Busy Babies

First day of July and we are just cruising right along with this summer. We started the week off with a visit to the OB. With kids in tow, I was grateful for the shorter wait this time, and it seems baby bump number three's growth is progressing nicely.

Good growing baby, my OB said as she ran the measuring tape up my ever-growing belly. Suddenly her hand furiously jerked in response to the growth-cooperative baby's kicks. Busy baby, she added. You always have busy babies, don't you? she mused, while Heath monologued a one act play about the Osteoporotic bone sculpture display engaged in fistacuffs with a T-Rex (played by his left hand), and Stella took a stirrup's blood pressure.

Meanwhile, Stella is loving, and I do mean loving, her Tuesday morning ballet class at the local Y. When I tell her it's time to get ready for dance, she eagerly scampers off to her room, returning with her shiny purple leotard, pink tights, and beloved pink slippers.

Stella's first first position. The picture is too blurry, but Beanky is on the barre beside her.

Beanky also joined Stella for the orange scarf dance. Shortly after this shot, Stella brought her trusty lovey to me and asked, Can you hold dis?, and while the soft sage blanket has accompanied us in the car and is carried into the dance studio the last two classes, I have since been charged with holding it while Stella dances her heart out.

It's also Heath's first venture into the art (or pain) of waiting for his sister while she engages in an activity that has nothing to do with him. He has made a co-waiter friend, an older brother of one of Stella's dance mates. They pass the time by playing with Lego Star Wars figures, obsessively checking out the soda machine in the waiting area, and watching the teenaged camp attendees come in from their outdoor activities. And when the fun of these pastimes is exhausted, Heath resorts to the old How much longer? I wanna go home stand-by.

Most recently, our dear Cali boys left after a two week adventure of pooling, playing, celebrating multiple birthdays, catching Cars 2 on opening day, and of course, mountaineering.

Checking out their carefully crafted beaver rock dam.

With Scruffy the Mountain Dog.

Early morning hike.

A little trail running.

Learning to play Lacrosse. Stella quickly mastered hitting people with her stick.

Crawfishin'.

Their reunion with Scruffy caught on film. We also met Scruffy's owners. Scruffy's real name? Scruffy. Scruffy.

And while Heath patiently waits for his sister on Tuesday mornings, as of this week Stella finds herself in a familiar predicament while Heath has his soccer practice on Tuesday afternoon. Sure, she has more practice in watching Heath have all the fun, but she has grown less passive in the process. I was only able to take a few pictures of his first practice at a local park, because most of my time was spent keeping Stella out of the mix. Eventually she took solace in repeatedly racing across a neighboring baseball field.

Heath enjoyed the running, dribbling, and kicking drills, and even managed to keep an opponent from scoring in a very friendly first Lemon Team against Strawberry team scrimmage. Heath was a lemon. And if you ask him, the lemons won. Because they're better than the strawberries. And faster. And stronger. And did he mention better?

I encouraged some good sportsmanship by yammering on about always congratulating your opponent on a good game and the importance of recognizing their athletic abilities.

Yeah, he said, nodding his head enthusiastically, while I was feeling quite certain I had impressed upon him some excellent sense of being a good sport. And I kicked that ball right out from that strawberry and won the game.

Okay. Maybe a little gloating in the privacy of your own family's car is permissable.

I Float, Therefore I am

Next to blogging and posting pictures of yourself on Facebook taken in your bathroom mirror, I have stumbled upon the third most self-indulgent activity known to man: floating around a pool in an over-sized swim ring that looks like a tire for two hours a day.

Previously imagined as something only Floridian girls of 1981 (smothered in baby oil and iodine, of course) did, I have fully embraced this lazy pastime. With nearly 8 weeks left of pregnancy, it's been easily justified. By the end of a long day with the kiddies, I have a slight waddle/limp to my step. And based on the giggles my running on the treadmill evokes from the children, the only eyes to lay witness on the spectacle are Heath and Stella, their toys, and my reflection I occasionally catch in the guest bedroom window, often mistaking it for a clumsy morning home intruder. So I deserve to aimlessly spin about in one of the two Surf Club Race Team swim rings bought for my four year old and his visiting cousins.

When the guilt of frivolous activity sets in, I'll ask Heath to hang onto the back of the ring while we flutter-kick our way across the length of the pool ending at the number seven swim team starting block. Exhausted by the burst of motion, I then suggest Heath get out and grab the other swim ring so he can have his own, and I can sink my lifeless limbs back into the heat of the black plastic, only to be moved by gentle pool waves generated by someone else's flurry of energy.

It's not a bad way to pass a hot summer day, or a never-ending third trimester of a never-ending pregnancy. It's actually what's on the agenda for our late afternoon. You know, right after "they" take a nap.

How 'Bout a Little Rain with that Thunder?

(The mountain dogs last summer. Will they still be there?)

'Tis the season to have afternoon sessions at the pool cut short due to incessant, rainless thunder and lightening. Apparently it wasn't too short, though. Both kiddies are calm, showered, pajamaed, and slightly glassy-eyed. Very ready for Friday night take-out Chinese and bedtime. Daddy should be home with the eats soon.

Another exciting something(s) or someone(s) that will be here soon are my brother and nephews. They are flying in tonight from San Diego and will be here for, as Heath enthusiastically says, Two whole weeks! Apparently there's a trip to the mountains in the works. Heath can hardly wait to reunite with Sam the mountain dog.

Oh, here's the rain. Now, where's my Hot and Sour soup?

Feelings, Nothing More Than Feelings

Pregnancy-wise, time has started to stand still. I have a sneaking suspicion I am going to be pregnant forever.

Meanwhile, the kiddies were engaged in an amicable round of Let's Play Trains early this morning, which basically consists of each person holding his or her own line of five to six trains, freight and coal cars and cabooses included, going 'round and 'round the kitchen table. Banter includes water stops and animals on the track mishaps and wrecks that need the help of a trusty (and cranky) crane. Cordial excuse me's and trade you this Percy for that coal tender and how many minutes with that Thomas are uttered.

And then someone's Gordon bumps a freight train full of zoo animals and all niceties are thrown to the wayside. A red James gets tossed across the table, hands go to smackin', voices go from sweet to eardrum-popping shrill in seconds flat, and the name-calling begins.

You Poopie Duck Cracker. This is Stella's latest dagger in Heath's heart.

That's not my name. My name is Heath, he screamed with self-righteous indignation, having only half an hour ago called her Butt Cracker when she dared to cuddle his Fire Fighter Curious George.

But I was pleased in that moment that he chose to use his words, and I boldly encouraged him to tack on the statement, Name-calling hurts my feelings.

That hurts my feelings, he parroted.

She stopped re-aligning her row of trains, looked him in the eye and shouted, You're not your feelings, Heef!

Heath considered this for a moment, then silently resumed his own line of train driving.

If she can work out the yelling-kink, Stella may have a great future in counseling.

Popspitals

Despite having spent much of the weekend at the pool, we found ourselves there this morning as soon as it opened. It is truly the best place for the Ropkos to be these days.

