It's been a long time since I've spent as much time outside as we did today and not be totally and completely miserable. At one point, I swear I heard the crackling of my thawing body. (That was Sunday and 30 degrees ago.)
Well, that's as far as I got last night. My attention became divided when I found myself completely absorbed in Creating the Blue Man Group on PBS. The kids even joined me on the bed to watch a bit of it before night-night storytime. Stella really liked them, and kept their PVC-piping beat pretty well, referring to them as rock stars. I kept wishing we could pay WTVI $249 for a contribution and win two tickets (and Meet and Greet passes!) for their show here in April. But $249...I love PBS. But 249? Not today.
Heath was obviously intrigued with the Blue Man Group, although he reserved his verbal interest for this morning. The first thing out of his mouth when he woke up? The Blue Men came to visit in the middle of the night, a giant smile spread across his face. At four, I would've been terrified if three men dressed in black t-shirts, sweatpants, combat boots, and shiny, bright blue hands and faces came in my room to visit.
And that's as far as I got yesterday morning. I am off the blogging beam.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Mr. Magoo
Adjusting to the new laptop has been an ongoing struggle since it arrived in the mail. I've already mentioned my inability to print until we buy a new printer. My frustration with documents opening, well, not opening continues. But I'm also experiencing a lack of coordination with the keypad.
It seems the edge of my thumb has either grown, or the way my hand is placed on the pad it consistently hits a mysterious button that pretty much wipes away everything I typed. In the last week or so, the number of blogs that I have begun to only have it erased by my wayward thumb will make a person do what I did, stop blogging for a bit. This particular keypad is not for lazy hands such as mine. Turns out you actually have to hold your hands up and off the board and type lightly with your fingertips, as opposed to resting your weary digits and palms like tired, old mountain dogs on a hot summer afternoon.
When we were shopping for our new laptop, I found myself scrolling through the pages and clicking on a number of perfectly good laptops, but Mark's interest wasn't really peaked until I found the 17.3" screen.
I need a big screen, he commented, tapping on the picture with his finger. After the arrival of our newer and bigger television, this came as no surprise. But the need for a large-as-life look at social media has brought me to one interesting conclusion: Mark needs glasses. Desperately.
And it's not just the in your face screens that has led me to believe this to be true, but a combination of clues over the past couple of weeks, namely an incident that occurred during my Blogging Break. I'll call it, The Ear Infection Incident.
One afternoon, most definitely out of the blue, Stella began to wander around the house saying, Ear hurting. This phrase was accompanied by typical tugging, pulling, and pressing the ear in question into her beloved Beanky for comfort. For an hour it continued, and feeling so very sorry for her, I decided to call the pediatrician for advice and a possible appointment. They insisted she come in and told me to give her a dose of ibuprofen in the meantime. I did as I was instructed, put her down for a nap, and spent much of her snoozing time feeling like a turkey-lurkey for jumping to ear infection when it was more likely sinus pressure from a cold, and debated whether or not to cancel the appointment.
But nap time concluded with immediate whines of ear hurting, and the telltale tugging and pulling commenced. So I took her to our scheduled appointment. Yep, she's got herself an ear infection, was the final verdict. We returned home with our ten day supply of Amoxicillin and a renewed sense of trusting my instincts.
About an hour post-dinner and post-first dose of meds, Mark had the kiddies in the bathtub, while I hurriedly tried to get it together and get out the door to meet some friends. Just as I was reaching for my coat, Mark called from the bathroom. Uh, can you come look at this?
I've heard that come from Mark's lips a handful of times before. Uh, can you come look at this? It's a simple request, even given with a marked calmness. But the undertone says, Something bad has happened and I am pretending that it hasn't, for the children's sake, and so you and I can compose ourselves in order to deal with the disaster that has befallen us.
And so I've learned when I hear, Uh, can you come look at this?, it's best that I take a deep breath and know I am getting ready to see something that is going to require immediate medical attention, and I, too, better go into calm mode. So when I popped around the corner and found Stella standing in the tub, clawing at giant red welts all over her little body, I slowly respond, Oh, looks like she's having an allergic reaction to the medicine. I'll call the night duty nurse and see what she suggests.
Benadryl and an antibiotic that isn't in the Penicillin family was the suggestion.
When I returned from a fast trip to Walgreens with Benadryl (we'll never be without that again) and a new antibiotic, I handed it all over to Mark to measure doses. I checked on Stella who has fortunately found something else to do besides rip at her own flesh. I, then, decided measuring a teaspoon of Benadryl should never take that long, so I head back to the bathroom to find Mark standing by the light, holding the bottle of Benadryl and the measuring spoon at various distances from his face, trying to tap into just the right spacing that allows him to see. The time for inaccuracy was not at that moment, so I suggested he go check the kids and I could take care of the medicine doling.
Stella's great. Ear infection long gone, and now when someone asks, Is she allergic to anything that you're aware of?, the answer is yes. Penicillin. And it's really not a shocker. So is Mark. We still don't know about Heath. Knock wood, he's yet to have an antibiotic.
Now to just get Mark to have an eye exam. At least before our next computer. This one already runneth over my lap. I don't think I can accommodate anything bigger.
