted to sit in our driveway and not budge. Heath was ready to go into Emergency response mode, but we decided the easiest course of action would be for me to go ahead in the wagon and Mark hang back with Heath and Stella.

When I returned home, ready to tackle an overwhelmed tear-worthy list of to-do's, I was treated with a giant surprise. The bathrooms were cleaned. The laundry was well on its way. And Mark was still going to do the grocery and Target run with the kids and be back home for lunch. That meant I could stay home and get my act together for my new writing tutee I'm meeting tomorrow afternoon, and tackle various other projects.

Heath is in bed wearing his new Seattle pants. I only sewed one leg to the other twice, included my finger in the hem once, and lost the elastic for a total of five minutes. They are finished. And he loves them. I'm pretty sure he will be in them all week. On to Stella's nightgown. It's a tank-type number, so I have to finish it while it's still hot.

Mark took the kids to see his mom, sister, nieces, and new baby cousin, while I finished my mommy projects and had a refreshing run without pushing a load of children. Heath is apparently overjoyed with having a baby cousin. He was insistent on having dinner at their house, so they didn't get home until 8:30. When they returned, they both had many stories to tell. Stella's stories are less about the words (I still can't quite catch them all) and more about the wideness of her eyes and enthusiasm in her over enunciated, yet simultaneously completely mush-mouthed, vocabulary. For someone so small, her voice is awfully booming and shrieky.

Stella ran into the kitchen, her eyes exploding out of her sweet little face. Boon! Dink! Up! Die! Die! Cry! Hee! (At this point, she points to the sky, then back at her brother who has now run into the house to hopefully clear up all my questions I have about the Stella tale.) Goma!Beebee! Shleepee!

Apparently they stopped at the grocery store on the way home from Goma's house, where the baby was sleeping, and they got a pink balloon. Stella let it go and it went up in the sky, she cried uncontrollably, and Heath told Stella she could get another one next time. This is, of course, big, wide-eyed, shriek-worthy news.

River Bound Race 5k

I can feel the still unhemmed and un-elasticized waist Seattle pants staring at me from across the room. It would probably take me 15 minutes (okay, 30 minutes. I'll allot a little time to sew my finger into the waist and undo that snafu), but I just don't have it in me tonight. I also have a Redbox movie on top of the DVD player. I picked it up tonight around 7pm and it already escapes me what movie I chose.

At 5:15am I heard Stella in her room. Crying. And not stopping. So I went in to see what was the matter. The room was still dark, so I couldn't see anything. I felt around in her crib. She was lying on her back, and I could feel the warm tears rolling down her face, gave her a little pat, and told her it was still night-night.

She responded with a pitiful, 'kay. And I guess she fell back asleep. I know I did. Until I heard her again at 6:15. Again, I tried to get her to go back to sleep, but she wasn't interested this time. And I didn't try very hard, after all, my alarm was set to go off at 6:30. I was bound for the river race 5k.

I brought some coffee, cereal and Stella back to our bed, and leisurely shared bites of Gorilla Munch (the only cereal we had left. No Grape-Nuts for mommy.) and leisurely drank my coffee. A little too leisurely. Suddenly my plans for arriving at the Whitewater Center by 7:30 were completely squashed. It was 7:15 and I had no one to blame but myself.

I got there at 7:50. Ran to the start. Already sweating and realizing that once again, I forgot my water bottle. And I also have to use the facilities, but there is no time. Fortunately I knew one of the volunteers giving out the bibs, so he bumped me up to the front of the line, passing by a pack of guys. I didn't make any friends at that moment. But it was 7:56 and I had my bib and shoe chip.

I hopped on one foot, while chipping my shoe, bibbing my shirt, and racing to the start line. Made it. Apparently I was not alone in being a few minutes behind, because we waited and waited and waited to start. For ten minutes I went back and forth about having enough time to run to the potty, but at 8:10, the crowd moved, and we were off. But I figured it was no big deal. I was already sweating before I crossed the start.

5k. It went fast. Very fast. It's been a few weeks since I've been out there to run. I've missed it terribly. The up and down. The concentration of my footing. The occasional leap that is made across a large tree root, and a clomping stomp into a puddle of mud that beckons to be sploshed. At the start someone remarked that it would be at least ten degrees colder in the woods. That has yet to be the case. It's still steamy. I quickly felt the weight of my shirt as it grew a darker purple with dripping sweat.