Heath challenges himself each visit to swim further distances, head in the water, all limbs incorporated. Stella, no longer clinging to the comfort of the baby pool, has fully embraced wearing her teal blue puddle jumper, and kicks and paddles about the entire length of the pool at will. And I float about on my back, relishing the weightless moments; the baby bump is growing larger by the day.


Post-pool popsicles.

In her beloved hand-me-down Thomas suit.

And what does one do with all the popsicle sticks being consumed this summer?

You build space ships with them, of course.

Needs more glue, Heath frequently shouts as he constructs his space ship. We ran out of popsicle sticks. Stella offered a solution. Need to eat more popspitals!

Guess you know what we'll be doing tomorrow. Going to the pool and eating more popspitals.

If You're After Getting the Honey, Then You Don't Go Killing All the Bees

It's a great line from a great song from a great show. Thanks to Netflix we are currently revisiting our obsession with HBO's John from Cincinnati. An aerial view would say it's about a dysfunctional family of pro surfers in Imperial Beach, California. That's sufficient enough, I suppose, but I will say there's much, much more to the true synopsis.

I found myself singing the theme song while I made lunch for the kids yesterday. Stella came running over to the CD player on the kitchen counter, pushing any and all buttons, saying, Sing it, mama. Sing it.

I explained we didn't actually have a CD with the song, and it wasn't on the radio. Both kids continued to alternate between singing the honey/bee-killing line and shouting, Play it! Play it! So I flipped their grilled cheese sandwiches and ran off for our computer.

The number of times I played and replayed the John from Cincinnati opening credits/theme song is innumerable. Between the catchy Joe Strummer tune and the unbelievable retro surfing footage, it had the kids tapping their toes, singing along, and squealing with glee each and every time a surfer hung ten or wiped out. At closing credits they would inevitably shout, Again!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrWZlh7DnBE

Later that evening, after yet another afternoon/early evening of sunning and swimming, the kiddies collapsed into their beds. Mark prepared the DVD player and our ice cream, settling in for one more JFC episode. Opening credits and theme song began to roll. Mark said, I think Heath was singing this tonight. He knows all the words. Is that possible?

Oh, yes. It is possible.

How old DO you have to be to have a whale?

Unless you count our wilderness creatures living in our backyard, we are a completely pet-free home. Which is a real bummer for our animal-obsessed children. As they catch a glimpse of a Rhino on PBS' Nature, or pour through their Animal Weekly Reader books for the thousandth time, I am inevitably asked the following question:

How old do you have to be to get a (fill in the blank with animal of interest)?

The first time Heath asked this question was a couple of months ago when he had a playdate with a preschool pal who happens to have a cat or two. On our drive home he reminisced about the time the cat scampered across the living room floor and he actually got to pet the cat on his back. And then it came, the question full of great wonder and hope: How old do you have to be to get a cat?

I don't remember giving him the answer of eight years old, but he has long since reminded me that that was my answer. It was a completely arbitrary, plucked from thin air, answer. I suppose it seemed far away enough to put off having to explain that Daddy has the world's worst allergies known to man and a cat would put him over the edge. A Ropko cat is probably not in the cards.

But the question has not met its demise, so I have to put some additional thought into exactly what age I give. If it's an animal that isn't completely out of the question to have in one's home, but is a pet that I feel I would have to sleep with one eye open in case they escaped, I say, Ten. (Snakes, rats, Tarantulas.) If it's a pet that I find unsuitable for living in our house, but perhaps one day Heath will be living on a farm, I say, Forty-two. (Pigs, alligators, Roosters.) And the animals that are totally and completely out of the question for safety reasons (Rhinos, Cheetahs, Polar Bears), or extinction (Tyrannosaurus Rex, Triceratops, Pterodactyl), I say he has to be as old as Papa.

Tonight as we were wrapping up our second reading of Rainbow Fish and the Big Blue Whale, Heath inquired, How old do you have to be to have a whale?

A whale really wouldn't be happy living in the house. They need to stay in the ocean, I explained.

I'll put him the bathtub, he thoughtfully suggested.

I don't think the bathtub would be large enough, I countered.

I'll get a bigger bathtub. Or a smaller whale.

Once more I suggested, Whales just really need to stay in their natural habitat.

He wasn't budging. How old you gotta be?

As old as Papa.

At last, he was satisfied and ready to move onto the next book. Before I could start Black Bears, Heath lit up with an idea. How old do you have to be to get a goldfish?

I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me before that this would be an excellent starter pet. His class at preschool had a goldfish that they all named and fed and cared for. I was happy to deliver the good news. You know, I think you have to be four years old.

Heath took a very deep breath, clapped his hands, and woo-hooed. I expected him to launch into immediate plans for when we would be getting this goldfish and where we would be getting it and what we would be naming it. Instead he shouts, And when the goldfish dies, I can get that cat!

Toasty Tuesday

A Tuesday that feels like a Monday. It just doesn't pack quite the same delightful punch as a Monday that feels like a Sunday.

But we fared quite well. The day began with an instant desire to paint a RadioDogMan, and I have to say, I really wanted to see what this would look like.

It looks like this. Apparently those are headphones on RadioDogMan's head and they transmit special messages. Messages about bad guys and panda bears.


Unfortunately I had to cut the photo shoot short. Just after this shot was taken, Stella toppled out of her chair, dumping two cups of red and blue paint all over her person and the kitchen floor. She was terribly upset, crying, The mess. The mess. Very Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now. The horror. The horror.

But the mess was cleaned and we moved along to our next project of the day: a visit to the OB. It's hard to believe that we are actually to the point of visiting my dear OB every two weeks. Between preschool and grandparents, I've managed to attend these appointments solo, but today, I took the whole crew with me.

The two were in absolute awe of the other pregnant bellies in the office, and that they too had been in my belly at that office. And then our fifteen minute wait turned into half an hour, then forty-five minutes later, out of snacks and bored with magazines, the two cherubs had nothing left to do but wrestle each other on the waiting room couch, while I essentially sat on them trying to keep the noise level and possibility of injury to a minimum.

After an hour and five minutes in the waiting room we were finally called back to Exam Room number 3. The change of venue was just what the kiddies needed. My peeing in a cup spurred on a series of questions from Heath to the nurse, while she checked my blood pressure and kindly kept up with his barrage of inquiries. Why do you call it urine? Some people call it pee-pee? Why do put that stick in there? There's sugar in it? You drink that? Why do you have those gloves on?

Illustrations of babies in bellies with umbilical cords solved the mystery of just how one gets a belly button, purple gloves were slapped on for knee boo-boo inspection, maxi-pads were stuck to foreheads, jelly was squeezed onto my belly, and the swift whoosh of baby brother or sister's heartbeat stopped everyone in their tracks.

We got an All is Well bill of health, and five minutes later, we were on our way. And when it's a true scorcher of a day, there's only one other place to be besides the OB's office.

The pool. Thank goodness for the pool.

Memorial Monday

A Monday that feels like a Sunday. I do love them so. Especially when Daddy is back from his camping trip and has one more day off from work.

