Sufferin' Succotash

While the kids ate their breakfast waffles--well, Stella did most of the eating--and sticking her plate and syrup-laden waffle bites on her hair--I casually suggested that we go get Heath's haircut this morning. I fully expected him to say no, and another day would pass by, closer to Heath beginning his school year wearing a hair barrette to get it out of his eyes. But he surprised me with an eager and enthusiastic yes.

Silly me expected a quiet (other than the volume from my two noise-makers), no-wait visit to one of the local kid's salons. Surely no one is getting a haircut on a Tuesday morning, not to mention the fact that public school is back in session. The beloved Jeep should be ready to hop on, watch a little movie, get a trim, hop off, and done. I was wrong.

Very wrong. Apparently every 18 month old in Charlotte needed to get their hair trimmed. Many of them for the first time. Many of them really not wanting to have some stranger invading their personal space with a sharp knife-looking thingy. It was loud. There was going to be a wait. And there was no way I was turning back on taking care of this errand.

Fortunately for us, we were able to squeeze into a small space and wait on the unoccupied red motorcycle. Babies getting their haircut can't sit on the motorcycle--apparently they don't have the neck and back control to lean into the ride. So Heath sat on the bike and watched, A Bug's Life, and patiently waited his turn.

Stella, on the other hand, busied herself with removing hair bows from their display area and puzzles that were out for purchase only. I kept staring at her hair that has a certain business in the front, party in the back quality to it and wondered if I should take the plunge and have them shape her up, too. But I didn't have my camera, and it seemed impulsive (not that I'm by any means beyond impulsiveness), so I decided to wait.

When it was Heath's turn, he was a good sport about not getting to sit in the Jeep. He'd actually grown quite fond of his red motorcycle, so he stayed put and let the lady get to snipping. As soon as she started, the movie went off, and Looney Tunes came on.

I grew up on Looney Tunes and have very concrete, fond memories of watching their antics on Saturday morning. I was a huge Bugs Bunny fan, and Foghorn Leghorn's good ole boy accent delighted me to the core. I'm pretty sure most of their capers went right over my head, but I have a clear picture of being little and cackling at the physical comedy.

The episode being shown to all the toddlers and lone preschooler today showcased Sylvester the Cat and Tweety Bird. Sylvester the Cat was trying to catch Tweety Bird. (Imagine that.) In an effort to eat the tasty canary, the cat stopped at nothing. He painted his finger yellow, gave it sweet little eyes, and pranced his digit about in hopes of enticing the bird to come close to a female mate. Confusion set in, Sylvester attempts to take a chomp out of Tweety. Uh-oh! It's his own finger. Blood everywhere.

If that's not enough, there's dynamite. Baseball bat head beatings. Limb cutting, exposing kitty cat skeleton. As Heath has his hair trimmed, I watch him take every piece of crazy, unrealistic, fantastical, VIOLENT, bloody, totally non-friendly tidbits and commit them to memory. He has no idea that the lady is cutting his hair. He doesn't hear us when we tell him she's finished and it's time to go. I ask him to say thank you, and he's glued, GLUED to the TV screen. I offer a lollipop. Nothing. He's gone.

I pay for the cut, shuffle us out, and wonder if I should go back to a place that actually finds Looney Tunes an appropriate show for their clientele. But I remember, I watched all those episodes when I was Heath's age, maybe even younger. Plus, the lady did a nice job on Heath's hair.

Guess I'll just have to hide our dynamite until he's forgotten all about the wacky feline/bird shenanigans he absorbed while getting his hair out of his eyes. But I am considering giving Heath a baseball bat and my Vivitar camera, and let the bludgeoning commence. (Post-cut pix are a blurry mess.)

Continental Divide Trail 10K

I'm finally getting around to detailing my Saturday trail race experience. I've been speculating as to why I'm so resistant, and my best explanation that I can come up with is the words will never do it justice. Challenging comes to mind. Grueling covers the tale. Paradoxically, beautiful works as a description. Exhilarating, provocative, taxing, stimulating. They are all worthy of using, but still smack of understatement. It's reminiscent of my trip to the Grand Canyon. I was somewhat doubtful that this natural wonder of the world was going to be that spectacular. But it was. I don't dare describe it, though. And I assure you, every picture I took didn't capture the magnificence. It was breathtaking, and dare I say, tear-worthy. Of course, I was 16 and on a high school trip, so you better believe I stuffed back the tears. Who wants to be the chick who cried at the big hole in Arizona?

Or maybe it's been difficult to blog about because I've been unsure about where to begin my tale. Do I start the morning before the race when I walked into Stella's room and found her standing in her crib with a nearly-golfball sized lump under her neck? Do I tell about googling Mumps and finding that it looked a heckuva lot like her face? Do I write about taking her to the doctor and having her tell me that I wasn't so off track with my mumps thought, but it isn't mumps, just a virus that looks like mumps?

Or do I start with going back home from the doctor's office and regoogling mumps and clicking my way into the downward spiral of diagnosis hell to the point that I was convinced that Stella had something unspeakable? Or that I had to be talked off the ledge of not going to the race, because I didn't need to stay home and stare at Stella and wait...for...I don't know what? Not to mention the fact that she is in good hands with Mark, I'll be gone for 24 hours, and I've been looking forward and preparing for this race for quite some time?

Instead, I will start with arriving with my trail pal in Laurel Springs, NC at 6:30pm, just in time to make it to the pre-race pasta dinner. The pre-race pasta dinner at the Laurel Ridge Moravian Camp was similar to walking into the 7th grade dance, friendless, wearing an ill-fitting dress that your mom made for you, everyone else seems to know everyone else, and you're too frightened to talk to the boys. Only this time, you're a grown woman walking in with a friend, wearing your kid's preschool t-shirt, a skirt you made yourself, everyone is wearing a t-shirt from the last trail race marathon championship, and it would seem they all know each other, are best friends, and are, of course, wondering why the heck you are there. Oh, and it's a trail race, not a school dance.

I loaded up my plate with some whole wheat pasta and marinara sauce, and picked a table that had one person sitting at it--a 9 year old. I figured I would at least know how to talk to her. She immediately asked me if I was a lead runner, and would I be "placing" tomorrow? I stuffed my face with pasta and tried not to resent the child.

Here we are at the Pasta dinner. Kay looks well. Beneath my cheezin' grin, I detect a hint of fear on my face.

I don't remember sleeping that night. I know I did, because my alarm went off at 7am. I nervously gobbled my Grape-Nuts, drank too much coffee, and we headed out into the chilly fog to see the men begin their race at 9am. Ladies at 10:15.

At this point I should mention that my nerves, too much coffee, and a heavy blanket of fog made for a shaky 2 mile drive from my mom and dad's cabin to the race site. Just as I rounded the corner to head up to the race parking area, I nearly took out a star runner who was busy doing a half marathon warm-up. (We eventually had a moment to chat with her. Sweet lady. She also placed 4th. Glad I didn't run her over.)

We saw the men begin their race, and begin some warm-up laps around the camp area. The fog lifted, the chill melted, the sun emerged, and the sweat began to bead. I drank water. Jogged about the campground. Visited the potty. Repeat. Over and over and over and over.