They had water at one mile, but I declined. I saw an opening to get around a few folks that I had early in the race chosen as my "must pass" people. At two miles, I vaguely considered stopping to barf. I wasn't alone in that thought either. There were a few people stopping and bending over and looking questionable. I decided to step back a bit, didn't push ahead of a few more "cannot let them beat me" people, and chose the steady finishes the race comfortably approach.

When the 15kers and 5kers broke off, I felt a pang of guilt, shame, disappointment? I don't know exactly. Ten minutes earlier I was ready to barf, then I was sad that I wasn't continuing on. I caught a glimpse of a couple of guys in front of me that needed to be passed. Dig deep, I thought. So I did.

33:15(?). STILL can't get under a 10 minute mile. I waited around to see the results. I was 5th in my Seniors (35-39) division. All I could think about were the moments I hung back and didn't charge forth. Next time.

Workin' On My Queue

We met some friends in NoDa for pizza and pasta this evening, so I am officially carbed-up and ready for my race tomorrow morning. The restaurant happened to be beside Fire Station #7, so the kids lucked out and got to sit on the fire truck and run around in front of the station. The fire captain was sweet enough to loan us a camera to take a few pictures, then emailed them to me. Fire fighters are always so genuinely kind. Heath already has big plans to go back and work there tomorrow.

Hopefully he (and Stella) will do daddy a favor and take note of our late night out, and will sleep in tomorrow morning. I will be traveling solo to the race, then will scoot off to a meeting for Heath's school. Busy Saturday morning. I should probably go to bed. Unfortunately I have fallen into a habit of some night owl hours keeping. When the kiddies are finally nestled sweetly into bed for the night, I can do all things mommy-related, like think thoughts without interruption, or eat food without tending to someone else's needs, or watch television, or read something besides Roger the Jolly Pirate, or simply stare into space and think nothing.

Speaking of watching television, I guess tonight I will have to settle for episodes of Friends that I I've watched fourteen million times, as once again, I had forked up the Netflix by not paying attention to what disc was coming next. Weeds came today. Season 1, Disc 2. How did this happen? Am I out of It's Always Sunny in PA seasons? What happened to Weeds Season 1, Disc 1? I just don't know. Guess I'll have to stay up until 2am and work on my queue.

-ING

Heath is a little hemming and a waistband away from having Sleepy in Seattle pants. Good thing all the stitching is inside the britches; they are a true mess. Despite my mom's very clear email instructions she sent me this evening, I still managed to experience two incredibly bone-headed, sewing-novice befuddlements. 1) I still don't know what I did, but Heath came close to having a Sleepy in Seattle skirt, and 2) I pinned the fabric to the bed. Twice.

At least I'm trying. It feels good to experiment with something new. Similarly to the Redbook article I read on Tuesday while I was waiting to see our Family Physician, if you want to feel more carefree in your life, just add some -ING to it. Of course, being a misanthropic, cantankerous, surly, sourpuss (who was incredibly annoyed at how long it was tak-ING to see the doctor), my go-to thought when I was reading this article was foul, at best, and really shouldn't be repeated outside of my own head, as it was riddled with a couple choice -ING words. But while I was out runn-ING with the kids this morning, I thought about the article and all my -INGs. Running. Writing. Reading. Sewing. Ice cream eating. Coffee drinking. Tutoring. Parenting. Playdating. Meditating. And the list pleasantly went on.

As a matter of fact, I have two new -INGs I would like to add. Biking. And old truck restoring. While we were out on that same run today, Heath and I simultaneously spotted a red Jeep. And not just any red Jeep, an old red pick-up Jeep Gladiator. Roughly 1960ish. We both gasped. We both pointed. And we both said, That's cool, I want that. Then I started to get daydreamy about all the Jeeps and Fords and VWs I could restore with Heath's help.

I figure I better take it one -ING at a time and finish these pants for Heath before he continues growth-spurt-ING. For now, I have to do some TV watch-ING and sleep-ING.

Almost Pants

Well, I can't say that I got to the actual sewing part of any of my projects tonight, but I did manage to get Heath's Seattle britches cut and ready to sew. I will say that I am a bit nervous since I don't have my mom guiding me through step-by-step on this pair. I suppose I could call her, but why would I want to do that when I could make some ill-fitting, loosely threaded pants for my poor boy.