It seems the edge of my thumb has either grown, or the way my hand is placed on the pad it consistently hits a mysterious button that pretty much wipes away everything I typed. In the last week or so, the number of blogs that I have begun to only have it erased by my wayward thumb will make a person do what I did, stop blogging for a bit. This particular keypad is not for lazy hands such as mine. Turns out you actually have to hold your hands up and off the board and type lightly with your fingertips, as opposed to resting your weary digits and palms like tired, old mountain dogs on a hot summer afternoon.
When we were shopping for our new laptop, I found myself scrolling through the pages and clicking on a number of perfectly good laptops, but Mark's interest wasn't really peaked until I found the 17.3" screen.
I need a big screen, he commented, tapping on the picture with his finger. After the arrival of our newer and bigger television, this came as no surprise. But the need for a large-as-life look at social media has brought me to one interesting conclusion: Mark needs glasses. Desperately.
And it's not just the in your face screens that has led me to believe this to be true, but a combination of clues over the past couple of weeks, namely an incident that occurred during my Blogging Break. I'll call it, The Ear Infection Incident.
One afternoon, most definitely out of the blue, Stella began to wander around the house saying, Ear hurting. This phrase was accompanied by typical tugging, pulling, and pressing the ear in question into her beloved Beanky for comfort. For an hour it continued, and feeling so very sorry for her, I decided to call the pediatrician for advice and a possible appointment. They insisted she come in and told me to give her a dose of ibuprofen in the meantime. I did as I was instructed, put her down for a nap, and spent much of her snoozing time feeling like a turkey-lurkey for jumping to ear infection when it was more likely sinus pressure from a cold, and debated whether or not to cancel the appointment.
But nap time concluded with immediate whines of ear hurting, and the telltale tugging and pulling commenced. So I took her to our scheduled appointment. Yep, she's got herself an ear infection, was the final verdict. We returned home with our ten day supply of Amoxicillin and a renewed sense of trusting my instincts.
About an hour post-dinner and post-first dose of meds, Mark had the kiddies in the bathtub, while I hurriedly tried to get it together and get out the door to meet some friends. Just as I was reaching for my coat, Mark called from the bathroom. Uh, can you come look at this?
I've heard that come from Mark's lips a handful of times before. Uh, can you come look at this? It's a simple request, even given with a marked calmness. But the undertone says, Something bad has happened and I am pretending that it hasn't, for the children's sake, and so you and I can compose ourselves in order to deal with the disaster that has befallen us.
And so I've learned when I hear, Uh, can you come look at this?, it's best that I take a deep breath and know I am getting ready to see something that is going to require immediate medical attention, and I, too, better go into calm mode. So when I popped around the corner and found Stella standing in the tub, clawing at giant red welts all over her little body, I slowly respond, Oh, looks like she's having an allergic reaction to the medicine. I'll call the night duty nurse and see what she suggests.
Benadryl and an antibiotic that isn't in the Penicillin family was the suggestion.
When I returned from a fast trip to Walgreens with Benadryl (we'll never be without that again) and a new antibiotic, I handed it all over to Mark to measure doses. I checked on Stella who has fortunately found something else to do besides rip at her own flesh. I, then, decided measuring a teaspoon of Benadryl should never take that long, so I head back to the bathroom to find Mark standing by the light, holding the bottle of Benadryl and the measuring spoon at various distances from his face, trying to tap into just the right spacing that allows him to see. The time for inaccuracy was not at that moment, so I suggested he go check the kids and I could take care of the medicine doling.
Stella's great. Ear infection long gone, and now when someone asks, Is she allergic to anything that you're aware of?, the answer is yes. Penicillin. And it's really not a shocker. So is Mark. We still don't know about Heath. Knock wood, he's yet to have an antibiotic.
Now to just get Mark to have an eye exam. At least before our next computer. This one already runneth over my lap. I don't think I can accommodate anything bigger.
Friday, January 21, 2011
What Have You Been Doing?
Days. It's been days since I've blogged. My list of excuses is dozens deep, but the one I'm going to stick with revolves around computers. Crashing computers. Incurable computers. Shipped computers. Late computers. Savvy computers.
Much savvier than I am. It seems our printer is so old that our new laptop doesn't even recognize it. It has MSWord, but I get the feeling I need to actually purchase that to use it. Most documents are unattainable. Unless I create them. In WordPad. Or they are .docx or .rtf. OMG. WTW? LOL. AETSN. (That's Angry Enough To Spit Nails.)
One delightful byproduct of our Computer Crisis, after enlisting the help of our IT guy (if you don't have one, I highly recommend befriending someone in that position), is having some beloved pictures recovered that we deemed lost. Gone forever. Back when our other computer bit the dust nearly three years ago.
Pictures of our first year or so with Heath. From in the belly to his first birthday bash. Apparently I had nothing but time on my hands to sit around and take pictures of him on our bed. The sheer volume of him in this location, in a variety of outfits, is stunning.
It's been an interesting trip down memory lane. Heath is pretty much the same as he was when he was an infant. Loud. Active. With an aura of one who has been around much longer than his actual years would indicate. And irresistibly cute.