Most men were through by 10am. I was feeling relatively well, excited, warm, but not too warm. Very ready to get started. And then I saw it. A guy being carried out of the woods by two volunteers. He was sopping with sweat and the water that the volunteers dumped on him. He was between consciousness, and not. Any shred of confidence I had was kicked right out of me, and suddenly, I was panicked. I'm not ready. I'm too warm. I'm not hydrated. I started to obsess over whether or not to take my water bottle. I obsessed over whether I should eat my Gu. (I decided yes to both. Good idea, too. I needed them.)

Ladies gathered at the start. A guy said some things that I couldn't hear and I was pretty sure it was important information about the course and the orange flags and not getting lost. The gun blasted. Yes! This one had a gun! And we were off.

It began as a breezy through the fields and down a rooty hill and up a rooty hill and up another field-hill, then back into the woods.

Then we were on some tight-squeeze of a trail. Rock on one side. Down a steep mountain on the other. It was sloppy wet. As a woman in front of me said, just as I slipped in the sludge at this spot, It's rained a lot this summer. Apparently.

We ran and hopped down the mossy, slippery rocks. The rocks that I have dreaded since I first laid eyes on this picture when I originally registered for the race. Then we were down the rocks. Phew. Then heading back up the mountain, into the clear fields again. Halfway through.

For some time, I'd been running with two women in front of me, and two behind. Suddenly, the two in front have found a different (read: faster) rhythm, and I have boosted ahead of the two behind me. Suddenly, I am alone.

And running alone for me is not such a problem. As a matter of fact, I love it. Only there IS one problem, when I'm running alone, I get to thinking. About stuff. This, that, and the other. And then being "in a race" seems to escape the forefront of my mind. I'm enjoying myself. The scenery. The smells. The sounds of babbling brooks. Around this time, I spot my trail pal. At that point I realize that she is insanely further along the course than I am. I wave wildly, remember that I'm supposed to be running faster, pick up the pace, especially on the grassy downhill, then I'm back into the woods again. Still alone. And I'm noticing that the orange course markers really are sparse, and I'm wracking my brain for what that guy said at the beginning of the race, wishing I'd heard what he said or asked someone to repeat the information.

But I just ran along, hoping I was heading in the right direction, very doubtful at times. Then a course volunteer would appear out of nowhere to say, go left, go straight, great job, keep going.

So I did. Next thing I knew, I was heading onto Apple Orchard Trail, the path Kay and I had walked the night before. Familiar terrain. Easy downhill. Gotta be close to 5 miles. Feeling great. Elated. Still have more in me. I pick up the pace.

I notice a slight shift in incline. Oh no! We're heading back up again. Remember the rocks? The dreaded mossy, slipping and sliding rocks that I made it down. Well, it's time. Time to go back UP. They want us, expect us, DEMAND that we climb back up these rocks. I am nearly out of steam. I thought about one of Heath and Stella's favorite books, We're Going on a Bear Hunt.

Rocks. Slippery, slimy rocks. You can't go over them. You can't go under them. You're going to have to climb those suckers no matter how much your body is ready to stop now.

There was no "running" up those rocks--if anyone did run them, my hat is totally off to you. I used my entire body. At the top, a cameraman was perched, clicking away. Oh, good, I remember saying aloud. He laughed. I can only hope the shots he got were "decent," after all, I was scaling rock in a skirt.

I am met at the top by another cameraman, my trail pal. She is grinning, she is cheering, she is finished. (She placed 10th overall. I've mentioned her speediness, have I not?) I know I am so, so, so close to the end. Seeing Kay, being moments from the finish, I start to cry a little, completely overcome with emotion. But that's weird. I can't be the girl who cries when she's almost finished with a race. So I try to stuff it, which only makes it worse.

I pick back up running, hyperventilating as I am trying desperately to not cry. I stop a second. Think about Stella and how she says, I did it! when she accomplishes something like buckling her own car seat or clicking two Legos together. Last deep breath taken, I leap across the finish.

I did it! The Continental Divide Trail 10K, conquered. And I'll never be able to explain how much I loved this race and why. Turns out, I am that girl who cries when I finish running.

Oh well, I also enjoyed the fact that I got a bit muddy. Hopefully that balances my universe, which is very, very good.

Fashion Week

Consignment finds. Fleece jacket with cement mixers and dump trucks. For Heath. Modeled by Stella. And The Little Red Caboose.

You can't hear me now, but I'm whistling The Andy Griffith Show theme.

A warm, late-summer day. A boy and his sister, wearing impossibly small fleece Christmas footie pajamas. I keep hiding them; they keep finding them.

Same boy. Same pajamas. Volvo V70. A mountain cliff. A sister, familar with the drill, getting the heck out of the way.

Same boy. Tractor pants. And princess socks.

Fear of Being Eaten Alive By a Bear Takes a Backseat

Turns out that this little race that I'm running on Saturday, the one that I stumbled across on a web site during a late night of insomnia a couple of months ago, is worthy of mention in The Wall Street Journal. The August 17, 2010 article is entitled, Making Marathons Even Tougher. The gist is trail running is really (insert expletive here) hard. It also mentions that it is easier on the joints, and the race culture is kinder as well. I can certainly attest to all three assertions.

I've been notably nervous about this race, then my trail pal enjoyed an afternoon of sending me links to women who will be running on Saturday. These women, and their abs, calves, and nerves of steel, run twice the length of a 10k in the same amount of time it takes me to finish my 6.2. As the WJS article reads, A runner who covers 10 flat kilometers (6.2 miles) in 45 minutes would likely need an hour or more to finish the Continental Divide 10-kilometer trail race on Aug. 28 in Laurel Springs, N.C. (There goes another expletive.)

No worries, though. We get a tech tee, a water bottle, some stickers, a gorgeous spot to run in, and a chance to watch the USATF National Trail Champions race to the finish. Not that I will be anywhere near the winners. Apparently they will have finished, collected their medals and cash prizes, wolfed down a couple of bagels, showered, and headed back home by the time I'm done.

The matter of real importance--which running skirt should I wear?

http://online.wsj.com/article_email/SB10001424052748703960004575427561884547420-lMyQjAxMTAwMDEwODExNDgyWj.html

Bright Ideas

Roughly three or four weeks ago, in the middle of steamy-sweat-bath of a run, feeling airy, light, elated, excited, unburdened, and all those feelings I live to run for, I came up with a plan. I was going to make the kids little drawstring school bags. Something big enough for a lunch box, extra clothes, take-home art work for the refrigerator. I mentally concocted a simple pattern, that even someone like me couldn't louse up. I imagined what type of material each kiddie would enjoy. Transportation (more specifically construction) for Heath, and something with trains, or possibly animal-related for Stella.

In a post-run high, I dizzily wandered around Hancock, our local fabric store, in sweat-chilled running garb, searching for the perfect school bag fabric. I found blue construction zone cloth, loaded with dump trucks and diggers and school buses and taxis. I came up empty-handed with my train idea, but settled on a lovely brown and pink and green butterfly Hug a Tree number for Stella.

How are the bags going? Oh, swell, I tell you. The fabric is sitting in the Hancock bag, folded in their neat little untouched squares. My easy pattern? A heat exhaustion-induced hallucination. I have no idea where to begin.