The pattern was already cut and ready to go from the Spider-Man pants. I started to use my scissors to cut the fabric. I've always thought scissors are scissors. Turns out I was wrong. Our scissors, that have been used to cut everything from guacamole packages to wrapping paper to hair, are horrible. Based on the stickiness of them, I would say they've been used to cut tape or play dough or glue or ice cream packaging or all of the above. While I tried to force the issue of getting the stinkin' pants cut with these stinkin' scissors, I remembered my dad telling me that Granny had some electric scissors in her box of tricks that came with the sewing machine.

I've never used electric scissors, but I am aware of my clumsy, awkward, near-accident prone ways, so I figured these could very turn into a bloody loss of a digit, many band-aids, possibly some stitches event. My dad even went so far the other night to tell me, They look like they aren't moving, but they are, so don't stick your finger in there while they're plugged in.

He was right. The blades do move so fast they seem to be standing still. He was also right in telling me to not stick my finger between the blades. I almost did it anyway, despite the warning. Just to see what would happen. I've already been told what would happen. It would cut my finger to shreds. (When I tell Heath not to do something that isn't safe, and he does it anyway, then wonder why he doesn't listen...I really needn't look any further.)

The electric scissors cut the Sleepy in Seattle (that's what the fabric says) pants in zippy time. Too bad my evening had already been eaten alive by putting children to bed and dishwasher emptying and garbage taking out and towels folding and dirty laundry gathering and phone call returning, etc. My new goal: to have these pants finished by the end of the week.

We had an excellent day of baby jogger running with our baby jogger running playmates, pool time, then some passed out napping. Our evening was spent at music class and eating dinner at Lupie's. Very, very good middle of the week.

Ready, Set, Sew...

I got a reminder call today that Heath is registered for swim lessons starting next Tuesday. It's a 4 week, twice a week deal at Charlotte Aquatics. I'm looking very forward to seeing what happens, and really looking forward to him learning to swim. He refuses to wear a swim vest, so some comfort with doggy paddling in the shallow end would do us all a world of good (and less water-worry on my part.)

My mom was over today and helped me get the sewing machine ready to go. The following projects are next up: Seattle-themed clam diggers for Heath, knit nightgown with helicopters and airplanes for Stella, and a handy-dandy pillowcase purse for me. Maybe I can make a manbra, bro, manzeer for Mark's next marathon. For his bloody nipples.

I had a thought about starting tonight, but Mark picked up some Take the Cake ice cream and I'm itching to watch some It's Always Sunny in PA. Tomorrow night. There's always tomorrow night.

Rainy Naps

The rain. Refreshing, temperature-dropping rain. Nap-coma inducing rain.

I was relieved that the rain held off this morning. Heath, Stella, and I were hosting a playdate at Princeton Park with some preschool pals and mommies. The overcast sky was helpful, though, because we were able to enjoy a couple of hours of non-brutally hot play. The kids had a great time with their friends, and I enjoyed chatting it up with some of my favorite moms.

Shortly after we returned home, the rain came. What a thunderous downpour. All three of us fell so deeply into the nap zone, next thing I knew it was after 4pm, and it was still raining.

I suited up for a run, despite the steady rain and Heath resistance. He was deeply involved in a very important project: loading a fire truck with Legos. When Mark got home shortly after five, Heath was still busy, still disinterested in going in the baby jogger, and I was really itching to go. Mark suggested I go by myself. He didn't have to say it twice.

Good run. Good burrito night. Good Dark Velvet Chocolate ice cream. Good It's Always Sunny in PA. Not too bad for a Monday.

Nothing Lasts Forever (except that sewing machine in my Grandma's basement)

I am now the proud owner of a circa 1950 Singer sewing machine. It was my Granny's and my parents picked it up at her house today and dropped it by this evening. Just as I was getting ready to take a few pictures of it for interested parties, our camera made a funny noise. Zoom error, it read. There would be no picture taking.

We tried all the tricks. Turn it on/off millions of times. Blowing air into the lens to free any possible sand or gritty debris. We removed the batteries, and put them back in. We googled the brand and zoom error issue. Apparently we are not alone in the problem. The best solution we could find was slamming it against the wall and buying ourselves a new one. I stopped short at chucking the thing, uploaded our mountain shots, and googled prices for a new camera. Turns out to replace what we have is pretty much around the corner from nothing. Small favors.

