When Did We Get a Seal? And Why Is It Barking?

No. We didn't get a seal. It was just Heath. Coughing. Like a seal. The lovely sound of Croup. Yesterday morning it was mild, as was his fever. This morning, not so much. 104 and an immediate rush to sit in the bathroom, door closed, hot shower on. He was pretty much curled up in a ball with Puppy on our bed all day. A rare sight. I should've taken a picture.

Tomorrow will be better. It has to be. We are scheduled to be at the hospital at 6am for Stella's CT Scan and Ultrasound. I keep avoiding the subject on here, because it seems so personal and scary, which seems overly vulnerable, and therefore, unblogworthy. But I keep considering the fact that I do this for memory keeping and writing practice, and I also figure that there are others who might read this and relate to the ups and downs of parenting. This has been a definite down.

They will be putting her to sleep. They will stick a needle into the node that is growing larger and redder and more like its own entity by the day and find out exactly what lurks beneath the ominous lump. They will do the same thing to the one beside it who has decided to follow in the footsteps of his neighbor. Since Sunday she has had 4 visits to more than one doctor, 2 ultrasounds, 1 chest x-ray, multiple blood tests, 9 doses of the most wretched antibiotic I have ever leaned my nose into. And 17 lollipops. She does not let anyone forget the lollipops.

And she keeps smiling her huge, toothy, beautiful, genuine, uncomplicated, unsullied, courageous, bright smile. She's amazing. Totally and completely amazing.

River Bound Race Half Marathon 9/25/10

In addition to enjoying myself while I run as fast as I can for 13.1 miles, I had one more very important goal for the River Bound Race half marathon: don't be late. And by late, I mean, don't arrive at the Whitewater Center at 7:55am to collect my race bib, hop on one foot to the start line while I chip my shoe, wishing I had just one more minute to use the potty.

To ensure that this was not the case on this particular race morning, I knew we (because the whole family was planning to accompany me. After all, it was Stella's 2nd birthday and what better way to celebrate than run a race while the kids run crazy at the site.) would need to leave the house absolutely no later than 7:15. My ever-imporant race routine of downing enough coffee, fueling up with Grape-Nuts, and relaxing was in full effect by 6:30am. Dressed, water bottle full of iced water, pocket full of Clif Shot Bloks, I was ready to go at 7:10. The children, however, acted like sleepy, surly teenagers who did not want to get out of bed. At 7:15, they were up, semi-happy, and loving the idea of a Stella birthday race. At 7:20, they were loaded into carseats. Out of the driveway at 7:22am.

Right on time.

I managed to get my bib and chip and last shot at potty time with little panicked rush. Very quickly I found myself huddled with all the other runners. An announcement was made that the 5kers would begin first; then the half marathoners would make their start five minutes later.



Here I am. Waiting. Waving at the children. Shortly after this moment, the half marathoners positioned themselves to start and with no further adieu, we were off.

Everyone seemed in an awful hurry. I found myself being passed. By everyone. I had a moment of preparation panic. I felt good. I felt strong. But why did all the runners seem so unbelievably speedy? Don't they know how long 13.1 miles is? What's the hurry?

So the first mile was spent in my head, feeling like a complete and utter failure. Why am I so slow? On your left. Again?! Are you $%^&ing kidding me?! I run all the time. Am I that slow? Am I last? On your left, I heard again. If I wasn't last before, I was then.

In actuality, I wasn't last at all. As a matter of fact, as I crested a hill and hit a spot of wide trail, a man behind me said, You've got a good stride. It was just the boost I needed. I am prepared. I am running well. And I am going to enjoy myself, too. And suddenly, one by one, I began to pass all the On your left people. Many of them were now walking. Some clutching their side. I wished them all well, and ran right along.

Here's Heath, chatting with a volunteer. Mark and the kids camped out at a spot on the North Trail and waited to see me. Their sweet faces at 2 miles were a thrill to see.

This is what I looked like as I flew by. A blur of speed. And I will say, at that moment, I was probably running the fastest I've ever run in my entire life. I felt great. Seeing the kids propelled me along at superhero speed. Then I made a mistake. I turned around and saw a pack of about 30 people behind me. Mark saw the same thing. His take was, Wow, she's leading the pack, that's awesome.