How many weeks until preschool begins? Two? I think I can get them made. If not, the kids can carry their loot in the same Harris Teeter bags Heath used last year.

Moving Right Along

Not only did we manage to plow our way through the assortment of 5-blade, not-off brand, sleek and would have to do some serious man-handling to get a nick razors that were gifted to us by our Super Coupon Man friend, we have emptied our first batch of Old Spice Man Soap. With 3 more bottles of varying brands to go, I decided to switch it up a bit and delve into the world of Dove.

Dove Men + Care. Clean Comfort. Body and Face Wash. The grey packaging is certainly more subtle than the former red, white, and holy moly! blue of the Old Spice. The scent is more subtle as well. Less burly mountain man heading to the Saturday night church dance; more BofA VP showered up and heading off to work on a Monday morning.

Not only are we cruising on through the freely acquired personal hygiene products, the days of summer are dwindling down to the last. I feel the need to run in the warmth as much as possible before the nip in the air comes blowing through.

Mountain Daytrippin'

It's Scruffy, the mountain dog!

The road to the Continental Divide Trail race site.

Heath, Stella, and Scruffy the dog.

We made our way to the moutains today for a little pre-race prep daytrip. The race site is a surprising one driveway away from Papa and HeHe's cabin, so a friend and I are headed up there on Friday afternoon. We will be running the Continental Divide Trail Race 10k next Saturday morning. I would ramble on about the challenge of this particular race (running up a mountain on a trail, across rock, roots and craggy terrain galore) and the phenomenal people who will be running it, and how it scares the daylights out of me, but Mark made it to Redbox this evening and found Ben Stiller's Greenberg, so I will have to catalog my nervousness another night.

While my parent's humble mountain abode boasts no running water (that includes a potty, folks), or air conditioner, and may or may not have some loose bear and wildcats roaming about, it does offer an incredibly close proximity to the race, a couple of beds, a door that will keep the bears away, and a whole lot of fans. In an effort to make up for the lack of creature comforts for me and my trail pal, I figured I could at least provide fresh sheets, well-stocked paper products, a clear idea of where we are and where we are going, and very tidy race headquarters.

So we loaded up water jugs and the kids and made our way to Laurel Springs. Heath was particularly excited to see Sam and Scruffy, our beloved mountain dogs. Sure enough, as we plodded our way to Laurel Creek guess who came a callin'? Scruffy! The kids were thrilled. But Heath immediately asked Scruffy if Sam would show up. I don't think Scruffy gave him an answer. But Sam never showed up. I tried to put a positive spin on Sam's no-show. He's napping. He's eating lunch. Maybe he's visiting his Papa. But I know the shelf-life of a mountain dog ranges from 25 years to never made it across Highway 18.

Heath settled on the nap answer to Sam's absence. Must've been because he was tired from the good hike. Yet, surprisingly, no naps were taken on the LONG WAY HOME. I am relieved that we have no "with children" road trips in our near future. In terms of backseat whining, my rope has ended. Just a mommy trip to run over a river and through the woods and up a mountain and over some boulders.

I have two hopes for this race: 1) I don't get trampled by the professionals on the trail. 2) I don't get eaten by a bear.

Food for Thought

Why is Humpty Dumpty an egg? Heath wondered aloud as we read through some Mother Goose tales this evening.

Heath's theory on Dinosaur extinction. The big space rock hit the earth, and the crash was boom-big, and it had fires, and no fire fighters, so the big crash tore all the skin off the dinosaurs, and their bones sunk into the ground. Then the scientists came with magnifying glasses and shovels and put the bones in the back of their trucks.

Bring me back some dinosaur bones. Heath's request as I headed out the door to meet a friend to run some trails.

We're almost brothers, Heath said to Stella, wrapping an arm around her neck, then insisted I get the camera to take their picture.

Heath's teacher came for our pre-school preschool home visit. She asked him if he was looking forward to coming back to school in a couple of weeks. His response: After I turn 4, then I turn 5, and then I have to go to work at the job site downtown.

Hello mommy, hello dad, I'm your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb. Heath singing The Runaways 1976 hit, Cherry Bomb, on the way upstairs to take his bath.

November 27, 1972, Season 4, Episode 406

At 8:15 I woke up in a panic because I thought we were late for something, but very quickly I remembered that this particular Friday we had nothing planned. No playdate. No swim lesson. No running date. (At least not with the children. That was to come this evening. Another trail adventure for the moms.) In that particular moment, after a week of driving to and fro' SC, and having places to be at particular times, I felt very relieved.

Heath was up a minute later, before I could even get my first cup of coffee poured. He immediately expressed interest in watching a movie. The outside world looked gloomy, not very enticing for a morning at the pool, so I agreed. A movie was a great idea.

From the stacks of DVDs, he somehow unearthed Sesame Street Old School, Volume 1, 1969-1974. I forgot we even owned the collection. He was holding Disc 3. I had a vague sense of worry and concern, after all the label on the disc is very specific that these episodes are no longer within the confines of what is suitable for children. Strangers take children into apartments to give them candy. Oscar is pretty much a complete jackass with his contemptuous, irreverent characterization. Snuffaluffagus is still invisible, and no one believes poor Big Bird when he tells them about his languid, furry friend.

But we watched it anyway. I figured if questions about taking candy from strangers came up, I would answer them. And frankly, as we began Episode 406 from November 27, 1972, I was thrilled to find no Elmo. No lame excuse for a hip-hop attempt at a theme song. Just a leisurely, tambourine-laden little ditty about sunny days sweeping the clouds away. Then right into the alphabet. Every letter matched with a character. Big Bird's head was significantly smaller. Oscar was less green. And Roosevelt, smooth, velvet-voiced Roosevelt, is no longer with us.

Slowly, but surely, they rolled through various skits regarding our beloved alphabet. Just as I was beginning to ponder my on-going thought that children's television today is too loud, too revved up, and too quickly animated, Heath and Stella began to roll around on the bed, grabbing each other's puppy and blanket, jumping and shrieking and squawking. Old School was turned off and mommy and daddy's bed was off limits. We retreated to the kitchen for French Toast and continued our Friday of mayhem until I couldn't take it anymore, tossed the kids in the car and sped off to get some fresh air, smoothies, and Gu.

Fridays. Just when I'm pooped, I need a plan for the kids more than ever. Lesson learned. Until next time.

Our Time in Charleston Soundtrack (Complete w/Pix)

Okay. There isn't any music, but I can't stand the thought of another day going by without highlighting a few of the many wonderful reasons our trip to Charleston was (albeit whirlwindish) so incredibly exciting. Pictures are courtesy of my Vivitar. The same Vivitar I half-hoped would "accidentally" get chucked in the Cooper River and we would HAVE to get a new one. It pains me to say I spent an unspeakable amount of time in Chaz trying to take a picture that wasn't blurry. Fortunately, a few shots did pass the bill.

So, here's to Charleston and why it is a great, great place to visit.

Because you can take an evening stroll on the cobblestone streets in a groovy red wagon.

Because you can pick your own teeth with a Pirate sWord.

Because you can borrow a Happy Meal Spider-Man and bang it on a cannonball.

Because this loveliness is in your front yard.

Because your front yard also has a cannon to climb on.