Our 10am check-out wasn't exactly leisurely, but once we were out of the house, we certainly took our sweet time winding our way back home. We headed over to Valle Crucis to visit their downright impressive Community Park. Play structures, picnic areas, and excellent spots to wade and fish in the Watauga River, all surrounded by majestic green mountain scenes. Heath and Stella pretty much had themselves stripped down to nothing once we made it to the water. After a warm splash around in the cool water, we lunched on some PB and J's, peaches, and bananas.

Heath was conked out in his car seat before we could get back on 194. We wound around the slow curves of a section of the NC Scenic Byway. Then Stella was a goner. Too bad the naps only lasted until Hickory. Both kids woke up irritable, tapped off all emotionally appropriate responses, and completely sick of being in the car.

Sunday and pooped. Good thing I opted for the 5k race this Saturday. That marathon wore me out.

I Even Saw a Shoeless Runner...

Look at that big rock, Heath said, just as we were finishing up our morning baby jogger run. He was even pointing. At a giant rock. Right where we walked yesterday in front of the ASU stadium. It was huge. I don't know how I missed it.

But my question about the Rock has been answered. It's a giant rock. It's in front of the ASU stadium. It was donated by the Shipwash family. That's all I know.

I had a pleasant run around the campus and downtown Boone, while Mark and his pals were running up Grandfather Mountain. It was 9am when I started my run, so they were already 2 and a half hours into the marathon. As we ran around the sleepy (at that moment. We went back later in the afternoon when it was wide awake, and a lot less interesting.) mountain town, we encountered very few people. A stunning amount of fog. And a lovely mountainous backdrop for our 68 degree run. The kids even asked for blankets.

We rolled downtown, past the Boone fire station. Heath immediately spotted the brush rig. He has big plans for manning the brush rig. For some time he wanted to do this in San Diego. As of today, he would settle for fighting mountain fires in Boone. Oddly, or not so oddly, enough, the fire station is tucked between the ASU campus attire store and a old/newfangled hookah shop.

We finished our run close to 10. I'd promised Heath a romp around the football field. The girls lacrosse team was busy playing, so we settled for watching the ladies "hit the ball with sticks" for a while, then raced around an adjacent, vacant field. Around 10:30 the Boone fire department released their screaming rescue trucks, followed by multiple wailing ambulances. This was my cue to head on up the mountain to pick up Daddy.

After a shamefully long wrestling match (and the help of a kind fellow and his somewhat smug/cold/annoyed gal pal) with the baby jogger, all children and gear was reloaded in the car and we were off to find daddy. The original plan was to follow a fellow runner's girlfriend up the mountain so we would have plenty of car space to cart all four accomplished athletes back to the house. No one knew just how spotty the cell service was going to be, so I suddenly found myself without contact. Without directions. And only a vague sense of where this so-called Grandfather Mountain is. Up. (221 and Linville seemed familiar.)

So I took off and hoped for the best, occasionally making a phone call only to be lost, or not even connected. Through Blowing Rock. Past a BRP entrance. Then up. And up. And round. And round. We went. And round. And up. And up some more. Just when I was worried that I might not be right with my directions, I saw it. The sign. It read: Caution: Marathon in Progress from 6:30am-Noon. That's when it really hit me. Mark was running up a mountain. No traffic cones. No traffic directors. Few water stations. Few spectators, and even fewer race volunteers. (Apparently there were some Park Rangers on the parkway. If you did not comply with their Run Single-File rule, you WOULD get a ticket.) Out loud I said, Daddy is running up this mountain.

Heath said, Except there's no sidewalk. He was concerned. And right. No sidewalks. The streets wound so tightly, there's no room for error for cars, much less error for cars riding along with runners. Stella was asleep. The sloooow (because that's the only way you can do it) wind of the narrow two-lane highway was too much for her to resist drifting off for a little morning snooze.

And then I see him. Not Mark. Some other guy. The leader of the end of the pack. The marathon caboose. He's an older fellow. Shirtless. A little hobbly. But still running. A few minutes pass, and I see two more runners. Ladies. In matching aqua floral tankinis and black running shorts. I rolled down the window, gave them a little woo-hoo. Then I had a bright idea of taking pictures as I coast along. I got a few. Then I got a Card Full red warning.