Roughly three hours old. The smell of that head. Oh my.
Roughly three months old. On the bed.
Much savvier than I am. It seems our printer is so old that our new laptop doesn't even recognize it. It has MSWord, but I get the feeling I need to actually purchase that to use it. Most documents are unattainable. Unless I create them. In WordPad. Or they are .docx or .rtf. OMG. WTW? LOL. AETSN. (That's Angry Enough To Spit Nails.)
One delightful byproduct of our Computer Crisis, after enlisting the help of our IT guy (if you don't have one, I highly recommend befriending someone in that position), is having some beloved pictures recovered that we deemed lost. Gone forever. Back when our other computer bit the dust nearly three years ago.
Pictures of our first year or so with Heath. From in the belly to his first birthday bash. Apparently I had nothing but time on my hands to sit around and take pictures of him on our bed. The sheer volume of him in this location, in a variety of outfits, is stunning.
It's been an interesting trip down memory lane. Heath is pretty much the same as he was when he was an infant. Loud. Active. With an aura of one who has been around much longer than his actual years would indicate. And irresistibly cute.
Roughly three hours old. The smell of that head. Oh my.
Roughly three months old. On the bed.Now imagine 8,000 more pictures similar to this one.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Dead Laptops and Dreadmills
Finally getting around to doing this and I notice I have 11 minutes left on being plugged-in free. I could go to my desk and plug it in. Seems like an awful lot of work. Think I'll just type fast.
I've been computerless for well over 48 hours now. My laptop, already on its last leg, was killed by a tiny person in the house. Pushing (with exaggerated fervor) the on-off button repeatedly seems harmless enough. It isn't. If your laptop is ready to kick the bucket, it's the kick that will put an end to all email. Facebook. Blogging. Uploading pictures. Contact with the outside world when you're stuck inside due to never-melting sheets of ice that surround most of your out of doors.
I went on the hunt for a new laptop yesterday. I struck out in the technology department, but hit gold at the mall. There is an excellent, nearly sequestered, escape-less play section just outside Sears. The kids got to play around for a bit, while I tried to talk myself in and out of buying a treadmill at Sears. Fortunately for our pocketbooks, a friend appeared out of nowhere with her two kiddies, ---
Oops. That 11 minutes left of battery went quickly. And two days later I am getting back to this.
We ordered a new laptop online last night. (Mark brought his work laptop home for the weekend.) It will be here Wednesday. I am considering putting an alarm on it that rings when anyone under 5 feet tall comes within ten feet of it.
Mark will be returning home soon with a treadmill. No, I didn't crack under the pressure and buy one. Turns out Papa and HeHe have one collecting dust in their storage building.
Ice all you want, we will never be without running access ever, ever again.
I've been computerless for well over 48 hours now. My laptop, already on its last leg, was killed by a tiny person in the house. Pushing (with exaggerated fervor) the on-off button repeatedly seems harmless enough. It isn't. If your laptop is ready to kick the bucket, it's the kick that will put an end to all email. Facebook. Blogging. Uploading pictures. Contact with the outside world when you're stuck inside due to never-melting sheets of ice that surround most of your out of doors.
I went on the hunt for a new laptop yesterday. I struck out in the technology department, but hit gold at the mall. There is an excellent, nearly sequestered, escape-less play section just outside Sears. The kids got to play around for a bit, while I tried to talk myself in and out of buying a treadmill at Sears. Fortunately for our pocketbooks, a friend appeared out of nowhere with her two kiddies, ---
Oops. That 11 minutes left of battery went quickly. And two days later I am getting back to this.
We ordered a new laptop online last night. (Mark brought his work laptop home for the weekend.) It will be here Wednesday. I am considering putting an alarm on it that rings when anyone under 5 feet tall comes within ten feet of it.
Mark will be returning home soon with a treadmill. No, I didn't crack under the pressure and buy one. Turns out Papa and HeHe have one collecting dust in their storage building.
Ice all you want, we will never be without running access ever, ever again.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Day After the Snowy Day (Layered with Ice)
Early morning patchy freezing rain. That's the forecast for tomorrow. Oh good. That's just what we need. (If you detect sarcasm in my voice, that's because it's there.)
Yesterday was a perfect day. Today, with a solid sheet of ice on our driveway, street, and sidewalks, perfect doesn't exactly fit the description. There was a point in the the early afternoon when I considered testing the streets for a little run. Then an ambulance carefully travelled by our house. A sledding accident on the hill down the street. Needless to say, I stayed in.
When Heath and Mark weren't outside shoveling the driveway and back patio, they were inside playing Ambulance. Heath was the patient. Broken leg. Race car accident. Going too, too fast. Stella was the nurse. She would give him pain medication, then pop a few herself. I was the ambulance driver/doctor/insurance handler.
Every time we arrived at Presbyterian Downtown/Holden Beach/Huntersville/Other Downtown, Heath would explain that his insurance only worked at this particular hospital if it was a belly issue. So, we would climb back into the ambulance (sofa) and begin again the search for a facility that would take a dear, poor broken leg victim with unusual health insurance stipulations. Broken in five, sometimes six, places. My scarf made for a very useful cast.