Because the Hobbit Hole is your front door.

Because you can take a trolley to the Children's Museum of the Lowcountry.

Because the Children's Museum of the Lowcountry has an impressive fine arts area.

Because the Children's Museum of the Lowcountry lets you paint on a giant train. Or your person. Either one. It's your choice.

Because that same museum has a water table to rivel all other water tables. Bridges galore. Floods happen. And you get to wear cool smocks.

Because you can dress up like a pirate, then do a little grocery shopping.

Because they let anyone drive a Pirate Ship. ANYONE.

Because Auntie Wendy gets a-hold of you and does things like this to your hair.

Because your one true love lives there.

Because, let's face it, when these two get together, it's straight-up crazy times.

If I Had a Title...Oh Wait...

That was yesterday. I keep asking myself why the heck I insist on doing this, but I keep doing it anyway. It's 10:55 (it was 10:51 and I wrote a bunch of lines then hit my elbow on a key and it deleted everything, so here we are), it's 10:55 and my evening was swallowed whole by the fact that the kids didn't get to bed until after 9, then I dared to re-crack the seal on the envelope that's been sitting on the kitchen counter. It's been taunting me for weeks; I just couldn't take the mean looks and sneers anymore.

It contains all the information that is due to the preschool for both Heath and Stella. It's essentially a dissertation on their habits, temperaments, bedtime rituals, favorite books, etc. This is the third year I've filled these papers out for Heath. I'm tempted to write, Ditto from the last two years, only more of the same. And for Stella, See Heath Ropko (and picture all of that in a shorter, blonder, female package.)

Mark joined me at the kitchen table to help, and fill out the portion that refers to Parent B. (I am Parent A.) We both get to answer the same questions. What's your favorite thing about your child? What favorite activities do you do together? What makes you want to wring their neck? What do you actually do instead of literally wringing their neck? Was I grateful for the help and enthusiasm? For a minute or two. Then I got micro-manage-ey with his spelling and ability to convey HIS thoughts and feelings and ideas about HIS children. Good grief.

I actually got a chance to talk to Heath's new teacher today. She called to set up a home visit appointment in the next week. She sounds delightful, cheery, positive. After we'd talked for a while, she said she thought she knew Heath, was that right? I told her that she probably experienced Heath on the playground when he was out with his 3's class and she was with her 4's class. I further explained that Heath really enjoyed some of the boys from her class last year, and they played a Good Guys/Bad Guys game together.

Oh! she responded with enthusiasm. Then she seemed to pause and think for a bit. Oooohhh. Yes, yes, I DO know Heath.

Two more weeks until we begin that adventure. And I STILL didn't finish those papers.

If I Had a Title, It Would Go Here.

Oh, Charleston, I do love you so. Our trip was short, but very sweet. I just wish I had more energy and enthusiasm to recap the highlights of our visit. It seems I managed to get some emotional rejuvenation while I was away, but physical and mental, not so much.

Of course, before I go cracking the "you suck"stick on my back, I will say that we didn't get home until 6pm, and I essentially unloaded the kids and our stuff only to get back in the car to head off to a meeting for school. The car that pretty much smells like beachy feet. At least the kids weren't in it anymore. The sound of silence wasn't so bad after the three hour drive back this afternoon. The first hour was okay. They both dreamily stared out the window and ate Veggie Sticks. The second hour included a horrific stop at a Hess Station where Stella enjoyed playing with a toilet plunger and Heath refused to leave the front of the Coca-Cola display. Then I somehow managed to miss the 77 North exit and drove 20 minutes out of my way. The third, and final, hour included Stella falling asleep, repeatedly, only to be awakened, repeatedly, by Heath asking for a turn with her blanket, or squirting water on her with my water bottle, or just the old go-to jab/poke on the face with a finger. Stella was not amused.

But we're back. Refreshed. And hopefully I can muster up the energy the rest of the week to yammer on about baby jogging on cobblestone streets and trolley rides and Children's Museums of the Lowcountry and Spider-Man buds and rainy mornings on the beach...

South Cackalacky Bound

I am taking the kids down to Charleston, SC for a couple of days to visit my BFFs. Getting out of Dodge and changing up the venue will be refreshing. I don't know what it is but meltdowns and obstinance always seem less striking in a different city. And Heath is always game for an adventure, so maybe the kinks that have cropped up over the last 36 hours will even out. If not, I'm glad we are visiting people who really love me and my kids.

For a while there I thought I was leaving the hottest place on earth, just to go visit the other hottest place on earth, but it seems the 48 hours or so that we will be there, we are in for a treat of 90 degree weather. I better pack a hoodie. Might as well, I've packed everything else. The shear volume it takes to get us anywhere is positively stunning. Of course, the jogging stroller is coming with us, so that takes up nearly every square inch of the back of the wagon. But there's no way I'm leaving without that thing. The Continental Divide Trail run is two weeks away. I got training to do.

And in an effort to do so, we found ourselves out on the McMullen greenway again for a 4-miler this morning. I could tell right off the bat that I did some running last night. I was also happy to report to Heath that my trail pal and I saw a King Snake, two toads, attacked by a batch of angry cicada killers, separated from my (speedy) trail pal, in some suddenly seriously darkened woods, and even had a flesh wound on my arm from tripping (I grabbed a tree to break my fall). Stella was most intrigued by my arm boo-boo. Repeatedly she asked, Wa' happa-ned? And was equally thrilled with my tale every time I told it.

The Crazies won't win any awards, but it gave me that nice edgy, skurred feeling. Youth in Revolt tonight.

*He's Up. We Are On With The Crazies. (And not getting my own ice cream.)

The day did not start off with ease and comfort we've had as of late. I suppose we were due. Mainly, I was tired, headachey, and ill-equipped for riding the emotional roller coaster of a spirited three and a half year old boy and his equally feisty baby sister. After convincing them that breakfast would be a good idea, they chowed down their overeasy eggs, then regrouped on the deck to play Street Sweeper, while I got us ready for our morning at the pool with friends.

The tools used in Street Sweeper are pretty minimal. A broom, 2 tablespoons of liquid dish soap, a water bottle (full of water, of course), a project manager, and one person to push the broom. Heath is always Project Manager, because he is skilled at telling people what to do in an authoritative, self-assured voice. He always has a well-organized plan, and, if his co-workers do what they are told, they are frequently lavished with great praises. (If they don't do what they are told, well, they are lavished with something else entirely.) He drops the soap on the ground, expertly squirts it with the water bottle, then yells, Okay, Gigs, it's ready to go! Stella is an excellent street sweeper. Her strokes with the broom are swift, long-reaching, and always suds up an excellent amount of squeaky-clean bubbles.

Fortunately, our morning and early afternoon at the pool worked its magical wonders on the Street Sweeping crew. They both took lengthy, sweaty-headed naps. And so did I. Good thing, too, because I had another Friday night trail running date. It was hot. We ran quite a bit. And now I'm so very hungry.

While I was gone, Mark put the kids in the baby jogger and ran up to the Redbox at the HT. They picked up The Crazies. Too bad Mark is asleep now.* Guess I'll have to dip my own ice cream tonight. Poor, poor me.