We found ourselves back at the pool today. While Heath waited for his new best friend to show up (a boy he met at the pool yesterday who taught him the joy of clinging to the pool wall and crawling along the entire perimeter like a crab), he made a new best friend. His new BFF was sporting a water gun and a joy for dare devilishly jumping off the pool steps into the water.

Stella is warming up to the big pool in her slow, methodical fashion. For now she is content with sitting on the edge with her little legs dangling in the cool water, making note of all the boisterous boy activity around her. When she grows weary of this activity, she retreats to the baby pool (or as she calls it, Stella's pool), where she floats and wanders about in her trusty pink princess race car float, proudly announcing, I'm swimming, I'm swimming.

When the four of us were sufficiently cooked, and most definitely ready for naps, Heath said goodbye to his new pool pal, reminding him repeatedly, I'll be here tomorrow. You be here tomorrow, too.

He's right, we will be back tomorrow. And if new BFF isn't there, I'm sure Heath will find himself another one.

Come Here Often?

We are back in the business of being pool rats for the summer at our neighborhood pool. It didn't take Heath very long to find his swimming rhythm, and it seems he's grown a head or two since last summer and can now safely wade halfway across the pool.

It also didn't take him long to make quite a few friends. The first was a girl who was closer to ten than she was to four. She bobbed by in her pink swim suit and blue goggles, tossing him a shy smile when she noticed Heath's gaze.

Hi, what's your name? he inquired like an old pro.

Ruth, she replied with a nervous giggle.

My name's Heath, he said, then flipped and flopped away showing off his best dolphin moves.

She bounced along with her friend, another gal in a purple suit and green goggles. He's cute, she whispered to her pal, then the two tee-heed their way to the other side of the pool.

Oh, brother...

Dirt Department Guy

This was Heath's official, self-appointed job title for the day. Dirt Department Guy. It is most appropriate for him.

After a fantastic preschool pal's fifth birthday celebration at Ben and Jerry's, Heath anxiously returned home to his latest boat-building project. In addition to measuring the floor of the boat to make sure it's big enough for a giant shark mouth, much dirt had to be placed on the floor.


For stability, he explained, as he patted the damp mud onto the boat's deck.

Within one load of damp dirt, a lone worm wiggled. His poop will be good for the tomatoes, he announced, then gave it a home by our plant. I have high hopes for that plant. Too high, probably.

The worm and the Heath.

Needs more dirt, he yelled. He IS the Dirt Department Guy, so he should know. I was getting a little nervous about the precarious stick, I mean, sail.

Heath's boat. I find it reminiscent of Tom Hank's boat in Castaway. Not bad survival skills for a four year old.

Measuring. It seems to be big enough for one person. I guess Stella and I need to get cracking on our own boat. Hope the sharks don't get us.

Back to the rockin' party at Ben and Jerry's. Not only did the kiddies make and consume loads of ice cream, they also made these awesome tie-dyes. Heath, the color minimalist, stuck with red. Stella gave all the colors a whirl.

And we concluded our 2nd daddyless day at a nearby park where Stella climbed the play structures and swung to her heart's content, while Heath sat on some bleachers by the basketball court in absolute awe of the group of twenty-somethings playing some ball. Not only did he see grown men dunk, alley-oop, and foul one another, he was also exposed to every single four-letter word known to man, and every single option and addition one can apply to those four-letter words to make them that much longer, and therefore, powerful.

When the, uh, mother of all such words was used not once, not twice, but thrice times in a row, I said, hey, let's get ready to go get some dinner somewhere. As you can imagine Heath had no interest in leaving his friends, as he now referred to them, and was quite certain they would be calling him into the game any minute now.

A brisk and graceful exit did not take place. But we made it to McAllister's Deli for dinner, and I did not have to cook or clean up dinner this evening.

Daddy will be home tomorrow at 1pm.

Summer Breakin' 3: Back to the Bugaloo

Thanks to Oprah I've decided I need to get back to blogging. I managed to catch a few minutes of her last show the other day. I can count the number of times I've caught a few minutes of Oprah since Oprah aired on one hand, so how I managed to catch this monumental time is beyond me. Miracle of all miracles, both Heath and Stella actually conked out that day for a post-potluck/ice cream social preschool affair nap, and I found myself flipping through the few channels available on our cableless television selection, sound off, closed-captioning on. I had a choice. Tyra or Oprah. Oprah won.

She said something poignant enough, I turned the TV off and let my mind do a little meditative resting/thinking. Had I blogged that night, I would actually be able to recall what she said that struck me. It seems my brain has a 12-hour capture and load capacity for any new information. If I don't write it down, it's as good as gone. And the days with kids, packed with hilarity and irritations and Heathisms and Stella-ese, I am not collecting all that I should.

So, today was the first day of our summer break, and I couldn't have asked for a better beginning. Kids slumbered until 8. Happily munched homemade banana bread for breakfast. Harmoniously viewed Super Why while I ran on the treadmill. Joyously visited a local bookstore, while eagerly selecting a birthday present for a preschool pal. Reasonably accepted no as an answer to all 1000 Can I get this? requests. Cooperatively breezed through Earth Fare to collect our basic milk needs. Conjured up a boat-building backyard project with some old wood, a stack of sticks, and a ball of twine. And despite a daddyless (Mark is on his bi-annual mountain pilgrimage/camping trip), downpour of a Friday evening, we managed a peaceful ending to a much-needed, well-oiled machine kind of day.

If only I could remember what Oprah said, I could probably do it again tomorrow.

Run Like a Girl, May 7, 2011, Race Report

A couple of months ago I decided that running the Run Like a Girl Trail Race at the Whitewater Center at 6 months pregnant may not be such a wise idea. I kept imagining myself falling over the edge of a narrow path on the South Trail. Or finding myself unable to properly gauge a drop-off leap on the Trail of Joy, rolling belly first down a muddy hill, then trampled by kind (I'm sure), yet eager running ladies in search of an impressive time race result. These visions continued to haunt me until I decided participating was simply out of the question.

Until five days before the race. Post-preschool drop-off, I was out running my usual 3 mile loop around the school, while pushing sweet Stella in the jogger, I had a second thought. I want to run that race. And that was replaced with a third thought. I can't run that race, which was replaced with a fourth, I must run that race, that was edged out by, You can't do it.

The dithering. It went on and on and on.

Finally, Thursday rolled around and I checked the web site registration, confirming that online registration had ended, but wait! A woman with a passion for running trails and an interest in supporting a great cause (RLAG strives to increase awareness and funds to support HERA women's cancer foundation) can register in-person at the Charlotte Running Company on Friday from 2-5pm. Here was my chance. And I finally believed that baby belly and I could safely trot our way around the glorious trails of the Whitewater Center on a sunny Saturday morning.

Then Friday happened. It was a day of Year-End Parent/Teacher Conferences and strawberry picking and strawberry-jam making and a 4pm tutoring commitment and I resigned to not making it over to register. I was okay with this decision, at least that's what I kept telling myself. And while I got the kids into the tub for their evening bath, I tried to push the deflated feeling out of my body, while simultaneously pondering and talking myself out of an early morning, day of race registration.