No more picture taking. But lots more runners. Many are walking. Many are walking, then jogging, then walking, then bending over, then stopping, then walking again. At this point it's nearing 11:30. 5 hours since start time. It was STRONGLY suggested that if one cannot finish the race in 5 hours, one should not run. As fun as it would be to see Mark, I am hoping he is well past the finish line and anxiously waiting for his ride.

The running crowds begin to thicken, and I know I must be close to the end. The car crests the "hill" and there it is. The Grandfather Mountain entrance. And there he is. Mark wearing an accomplished smile, and a medal. Heath and I start screaming and waving wildly. I frantically jerk the car over, hoping to not bump into any runners or bikers or tourists. Heath immediately spots the bloody spot on Mark's white t-shirt. I guess the band-aids weren't enough to keep the ole chaffing from happening. "You got blood, Daddy." When he found out it was from his nipples, he was even more intrigued.

After some Highland Games, marathon, mountain tourism traffic complications, we officially get Mark in the car. He is finished. He is thrilled. He was pretty darn untrained. And he still finished in 4 hours and 30 minutes. Great, great, great.

Now, I wonder...could we both run it next year? (Do not quote me on that.)

Welcome to the Rock

We made it to Boone. Actually, the mountain house we're staying in is in Vilas, NC, about five minutes away from Boone. Fortunately the kids snoozed pretty much the entire way and I read A Rose for Emily, trying to ready myself for my book club chat. (My book club of two people. Two people who were in Freshman English together nearly, uh, twenty years ago. I already have many comments, and even more questions.)

The Ropkos are sharing the house with four other people. Three guys and a gal. The four boys will be running the marathon in the morning. The start is at 6:30am. I will not be there at that time

We made it to the packet pick-up this afternoon. It was at the ASU campus stadium. Welcome to the Rock, it says. I googled ASU the Rock. My search was fruitless. They're also the Mountaineers. That, I get. The kids had a great time running up and down the field, round and round the track. The track and field was surprisingly squishy and soft on the ole bones. Too bad the marathon isn't on astro-turf.

Everyone is carbed up and ready to go. (I am, too.) I plan to take the kids to the campus and do a little baby jogging before I try to find our spot to do a little spectating. I wasn't going to attempt to see them along the course, because it's somewhat discouraged. They run on trails. They run on the Parkway. They run single file. Up a mountain. With traffic. This I need to see.

One of America's toughest marathons. That's a quote.

Mary Jo's (a.k.a Jo Ann's)

Heath and Stella did me a huge favor and slept until 8:20 this morning. Then they did me an even bigger favor and amicably sat in our bed eating Kix cereal while I puttered about trying to get us ready for our mountain trip. They even shared bites of their breakfast for Pete's sake.

Of course niceties were tapped out by the time we were midway through our morning run. It began as an innocent game of foot tag. Then someone left their talon-streaked marker on the other one's leg. And it wasn't the usual suspect, either. But that was a lone incident, and I even managed to convince them that going a different=longer way was an exciting idea.

I have had a slight hankering to learn to sew for some time now. My mom has been sewing since she was 8 years old, and while she taught me some basics, I definitely needed a refresher course. And it has stunned me a bit to have this desire. My childhood memories are full of going to Mary Jo's in Gastonia, and I can't say that they are fond. Yes, it is the fabric mecca. For a 3, 4, 5, 6 year old, the wall-to-wall fabrics of all colors and varying degrees of shininess beckon you to touch them. The batiks, plaid, flannel, knits wrapped round and round the fabric spools, color coordinated row after row, scream for you to play a game of hide-and-seek in. The racks of zippers in every shade of red, blue, yellow, and green beg to be unzipped and zipped again. And unzipped. And zipped again. The spools of thread. Oh, the endless rows of roly-poly thread. The must be rearranged and pushed and rolled and, if you are so brave, unraveled.

Until some woman in a red Mary Jo's vest comes over and yells at you for messing up the display, then you're banished to the pattern books tables, and you are left with nothing to do but flip through the pages of Butterick Simple, pick out your wedding dress pattern and Halloween outfit, eat Lance Peanut Butter crackers out of the machine, and hope your mom is going to be finished very, very, very soon.