Little Swimming, Little Tree Tramping

Last day of swim lessons for Heath today. He even got a Swimming Achievement certificate. It's hanging up in his room. He suggested that he could take lessons even if summer is over. I'll have to investigate our options for continuing on. It was nice to see him enjoy something so much.

In between swim lessons and Trader Joe's shopping and laundry and afternoon appointments, we were treated to a fantastic show across the street. Our neighbors were having some of their larger, more prosperous trees trimmed by some serious arborists. It was a crew of three guys who were so skilled at what they were doing, they seemed to slink up the trees barely touching it with their hands. Once in, they precariously balanced on limbs, and used what looked like a sharp machete attached to a yellow ten foot pole.

My crew of two was impressed, and stood gaping at the men for a very, very long time. Heath wanted to eat his lunch on our front lawn, so he wouldn't miss a single stick fall from the sky. The tree guys were kind enough to stop what they were doing and wave down to their audience. They also stopped to take a little cigarette break. I took that as my cue to shuffle the kids inside for some lunch, hoping Heath wouldn't resume his interest in being able to light up as soon as he gets older.

Of course, they both gobbled up their food and stood at the front door gawking while I cleared away the dishes. When we returned to the work site, the guys, now shirtless, were pulling the fallen brush to their pick-up trailer. Heath immediately stripped his shirt off and got to work, creating his own stick pile beside the tree service truck. And then Stella pulled her shirt over her head. (I kept mine on.) Then the two began their running dialogue and directions shouting to complete the job.

Yeah, pull that limb over there, guys, Heath hollered, in his low, serious workin' man voice.

Pu' limb 'der, Heef, Stella mimicked. Her voice is not low. Or deep. Or even all that serious. But she definitely means business by how deftly she can move one stick after another onto a pile.

When they were plenty sweaty-headed and pink-cheeked, and the for hire tree crew finished up their project and moved it on out, we made our way back home. All that heavy lifting really did a number of them. Stella napped for three hours, and even Heath passed out for a bit. Lovely.

Give Her the Batman Underpants Off His Backside

I have knocked wood. Crossed my fingers. Held my breath. Told very few people, unless it seemed to be in somewhat therapeutic circumstances. Shed quiet tears. Taken deep, cleansing breaths. Pretty much kept it cerebrally nameless with each free-floating thought about it. And I have definitely kept mum on this little venue.

So, in keeping with not wanting to jinx it, I will not make any concrete declaration or statement that can come crashing down on me tomorrow. Instead, I will tell a little tale.

Tonight after baths, both children were in Heath's room. Stella was already pajamaed for the night, and Heath was busy picking out his nighttime attire. For someone who for so long had zero interest in what he wore, or putting it on himself, he has decided that it is an activity worth self-involvement. It often includes several changes of mind, and thus, attire. And you can be sure it is going to include a full spectrum of color and arrangement on his person.

Our Winter of Disunderweared, crystallized into a Spring of Boxers, and melted into a puddle of discarded and disinterested superhero loin cloth. As the summer blazes on, as of Monday, we are back on with underpants! Tonight he picked through his bottom drawer looking for just the right briefs. He pulled on red Batman riding a motorcycle. No. These are too small, he declared, tossing them on the floor. Then rummaged through, pulled out, tried on, and discarded two more Batman, and one Lightening McQueen. The Lightening McQueen did seem taut about the rear-region, but the Batman seemed okay. Nevertheless, they ended up in a small pile of too small underpants on the floor.

I went downstairs to get their nighttime milk, while the two played with trucks for a few more minutes. When I returned I found the mound of no longer desirable undergarments in Stella's room. Across the hall, I spotted the two still in Heath's room, taking turns rolling trucks into the fire station. Briefly, I caught a glimpse of Stella's bottom; red Batman riding a motorcycle beamed back at me.

Heath, did you put the underpants in Stella's room? I asked.

He pushed his Mack truck across the floor, and without looking up, he answered, They're too small. Stella can have them. Then he stood up, pointed at Stella, who was still busy with Chick Hick's hauler, and said, Look! I helped her put those Batman on, too.

I do believe...

(Don't say it.)

we have...

(Seriously, once you put that out into the universe, you can't take it back.)

turned...

(You are so going to regret this.)

a...

(Just enjoy the sweet moment. Knock some more wood, and move on.)

The Gimp's Sleeping

A friend was coming over at 4:30, so after a busy morning of peach cobbler making, swim lessoning, and total toy thrashing and house destruction, I thought I could get Heath and Stella to take a little snooze, and even manage a little 3 and a half miles before our guest arrived. Stella was instantly out when I put her in her crib. I covered her sweet little body with her Beanky, stuffed Chuckie Wabbie under the covers, and quietly tiptoed across the floor to close the door and silently wish her pleasant nap dreams.

Before I could even sit back down with Heath to read Gus Naps, The Jog, and Al Can (a collection of books from some Leap Frog DVD something-or-other my parents gave him for Christmas. Hooked on phonics. Nap, cap, rap. Og can jog over the log. Can, man, ran.) I heard giggling. I was positive it was coming from Stella's room, but she was so sound asleep moments ago, how could she possibly be awake? So I shushed Heath's rhyming momentarily to intently listen to what I hoped was Stella laughing in her sleep.

It was Stella. But she was not asleep. The giggling continued. And the chatting. And the occasional thud on the floor of falling (more like thrown) toys and books. This went on and on. Through 3 rounds of the Gus, Al, Og, Meg, and Izzy books. Heath drifted off to sleep at 3, and Stella was still going strong. I nodded off for a few moments, awakening only to the sounds of more laughter and chattering echoing from the little girl's room. At 3:30 Heath stirred, and I got up, ready to abandon naps entirely and get the kids out in the jogger.

Before I could pull both running socks on, Heath was back asleep, and the only thing I heard coming from Stella's room was silence. I peeled off my running garb, lounged back on the bed with a bag of crunchy pita chips, and watched Oprah interview J. Crew's Creative Director. It was a complete waste of time. I loved it.

How's that for some race training?

(I was all set to finish up that disc of It's Always Sunny in PA tonight--the very one we've been finishing for days. Guess who's snoring?)

Hot Running

I managed our 3 and a half mile loop at 4:30pm. Needless to say it was positively scorching and I felt like I was (barely) running through thick, swampy air. A dark blue cloud hovered over us, tempting us with a storm that frankly wouldn't have been unwelcome, except I had two kids in a stroller and getting drenched probably would've annoyed them, thus annoying me.

Heath periodically piped up, Looks like it's going to storm. Probably some lightening is coming, too.

But the clouds never exploded on us. And I was glad to have made it. My goal is to be completely acclimated to burning temps when I'm scaling up mountain rock at my next race, a 10k in Laurel Springs at the end of August. It promises a challenging course, and a 10am ladies start time. The men start at 9. So much for ladies first. The difference between 9am and 10am in the mountains can mean the difference between 55 and 85; it rises and falls that drastically. I am prepared to be beaten by faster, stronger, more experienced folks, but I refuse to not feel good about my running because it's a little too warm. I will be ready.