With the kids busily arguing over whose turn it was to stick their head under the tub faucet to get blasted with freezing cold water, I walked by our bedroom door, on my way to collect clean pajamas. Mark walked out holding the most precious piece of race swag I've ever laid my eyes on: a Run Like a Girl shoulder bag. Inside, a race bib. 830 was my number. My Mother's Day present: I was registered for the 5k. It was official. I was going to run that race.

All four (well, five) of us headed to the Whitewater Center in the morning. The gift of a 9am start time was much appreciated. I was neither late, nor was I rushing. Plenty of potty time, but not too much time to contemplate various unpleasant scenarios that could occur. So I spent my few extra moments before the race began doing what I do best: should I wear this jacket or not? Should I carry my water bottle or not? I gave my jacket and water bottle to Mark three times, and took them back three times. The unusual morning fog lifted, the sun broke through, and the temperature began to quickly rise. I gave my jacket back to Mark, and decided the water bottle would be a good thing to have. Next thing I knew, it was time.

The 8kers were off first, followed shortly by the smaller group of 5kers.

Race distance wise, I knew I was set. I've been on a steady 3-4 miles a day for the entire pregnancy. And my plan was simple: stay hydrated, pick up my feet, and use the lake loop start as an opportunity to find my pace (and everyone else's) in order to stay out of the way of the speedy of the speedy and ahead of the walkers.

Just as we wrapped up our start around the lake and began to head right into the forest, I spotted my three best cheerleaders standing by the trail head. They jumped up and down, clapped, hooted, hollered, woo-hooed, wooted, and chanted, Go, Mama, go!

So I went. Right into the woods. Oh, Whitewater Center trails, how have I missed thee? The scent of honeysuckle floated through the crisp air. Really. The well-compacted dirt was gentle on my as-of-late burdened hips. I am not kidding. I felt light. I felt quick. I checked my Garmin. I was running three minutes faster than I've run in months. I did a few, On your lefts, then found myself exactly where I wanted to be: in the woods, on a rolling trail, no one in front of me that I could see, no one behind me that I could feel, and running. Then the lovely chime of one mile sang from my Garmin, and in an effort to finish without falling, and finish without hurting myself, I toned it down and got back to my baby belly trot.

Around 1.75 a water station and smiling, friendly face of a trail pal manning the hydration-goods appeared. Suddenly it occured to me that my time out there was nearing its end and I almost wished I had signed up for the 8k. But I pushed that thought away, knowing that I had nearly missed the experience entirely, and with that, I gratefully continued on down the path.

At some point shortly after the chime of the second mile, the 8kers and 5kers met again on the trail. I was no longer flying solo and found myself hopping off the single-file, narrow trail to let some of the more ambitious ladies pass. That didn't last too terribly long as we were suddenly heading out of the woods, back onto the lake loop, and heading into the final stretch to the finish. Amongst the loud cheers and hoots and hollers, I heard my fan club before I actually saw them. Go, Mama, go! Then I saw their sweet faces and very nearly choked on my overwhelmed emotions.

58 out of 116 participants. 13th in my age group. Turns out baby number three is a pretty darn good running partner.

The Difference Between a Bad Haircut and a Good One...

About a week. At least, that's what my dad tells me. For Heath's sake, I hope he's right.

Shortly after Stella hunkered down for her two hour afternoon snooze, I decided to take a pregnant pause and put my own dogs up, while Heath happily snipped at ribbon with his trusty green preschooler scissors. I'm making shorts for the beach.

Shorts may have been a stretch. They were mostly snippets of blue, yellow, and brown ribbon tied together. He was pleased with his creation and settled back for a snack of goldfish crackers and milk, and a little viewing of Curious George. And I settled back for a few minutes of silence and a moment or two to relish the busy bouncing bundle of baby in the belly joy. Then a pregnancy-induced coma nap, apparently. Fifteen minutes, tops, until I heard a breathy, Mama, in my ear.

Groggily, I turned to find Heath, green scissors in one hand, strands of hair in the other, and some of the most banged up bangs I've ever seen in my life.

I must've gasped, because he instantly handed over the scissors, calmly stating, Hair grows back, mom. It grows back.

He's right, it does grow back. But I found myself unsure whether I should laugh or cry, because his long locks, while certainly in need of a trim, now resembled something between the Dutch Boy paint icon and Prince Valiant.

And that's how we ended up at Great Clips at 5:15 on a Friday. Sadly, he refused to let me take a before picture. The nice lady at Great Clips did a reasonable clean-up job, and certainly enjoyed a chuckle at Heath's hair creation. At least we'll have lots of after pictures on our week long family vacation at Holden Beach. We leave in the morning.

I'm not sure what I'm looking forward to more: 5-8K running in the salty air, trail running on the six miles of trail at the Carolina Beach State Park, the ice cream bar in Southport, riding the ferry, sleeping in (oh wait, that's the vacation Mark and I will take in another four and a half years)...

Half-Baked

The Ropko clan found themselves on the McMullen Greenway not one, but two mornings this weekend. The Saturday night downpour foiled my Sunday morning Beatty trail plans. But a greenway run with the fam is a great second choice.

20 weeks in and I finally found my rhythm for running pregnant. Of course, in another ten weeks, I'm sure I'll have to adopt a whole new footing, but over the course of the last week, I found my stride.

I have to say, I think the Garmin has helped a lot. Slow as the pace may be, it's a pace. And it's gratifying to watch half a mile turn into one, then two, then three, then heck, four. Then 4ish, then, well, it's after an hour and I figure if I'm going to go back out and do it again tomorrow, AND keep up with the kiddies who don't ever stop for a break, I better call it a run.

But I do love that twinkly, chimey, ding-a-ling-a-ling when that mile is reached.

Meanwhile, I have a new tutee. Tenth grade English. Glorious.

38 and Counting

In eight days we will be leaving for our beach trip. We made mention of this at dinner tonight, specifically the need to pack everyone's belongings and hopefully not wait until the night before. Heath excused himself from the table, returned shortly there after, announcing that his stuff is ready for the beach.

I got my swim suit, t-shirts, shorts, pants, pajamas, a few winter things, and socks all packed, he said. I could tell even he was pleased with his own independence and initiative. Then he added, with the head shake of a weary older man, It's gonna take a lot of bags to pack all my stuff up.

That last sentence, along with the vague a few winter things, tipped me off that I had better go take a look at his packing job sooner than later. He was right. It was going to take a lot of bags to pack all the clothes he planned to take as he had simply dragged every last piece of clothing out of his three drawer dresser and dumped it in a pile in the middle of his bedroom.

He was trying to be helpful, and was even generous during the process. His old Thomas the Train swim trunks had been tossed into Stella's room. He had deemed them too small and thought she could wear them. She was thrilled and squealed, Pack this, and dumped it back in his "for the beach" mound.

I'll pack her Aqua polka-dot bikini, too. Just in case.