My thought. Oh no! Why are all those people behind me? I can't run that fast. Don't I know I have 11 miles to go? The more I thought, the more my stride wavered and broke. The pack passed me. Before I could completely take in the deflated feeling, I watched the pack break off at the 3 miles point. They were 5kers. They headed left. I headed right, confidence reassured, with the other halfers.

Having trained on the course was a huge bonus, too. I knew when the hills were coming, the straightaways to pick up some speed, the downhills to lengthen my stride, and the rockier terrain to stay sure of my footing. I sipped water when I needed it. Ate a Blok at 6 miles, again at 8, and one more at 10. At 8 miles, a sweet girl filled up my water bottle for me. At 10, I ran into a guy that my friend and I met at the Continental Divide Trail Race. At 11, I was still going strong, still feeling good. At 12, I couldn't believe I still felt like I could keep going. At 12.5, one last uphill, I wasn't sure if I could keep going, but I was. Still going.

As I headed into the finish line, I was greeted with familiar hoots and hollers and woo-hoos! Heath shouted, Hey mom, you want a Powerade?!

Yes. Yes, I did want a Powerade.

He gave me a blue one. It was the best Powerade I've ever had in my whole life.

Then a nice lady offered to take our picture. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday on your daughter's 2nd birthday. Can't wait for the next one.

2:25:ish. 11:05/mile.

Five Days

That's how many days it's been since I've posted anything. I feel compelled to do one to make sure I don't lose my momentum forever. After all, the jam-packed days of having small children pass so quickly, I'll never be able to recall them all without this handy memory-keeper. And when the children are in therapy, blaming me for everything, I want to have an accurate record of crazy-making blame.

Where do you start? Thursday afternoon with the creative writing workshop? Friday afternoon scheduling scary procedures for Stella's Radioactive Lymph Node? Staying up too late Friday night to bake a birthday cake that was slim in good looks, but big with love? My excellent half marathon trail race Saturday morning? Or our horrible trip to the ER with Stella (and the node(s) from hell) the day after her birthday? Or our ENT trip this morning to schedule more scary procedures?

They all deserve their own post, and I am certain I'll buck up and get Stella and Race Reports posted this week. For now, a little slideshow about the birthday celebration.


If you squint your eyes, and understand fully that no one around here claims to be a baker, that is a Percy the Train cake. Although the kids recognized him immediately, Heath was disturbed that he has no wheels. Oops.

Baby Stella on Baby Stella's back. Heath wanted to know if Stella is still a baby. He has contemplated the fact that She can talk, but she still has to wear a diaper.

Heath and Stella taking a morning after her birthday walk. They are carrying her new birthday prizes. A truck to call her own. And a baby jogger for her dolls. (Or a coffee can. Or loaf of bread. She isn't picky.) Heath has taken quite a shine to the jogging stroller.

Running with the new Baby Stella.

Uh-oh. Hope Baby Stella is okay.

Mudboy

Heath came up with a new superhero. Mudboy.

Mudboy slings mud at thunder, lightening, water, and sliding boards. He assured me this is all part of saving the day.

Mudboy uses mud to his climbing advantage.

Ready or not, class begins tomorrow, so I'm going with the story that I am totally and completely prepared. If anything, my nervousness has made it so my class session plans for tomorrow are so very concise that I am busy reminding myself who my audience is: 7-12 year olds. Flexibility (with a heaping helping of crowd/subject control) will come in handy.

Speaking of ready or not, my half-marathon is Saturday morning. While I was out for an unreasonably hot run late this afternoon, I started to worry that I am not. Ready, that is. I've ultimately decided this is not true. My goals: 1) Finish. 2) Have fun. 3) Don't run TOO terribly slow. 4) Eat a trough of post-run pancakes. I think I'll be just fine.

As a matter of fact, I am so ready, I could eat that pig bowl of pancakes right now.

Carolina Panthers, Plan B

Fall is my favorite time of year. Brilliant red and orange leaves adorn the tree-lined streets before falling to the ground. That first morning when you need to put on a hoodie. A break in brutal running temperatures. The calm before the long succession of birthdays and holidays and drab winter blues. Pumpkin Spice coffee.