Besides, the early morning running slot was out of the question today. We had our Monday morning playdate at Colonel Francis Beatty Park in Matthews. Or was it Weddington. We made it by 10, wherever it was, and the sun was already baking all the playground equipment. We did take a nice shaded stroll to a lake and watched some ducks and a lone kayaker paddle in the murky water. The kids (and moms) were completely sweaty-headed and red-faced after our lake-walk and trail-path finding, so we spent the rest of our park time at a picnic table drinking cool Limeade and eating fruit. Shortly after noon, we headed home for lunch and naps. My car said it was 108, and I don't think it was exaggerating.

Run Like a Girl

I woke up this morning at 8:27. Not because a little boy was jumping on top of me. Not because a little girl was rhythmically demanding, Mommy...Mommy...Mommy...from her crib. For the first time in over three years I was awakened because I was finished sleeping. One might even go so far as to say I was refreshed. We ate cereal and drank coffee in bed. We were a couple of complete and total leisure.

Leisure time ended and we headed over to the Whitewater Center for a little trail running. Mark has done a lot of road running. A lot. But other than a little stretch of trail on the Grandfather Mountain Marathon he's never gone off-roading. Another thing Mark has done a lot of is make fun of my running. He has frequently referred to my running as prancing. I'm sure the fact that I like wearing running skirts these days isn[t doing me any favors in terms of de-girlyfying my sport of choice. My tip-toeing, tepetzying (I may not be spelling that right. That's Mark's fake word for putzing, dinking, messin' around), has been teasing-fodder since our courtin' days. Yes, I'm slow. No, I'm not competitive. But I like to think I've come a long way in taking the tee-hee-hee factor out of my running.

Our hour and ten minutes on the trails was marvelous. And it was hopping today, so we did a lot of jumping out of the way of whizzing mountain bikes. We started on the Trail of Joy. Wound our way around Carpet Trail. Looped Goat Hill. And for the first time, we encountered the Toilet Bowl Loop. Mark asked if we should run it. How do you not run the toilet bowl? So we did. We saw the bowl. It was upside down adorned with a bumper sticker demanding, Shut Up and Ride. Mark did an excellent job of keeping up. As he ran along. Behind me. (Walking a few times.) He passed (chortled, even) on bringing a water bottle. I was happy to share mine with him when he was sopping wet with sweat.

Just as we were back on the Main Trail and heading on to the parking lot, back to our children, back to our busy lives on busy streets, we ran into a biking fella. He had a two year old riding on the back of his bike. I could tell immediately from the ghostly look on his face that there was a problem. He asked if we'd seen a little boy on a red bike. We had not. On the verge of tears, he said that his five year old son took off down the path without him and he couldn't find him anywhere. Lots of people on bikes took off in different directions to find the boy. Mark and I headed back down the trail to see if we could find the him.

We were late to pick up the kids, so we left, feeling a pit in our stomach for what that man might be feeling. I can't imagine. Don't even want to think about it. And at that point, people were still looking for the little guy. I couldn't find anything about it in the news, so my only hope is that is the good news.

I missed my kiddies. I couldn't get enough hugs and kisses when we picked them up. They had a great time with Papa and HeHe--lots of treats, not much sleeping, and lots of good cuddling. And we ended our fun-filled weekend with some homemade eggplant lasagna (made with Heath's farmer's market eggplant) with his cousins. Another late night for Heath and Stella. Let's just hope they decide to sleep until at least 8:27 tomorrow.

Six Years, 10 hours, and 48 minutes...

...give or take. That's roughly how long Mark and I have been married. And I have to say, it's been a lovely day of celebration.

Our anniversary began this morning at 8:10am when I woke up in a panic. I was dreaming that we were late for a birthday party. We weren't late, but there was an actual birthday at 9am. At the Matthews Farmer's Market. All four of us were scheduled to go and no one was up. Mark and I sucked down some coffee, got ourselves and Stella dressed, and let Heath take care of himself. This pretty much meant that he wore his pajamas, adding a warm, cozy pair of black socks to his yellow pants, salmon-colored t-shirt, and lime green sandals ensemble.

We made it to Matthews by 9:05 to join the preschooler and toddler sister/brother birthday party combo. It was a fantastic idea. The kids were given a bag and a $2 bill to pick out their own produce. Heath had two items on his wishlist. Eggplant and papaya. The eggplant was easy enough to accommodate. Never did find that papaya. No worries, though. We found blueberry muffins the size of our heads. Seeing as no one had breakfast before we left, I was more than happy to polish off what was left of the ginormous breakfast treat.

We also purchased some local peaches, honey, and fingerling potatoes. Enjoyed some morning snacks by the Matthews red caboose, and even got treated to a whizzing train heading down the tracks as we departed the festivities. The conductor gave Heath and Stella hearty waves and even heartier (and scarier) whistle-horn blowing.

Last week my parents came up with an amazing idea. How about we have the kids spend the night at our house, while you and Mark have an evening and morning to yourselves for your anniversary? my mom happily suggested. She's been itching to have the kiddies for a sleepover for quite some time, so you know I had to say yes.

Whatever have we done with our time? Let's see...after dropping the kids and all their gear off at Papa and HeHe's house, we headed over to see Cyrus, a delightfully subtle comedy with John C. Reilly, then dined on sushi and Vietnamese fare, then wandered into Jesse Brown's Outdoor Adventures to see if I could find a hand-held water bottle carrier thingy (no luck), then ate ice cream at Kilwin's, then went to Target for a few items (this was by far the most romantic part of our evening, I assure you. I think we even held hands.), ventured into the HT for eggplant lasagna makings for dinner tomorrow, poked through a Redbox or two looking for The Crazies (no luck with that, either), and came home to a very, very quiet house.

I miss my Heath and Stella like crazy. I can smell them right now. And I keep thinking about Stella's kishes, she gives them away so freely. And Heathbear, the minimalist with his physical affection, but still getting my goodnight hugs and kisses anyway. Ahhh...

Never fear. They'll be back tomorrow, in all their wacky glory. In the meantime, we still have time to celebrate 6 years, 11 hours, and 10 minutes of marriage. And being totally child-free til 11am.

So Many Subjects, So Want to Watch TV

I promised Mark that I wouldn't be too terribly long-winded with this one tonight. After watching the Who Pooped the Bed? episode of It's Always Sunny last night, I am anxious to get to the hilarity.

But I can't let a good day like this one go by without a few mentionables. First of all, despite the gloom in the sky, and clouds that seemed to be promising rain, Heath and Stella and I headed on out the door to meet some friends at the JCC for a swim. This was a new venue for us, and I have to say, their aquatic complex is very nice. There is a large section of one of the pools that is roped and only 3 feet, so Heath was able to bounce about free as a bird. Stella, well, I got my bicep curl workout, but I was also able to give my arms a little rest by letting her tool around on the spacious steps that lead to the shallow end. In light of the tax free weekend, I plan to give the Swim Vest for Stella Quest one last try. If it rides up and tips her over, I'll just duct tape it around her teeny waist, add a little paper weight to the back of it, and hope for a hands-free summer next year.