It was fun. The first time. Heck, even by our tenth trip to the ER, it still had some charm to it. But the twentieth?
I think I'm going to spend the next few hours fashioning some nails to the bottom of our shoes. We WILL be leaving this house tomorrow.
Yesterday was a perfect day. Today, with a solid sheet of ice on our driveway, street, and sidewalks, perfect doesn't exactly fit the description. There was a point in the the early afternoon when I considered testing the streets for a little run. Then an ambulance carefully travelled by our house. A sledding accident on the hill down the street. Needless to say, I stayed in.
When Heath and Mark weren't outside shoveling the driveway and back patio, they were inside playing Ambulance. Heath was the patient. Broken leg. Race car accident. Going too, too fast. Stella was the nurse. She would give him pain medication, then pop a few herself. I was the ambulance driver/doctor/insurance handler.
Every time we arrived at Presbyterian Downtown/Holden Beach/Huntersville/Other Downtown, Heath would explain that his insurance only worked at this particular hospital if it was a belly issue. So, we would climb back into the ambulance (sofa) and begin again the search for a facility that would take a dear, poor broken leg victim with unusual health insurance stipulations. Broken in five, sometimes six, places. My scarf made for a very useful cast.
It was fun. The first time. Heck, even by our tenth trip to the ER, it still had some charm to it. But the twentieth?
I think I'm going to spend the next few hours fashioning some nails to the bottom of our shoes. We WILL be leaving this house tomorrow.
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Snowy Day
Glad I bypassed my need to complain about a fast weekend. The Weekend Gods have granted us two additional days. How very nice of them.
Heath and Stella were out in the snow before they were even out of their pajamas today. They were far too content to play to the point of red chilly noses and frozen hands, there was no way I was going to be the bearer of bad news and see if they would want to load up in the jogging stroller and head out for a snowy run. And I found myself perfectly content to sit at the kitchen table, in my pajamas, with a cup of hot coffee, watching them enjoy themselves.
Mark eventually joined them for snowball fun and a neighborhood walk. I told them I would get dressed and be out shortly. Shortly turned into getting out the griddle and trying my hand at some French Toast while Mark took Stella for a run. She was delighted to go, and Heath was happy to warm up his bones and eat syrup-smothered toast.
I think I said something about going outside to make a snowman, but that somehow turned into everyone taking snowy weather coma naps. At 5 o'clock, still in my pajamas, I decided the least I could do is go get the mail from our box at the end of the driveway. Dressed in pjs and trail running shoes, I was met halfway down the driveway by Mark, who had a handful of envelopes. He'd beaten me to the mailbox.
The air was so crisp. And it smelled so perfectly clean, I found myself tearful that I had not been able to get all the way to the mailbox. All I needed was some fresh air, I complained.
Then it occurred to me that I already had the appropriate shoes on; I was practically fully garbed for a run. So I went back in the house, got completely run-ready, and headed out for a much needed, perfect, snowy run. When I got back home, Mark and the kids were heading into the backyard for some nighttime sledding.
Heath wasn't satisfied with a simple downhill course. He asked Mark to set-up various push toys and pool noodles to crash into. If he missed the obstacle, he had to do it all over again. If he hit the obstacle, he shouted a sincere scream of delight, and still wanted to do it all over again.
Preschool is closed tomorrow. Another snowy day. Well, icy day. Either way, I've got a package of Buckwheat Pancakes with the Ropkos name all over it.
Heath and Stella were out in the snow before they were even out of their pajamas today. They were far too content to play to the point of red chilly noses and frozen hands, there was no way I was going to be the bearer of bad news and see if they would want to load up in the jogging stroller and head out for a snowy run. And I found myself perfectly content to sit at the kitchen table, in my pajamas, with a cup of hot coffee, watching them enjoy themselves.
Mark eventually joined them for snowball fun and a neighborhood walk. I told them I would get dressed and be out shortly. Shortly turned into getting out the griddle and trying my hand at some French Toast while Mark took Stella for a run. She was delighted to go, and Heath was happy to warm up his bones and eat syrup-smothered toast.
I think I said something about going outside to make a snowman, but that somehow turned into everyone taking snowy weather coma naps. At 5 o'clock, still in my pajamas, I decided the least I could do is go get the mail from our box at the end of the driveway. Dressed in pjs and trail running shoes, I was met halfway down the driveway by Mark, who had a handful of envelopes. He'd beaten me to the mailbox.
The air was so crisp. And it smelled so perfectly clean, I found myself tearful that I had not been able to get all the way to the mailbox. All I needed was some fresh air, I complained.
Then it occurred to me that I already had the appropriate shoes on; I was practically fully garbed for a run. So I went back in the house, got completely run-ready, and headed out for a much needed, perfect, snowy run. When I got back home, Mark and the kids were heading into the backyard for some nighttime sledding.
Heath wasn't satisfied with a simple downhill course. He asked Mark to set-up various push toys and pool noodles to crash into. If he missed the obstacle, he had to do it all over again. If he hit the obstacle, he shouted a sincere scream of delight, and still wanted to do it all over again.
Preschool is closed tomorrow. Another snowy day. Well, icy day. Either way, I've got a package of Buckwheat Pancakes with the Ropkos name all over it.