And house flags.

We currently don't have one. Because I am currently circling the drain of a low time, the subject matter best covered in another blog, on another day. Of course, I can't blame our flagless front stoop entirely on my malaise. After all, we haven't flown one since...April? May? The pirate flag, still waiting to be hemmed, is, well, still waiting to be hemmed. And so, I am hoping for the perfect opportunity, when energy and enthusiasm and soon to be forgotten preoccupation make it so that I am able to once again think about what is hanging in front of our home, and hoping it is warm, inviting, and somehow speaks to who we are. Something that says, Yes, I would like to know those people who live in that house. Their yard leaves much to be desired, and they could probably use a new roof, but what a nice flag.

Heath is actually responsible for bringing the flags to my attention. He has somehow caught Carolina Panthers fever and spots their growling feline everywhere. Cars, the downtown stadium, billboards, telephone book ads, clothing, and yes, house flags.

Must be game day, he says, and points to college and football team flags with whole-hearted enthusiasm. His voice, deepened and wise, as if he is professing something of utmost importance. Never in my life have I said, Must be game day, so I am assuming Mark brought this phenomenon to our home.

If it is a Panther flag or car magnet or t-shirt, Heath says, There's a bobcat.

It's not a bobcat. It's a panther. And now matter how often we gently guide Heath in the direction of calling it by the correct name, he refuses. Oh, I see, it DOES look like a bobcat, doesn't it? That's a Carolina Panther. But he doesn't budge from his original animal declaration. If you ask Heath, it's a bobcat. Period.

Because we live where we live, and it's the season, and frequently game day, we see the Panther ALL DAY LONG. And ALL DAY LONG he calls it a bobcat. I correct him. He tells me, No, it's a bobcat. And I finally give up and let him call it what he wants.

We ate at Eddie's for dinner on Friday night, after a long week of school and appointments and jam-packed running schedule. On the drive there Heath said he wanted to draw a bobcat on the back of the menu. I thought it was lovely idea, and was sure that he would forget all about it once we got seated in our booth and the jukebox music would begin to drown out coherent thought.

But he didn't forget. And with a blue crayon, he drew a Panther, I mean Bobcat, complete with eyes, whiskers, and a fierce, growling mouth.

If they call themselves the Bobcats, I wonder if they could win?

Friday Night Highlights

The inevitable: It finally happened. Yesterday, the last day of our first full week of school, Heath came into my room, chipper, excited, dressed, and ready to go. Dressed in Spider-Man pants. I'd barely had any coffee, had quickly grown accustomed to his relative good mood about going to class, so my mind began to search the rolodex for reasoning and possible trickery I could use to get Heath out of the forbidden school wear and into something more appropriate without awakening the beast.

So, with maybe only a slight waver in my voice, I said, Oh Heath, we can't wear the Spider-Man pants to school. You can put them back on as soon as you get home, but they want you to be Spider-Heath. Short and sweet. I handed him some blue shorts, quite certain he was not going to buy my explanation. At all. I waited for the moans, the siren-like screams, the flailings, the end of a joyful week to come crashing down in an emotional avalanche.

But nothing happened. Well, not nothing. He took the Spider-Man pants off, put on the blue shorts, and went about his business of eating Pancakes. Done.

Fortunately for me he failed to notice the fact that Stella was wearing a Curious George t-shirt. I like to think that the adventuresome monkey falls into the category of a highbrow character of literature. George may be skating on thin ice now that he's gone commercial, though. Cat in the Hat, too. Silly PBS.

The Lady in Red: Last night, the kiddies were bathed and pajamaed, having a few moments of quiet race car time before bedtime books, while I put some clean clothes away in Stella's drawer. While it was open, she spied something she wanted. A vibrant, silky red nightgown that we got on our last trip to Charleston. She pulled it out, and with quivering arms and legs, tried to get her princess shortie pjs off as quickly as she could. Dis on, dis on, she repeated, shaking the nightgown at me.

She was thrilled with her lovely, long nightie. Heath took one look at her and said, You look like a singer in that, Stella.