Our fantastic morning led right into some afternoon napping. I was glad to have the rest, because I had been invited to do a little evening trail run with a friend. My speedy friend. And if getting a little rest wasn't helpful for trying to keep up, I'd also been anticipating the arrival of new trail running shoes. (I can feel the pressure of needing to wrap this up, so another blog and I'll detail my shoes. Vasque. Blur. Rust-colored. I love them.) They were dropped at our doorstep by our friendly UPS man at 5pm. Heath was thrilled and had to try them on before I did. Stella's new pink and lavender rain boots arrived in the same package. Talk about thrilled. She immediately hunkered down to shove them on her feet--the right on left and left on right, of course. I was happy they fit, and happy to be getting her prepared for the start of school. (Stella starting school. Don't get me started on that or I'll never finish.)

My friend and I ran on the trails at Renaissance Park--another new venue for me. Convenient, well-kept, rooty, craggy terrain. I so love running through the woods. My shoes were sturdy, stable, but not too bulky or heavy. Did they make me so fast that I was a Blur running through the woods? No. No, they did not. But it looks like we beat the storms. Woo-hoo.

And now I think Mark is asleep. Yep. Snoring. Good grief.

Nothing's Shocking

I did it again. Trying to quickly get Heath in the car without waking his napping sister, I left the house without his shoes. Didn't even realize it until we were well on our way up 77 North to Huntersville where our Thursday afternoon appointment is. I thought about his poor feet on an office floor. I thought about the stares I might get from people. I thought about feeling the necessity to explain to anyone who might be staring at my child's bare feet that I am acutely aware of his bare feet, that I know it isn't the "right" dress code, and I know now to leave a pair of shoes in the car at all times to prevent this from ever happening again. I did not think about turning around. We were actually on time for the appointment. Besides, there are bigger troubles in the world than a 45 minute shoeless preschooler romp around.

As most everyone knows, music of the day is something that escapes me. And it's not that I don't love music; I do. Passionately. I've just lost complete touch with avenues to be connected to what's going on out there. When I ride in my friend's mini-cooper, I certainly enjoy her XM (or is it Sirrius?) coffeehouse, cafehaus?, brewhaha station. Neko Case makes me want to drop everything and start a backwoods, twangy, jug-whistlin', banjo pickin' duo. Iron and Wine makes me miss those days of hanging out drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes til my eyelids twitch and sweat. But mostly, if I haven't caught it on Austin City Limits, I don't know that it exists. Do I want to know? Sure, why not? The last music I actually purchased was Radiohead's Hail to the Thief. That was 7 years ago. I imagine a lot has happened between now and then. And I'm sure it isn't all Justin Bieber, whoever he is? And American Idol. And John Mayer, who reminds of a frat house boy sitting on a skunk-beer drenched and puke-stained couch playing Zeppelin's Tangerine, badly.

According to the floorboard of my car and the CDs smothering it, it would appear that time has stood still, and the world doesn't exist after 1999, save for those few Radiohead CDs and a Coffeehaus Remix/dux. The play of the week has us completely time-warped in my high school years. It's been Jane's Addiction, Nothing's Shocking. All. Week. Long. On the way to swim lessons we found the CD smack dab in the middle of Summertime Rolls.

Heath immediately perked up and said, I haven't heard this one in a long time. So pretty.

And it is. A pretty little ditty. He had me play it twice on the way. And when we finished our lesson and headed off to Trader Joe's, he let it roll on to the next tune, Mountain Song. A faster, heavier version than the previous whimsical tale of a boy and his girl, wearing no shoes. With a fist pump motion, he announced, This song, it's my favorite.

So as soon as we were on our way to our appointment in Huntersville, all the way up 77 North, without Heath's shoes, we were still listening to the same CD, and because he didn't nap, I knew the lull of the car motion would have him head-bobbing in no time. He immediately requested that we go back to Summertime Rolls, and that was fine by me. The CD in its entirety is amazing. Even last night as Mark was watching some show about Ted Bundy, I was barely paying attention, but suddenly I heard Bundy's voice in an interview; the same interview that they use in Ted, Just Admit It. It gave me chill bumps to watch (and hear) the real deal. It's like I'd almost forgotten how original it all was.

I'd also forgotten some of the language. Until Idiot's Rule came on. As incredible as the trumpet is, there are a few words in it that don't make me flinch, unless I think Heath is going to grab hold and say them. At least no one will be paying attention to the fact that he has on no shoes when he repeats what just rested on his innocent ears. Desperately I try to fast forward through the f-bit, but I hit the volume and turn it up, while turning the wipers on. I finally turn the song down and look in my rearview mirror, pretty sure he's asleep and crisis has been averted. Nope. He's awake, glassily staring, practically on-the-nod. At first glance one might rest assured that he is in fact so sleepy that he hasn't heard a word. But I know my boy. And that look. In actuality, he's taken it all in, catalogued it in the ever-forming recesses of his absorbent mind, and it will reveal itself, in all its factual and enunciated glory, when it will be most inconvenient, and most embarrassing.

Tonight I was putting him to bed, and after we finished counting numbers on the clock, his latest addition to the bedtime ritual, we sat silent for a few moments while I rubbed his back. He started to hum a bit. Softly. Just as I recognized the tune, he sang, Stop...I'm a girl, a line from Summertime Rolls.

I actually breathed a little sigh of relief that he took that in, and not the mother of all phrases. Of course, tomorrow is a brand new day.

Using Your Noodle? No, Thanks...

It may be time to consider another haircut for Heath. No, no one is inquiring about his big sister abilities; he's just back to peering out from under some over-the-eyebrow bangs when he talks to me. On our way down to the pool this morning, I asked him if he thought we should go this week to get a trim. He wrapped his yellow pool noodle around his neck, casually tossed his lengthy bangs aside with a head shake, and said, No, this is good. His hair fell into place in such a way that it looked a lot like Justin Bieber's hair. Who is Justin Bieber, you might be asking? I really don't have a good answer. He's a teenaged boy. With hair. That looks like Heath's when it's too long. And he sings. And I kind of don't want Heath to remind me of him; I'm actually more comfortable with the "your son looks the kid from The Shining" comments. Redrum, redrum.

Our morning at the pool proved to be exactly what the troops were looking for. Overcast skies kept the heat from broiling down on us at that point, and we were the only people there for the first hour and fifteen minutes of our two hour visit. Heath used his noodle for, maybe, 20 seconds, then abandoned it on the side of the pool when he realized he could cruise along in the shallow end, unassisted. I'm swimming by myself, he gleefully shouted.

Stella. Stella, Stella, Stella. No float. No vest. No noodle. No fear. No problem. She was happy with me holding her, as long as I kept busy with dunking the back of her head in the water, zooming her from one area of the pool to the other, and throwing a ball to let her "swim" to retrieve it. If I didn't keep on the move, she thrashed and wriggled and desperately tried to be set free to swim, preferrably on her own.

I convinced the kids that they needed a break and a snack, so my arms took a brief reprieve in the little pool area. Brief, because Heath managed to find a tennis racket and wanted me to toss the ball to him so he could whack it with the racket. Then it was noon, the sun was beginning to beam down heavily, and everyone was getting hungry and tired, so we trekked our way back home in the wagon. I'm going to miss these days in the winter.

And the beaming-down-sun didn't let up for our afternoon run with our neighbor. Glad I've committed to memory that a water bottle is a very, very good thing.

Summertime Rolls

It occurred to me tonight that we have 5 weeks left of summer. It's gone by surprisingly fast, and really, 5 weeks seems plentiful in terms of having a few more fun adventures in store for the Ropkos.