Friday, January 7, 2011
O Poor, Poor Tannenbaum
Upon awakening, Heath groggily declared, I'm going to watch TV all day. Sound like a plan?
I take it his week back at preschool was an exhausting one. Lounging in our pajamas all morning long wasn't such a bad way to start a Friday. I broke out our new griddle again and whipped up some buttermilk pancakes and puttered about the house. Laundry. Pancake clean-up. CMS Magnet lottery online application. (Holding my breath for a coveted spot at one of my top two choices.)
One giant looming project sadly sat in the corner of our living room. The Christmas tree. I didn't even bother turning the lights on this morning. The round and round string of glow only magnified the browning branches. It seemed as though the tree was staring at me, whimpering softly, and I couldn't figure out if it was sad because it spotted the green ornament storage box, destined to have all of its Christmas jewelry removed and placed in the attic until next December, or if it was simply begging to be put out of its misery.
But I kept finding another phone call to make, or Heath/Stella question to be answered, or wash to be moved to the dryer, and I tried desperately not to make eye contact with our Frasier Fir. Next thing I knew it was time for lunch. Rather than eat at the kitchen table, within ear shot of the tree, I suggested we get out of our pjs and get some bagels.
Turns out the tree ornament removal fairy did not come while we were away. As soon as we walked in the door, a blue bulb fell to the floor, and with it, an entire branch. It was time.
And with every green, red, and blue bulb, not only did a million crunchy needles fall, an entire branch broke. No matter how gingerly I attempted to lift a green ornament hook, I would bring the hook, ornament, and dehydrated limb. When it came time to unwind the string of lights, I nearly decapitated the poor thing. It's good that we are tree ornament minimalists, because we could have found ourselves face to face with a gruesomely bare Christmas carcass.
Come to think of it, it's not too far off base from what was left standing when Mark got home. He was charged with picking up the body, I mean, tree, and carrying it out to his truck. What wasn't lost in the removal of decorations was strewn through the house, a trail of Christmas come and gone tears.
It wasn't quite the battle I had anticipated in terms of Heath and Stella protesting the tree take-down. As a matter of fact, they rather enjoyed the new found activity of sweeping the needles and branches into piles, then running their trucks through it. Sometimes the debris was even loaded into cars, trucks, and rain boots.
Who says Christmas is over? I'm pretty sure we will be sweeping up fir bits until we get our tree next December.
I take it his week back at preschool was an exhausting one. Lounging in our pajamas all morning long wasn't such a bad way to start a Friday. I broke out our new griddle again and whipped up some buttermilk pancakes and puttered about the house. Laundry. Pancake clean-up. CMS Magnet lottery online application. (Holding my breath for a coveted spot at one of my top two choices.)
One giant looming project sadly sat in the corner of our living room. The Christmas tree. I didn't even bother turning the lights on this morning. The round and round string of glow only magnified the browning branches. It seemed as though the tree was staring at me, whimpering softly, and I couldn't figure out if it was sad because it spotted the green ornament storage box, destined to have all of its Christmas jewelry removed and placed in the attic until next December, or if it was simply begging to be put out of its misery.
But I kept finding another phone call to make, or Heath/Stella question to be answered, or wash to be moved to the dryer, and I tried desperately not to make eye contact with our Frasier Fir. Next thing I knew it was time for lunch. Rather than eat at the kitchen table, within ear shot of the tree, I suggested we get out of our pjs and get some bagels.
Turns out the tree ornament removal fairy did not come while we were away. As soon as we walked in the door, a blue bulb fell to the floor, and with it, an entire branch. It was time.
And with every green, red, and blue bulb, not only did a million crunchy needles fall, an entire branch broke. No matter how gingerly I attempted to lift a green ornament hook, I would bring the hook, ornament, and dehydrated limb. When it came time to unwind the string of lights, I nearly decapitated the poor thing. It's good that we are tree ornament minimalists, because we could have found ourselves face to face with a gruesomely bare Christmas carcass.
Come to think of it, it's not too far off base from what was left standing when Mark got home. He was charged with picking up the body, I mean, tree, and carrying it out to his truck. What wasn't lost in the removal of decorations was strewn through the house, a trail of Christmas come and gone tears.
It wasn't quite the battle I had anticipated in terms of Heath and Stella protesting the tree take-down. As a matter of fact, they rather enjoyed the new found activity of sweeping the needles and branches into piles, then running their trucks through it. Sometimes the debris was even loaded into cars, trucks, and rain boots.
Who says Christmas is over? I'm pretty sure we will be sweeping up fir bits until we get our tree next December.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Escaped Toddler on the Loose!
It took four days to get back into the groove of this new year. We arrived at school only 7 minutes late. Everyone had decent hair, fresh breath, and eager smiles anticipating the school day ahead of them. Our goal for next week: 9:05. That's practically on time for us.
For the past few weeks Thursday afternoons have been my designated tutoring days. I have a 4pm appointment for some SAT Writing and Reading prep time. Mark has been able to meet me at the house at 3:40 for the changing of the guards ceremony. Before this week, he's stepped into a house full of silence. Both children fast asleep for their afternoon respite. Today, not so much.