I'll Have What He's Having: I learned last year that bombarding Heath with questions after I pick him up with school will have two effects: 1) We will both be driven batty. Heath, because I won't stop asking. Me, because he won't give me any answers. So this year, I have kept the question to a minimum. A simple How was your day? And I get a simple (and delightful) answer of very good. I can tell you that it does seem very good. Lots of road building with the blocks inside. New friend making seems to be taking place. Old friend re-bonding is happening. And he pretty much races from the car to class, with barely a look-back to see where I am. I couldn't be happier for Heath.

And 2) I usually wind up hearing information that I don't want to hear. I pushed so and so. So and so took my such and such. I peed on a tree outside.

But Thursday, after a week of mum being the word, I got a little nosier and began asking additional specific questions. Three questions in (and unanswered) I gave up and watched Heath stare glassily out the car window. Then suddenly, he perked up and said, I want those squirty yogurts, like so-and-so. He squeezed the imaginary Gogurt tube between his fingers. And honey on my sandwich. Not peanut butter. Pirate Booty. I need Pirate Booty. Hummus for my pita chips. Not milk. Apple Juice. And not the brown kind. The kind from Trader Joe's.

The list of what other people have in their lunch box, and how he needs to have the same thing, went on and on. I had been feeling pretty good this week with the variety of foods I had packed for someone who likes nothing and everything all at the same time. His barrage of food items, and just how wrong I'd been in preparing his lunch, made me realize two things: 1) I need to go back to the grocery store. 2) How was your day? will suffice.

Mountain Grandmama: After our six-miler on the greenway this morning, we stopped by to see Papa, HeHe, and Granny. I asked Granny how she's doing. Her answer: Oh, just old and feeble. There's an old song about that, but I done and forgot what it is.

If All Else Fails...

As we continue to delve deeper into our preschool years, Heath and Stella find themselves zealously exploring possible career choices. I know he's pretty well locked in on being Superman. Or a Construction Worker. Or a Pepsi drinker. But it's good to keep your options open.


Loading fish into a truck. Seattle's Pike Place might be a great location for some salmon tossing.

Race car driver/Baltimore Orioles fan. Both have loads of adrenaline-rush potential.

Shirtless biking.

Brother and Sister cop duo. I wonder who gets to be the good cop during interrogation?

Emily Elizabeth look-a-like. Who says you can't rely on just being cute?

Exercise Boot Camp with Big Cousin A.

Or maybe cheerleading summer camp with Big Cousin A.

Dirty Jobs. A Sibling Dog Poop Scooping Business. Stella has already found that it helps to keep a smile on your face. No matter how stinky it is.

Here's some poop, Heef.

More poop, Heef.

My great hope for them is they find something to do that they feel passionate about. You know what Confucius says about work: Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.

And if that isn't helpful, there's always Homer Simpson's advice: If you don't like your job, you just go in and do it half-assed. That's the American Way.

D'oh!

Not So Sharpie

Mark called at 5pm to let me know he was 10 minutes from the house. He also sweetly suggested I suit up and head out for a run as soon as he gets home. Delighted, I said, sure, that would be lovely. I didn't tell him I was already skirted and shoed and ready to explode out the door before he can put his little red truck in park.

Not that it was difficult day. It wasn't. At all. As a matter of fact, I had nearly nary a worry in the grand scheme of my world until I was mid-run and began pondering the fact that my Mabel's Labels (school stuff labels complete with the children's names and appropriate icons--fire trucks for Heath, trains for Stella) have not arrived in the mail. And if that isn't enough to make me feel insufficient in properly identifying Heath's plastic bowl of grapes tomorrow, the cup that I have pinned all my hopes on for discontinuing my steady (and unseemly) effort in clogging the landfill with sticky juice boxes has not made it to my front porch either.

The cups and labels are not late. The only matter of lateness is the fact that I have a bit of a bad habit with waiting until the very last second to take care of something. This is not a new problem. It's old. And I have waited until the very last second to take any real ownership of this issue. I. Am. A. Procrastinator. There. I said it. And I waited and waited and waited to place those labels and cup orders. And now, when I need them, they are not here. Surprise!