I am not feeling very inspired these days. Perhaps I'm still feeling the malaise of last week's stomach funk. Or maybe I'm just the mom of two small children, and let's face it, that's exhausting no matter how you slice it.

I had a doctor's appointment this morning. My mom and dad were kind enough (and excited, too) to take Heath to his swim lesson, and of course, Stella accompanied them as well. I wasn't really looking forward to the doctor, but I have to say, I usually enjoy the time in the waiting room (unless it takes more than 10 minutes, then I start to feel irritated) so I can catch up on some magazine reading. And I was grateful to not have to lug two children who would not enjoy a waiting room. Well, they would, because the number of chairs to obsessively climb in and out of (and possibly turn over), and stacks of magazines on tables to dump, and plants to pick, would be most appealing. Sitting and waiting. Quietly. My children are not made for that. And then moving on to the actual room to see the doctor--I can only begin to imagine, with great horror--what might happen if they got hold of a box of rubber gloves and ultrasound gel. So I happily did the visit solo.

But in light of my malaise, I didn't feel like perusing parenting magazines for Taming Toddler Tantrum Tips, or Top 5 Reasons All Moms Should Breastfeed, or Picking the Perfect Ride for Your Precious Cargo (Choosing a Stroller). Just when I was ready to settle in and try to think nothing, a woman wrestled a double umbrella stroller through the tight squeeze of a doorway, and hurriedly pushed her way over to the counter to check in. Two little blonde girls, roughly the same age as Heath and Stella, sat sweetly in their seats. They didn't budge. They didn't fuss. They quietly looked around the room, smiling shyly at everyone. Not a peep, not a sound, not an uttertance.

Until...

Their mother got busy with insurance cards and appointment scheduling and not wanting to see a Nurse Practitioner and form-filling-out. In no time, the biggest of the saintly sisters began to poke the little sister. In the head. The ear. The eye. She removed her bow, threw it on the ground. The littlest of the gals began soft complaints that were practically coos, but the bow ripping from the hair was the last straw. She wanted out of the seat. She kicked. She arched her back. She threw her fists around and fiercely shook her head, all accompanied by gutteral shrieking. Meanwhile, the big sis decided it was time to get out, too. Being roughly three-ish, all she had to do was stand up, tipping the stroller forward. Without missing a beat, the mom plopped a flip-flop on the back of a wheel to keep it steady, and finished her paper work without a single glance at the girls, who were suddenly silently settled back into their ride. Their mom kicked up the stroller brake and zoomed over to an available couch, bending down to swiftly scoop up the abandoned pink bow en route.

Because I'm typically caught up in the process of mellowing my own kids from their struggles, I don't always have the opportunity to watch kids completely unglue themselves. It was interesting to observe. Maybe it's just these two girls, but without a single word from their mother, not even a glance, their unhinged moment came, then moved right along like an easy breeze in the air. Well, maybe not an easy breeze. More like a quick summer storm. Yes, there's thunder, lightening, rain, flash-flooding, and sometimes golf-ball sized hail. Yes, it's furious and interrupts your momentary plans. But it's fast, and you can pretty much pick up where you left off once it has moved along. It's natural; just part of the process.

But I rarely think that with my own kids. I think it's unnatural. It's weird. Or, even more self-centered, I think it's because I haven't done something right. Letting it run its course doesn't come easily for me.

Tonight when Heath was trying desperately to shoot the basketball into our newly freed and deweeded basketball court area (a.k.a., the end of our driveway), I watched as he began the process of becoming unglued. It's too hard. This basketball isn't working. I can't get it. He whined. He cried. He stomped his feet. I kept shooting with him, occasionally acknowledging that it's frustrating to miss, but I kept reminding him (and myself) how great he's doing. You're 3, using an adult-sized basketball, that's awesome. I can't even get it in the net every time. You're doing great. But I also just kind of kept my trap shut, and kept shooting. And he did, too. He didn't give up. He didn't fall into a complete heap of an unrepairable mess. He didn't chuck the ball at Stella's head. He reasonably expressed his emotions. Emotions that are natural. I think I keep forgetting that.

He even made a few baskets. Now, if we can get jumping, shooting, and driving to the basket, combined with a healthy dose of emotional regulation, Heath could be an excellent swingman in the ACC.

Oh, Monday...

Thanks to a friend's tip about a free Redbox rental code for one night only in Charlotte, I picked up The Runaways, the epic tale about Joan Jett. (That's all I know, so I'm sure there's more to it.) A slightly different tale from It's Complicated, an annoying coming-of-old-age tale about divorce and adultery and bodies going south. A light and breezy comedy, indeed. My parents would love it, if they haven't already seen it.

I was a huge Joan Jett fan when I was 7 years old. I had her album, I Love Rock and Roll, and spent many hours sitting in front of my little black and white record player, daydreaming. I don't remember exactly what I thought about. 7 was a weird age. I wanted to be Joan Jett or Belinda Carlisle or Blondie, but I was still very much into Strawberry Shortcake and unicorns.

I studied the album cover, wanting to copy her look. I got my hair cut at Fantastic Sam's--I'm not sure if those exist anymore, but imagine Great Clips, only worse. Her sleek black hair was spiky, punk-like, and edgy. Mine was mullet-like and I could never get the spikes to stand up, so it just fell in what my brother lovingly called "a butt cut," fashion.

I also managed to pick out a smart little pant suit, complete with a tie. While visiting my Grandma (Granny) in Winston-Salem, I talked her into going to TJ Maxx, and then proceeded to talk her into buying this little purple and pink one-piece number. The sleeves were puffy and three-quartered, and the top and bottom are combined with a snug piece of elastic. Too snug, really. But I wanted it, so I didn't complain. It was severely uncomfortable everytime I wore it, and as much as I wanted to pretend it didn't exist in my closet, my mom was not one to waste an outfit. It made it into rotation frequently.

I'm pretty sure I wore jelly shoes with it, and I am also pretty sure I have a school picture with a cloudy sky backdrop. Somewhere at my parent's house is a copy of the photo, and the outfit, album, and record player. Maybe Stella will be a fan and I can unearth them from their attic. Unfortunately, I don't think the jelly shoes survived.

Oh, Sunday...

Mark and I are going to try to string along the "leisurely weekend" idea as long as we can, so we treated ourselves to another Redbox movie tonight. Last night we watched The Men Who Stare at Goats. George Clooney is the kind of actor I like to not like, because others seem to enjoy him so much and I just don't see what the big deal is. I stand corrected. He was charming, and not in a tooth-twinkly, I'm so handsome kind of way. I enjoyed Goats because Clooney is actually a good actor. And it confirmed what I've been thinking for so long: I just need to continue to hone my jedi skills.

Tonight we are watching It's Complicated. I'm not as hopeful about this one.

We enjoyed a late afternoon birthday party for our neighbor-friend. Heath and Stella's friend turned the big 3. And she is now the proud owner of a sweet, soft, cuddly, stuffed rabbit. I look forward to hearing what she names her. I also look forward to the inevitable day when the bunny and Chuckie Wabbie are tossed from zooming strollers as we roll down Sharon Road, and both moms are forced to run 6 miles in search of MIA wabbies.