Oh Garmin, My Garmin

My Garmin Forerunner 110 is charging. That's right. My Garmin. I am now one of those people.

It kind of slipped my mind that this Wednesday marks the day that I came into the world, so when Mark walked into the house this evening carrying a package from Amazon.com, I not only had no idea who it was for, but nary a clue what was in the box.

Heath, however, had many ideas about the whose and the whats of the package. He was quite certain the package was for him. He was also quite certain that it was a race car. Because, well, he doesn't have enough of those.

Mark told him it was for me, and it finally dawned on me that it could very well have something to do with my birthday. When I expressed this wondering aloud, Heath scrunched his mouth, perplexed. I could see the bubble thought: Mommy's do not have birthdays.

But I do. And it was a birthday package for me from my brother and nephews in San Diego. A Garmin Forerunner 110. A most pleasant and welcome surprise.

I can hardly wait to take it for a spin tomorrow. I'll be the first person in Garmin history to watch my running pace plummet over the course of the next few months.

Trails, Tennis, and a Little Anger Management

After a week of daydreamy thoughts of running the trails in San Diego,and grumpily grumping through each day, resentfully running on a treadmill, Mark suggested I head out for a trail run at some point, any point, for the love of God, please, go for a run on a trail, somewhere, anywhere this weekend.

The deliberation was short and I agreed, and even managed to turn the deal into a family affair. If we went out to Colonel Francis Beatty Park, I could run the 5.75 loop, while Mark and the kids batted around some tennis balls on the court. (Tennis has become a growing obsession of Heath's. He's got himself a pretty decent left-handed swing that frequently makes contact with the ball. And when it doesn't, he flings the racket to the ground, then collapses in a heap of unbridled frustration.) And I could get a feel for the trail without having a preoccupation of pregnant running vulnerability.

The last time I ran the Beatty trails just so happened to be the day before I found out about baby #3. That particular day I ran the 5.75 miles loop times 4. I concluded the run feeling good, time restraints preventing me from taking off to make it 5 times, and ultimately taking Mark's words uttered the previous day to heart. "You're totally ready for a marathon." I was ready. Vaguely tired, but isn't everyone who has been running that much. The next day, moments before registering for the Charleston Marathon (maybe next year), we discovered the exact cause of my fatigue.

So, today, I hopped on the trail, sporting my new (and now favorite!) Running Skirts maternity tank, ready to be thrilled with making it one time around the loop. The day already promising to be warm and sunny, I was not alone out there. Other runners. Folks on bikes. Dogs, of the leashed and unleashed variety, all trampled across the perfectly dry and not too terribly rooty course. Beatty was a good move on my part--not too hilly. No surprising dips that would take incredible leaps. I found an easy pace and cruised right along, jumping out of the way when a whizzing bike, or unruly pup, approached.

Once again, I missed the one hour cut off, by only a few minutes though. I saw my OB on Tuesday and confessed my lingering a bit over that mark. You're fine, she reassured. She repeats this phrase to me a lot. You're fine.

I expected to find the kids and Mark on the courts after I wrapped up my run. The courts were full, but no one under 5 feet tall was playing. Then I heard familiar hooting and hollering off in the nearby woods. It seems they got on the trails, too, and were thrilled to show me their treasures: a tennis ball with a red number and a dirtied, yellow golf ball.

We worked on Heath's frustration today, Mark announced.

Heath smiled, pleased with the day's lesson, I supposed. He then showed me the edge of the tennis racket, void of red paint, revealing the silver innards of the racket, complete with zillions of scratch marks. You smack it like this, he demonstrated a major whacking in the air.

I won the game, he added, then took off running for the playground.

ReLAX, You're Allowed to Hit with that Stick

My eight year old nephew is number one in Lacrosse. I'm not just saying that because I'm a doting Auntie. He's really #1. It says so on the back of his Lacrosse uniform.

In addition to traipsing around on trails while I was visiting SoCal, I also had the opportunity to see him in action at both a practice and an actual game. Lacrosse seems to be a little boy's dream come true. The years of "Keep your hands to yourself," and "We don't hit with sticks," and "That's his ball, you'll have to ask for a turn," are squashed to oblivion, and there's nothing left to do but dig your way out of a scrum, smack your stick on your opponent's helmet or stick, and steal that ball! Smacking the heck out of some kid's stick.

Not only could I keep up with his whereabouts thanks to his lucky number one, I could always spot the rasta socks. One love, indeed.

According to the scoreboard, his team didn't actually win the game. But he couldn't have cared less. He was mostly impressed with how sweaty he was when it was all said and done. And I was just happy to be the doting Auntie taking an overabundance of pictures of her nephew playing his heart out. He IS number one, after all.

Happy Trails...

It took crossing the country, flying over 2000 miles to get myself back on the trails. Excessive? I don't care. After a few months of sticking to the treadmill lest I barf and/or pee my way through a queasy first trimester run, it was well worth the trip to get back where my running feet happily belong.

I found myself in San Diego on a crisp, clear, and sunny 60 degree Wednesday afternoon, after a flight from Charlotte, lengthy enough to start, finish, and thoroughly enjoy a collection of short stories by a woman straight outta Greensboro, Jane Borden, I Totally Meant to Do That. Having begun my day at 5am, then crossing multiple states and time zones, I was most definitely tired, but more than that my burgeoning baby belly was sore from sitting in the tiny, cramped plane seat. With the gift of three extra hours in my day, I decided to begin my visit in San Diego with a little neighborhood run.

I easily found the bike trails by my brother's house, and was already feeling better as the Southern California sun beat down on my face, the kinks in my body cracking their way out of my system. Quickly down the path that was currently free of all bikes, I found that I was alone, unless I counted the multiple jack rabbits that would scamper across the paved road. And just as quickly I came to a clearing on the left of the path. A small, brown sign post read, Trail. I thought, You see a sign that says trail, you run it, don't you?

I did. Run it.

I was five steps in and a sudden light, airy feeling fell over me. The weight of whatever world of care I've been carrying melted off my skin. I'm not kidding. I almost wept. Oh, how I've missed this kind of running. This kind of dirt beneath my feet, rocks skipping across my path running. Just as tears sprang to my eyes (seriously, I'm not kidding), I saw this...

That's the ocean in the distance. In the picture, it seems a bit faint, but in person, it was right there. I was grateful to have not only brought my phone with me, but it just so happens I finally joined the 21st century three days earlier and upgraded to a phone with a camera.

And I kept running. Blissfully, silly grin spread across my face, running. I did stop after an hour; my OB's max for me. Of course, the second day that I was there I happened to notice the two warning signs: Rattlesnakes and Mountain Lions. I considered the headlines: Pregnant Woman Mauled by Mountain Lion. Rattlesnake Jumps on Pregnant Woman's Back. North Carolina Tourist Attacked by Mountain Lion and Rattlesnake at the Same Time, Oh, and She was Pregnant.

But I went back to the trails every day that I was there, running and grinning like a fool. (Occasionally looking behind me, making sure a rattler or rabid mountain lion wasn't ready to pounce. Or bite. Or strangle.) Obeying doctor's orders and cutting myself off at 1 hour.