But here I am, wanting to make my kids some clothes, and really wanting to go to Mary Jo's. My friend and I were going this past weekend, but our plan was foiled due to the dreaded gut problem I experienced. So we settled for a different plan the following day. Hancock's on South Boulevard. It's no JoAnn's (as the husbands insisted on calling it), but I found a variety of fabrics to make Heath and Stella some pants and a nightgown.

I made my first pair on Tuesday. Spider-Man clam diggers for Heath. My mom helped me on her machine. I was surprised by how much came back to me from my few experiences as a child. I was also surprised by how relaxing it was. And to have made some little britches with my own hands. It was quite a thrill.

And talk about thrilled. Heath was absolutely enthralled at the process of making his pants. He had to put them on as soon as they were finished, and he's only taken them off for baths and going to the pool. I can't blame him, though. They are comfortable. They are bright. And they were made with a whole lotta love.

Running Up That Hill

You may not believe me when I say this, but today was another smooth-sailing kind of day. Not unusual for some people to have two reasonably calm days in a row, but for the Ropko house, it's been a long time coming. Heath actually came out of his room this morning, completely dressed in the day's clothing. (Well, outfit one of three. There was a painting thing. And a mud deal.) Everything was backwards, but they were on, and he did it without a word from me, completely his idea.

Got a little run in. I just remembered that I have another trail race next Saturday. A little 5ker. Should be a hot one.

Speaking of hot one, we headed to the pool after naps today. The sun was broiling down on the little pool when we first arrived, but after twenty minutes, the sun moved on and we had a lovely shaded spot. There were quite a few other kiddies there to swim with. In fact, Heath came away with a new friend girlfriend. She turns 4 in July. When he told her that he is a construction worker, and his baby sister is a princess, she smiled knowingly and let him know she is a "real" princess, too. Heath was pleased.

Stella befriended a little gal who just turned two and enjoys giving out her share of pinchings and shovings. When the new friend was removed from the pool by her mother, and asked to sit in a chair for a moment, Stella clambered up into the chair beside the offender, an act of solidarity, for sure. I would say it was a successful break--hands were kept to themselves from that moment forward.

Mark's Grandfather Mountain marathon is on Saturday, so we will be packing up and heading out for Boone on Friday afternoon. Heath told Mark tonight that he wants to run the marathon with him. I'm still not sure if he meant actually run the race, or have Mark push him in the baby jogger. In either case, I'm packing the double jogger and running up the mountain just in case I have to rescue someone.

Exhale Kind of Day

I just got home from the HT. We were out of milk. I think I need to start buying two gallons at a time. We are always running out of milk.

It was, of course, freezing in the Teeter, especially after lingering in the ice cream area waiting to take my turn at rummaging through what was left of the Breyer's 3 for $6 deal that ends at midnight. The pickin's were slim. To warm up my frozen to the core bones, I slowly wandered by the rotisserie chicken warming oven display case. Several men passed me. I recognized their brand of man soap. I smell just like them.

Today was actually an efficient and enjoyable day. Having a plan was a big part of it. And having a lighter attitude certainly helped, too. We had a nice run. An enjoyable morning at the pool. And zero, count them, ZERO meltdowns.

I have a plan for tomorrow, too. Now, to just hold on to that lighter attitude.

Man Soap

Our friends went back to Charleston today. We miss them already. The visit this weekend was riddled with Heath-isms and Stella-attacks and Lucie-ways (like an angel!), and a small degree of physical sickness, but it still managed to be full of delightful treats and low-key adventure and child-raising, life-living inspiration.

My lady BFF is a preschool guru and she came to town loaded with books and lists and ideas of how to teach, entertain, and gently guide my children in the direction of feeling happy, emotionally healthy, independent, and accomplished. As I was planning my day with the kiddies tomorrow, I consulted one of the books she gave me, a 365 creative things to do with preschoolers bible. It had a list of activities that they cutely classified as "Crazy Cans," for those times when it "starts to get crazy." I zeroed in on that list immediately and settled on giving the Paper Punch fun a whirl. Supplies needed: hole puncher, colored paper. Grows the attention-span. Strengthens the hand-grasp. And should be pretty interesting to see Heath go to town on some hole punchin' in the morning. Bonus: You have a nice selection of confetti for future art projects. Or, more likely in the Ropko house, we will be sweeping up pieces of wayward confetti for weeks. Oh well. Good thing sweeping is listed as an excellent "calming" activity.