So tomorrow, on the first full day of school, which includes bringing his lunch in his trusty fire truck lunch box, Heath will not have his cutie Mabel's Labels with his full name and fire truck. Instead, he will have his name scrawled in black Sharpie ink from a pen whose tip has at some point been so miserably manhandled, beaten, and crushed to be almost, ALMOST unusable. (I wonder who in this house might be responsible for such inappropriate proprioceptive input?) But there was just enough blackened tip to write his name in my horrible chicken scratch on bowls and lids and cups that will most certainly leak.

As I finished up my run I had a slight glimmer of hope that we would have a last minute UPS or FedEx delivery to the house, but no such luck. Maybe tomorrow. There's always tomorrow.

Daily Planet

Just when I was ready to let a day go by without chronicling something about the kids or running or family or writing or something, I remembered the sheets.

Mark's sister and nephew are in town for the weekend, visiting from just outside D.C. Our nephew, interestingly enough, is a 32 year old fella with a nearly four year old girl of his own. Heath is absolutely thrilled to have his big cousin staying with us for a few days. Especially when he realized that Auntie and Cousin came to town with a downright cool surprise.

Superman sheets and pillowcase. DC Comics 1978 sheets. They are fabulously soft, yet so well-made that not only have they stood the test of time and machine washings, they are now on their third super hero obsessed little boy. Mark was actually little boy number one.

So not only is Heath thrilled with Superman sheets that have the Man of Steel flying free through the air over downtown Metropolis (apparently modeled after Toronto's skyline), but they used to be on Daddy's bed when he was a little boy. He actually spent the better part of the early morning hanging out on his bed, chatting with his sheets. It took minor cajoling to get Heath off his Clark Kent alter-ego bedding and into the baby jogger. When he discovered cousin would be joining us for the run, he zoomed! off his bed like a bird, a plane, a Super Boy!

Lovely run, too. Cousin did not have his running shoes, but he bucked up and ran the 4 miles in Mark's too small trainers. He was also wearing his Cool "Disco" Dan shirt and Mark's running shorts. And Mark was properly geared up in H&S's preschool t-shirt. Quite a running duo.

And quite a weekend. Where on earth did it go?

Speaking of Pumpkin Bombs...

Mark chuckled last night when I set my alarm for 7:15am. I had plans to meet a new group of trail running ladies at the Whitewater Center. I did not want to be late. Or at least, not really late.

We'll be up by then, he said with a smirk.

When my alarm went off, at 7:15am, I was stunned, searching my mush brain, desperate to remember why my alarm was going off? What day is it? Where am I supposed to be? What time do I need to be there? Where am I? Where are my children? Where's my coffee? (The coffee thought may have been before the kids, truthfully.)

I figured if I was up by 7:15, I'd have plenty of time to casually drink some coffee (and not have to spill it all over myself, my running clothes, and my car), eat some cereal, leave by 8:10, and be there by 8:30, ready to meet with some new friends and do a much-anticipated long run in preparation for the half marathon in 14 days.

At 8:20, I was backing out of my driveway, willing myself to focus on thoughts other than, I'm late. I'm always, always late.

I'll admit it. Despite my old lady, hands at ten and two, elbows up and out, highway driving, I really enjoy the 485 ride to Moore's Chapel Road. Sunday mornings are best. 106.5 has Resurrection Sunday. From 8am-Noon they play the roots of modern rock. Mostly they seem to think this includes Elvis Costello's Veronica and Big Country's In a Big Country. Good songs, for sure, but if you time it just right you might luck out with Communard's Disenchanted or XTC's Dear God.

Today wasn't Sunday, but it was still a good, clear, minimal traffic, sunroof open, 68 degree drive on 485. My thoughts about tossing pumpkin bombs, and on whom I would throw them (my list was long. A head-clearing, long run was most definitely in order.), morphed into additional thought about super powers, and if I could have some, what would they be. This train of thought isn't all for naught. I will be leading a creative writing workshop in just under two weeks. The theme: Superheroes. I'm not sure who is more fortunate: me, because I have a cape-flying, web slinging, city-saving, Gotham-living, Batman Jeep-driving, bad guy-bamming preschooler? Or Heath, because I am now boning up on all things super powered, so our banter regarding the subject is deepening by the day.