Okay, maybe it was 1 hour and three minutes that one day. Okay, four minutes.

As Dale Evans Rogers sang, It's the way you ride the trail that counts. Here's a happy one for you.

Jumpy the Bah-lumpy Squirrel

Our backyard is a woodland creature's haven with its plentiful Oak trees loaded with acorn-lined branches to scurry, climb, and pounce to one's tiny, furry delight. If it's not a squirrel, it's a chipmunk; if it's not a chipmunk, it's an opossum; and well, if it's not an opossum, it's some meandering neighbor's kitty cat. They come and go as they please; our backyard is truly their home away from home.

It became abundantly clear to me today that it isn't just the rolling, green hill and perennial woody plant playground that calls so many four-legged creatures to come a'calling. It's also our deck. And it's so much more than an outdoor wooden floor attached to the back of our house. It's a trough. A three-squares a day, plus snacks, dining apparatus for every Jumpy Squirrel on Whistlestop Road.

I've known for quite some time that the animals come scampering throughout the day to see what edible treat has befallen their tracks. The kitchen door opens to the deck, and when Heath and Stella don't finish a pancake, the scraps are thrown on the deck. Heath's crustless sandwiches, where do the crust pieces go? Tossed to the deck. Stella dumps a bowl of goldfish crackers on the floor and insists they are Too doity to finish consuming? Open door, cheesey, carp-like wafers go flying. The kids even know the drill. For Jumpy, they matter-of-factly explain, while hurtling a plate of last bites of grapes or ham or muffin out the door.

This morning both kids were interested in having a bowl of Special K Red Berries for breakfast. This is the second day in a row they have made such a request, and have been thoroughly enjoying the rice cereal crunch/dried strawberries combo. They particularly like when the milk begins to take on a pink berry haze, then suck down the fruity liquid with much gusto. And after they down the first bowl, they plead for one more. For two mornings, leftovers have been non-existent.

When I finally got around to making Heath's lunch for school, it was slightly later than usual. I hurriedly cut the crusts for his PB&J, briskly moved to the backdoor to absentmindedly toss the wheat bits to the deck. As I opened the door, raring back my arm to make the creature-snack throw, I was struck by the sight of a giant squirrel, standing in front of the back door, big-eyed, and apparently, very, very hungry.

He didn't move. I didn't move. We were both frozen, eyes locked. I do not want to claim to be any type of Squirrel Whisperer, but the truth is, we had a moment. A telepathic conversation between one woman, running late to take her preschooler to school, still in her pajamas, and one squirrel who has grown so accustomed to his timely meals, he has not only put on more than a few pounds, he has now become impatient, and somewhat demanding.

I let him tell me what he thought of my lack of breakfast fringe the last two days, and I acquiesced by slowly dropping the crusts on the bottom step. He waited until I closed the door to pick up his meal. After lumbering his way to the bread, he picked up the snack and fervently nibbled away. I watched him through the glass, while he held the pieces between both hands, never dropping his gaze from mine. Just as I considered grabbing the camera, both Heath and Stella came pounding over to the door.

Jumpy, they screamed in unison.

And of course, Jumpy waddled away, taking every last crumb with him. The kids lost interest and I tried to get them into the task of getting shoes on, something that can take anywhere between two and twenty minutes. As I was desperately trying to get Stella to shove her little foot into a shoe, I peeked out the door and saw Jumpy sitting on the deck ledge. He caught my stare. I'm pretty sure his eyes were saying, Thank you for the appetizer. Lunch will be served at 11:30. And it better be good, lady.

Dumpster Diving Daddy

Daddy is currently back in the business of dealing with dumpsters all day long, which means we have been treated to a number of his treasures. It seems precious metals are in abundance at the bottom of those green or black giant trash cans on the back of those trucks often seen rumbling down the streets of Charlotte.

If you find copper, aluminum, or brass, you can take it to a fella on Tryon Street (incidentally the same spot a double murder occurred last night, but anyhoo...) who exchanges this particular dumpster booty for some cash. The Ropkos have enjoyed this newfound source of income. Groceries, Lupie's take-out, a frivilous, guilt-free cup of Starbucks coffee. The fun is endless.

But the latest, and in the kid's opinion, most important, dumpster find of all came in the form of a blue, cheeky Ropko household icon. Thomas the Train. And not just any Thomas the Train. A ride-on Thomas the Train.

It's actually an item already inhabiting our backyard; inherited from our dear old neighbors who moved to Dallas last spring. But as of late, duplicating items, particularly ones that are beloved by both children, is never an unwelcome idea. Our faded Thomas push/ride-on toy has been argued and fought over to the point of nearly being chucked in the garbage by this mommy. There, I frequently imagined myself saying, while tossing Thomas in our green recycling bin. After all, it is plastic. I'll throw this bleeping thing in the garbage. That'll end that insanity.

But daddy saved the day and found a rather pristine looking train of Sodor Island in a dumpster, and rather than adding to the clogged Never-Neverland of one of Charlotte's landfills, he brought him home to his cheering and clapping and woo-hooing children.


This has less to do with dumpster treats and more to do with enjoying Heath's stance in this photo.

Ah, our new Thomas. One man's trash is another man's ride-on/push toy that provides hours of backyard entertainment.

Back and forth she goes, when she'll stop? Whenever her big brother decides it's his turn and knocks her out of the way. Because, well, this one IS newer than the old one, and therefore, better.

Updates Addendum

It seems that one of the big deals in my newsworthy and noteworthy topics slipped the cracks. Actually, I'm not so sure it slipped through the cracks so much as I have been in complete denial about the situation. The good side of the news is: Trail Pal and family have relocated to Seattle, an incredible city, if I say so myself. The bad side: I lost my Trail Pal. The lady who taught me about running skirts and the beauty of trail running and night running and how it's actually a really, really good idea to stay hydrated while running.

When I am back on the night trail running circuit, who will be nutty enough to lamp-up and hit the trails for 10 miles on a Friday night? Who is going to suffer through the scorching, blazing days of summer with me at our pool? Who, oh who, will brave the topsy-turvy, possibly loaded with bears 10K trail in Laurel Springs?

No, Trail Pal will never be replaced. After all, I doubt I'll ever encounter another British woman who likes to run and has two children the same age as Heath and Stella. She (and her two cuties) will be terribly missed. (I'm already thinking a trail race in Washington State next summer sounds like a mighty good time.)

Meanwhile, I am off to San Diego on Wednesday to visit my dear brother and nephews. A second trimester hurrah, if you will. I will be gone for five days. The longest I've been away from the children, ever. I'm teary just thinking about it. (And maybe a little gleeful when I think about the reading I plan to do. I need some book suggestions.)

Updates

One child down for a nap, and another down for watching Wild Kratts and eating crackers, seems like a good time to catch up on the ole blog. Evening scribblings about our day just aren't working out. Seems I would rather watch terrible television programming and fall asleep before 10pm.