Heath has pretty much been on a nap boycott this entire week. He's content to read a few books and watch what he has declared, My new most favoritest (good thing he's not taking the SAT anytime soon) show, Wild Kratts. I can hardly blame him. The Kratt brothers, Martin and Chris, spin science concepts, such as zoology, into animation. They have a special "power suit" that enables them to take on the abilities of whatever animal they encounter. It's a four year old boy's dream.
And for three days in a row, Stella has simply stayed in her room, reading books, talking to her stuffed animals, and occasionally shrieking about a variety of things that are unintelligable, unless your Stella. It all makes perfect sense to her, and she's happy to have her own space, whether she gets a little shut-eye or not.
Mark was running late today, which meant our debriefing was, well, brief. Nobody is sleeping, I cautioned, and sped off to my tutee. Before I could hear one song on a CD, and change mental gears from home to Improving Sentences and Top 5 tips for Improving Paragraphs, my phone vibrated. It read, Mark calling...
He was calling to let me know that Stella was downstairs. It's no big deal, really, it just meant Stella had climbed out of her crib, opened her door, and walked down the stairs. A feat that had yet to be attempted. And according to Mark, she was thrilled (and slightly apologetic) with her new discovery. Sorry, Daddy, she said. Got out of bed.
And as soon as I returned home from my session, she shouted, Mommy, got out of bed, mommy, got out of bed, complete with acrobatic leg lifts and somersaults.
It was bound to happen sooner than later. So, Weekend Project # 1: move Uncle's old bunk beds from the attic to Heath's room, convince him this is a very cool way to sleep, and it's a perfectly dandy idea to then move his toddler bed to Stella's room. Followed shortly by Weekend Project #2: Dismantle Christmas Tree and call it a holiday and new year.
It is most definitely a new chapter in the Ropko house.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Voodoo Child
We are off schedule. Way off. For the last two weeks, we've pretty much had nowhere to be, at no particular time. So when I was awakened by Stella's steady chant of my name, it barely occurred to me that Christmas vacation is over, we are heading back to preschool, and I had one hour to feed, dress, and corral the kiddies into the car and have them at school by 9am.
In fact, I was moving so slowly and thinking without much clarity, I suddenly realized that it was 8:30 and I still had not heard from Heath. Just as I was on the verge of opening his door, he cracked it open himself. He stood before me, well-rested, eager to go see his friends at school, and with one of the most raging cases of bedhead I've ever seen in my life. It was beyond his usual back of the head bird's nest. It was as if he'd gone to bed with wet hair and spent much of night rubbing Puppy on the front of his head, creating a look that can only be described as Mr. Kotter (as in, Welcome Back) meets Jimi Hendrix.
I kept thinking I should tend to the mess of overprocessed perm curls/dreadlocks as everyone easily dressed themselves and munched on mini-pancakes. I even suggested that he take a look at what had happened overnight and wouldn't it be nice to brush it yourself before we head to school for our big first morning back. It was 8:45 and he was completely disinterested in grooming himself. Each time I walked by him I attempted to use my fingers as a makeshift comb, only to find my digits stuck in the mass of knots.
At 8:50, loading up the car, Heath finally caught a glimpse of his mangy mane in the wagon's rearview mirror. I held my breath and hoped he would have a moment of unprompted self-care pride. No. He simply grinned and clicked his seatbelt shut.
Oh, well, I decided. Things could be worse. He could've not brushed his teeth. Oh, wait...I asked him if he brushed his teeth. He stared out the window. I'll take that as no.
Well, we'll get on schedule by week's end. Before I know it we will be back on track and we'll have plenty of time for a useless power struggle over brushing his bedhead.
Bedhead always win.
After school. Five hours settling time only did so much.
In fact, I was moving so slowly and thinking without much clarity, I suddenly realized that it was 8:30 and I still had not heard from Heath. Just as I was on the verge of opening his door, he cracked it open himself. He stood before me, well-rested, eager to go see his friends at school, and with one of the most raging cases of bedhead I've ever seen in my life. It was beyond his usual back of the head bird's nest. It was as if he'd gone to bed with wet hair and spent much of night rubbing Puppy on the front of his head, creating a look that can only be described as Mr. Kotter (as in, Welcome Back) meets Jimi Hendrix.
I kept thinking I should tend to the mess of overprocessed perm curls/dreadlocks as everyone easily dressed themselves and munched on mini-pancakes. I even suggested that he take a look at what had happened overnight and wouldn't it be nice to brush it yourself before we head to school for our big first morning back. It was 8:45 and he was completely disinterested in grooming himself. Each time I walked by him I attempted to use my fingers as a makeshift comb, only to find my digits stuck in the mass of knots.
At 8:50, loading up the car, Heath finally caught a glimpse of his mangy mane in the wagon's rearview mirror. I held my breath and hoped he would have a moment of unprompted self-care pride. No. He simply grinned and clicked his seatbelt shut.
Oh, well, I decided. Things could be worse. He could've not brushed his teeth. Oh, wait...I asked him if he brushed his teeth. He stared out the window. I'll take that as no.