So not only am I getting set on what I need to do to keep Heath on track, and help Stella along with her ever-progressing interest in the world around her, the Ropkos are completely stocked up on all things hygiene-related. My lady BFF's husband (who is also pretty much my second BFF, tied with Mark) is a money-saving, coupon-using genius. He's the kind of shopper that actually leaves the store making money, because his coupon using skills are that amazing.

A couple of days before their visit, he sent me an email and asked about Mark's razor preference and body wash interest. Seems he had some coupon-related 5-star razors (the kind we NEVER splurge on) and a few other items to share with Mark. Their first night, we were showered with a gift bag o' goodies that were all buy one get one free, then use a coupon that can be doubled, and if you take it to CVS, they'll honor any coupon, then suddenly you've bought $35 dollars worth of products and they're paying you.

We were loaded up with Old Spice High Endurance Body Wash, Dove Man Care, Nivea Manly Wash, toothpaste, dental floss, deodorant, lady products (Heath was squealingly thrilled with these, oddly enough), razors of not one, not two, not three, but FIVE blade variety. We will be clean, hairless, free of tooth grime, and completely ready for all days of life, heavy and light.

I had to be somewhere tonight by 7:30, so I took a quick shower, forgetting that I had not put a new bar of soap in the dish. But there was the Old Spice High Endurance Body Wash in its Man-Sized Red, White, and Manly Blue patriotic tough guy packaging. I could smell the fragrance before it even got sudsed-up in the wash cloth. Strong overtone of man-musk with a hint of ocean sweat. I checked the ingredients. Water was first. Sodium Laurel Sulfate was second, then every other sodium, aluminum, laurealethelene, petroleum, benzo came after. The fourth ingredient was fragrance. Of lemon? Of orange essence? No. Just fragrance.

I don't know what happened. Maybe I just simply got used to it, or the strong scent burned the inside of my nostrils, but I started to like it. It seemed more ocean breeze, and less 7th grade school dance Drakkar knock-off. After I got dressed, I went downstairs to give everyone a kiss goodbye. As I leaned in to give Heath a smooch, he said, You smell like man soap.

Yes. Yes, I do. And with four free bottles in our possession, I probably will for quite some time.

Independence Day

I couldn't go another day without checking in with the ole MotherJoggerBlogger. I am not feeling very inspired or enthusiastic, but there are only two things that me keep from blogging. No internet access and an attack of ovarian cysts/pancreatitis. I'd like to say the access-thingie was my lack of writing last night. It wasn't.

Anyhoo...after a wonderful morning run with the family and friends yesterday, we took a picnic lunch to the pool. We were all hungry, but the kids didn't seem too interested in stopping to eat. So we all wolfed down our lunch and headed into the pool. At some point I started to feel not so great in the belly. I wanted to chalk it up to not waiting the ole 30 minutes after eating before swimming. But I wasn't really swimming. I was standing in the baby pool, catching a jumping Stella off the side.

Then I realized it was something more than indigestion, and I took off for the house, leaving Mark, my friends, and three puzzled children. As I walked home, hoping to not pass out along the way from the ever-growing, searing pain, I thought about my recent TV obsession: I Didn't Know I was Pregnant. I was suddenly full of worry that I was one of those people that I had frivolously called idiotic that very morning. How the hell can you not know you're pregnant? Who doesn't notice the weight gain? I could barely wear Mark's boxers shorts at the end of my pregnancies, and these people are saying that their pants seemed snug, but nothing terribly out of the ordinary. What?!

That also tells you the direction of my pain. It was becoming comparable to labor.

A quick trip to Urgent Care where they took one look at me and said, we are not equipped. Off to Presby Main. A relatively quick wait at the ER (a horrible waiting room experience), and hours...I mean, hours, in the room. So grateful for my friends. They took over at the homestead and took excellent care of Heath and Stella while we were gone. Naps, playtime, dinner, baths. They took care of it all. We were home around 11. Not such a good 3rd of July

Much better today, though. Much time with my BFF, while Mark and her husband took the three kiddies out for an adventure of Starbucks, Target, and Freedom Park. Then an evening of 4th of July grill-out fare, sparklers, poppers, and smoke bombs. Then the Daddies took the three year olds to a fireworks show at a golf course nearby. Apparently they had a great time, while I put a very sleepy Stella to bed. She was very curious about the popping and cracking noises outside her bedroom window. She leaned in close and whispered, Wha' da'? I told her they were fireworks and rocked her for a few more minutes.