We started the week off with a Good News follow-up visit to Stella's surgeon. No new infected nodes, no need for meds, and no need to check back in for six months. Woo-hoo, indeed.

I was also fortunate enough to be signed up for Cooking Volunteer in Heath's class on Tuesday. We "cooked" egg salad. I was uncertain as to whether or not it would be a hit, eating wise, but was positive it would be a great joy watching the kids smash and peel the shell off the egg, mix in their choice of mayonnaise or mustard, then take their pick of dipping it with crackers, or spreading it onto a slice of bread.

In some cases, peeling the shell off the egg and placing it into the compost coffee can was perhaps too laborious, so they simply mixed their egg, mayonnaise, AND shell. Crunchy, they noted, but managed to consume most of their eggshell salad on whole wheat bread. Others were not interested in mayonnaise, but chose mustard alone. I like the color, they explained. These mustard-folks were not as pleased with the flavor of their concoction and pretty much stuck to eating crackers with nothing. A few wanted spoons of mayonnaise, minus the kick of mustard, and happily dipped crackers into their yellowish spread. Heath, like he does at home, chose mayo and mustard, but wanted nothing to do with bread or crackers. He also managed to do the same thing when he got home with the four leftover eggs.

The same day as Project Egg Salad, we were notified of our class placements for school next year. I have not given up hope that Heath will get pulled in off the wait list for one of the public Montessori schools, but it's nice to know he has a spot at his current school. And Stella will be joining the school as well next year, and not a moment too soon. Our exit each day at drop-off has become noisier, as it seems she would much rather stay and be part of the excitement.

When we enter Heath's class, Stella immediately takes off her jacket and shoes, as if to say, I'm not going anywhere, anytime soon. She then makes her rounds to each station of activity. She writes. She reads. She plays in the kitchen. She snuggles with her favorite stuffed dog in the reading corner. She paints. She cuts clay. She washes hands. She paints again. She washes hands again. She runs away from me when I tell her "last minute." She gives Heath a kiss good-bye. She fakes me out by making me think she's ready to go. She runs into the 3s class. She makes her rounds at their activity station. (I apologize to the teachers profusely, then shuffle her out.) She escapes into the Full Day class. (I apologize to those teachers, then shuffle her out.) And lastly, I scoop her and her full-on blood-curdling wails up and race out to the car.

Meanwhile, I have moved onto maternity underpants and, coincidentally?, am feeling slightly less cranky. I suppose it is the little things. Or in this case, the slightly roomier things.

Carhead

Before I could be insulted by a woman in a store today asking me if I am having twins, she quickly explained that Heath told her I was having two babies, and that they will be named Daniel and Stella. I was somewhat relieved that she wasn't making a gut comment, and mostly thrilled to know that Heath has moved on from his original name idea: Carhead.

By the time Friday rolls around these days, I feel like it's been two weeks, not one. Hallelujah for Daddy-kiddie time and a Sunday date night in the books.

Winning. (Everyone Else is Saying It.)

I have tried to post yesterday's blog a billion times. For some reason, it won't let me. It's only taken me ten days, I think, to get back to blogging. Once again, I am way off the beam.

I suppose it must be this baby in my belly that has me drawn to do other things. For a couple of months it had me drawn to the bathroom. The smell of coffee or the kids soap was enough to turn me an even more horrible shade of green than I already was--24/7 nausea. It was like having the stomach flu, all day, every day, for weeks, no months, at a time.

It passed. Phew.

My much-needed, much-anticipated mommy's night away in Columbia with my ole BFF started as magically as one might hope. Turns out our Inn was right in the hub of Gamecock collegiate frivolity. We lunched at a hip coffee/cafe, complained about the high price of a sandwich, after all, we were the oldest people in the joint, and elderly folk complain about such things, right? We checked into our room at the Inn and promptly checked into our pajama pants. We did manage to make it back out into the world ever-so-briefly for a trip to the Food Lion, conveniently located behind the Inn. We treated ourselves to two pints of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia, kept cold in our loaded with ice from the Inn ice machine sink.

A local Chinese restaurant was kind enough to let us stay in our pajama pants for the rest of the evening. They delivered two obscenely large helpings of Bean Curd Family Style and soup. It was heavy on the ginger and garlic. In other words, it was perfect, especially while being consumed on two giant Queen sized beds and no one asking us to get up and get a single thing. No one complaining or screeching or bickering. Nothing. Well, not nothing. We did have endless episodes of Toddlers and Tiaras, Sex and the City, and Say Yes! to the Dress. It was perfect. Almost perfect.

Around 1:30am, I woke up cold. Then hot. Then freezing. And the aching. Bone-crushing aching. And the headache. And the cough. I knew what it was. I've had it before, but I was having a mom's night away. I was just out of the first trimester misery. I. WAS. NOT. SICK. AND IT WAS NOT NOT NOT the F-L-U.

So I drifted in and out of nightmares only to find myself awakened by what was not a bad dream about being twenty years old and drunk as a skunk in a hotel room, but was actually a group of KIDS next door, drunk as skunks, smoking like chimneys, and hooting and hollering like they were NOT in an Inn, and certainly not next door to two moms who just wanted twenty-fours of PEACE and QUIET.

We immediately went into what's that racket?/kids these days mode. It took multiple visits from the front desk and one final visit from a police officer to get them to do what most people really need to do at 3:30am--Go to Bed.

The following day is an unfortunate blur. I do remember the lovely in-room continental breakfast of coffee, bagels, and yogurt parfaits, but the rest of it is nothing more than a hazy, sickened trip home. I don't even remember the drive. All I know is it was official shortly after I got home: I was sick, and it was the flu.

It passed. Phew.

Baby Belly

You still got that for a baby in your belly? Heath immediately inquired upon waking this morning.

Yes, I assured him. Yes, I do.

And I went on to remind him that the baby would stay in my belly until August. I'd expressed this fact last night when we officially broke the news, but I don't think cooking-time has really sunk in. As a matter of fact, he was more interested in running off to tell Stella.

Stella, there's a baby in mama's belly, a baby just like you, and you'll get to play with it all the time, he exclaimed. His enthusiasm was contagious as Stella immediately began cheering and chanting, baby in mama's belly.

Heath placed his order for a baby brother, and Stella made her request for a baby sister. We will all find out together in August.

In the meantime, Mark and I are going to continue to adjust to the idea that come August, boy or girl, the adults will be totally and completely outnumbered.

Almost Here

The advantage of no one taking a nap today: everyone is in their separate quarters by 7:30 with nary a complaint. Now Mark and I are going to make one last attempt at watching American History X. If it doesn't happen, I'll be sticking that thing back in the good ole red Netflix envelope and sending it back.

The BFF and I have a mommy's night away planned for Saturday night. I can hardly wait to watch cable, eat chinese food delivered to our room at the inn, and miss my children. When I found myself in a public restroom at the park on Monday, desperately trying to change Stella's diaper while she was standing up, her limbs flailing wildly in protest, screaming, My penis, my penis, that phrase echoing through the cement block of a lavatory, I was comforted by the fact that I had this little getaway planned.