Well, we'll get on schedule by week's end. Before I know it we will be back on track and we'll have plenty of time for a useless power struggle over brushing his bedhead.
Bedhead always win.
After school. Five hours settling time only did so much.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
TV, or not TV: that is the question
In passing I believe I mentioned the fact that we got a new television for Christmas. It was going to have to be a gift from Santa, because over the last year I have firmly said, no, we don't need a new one. With great frequency, Mark would steer me in the direction of checking out the new TVs in Target, Best Buy, WalMart, any site online that showcases big ole screens to watch nothing in particular on. I was always unimpressed, and stood on solid ground that we did not need a new one.
He would desperately try to wow me with screen-size information: That's 582 inches. Can you imagine movies on that? He would attempt to woo me with the clarity of the screen, including the health angle. I don't even think our screen picture is good for our eyes anymore.
I'm sure all this is true, but all I saw was a morbidly large screen with a terminally huge price tag to go with a piece of equipment that was going to pretty much be used for watching PBS and reruns of Seinfeld. I wasn't buying the argument, or the television.
Until we started to experience an identifiable, non-remediable problem. Every time we clicked the On Button on the TV or remote, nothing would happen. As a matter of fact, the only way we could actually get the show to appear on the less than satisfactorily sized screen, we had to push the On button, repeatedly. It essentially needed time to warm up, it was that aged. And unlike wine or cheese, this type of aging was not going to improve with time. No, we were going to get to the point of having to hit the On button over and over and over, for at least ten minutes before anything would pop up. And when Cat in the Hat or Modern Family or football would finally appear, it would just as quickly go away, and we would have to start the process all over again. By the end of our time with our TV, it was taking a good twenty, twenty-five minutes to turn on.
And I promise you this, if it wasn't the sheer frustration of the maddening series of actions it took to watch a show that got my tune a' changing about a new TV, it was Heath's reaction each and every time this happened. He would shout in disgust, throw his body on the ground, and make a noise that has no words to describe it. It's beyond the worse whine you can imagine, with animalistic, guttural exasperation.
I will say we, both Heath and I, learned to use our words about our annoyance. Silly TV, we would say, shaking our heads with faint smiles of bemusement, clicking the On button to the point of Carpal Tunnel of the thumb. It was actually an excellent exercise in demonstrating a calm reaction for Heath, as I was most definitely faking it. What I really wanted to do was fling the remote as hard as I could at the screen and unleash a long stream of expletives at a volume audible to my neighbors.
So when Heath let the cat out of the bag three days before Christmas that Mark had purchased a TV for us, I had two competing thoughts. 1) How much did it cost? And 2) Thank God.
He would desperately try to wow me with screen-size information: That's 582 inches. Can you imagine movies on that? He would attempt to woo me with the clarity of the screen, including the health angle. I don't even think our screen picture is good for our eyes anymore.
I'm sure all this is true, but all I saw was a morbidly large screen with a terminally huge price tag to go with a piece of equipment that was going to pretty much be used for watching PBS and reruns of Seinfeld. I wasn't buying the argument, or the television.
Until we started to experience an identifiable, non-remediable problem. Every time we clicked the On Button on the TV or remote, nothing would happen. As a matter of fact, the only way we could actually get the show to appear on the less than satisfactorily sized screen, we had to push the On button, repeatedly. It essentially needed time to warm up, it was that aged. And unlike wine or cheese, this type of aging was not going to improve with time. No, we were going to get to the point of having to hit the On button over and over and over, for at least ten minutes before anything would pop up. And when Cat in the Hat or Modern Family or football would finally appear, it would just as quickly go away, and we would have to start the process all over again. By the end of our time with our TV, it was taking a good twenty, twenty-five minutes to turn on.
And I promise you this, if it wasn't the sheer frustration of the maddening series of actions it took to watch a show that got my tune a' changing about a new TV, it was Heath's reaction each and every time this happened. He would shout in disgust, throw his body on the ground, and make a noise that has no words to describe it. It's beyond the worse whine you can imagine, with animalistic, guttural exasperation.
I will say we, both Heath and I, learned to use our words about our annoyance. Silly TV, we would say, shaking our heads with faint smiles of bemusement, clicking the On button to the point of Carpal Tunnel of the thumb. It was actually an excellent exercise in demonstrating a calm reaction for Heath, as I was most definitely faking it. What I really wanted to do was fling the remote as hard as I could at the screen and unleash a long stream of expletives at a volume audible to my neighbors.
So when Heath let the cat out of the bag three days before Christmas that Mark had purchased a TV for us, I had two competing thoughts. 1) How much did it cost? And 2) Thank God.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Pot Liquor
Or pot likker, if you prefer a more Southern twist on something that is already twistedly Southern. We were having a New Year's lunch at my parent's house and I volunteered to make the Collard Greens and black eyed peas. Traditional holiday fare, and wanting to continue my cooking experimentation, I was anxious to give these two dishes a whirl.
For some reason a giant pot of collards seemed like no easy feat. Turns out the hardest part was buying the enormous bunches of greens leaves at the HT yesterday. And it wasn't even the collard's fault. Stella was on a get-away mission down the produce aisle, trying to push a cumbersome pick-up truck of a cart. Upon my return from the grocery store trip that took three times longer than it ever should, I Googled cooking collard greens. They all said the same thing.