When I put her in the crib, she looked up at me, grabbed the silky tip of her blanket, and said, 'works, and gave me (and herself) a reassuring nod.

Beans, Beans, Good for the Heart...

I hear fireworks already. I love the 4th of July. It's my second favorite holiday, followed closely behind by Thanksgiving. It's not so much a Patriotism thing for me. It's an edible fare deal. For both special days.

That said, after a not-so-humid morning run, the kiddies and I headed to Trader Joe's and loaded up on 4th of July food. Hot dogs, hamburger, corn-on-the-cob. The shopping trip was pretty successful. The only person in a sour mood was me. And it wasn't so much sour, as it was just low on energy-reserves. As a matter of fact, my reserve was used up some time last week, and I haven't caught up yet. My lack of energy left me utterly perplexed when I couldn't find my shopping list halfway through the trip. I had it in the bread section--got all kinds of buns. Had it in frozen foods--tuna steak, chicken nuggets, veggie burgers. Check, check, double check. Then, gone. No list. And no ability to think for myself.

Turns out, Stella munched on the list, then threw it into the bag with the corn-on-the-cob. And I forgot two very important items. Baked beans and watermelon. The beans I can live without, but the watermelon. No.

That's why I was so delighted to find that our weekend house guests/BFFs brought, that's right, watermelon. Phew.

Still don't have the beans. But we have a big day of running, pooling, and Whitewater Centering, so I imagine we can pick some up between now and the real deal 4th. (Sounds of celebratory fireworks exploding.)

Find It

It was only a matter of time. It's summer. It's hot. And my backyard clean-up has me tramping through patches of old leaves, twisting vines, and weeds growing weeds. I knew it wasn't a question of if, but when will I encounter a snake?

The answer is tonight after dinner. Mark was out picking up milk and ice cream (3 for $6. That's right.) at the HT, and I had my landscaping crew in the backyard doing just one more square of clearing. Stella and I were taking turns with the rake, while Heath was busy loading leaves and sticks in the back of his cozy coupe police car. Fortunately we already had a run-in with a nest of ants, so he was well-suited up in his pirate rain boots. Stella, on the other hand, had managed to take off her shoes and shirt. Just as I was giving them a five minutes left 'til we go in for baths warning, I took my turn with the rake. Gave a good sweeping motion through a pile of leaves, damp with yesterday's rain, and sssszzzzz!!!! It happened. I rustled up a snake. It was alive. It was startled. And it was creepy enough that just thinking about it I have to rub the back of my neck to make sure it didn't jump on me, follow me in the house, and wait until I'm in my bed to make its presence known.

The kiddies were thrilled to have uncovered the grayish-white reptile. They couldn't get close enough to it, couldn't stop reaching out to touch it, and couldn't be told too many times to step back, leave it alone, and let's wait for daddy.

For some reason I was convinced it was a copperhead. Its head had a shiny, coppery look to it. And it's quick, forking tongue had to mean it was a killer snake and getting ready to run after us. Despite Heath and Stella's insistence on taking their red butterfly nets and catching the snake, I insisted they wait for Daddy to get home. Before he could return, the snake slithered back into the leaves that were waiting for me to scoop up. Stella kept creeping up to the leaf pile, waving her net, muttering, Find it, 'nake. Find it. (This is her new favorite phrase. I know she was thrilled to have a reason to say it over and over for an appropriate cause.)

Mark returned (with ice cream...and milk), found the snake, and took it over to our trusty neighbor who is the kind of guy who would know what kind of snake it is, and exactly what to do with it. Turns out I was wrong about the copperhead (and poisonous) identity. Just a harmless, but creepy nonetheless, brown snake. They let it go. Somewhere. I didn't ask. I don't want to know.

Heath can hardly wait to find more in the yard tomorrow. I can hardly wait to get some incredibly tall rain boots, possibly hip waders, and some steel gloves.