And not a moment too soon.

Studio 8H

Just as I suspected, no one stayed awake long enough to watch American History X last night. As a matter of fact, I woke up around midnight, the television still on, some SNL skit with Andy Samberg and Paul Rudd was playing. Something about Tumbling, or Tumbelina, or something. I haven't taken then time to investigate what we missed. Now we're deciding if Sunday evening at nearly 9pm is the right time to get into such seriousness as X. So far, Seinfeld is winning.

Stella went to her first "without Heath" birthday party today. Her friends, twin boys, turned the big 3, and celebrated at My Gym, a personal favorite when it comes to birthday party venues. It didn't take long to detach her from my hip, and she found her place in the ball pit. Head-to-toe, completely buried in brightly colored balls. She kicked her feet, made the occasional taboo toss of the ball out of the pit, and reburied herself in an ocean of smooth, circular plastic.

Eventually the party made its way to the "cake room," and indulged in pizza, Fire Truck cake, and juice boxes. During storytime tonight, I asked her if she had fun at the party. An ear to ear grin spread across her face and she said, Lummy, then smacked her lips.

President's Day tomorrow, no preschool. Just as Stella was going to bed, Heath popped his head in her room and said, Don't forget, park tomorrow. 70 again in February. How could I forget?

Hmmm...That 70s Show...looks like Mark and I will be watching someone get curbed tonight.

Wait a second, SNL Backstage. We have a winner.

10:35 on a Saturday Night

The weather has been perfect for park visits. Yesterday was my turn to take the kiddies to Princeton Park. 70 in February--we were not alone in thinking this was the place to be. Today was Mark's turn. They doubled-up the fun by frequenting both the outdoor Chick-Fil-A playground and a neighborhood park close to our house. By the time they got home, they were starving for lunch and ready for an afternoon snooze.

If that wasn't fun enough, Papa and HeHe took them out for dinner and ice cream, then brought them back home for bathtime and bed. Mark and I had a lovely date night. Cantina 1511 for dinner, then a visit to the Presbyterian Maternity ward to see our friend's twin boys. Sleepy babies with little fingers and fuzzy heads. I tried not to hog up all the new baby smell. So sweet.

Almost as sweet as coming home to a house full of quiet, Heath and Stella fast asleep. Now we're settled in bed with some ice cream and American History X. That is, if I can stay awake. I feel a night-night snooze coming on.

My Funny Valentine(s)

I started the day off with telling two of my favorite loves, Happy Valentine's Day. I officially got around to asking them to declare their love while they were eating breakfast. Stella responded, More 'ogurt, please. Then I asked Heath if he would be my Valentine. He initially said, No, then managed to have an unprompted change of heart, and gave me a rather unenthusiastic and loaded with burden, Okay.

But I already knew I was pressing my luck with those two. Lately it seems Heath has much love for one particular person. It started yesterday, running in the glorious sunshine, when the topic of our Holden Beach trip came up. We all expressed our anxious desire to get that date, ASAP. And later in the day, Heath expressed his desire to have a certain sleeping arrangement during our HB time. I want to sleep beside Stella, really close, because I love her so much.

And even later in the day, when it was bathtime, in usual fashion, Heath ran as far away from the tub as possible, claiming he would get in when Stella was finished, and Stella stood by the tub, alternating between throwing toys in the warm, sudsy water, and taking her clothes off. Just as I was making my way to do the actual body cleaning portion of bathtime, it seemed Heath beat me to the punch. He was kneeling by the edge of the tub, giving Stella a bath.

Now, let's put shampoo on your head, he said calmly, and Stella calmly let him rub soap all over her head. Now, I'm going to dump water on your head to rinse it out. I'll do it five times. One, two, three, hold your hands over your eyes like I do, Stella, four, five.

And she let him. Dump water. On her head. Five times. Without a peep. And not just without a peep, but a sweet smile on her face. When I dare to mention rinsing the shampoo out of her hair, I am met with screeches that can be heard across our backyard.

His next course of action was to wash her face. He put a small amount of body wash on the cloth, then began to run gentle circles about her face, neck, shoulders, belly. Again, not a single protest.
Here, you're all finished, Stella. I'll help you out and I'll get in.

A without-fuss bathtime. Those don't happen here everyday. After he completed his own bath, Heath came into Stella's room and complimented her on her flowery footie pajamas. Cute, he called them. Then he gave her another hug, because I love her so much, he explained.

Of course, when she knocked over his expertly lined-up series of trains across the living room floor this morning, I assure you he gave her a good shout and shove. I guess he figures it's good to keep your Valentine on their toes.

The Sand Box 2011

I just saw 58 degrees and sunny on Tuesday the 15th. I'm not sure I could be any more tired of the winter.

Which is why we made the decision to book our dear Holden Beach house for the week of Heath's Spring Break. A fun-filled week of sun (of course it's April, so...), sand (rain or shine, the kids can roam nature's sand box, pushing trucks to their heart's delight), and running on the flattest 5K beach sidewalk known to man. Oh, and that incredible ice cream joint in Southport. How many more days 'til we leave?

Heath woke me up last night at midnight inquiring about his bowl of grapes and milk. I'd been asleep for about an hour, needless to say, I was disoriented and had no idea what he was talking about. As I corralled him back to his bed, he further explained that daddy had given him grapes and milk just before he went to bed, woke up thirsty and hungry, and was surprised to find that what was leftover was no longer bedside. I told him I would be back with some water and grapes momentarily, but he needed to stay in bed, further pressing the point that it's the middle of the night.

As I rounded the corner of the steps into the kitchen, the downstairs (we have one of those rockin' 1969 split-levels) caught my eye. All the lights were on, and the guest bedroom door, momentarily housing Granny, was wide open. I carefully walked down the steps, mentally preparing myself for finding a bewildered lady.

Sure enough, Granny was walking circles around the playroom. I sort of gave her the same It's the Middle of the Night speech I'd just given Heath, but kept it short and sweet, while corralling her back into her room. She was out of her pajamas, fully dressed in day clothes, bed made, bags packed, and expressing thoughts that led me to believe her whereabouts were currently a source of confusion.

She mentioned Stratford Road, a street in Winston-Salem, and asked me did I drive up there tonight, and then said, I won't go back outside again, because I don't want to get lost. The word again was most jarring. I asked her if she'd been outside. She said, no, and I believed her because the backdoor had clearly been untouched and not unlocked.

I got her back in her pajamas, and back into bed, but was not certain she was any clearer on where she was and what she was doing when I found her. There was just something in her face. Confusion with a sad mix of trust. I could tell she genuinely knew who I was and was safe with that, but not much else.

Meanwhile, Heath was waiting for his grapes and water with surprising patience. He directed me to put them by his bed, then inquired about the original grapes and milk from earlier in the evening. Did you take those? he accused.

No, Daddy brought those to you.

Did he take them? he asked further.

I'm sure he thought you were finished.

You go tell him not to do that ever again, he instructed, then rolled over on his side, giving Puppy a hearty squeeze.

I'll be sure to pass the message along.