Wash the leaves, repeatedly.
Water
Salt
Bring to a boil, then simmer on low for at least an hour
There were a few spins on the directions. Many included ham hocks. I chose to leave the pig, er, behind. Lots of them mentioned cooking the leaves in vinegar. I figured this was better left to the green eat-ee. And I stumbled across one that suggested sauteeing onions in the bottom of the pot, then adding the water and greens. This seemed like a tasty idea. I also enjoyed the fact that they had a delightful serving suggestion.
Apparently the liquid that is accumulated after cooking the greens is chock full of vitamins, taste bud tantalizing deliciousness, and has an extracurricular activity. The Pot Liquor, or Pot Likker, can be sopped up with corn bread. Upon first glance Mark and I may not seem like sopping up type of folk, but when I read the tip outloud, the girlish giggling delight that erupted from Mark would say otherwise. And I have to say, before I even knew it had a name, I already had visions of what I always do when the leaves have been consumed and all that is left is a pool of greenish, cidery, salty vinegar. I take a piece of corn bread. I stick it in the now-forever-named Pot Liquor. And I sop that shizzle up.
There was much banter about Pot Liquor all morning while the giant greens simmered in the pan. As we ran our morning loop around the neighborhood, I found my belly sloshing about, starving for the promised money and good luck of our New Year's Day lunch menu.
We arrived at my parent's house with hearty appetites and a whole mess of greens and black eyed peas. As I opened my Collard Greens dish out of the bag, I instantly noticed a distinct amount of liquid on the outside of the container. The Pot Liquor had leaked. Everywhere. Mark and I collectively gasped at the misfortune. Someone said don't worry, we'll clean it up. But it wasn't the mess of the spill I was concerned with, it was the fact that the Pot Likker had oozed out of the container, leaving us with what seemed like little to no chance of sopping anything up with corn bread. In fact, so much of the liquid was gone, it seemed there would be little point to try a sneaky plate licking, if one dared to be so crude.
Upon further investigation, and clean up, it turns out that we had enough good stuff to do whatever we wanted with the juices of our greens and vinegar and corn bread. We were all able to get plenty pot liquored up on good fortune for 2011. Mark consumed a a fair amount of pork roast, too, so I think we should be set.
Money. Check. Good fortune. Check. Prosperity. Check. A reason to say Pot Likker. Super Check.
For some reason a giant pot of collards seemed like no easy feat. Turns out the hardest part was buying the enormous bunches of greens leaves at the HT yesterday. And it wasn't even the collard's fault. Stella was on a get-away mission down the produce aisle, trying to push a cumbersome pick-up truck of a cart. Upon my return from the grocery store trip that took three times longer than it ever should, I Googled cooking collard greens. They all said the same thing.
Wash the leaves, repeatedly.
Water
Salt
Bring to a boil, then simmer on low for at least an hour
There were a few spins on the directions. Many included ham hocks. I chose to leave the pig, er, behind. Lots of them mentioned cooking the leaves in vinegar. I figured this was better left to the green eat-ee. And I stumbled across one that suggested sauteeing onions in the bottom of the pot, then adding the water and greens. This seemed like a tasty idea. I also enjoyed the fact that they had a delightful serving suggestion.
Apparently the liquid that is accumulated after cooking the greens is chock full of vitamins, taste bud tantalizing deliciousness, and has an extracurricular activity. The Pot Liquor, or Pot Likker, can be sopped up with corn bread. Upon first glance Mark and I may not seem like sopping up type of folk, but when I read the tip outloud, the girlish giggling delight that erupted from Mark would say otherwise. And I have to say, before I even knew it had a name, I already had visions of what I always do when the leaves have been consumed and all that is left is a pool of greenish, cidery, salty vinegar. I take a piece of corn bread. I stick it in the now-forever-named Pot Liquor. And I sop that shizzle up.
There was much banter about Pot Liquor all morning while the giant greens simmered in the pan. As we ran our morning loop around the neighborhood, I found my belly sloshing about, starving for the promised money and good luck of our New Year's Day lunch menu.
We arrived at my parent's house with hearty appetites and a whole mess of greens and black eyed peas. As I opened my Collard Greens dish out of the bag, I instantly noticed a distinct amount of liquid on the outside of the container. The Pot Liquor had leaked. Everywhere. Mark and I collectively gasped at the misfortune. Someone said don't worry, we'll clean it up. But it wasn't the mess of the spill I was concerned with, it was the fact that the Pot Likker had oozed out of the container, leaving us with what seemed like little to no chance of sopping anything up with corn bread. In fact, so much of the liquid was gone, it seemed there would be little point to try a sneaky plate licking, if one dared to be so crude.
Upon further investigation, and clean up, it turns out that we had enough good stuff to do whatever we wanted with the juices of our greens and vinegar and corn bread. We were all able to get plenty pot liquored up on good fortune for 2011. Mark consumed a a fair amount of pork roast, too, so I think we should be set.
Money. Check. Good fortune. Check. Prosperity. Check. A reason to say Pot Likker. Super Check.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)