At 8:30am, still not at the Whitewater Center, it occurs to me that I have no idea where I am meeting these gals for our trail run. How nice would it be to blink my eyes and transport myself to the place I'm supposed to be, no one the wiser that I am late and unsure about our meeting spot?

Car parked, pocket full of Gu (yucky vanilla orange, caffeine-loaded Gu, because I STILL haven't made it out to pick up something more likable), a hand-held bottle loaded with iced water, and very, very happy to be moments away from running like a maniac through the quiet woods, certain I have missed the meet-up group, I was spotted from a distant by a friend. Apparently, my pink running skirt was a dead giveaway.

For the first hour, I enjoyed the company, the lower temperatures, and working my way into a steady groove. The second hour, I ran solo, feeling relaxed and balanced about my upcoming race. As a matter of fact, I felt steady, relaxed and balanced about everything. Stella is on the lymph node mend, thanks to an albeit hesitant visit to a specialist, a necessary one. Despite my inattention to her nearing birthday #2, it will come, and it will be celebrated with appropriate pomp and circumstance. And the list of much-needed assurances went on.

Besides, if my confidence begins to falter, I can just zoom! in a circle, zap! into my running skirt and running shoes, zip! into the woods, bam! faster than a speeding negative thought, and save the day (and my sanity).

That's All, Folks!

The week. Short in days. Long in transitions.

Movie. Ice cream. Long trail run in the morning.

You know, I think that's all I've got.

Who Gets to be Batman?

Wearing brother's Thomas and Percy swim trunks. Eating a leaf. Covered in post-dinner popsicle. Nothing to complain about here.

On second thought, there's always room for some crying.

So far we have yet to have a morning discussion/disagreement about wearing (make that, not wearing) any commercial superhero clothing. Aside from spilling coffee all over myself, the last three mornings have gone smoothly and we have arrived at preschool on time, and even chipper, in spite of my on-the-way-out-the-door-hot-caffeine-spillage. It landed all over my favorite Boston t-shirt. Heath said, Oh no! And you really wanted to wear that, too. I did really want to wear it.

I was not going to be defeated and cry over French Roast splashings. So I quickly changed my shirt, and we moved right along.

While Heath has not mentioned the fact that Spider-Man clothing is off limits during school hours, I'm guessing it hasn't gone completely unnoticed. Shortly after lunch today, I found Heath and Stella in his room, playing dress-up. Heath was covered head to toe, layer upon layer of Spider-Man, Batman, Incredible Hulk underwear, pants, shirts, pajamas, swim suit, and a final touch of a Spider-Man remnant fleece from HeHe. What Heath wasn't able to get on his person, Stella got on hers. She topped her look off with some Batman underpants on her head and a Thomas the Train swim suit on her bottom. He informed me that he is Spider-Man, Stella is Incredible Hulk, I am Superman (I better be), and Mark is Iron Man. Then the two zoomed through the house, shooting webs out of their wrists (even the She-Hulk is a web slinger), and generally saving the day.

I don't know. Now that I think about it, being the Green Goblin could be cool, too. Throwing Pumpkin Bombs might come in handy from time to time.

Project New Road Building

Day two of school. No one wanted to leave. As a matter of fact, our school day was extended by an hour. Heath, Stella, and a few friends joined in to build a new road around the preschool playground.

Standing by a cone and directing traffic isn't as easy as it looks.

Round and round and round she goes, where she'll stop?...Wherever Heath directs her.

Must've been an early morning job. This one couldn't even take the time to get her bird's nest combed out of the back of her head. (But she does work hard.)

Digging a trench for the new road. I'm just sorry I stopped taking pictures before he stripped his shirt off, announcing, Phew. It's hot and I'm working hard.

Project Manager.

Here she comes again. More truck. More dirt.

That's one way to get your truck through. Just move the cone.

First Day...Phew.

Heath and Stella were more than happy to let me carry the bags I made them, so my dreams of taking pictures of their sweet faces, wearing their beloved backpacks handmade by mommy, standing by the school sign was quickly dashed. I did remember my camera, I just forgot to get it out while I dropped Heath off in his class. I told him I was leaving to take Stella to her room, without looking up from the puzzle he had immediately immersed himself in, he inquired, But I get to stay here, right?

Stella was more than hesitant about walking into her class. I think if it had been her choice, she would've been happy to stay and hang out in the 4's with brother. So I picked her up and walked across the 2's classroom threshold. She gave my hair a hearty yank. Clearly, she was displeased.

Just as quickly she toddled off to a basket full of cars and hunkered down to play. I told her I would be back in an hour. Gave her a peck on the head. Told her I loved her. Nothing. Vroom, vroom, went the car across the carpet. I looked back at her before I left the room. Still, nothing. (Sniff, sniff.)

Just as I was settling in nicely to a little child-free parent coffee at the school with the other moms and dads, I was summoned back to the 2's class. Stella needed some extra kisses and cuddles and some mommy-classroom-acclimation time. We talked to some of the other children. We played with some plastic piggies. We read Mr. Brown Can Moo! Can You? When it was time to get Heath, Stella was busy with the puzzles and not interested in leaving. I think with some more practice, she'll get into this whole school thing. Or I will be repeating the 2's class for the third time in my life.


Puzzler.

Puzzled.

Puzzling Heath.

When we made our way back to Heath's class to pick him up, Stella immediately ran to Heath and waved at her big brother. Hi, Heef, she said. Hi, Stella, Heath answered. And then they gave each other a very warm embrace.

Now, where, oh where, was my camera for that?

Day Three of Three (And a Tale for Goma)

Good thing he was wearing that bike helmet. She's little, but she packs quite a punch, especially with a popsicle fist.

According to Heath we have a kitty cat living under our tool shed. He is orange. He bites, unless you pet him on the back just right. He meows. He goes by the name DogChuck. And he has runned away.

Various thoughts about his whereabouts were expressed throughout the day. DogChuck went to the neighbor's house. DogChuck was hungry and was looking for acorns to share with the squirrels. DogChuck got hit by lightening and got dead. (I found this one particularly eerie.) I suggested to Heath that we could make signs to hang on telephone poles to let everyone know that DogChuck is missing and to call us if they see him. (Of course, there's no cat so we wouldn't really hang the signs. I just get excited when Heath takes an interest in craft time.) And Heath did express that this was a great idea, and perfect use for his favorite orange crayon.

When the time came to actually sit down and sketch the Cat Missing signage, Heath had moved on to other things of greater interest, declaring, I'm too busy--I've got work to do downtown in the mulch at the corporation. I think DogChuck is living at Goma's anyway.

Fast forward a few hours. While Mark was in the kitchen, dipping insanely large mugs of nighty-night ice cream, he spotted a kitty cat crossing our deck, heading down into the backyard. Mark didn't check to see if he bites, or likes to be petted on his back just so. And he didn't call out his name to see if he answers to DogChuck. But he did say he is orange.

I guess it's safe to say DogChuck is back from his Goma visit and ready to bed down for the night, under our tool shed. Heath will be delighted with the news in the morning. If he isn't too busy getting ready for a full day of downtown mulching at the corporation.

Day Two of Three

A three day weekend will make you wonder how on earth one functions with just two. I will say our choices in Redbox movies have been dismal. Friday night we got The Invention of Lying. I was bored, annoyed, and asleep within 45 minutes of the movie's start. Last night was something about Pippa Lee; I can't remember the exact title. I guess this one was slightly better than the night before, because I made it an hour, then next thing I knew it was 2am, the TV was still on, and I had no idea what had happened.

After a 6 mile run on the greenway this morning, picking out a watermelon at Trader Joe's, being disappointed because Run For Your Life is closed on Sunday and I wasn't able to get any Clif Shot Bloks, disappointed and slightly pissed to find that I had ordered a 4x6 picture of Heath for his school cubby and was to be picked up at Rea Road location and there are three Rea Road locations and I was not at the right Rea Road location, Mark suggested he take the kids to see his mom while I got crackin' on those school bags. Crack, I did.


Stella's lovely number.

Heath's. He took one look at it and shouted, I'm ready to go to school!

When I finally got them in bed, and out of the bags, I was able to make some drawstring (ribbon, actually) adjustments. Hopefully it won't be hanging so insanely long.

Mr. Transportation. Ready for work! I mean school!

Too busy to stop and take a picture that isn't blurry. She's thrilled with her bag that is as long as her body.

I even managed to line them with a couple of old pillowcases from Granny's house. The lining seems to give them the extra durability that I am quite certain these bags will need. Of course, they could still very well be completely destroyed by the end of the week.

So glad they're finished. Did I have to make these backpacks? No. Could they survive with some old Harris-Teeter reusable bags? Yes. Do I realize that it's only preschool? Yes. But Heath and Stella are only almost 2 and almost 4 once in their little, flying-fast lives. And I made 'em some bags.

Day One of Three

While eating breakfast, Mark casually suggested I suit up and head to the Whitewater Center for a long run. Feeling ever-so-guilty, I ran like a bat from the kitchen table, nearly choking on my Crispie Rice cereal, tripping over myself to get dressed and out of there before he could change my mind.

I have to say, I WILL run in 100 degree weather, but 75 felt unbelievably refreshing. Thanks to the map of the trails I purchased a visit or two ago, I showed up with a planned route. I started with Figure 8, headed onto North Trail, through Carpet Trail, into South Trail, looped Goat Hill (without stopping to walk), back onto the Main Trail, circled the Toilet Bowl, back onto the Main Trail to the parking lot. Nearly 9 miles I ran. Everytime I got daydreamy, I refocused. If there was a flat, or pretty darn close to flat, straight-away, I intentionally picked up the speed. I will be very ready for the half in the three weeks.

Surprises of all surprises, when I came home I found that the giant (and I do mean GIANT) mound of mulch had a sizable and impressive dent made in it by an equally impressive crew. Apparently Mark and Heath moved wheelbarrow full after wheelbarrow full of mulch to a variety of natural areas in our yard. Stella's face was filthy as though she'd been eating the mulch, which isn't entirely out of the realm of possible. Heath immediately said he was hungry and wanted to have a picnic in the backyard, so I made sandwiches for the hungry workers, and we ate lunch on the deck overlooking our groomed lawn.

To top off the Saturday of our three day weekend, Papa and HeHe took Heath and Stella out for Chick-Fil-A dinner and playtime, while Mark and I enjoyed a little date night. Sushi. Redbox movie selecting. Ice cream half gallon purchasing (and now consuming) Nice.

Mark even said something this morning about my going to the Whitewater Center for some trail running on Monday, too. What?!?!?! Happy Labor Day to me. Unless, of course, he "forgot" that little offer. We'll see.

Three Days

The day began with Heath immediately jabbering on and on about the three day weekend, Mark being home for a three day weekend, and the PBS The Cat in the Hat show starting on the last morning of the three day weekend. We've obsessively read the book for a week now. He is excited.

We also attended a little Open House session for Heath's class. Because I will probably fail to take pictures on their official first day--like I've failed to take pictures on all the other first days Heath has had--I managed to make a last minute grab for the camera. I took two shots. They are horribly blurry. Perhaps I can find some time during this three day weekend to figure out what exactly I need to do to take a decent indoor shot. Before I go insane from Vivitar fury.


Heath and Stella rolling cars and trucks around the 4's class. We took a moment and stopped by the 2's class as well. Stella has a cubby and box with her name on it. She was thrilled. But even more thrilling for her was spotting the large wooden dump trucks available for play. They have two. Good thinking.

And because I'm too tired, and too interested in ice cream, and too getting ready to watch a movie, I will not even attempt a decent segue and will go straight into the post-dinner snake story. I was putting away the dishes, and Mark was playing with the kids in the backyard, when I suddenly hear, Come look at this!

I came to look at this. The snake. A baby compared to a few that have been spotted round these parts this summer, but a slithery snake nonetheless. He wasn't originally on our deck. Mark found him in our giant pile of mulch. (Have I told the tale about the mulch? We have a giant pile of it in our driveway. It WILL make its way to the needy parts of our yard. It will. It will.) His tail was pinched between Mark's thumb and forefinger, and the kids were screaming, Snake! Snake! Then the wriggling commenced to get wild, and down he went, to the deck, then down through the wooden slats, down to the backyard again. Back to the mulch.

I'm sure we will see him again, when we are wheelbarrowing the mulch from the driveway to the yard. In a month or two. He'll be much bigger by then. I'll be sure to post another picture.