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.

Halftime Surprises

I finished putting Stella to bed and made it back to the Super Bowl just in time to feel embarrassed while Fergie sang Sweet Chile O' Mine with GNR's Slash. I had to look away. Apparently Usher joined the crew, because Mark proclaimed, Now, he can dance. I had no idea he felt this way about Usher.

Heath is still up, but I can see that he'll be fading pretty soon. He's sitting beside me and I can actually feel his elevated temperature through his clothes. No seals waking me up last night at 4:30am, just a burning up little boy at 12:30am. He's pretty much been a lump to be pitied on our bed all day. I finally got him to eat a piece of cinnamon toast at 6pm--the first thing he's had all day.

No preschool tomorrow.

Granny packed her stuff up this afternoon and announced that she wouldn't be staying for dinner because my mom and dad will be coming to get her soon. I told her they would be back on Friday, so she's stuck with us for a few more days. Then she ate a plate of homemade vegetable lasagna, had a shower, and a chocolate ice cream sandwich. Just before she went to bed she said she wouldn't want to stay with anyone other than us.

Must've been one tasty chocolate ice cream sandwich.

There's a Seal Barking In My Room Again

I woke up to the sound of a seal barking beside my head. I stumbled around in the dark, essentially sleep-walking, and shuffled Heath back to his room. There was zero light shining through the window blinds, I could tell it wasn't at all time to get up. According to the beaming red digits on his bedroom clock, it was 4:23. In the morning. Very early morning.

I tried to get him back into his bed, while he explained his early awakening. The germs have been dancing in my body for days, then they settled right here in my throat, and now they are connecting to each other, making me cough like this. This explanation was punctuated by interspersed gasping and seal barks. It finally dawned on me what was happening, so I shuffled him back to our room, preparing for our next course of action. Sitting in a steamy bathroom with the shower's hot water running. And avoiding steroids at all cost. Heath on steroids is like, well, Heath on steroids. Toys get broken. Books get ripped. Siblings get smacked and wrestled to the ground. All accompanied by Hulk-like clothes ripping and growling antics.

Fortunately, he fell back to sleep with little effort. It took me an hour or so to settle back down. I spent my time wisely by mentally composing a complaint letter to BOB jogging strollers (on behalf of a friend who is expecting twins any day now) about their stunning lack of foresight when it comes to using the car seat adapters for twins in the Duallie. You can't. For $600 plus dollars, you should. What on earth were they thinking, and why haven't they fixed such a blatant error yet?

Heath made a good effort at enjoying his day, but at 6pm, he was done. Beyond niceties and unable to hold his own body up. I don't think he even ate dinner. He was asleep by 7:30, the trusty vaporizor by his side. Let's hope that seal doesn't resurface tonight.

Groundhog Day. Again. And Again. And Again.

I was going to be annoyed by the cold rain today, but it turned out to be the kind of day that found us running a few errands, playing trucks on the kitchen table, and indulging in some super delicious afternoon snoozes. I'll take it.

Daddy even surprised us by suggesting Friday night Chinese take-out. Twist my arm. Then he told Heath and Stella that he would take them to an indoor play something tomorrow so Mommy can have some time to breathe and think and grocery shop alone and maybe even squeeze in a little run. His niceness completely foiled my plans for being annoyed by tomorrow's rain. And I see sunny and 54 for Sunday. I'll take it.

Meanwhile, Granny is on day 4 of 10 with the Ropkos. I spend most of my day reminding her where she is, what time it is, and where my parents are. She likes to sweep our floors. Good thing we have plenty of dirt for her. And she really liked her Sweet and Sour chicken for dinner tonight. She had two helpings and said over and over, Mmmm...you're a good cook. And I kept telling her that Mark picked it up from the Chinese take-out place near our house, glad you like it. As she was pulling down her covers on her bed for sleep, she commented on dinner again.

That was good dinner, Andee. You're a good cook.

I'm glad you liked it, I said, placing her glass of water on a Nike running shoe box, a makeshift nightstand. But I didn't make it. Mark picked it up for us.

Well, you don't have to tell nobody, she chuckled. You can let 'em think you made it.

I handed her a magazine and a Moon Pie snack and started to head out the door, she said, That was good dinner, honey, thank you. You're a good cook.

I start to launch into the take-out explanation again, but opt against it. Thank you, Granny, I'm glad you liked it. I love you.

I love you, too.

House Wires and Mouse Houses

Tonight, just as we were beginning our second reading of Dora's Happy Mother's Day, Mami!, Stella interrupted me with, Shhh...what's that noisey?

I stopped and waited to hear what I figured was going to be a Heath screech, or a Granny puttering (she's staying with us while my parents are in California), or a neighbor rolling a bulky recycling/trash bin down a bumpy, concrete driveway. Whispers of Mark and Heath in his room could be heard. No sound of Granny, so she must have been tucked in the guest bed with her evening snack of chocolate and a Rachel Ray magazine from 2008. And sure enough, an emptied garbage container made its way back to its usual daytime station until next week.

But none of those were the noisey in question. Instead, her ears had been perked by a faint scritch, scritch, scritch behind the wall next to her bed. It would suddenly fall silent, only to crank up again, Stella making an O-shape with her mouth, hand popped over her lips in exaggerated shock. Scritch, scritch, scritch.

What's that noisey, Mommy? she demanded. I feigned ignorance for a moment or two, but I knew what we were dealing with behind the wall. Scritch, scritch, scritch had Critter written all over it.

I've had my share of the scritches over the years. In Chapel Hill, I lived in an attic with a family of chipmunks. One chipmunk can make a stunning amount of noise; an entire family will leave you curled up at the headboard of your bed, quite certain they are going to explode through the wall and eat you alive. And then there was our Oakhurst house that had mouse after mouse after mouse inhabitants, and two giant o'possum. Turns out humane capturing and setting them free in your backyard is only inviting them to come back night after night. We finally resorted to capturing them in a garbage pail and having Mark drive them to a wooded area a mile from our home. I found them creepy then, and I find them creepy now.

Stella and I called in the reinforcements to confirm that we were in fact listening to the pitter-patter of critter paws. Mark confirmed that it was most likely a mouse, and Heath immediately confirmed that it should be killed. Both Heath and Stella decided that a mouse in the house is a scary thing. Mark then took back the mouse proclamation and said no, he was mistaken, it's a house wire scratching against the wall.

I don't think they bought it. As Stella lay in her bed, singing the last round of the Thomas the Train theme song, she asked for reassurance.

They're two, they're four, they're--Daddy, say it house wire?

Thomas, he's the cheeky one. James is--Mouse is scary.

Gordon, thunders down the--what's that noisey?

Henry--is a mouse?

Toby, well, let's say he's--I scared, mommy.

I convinced her that it was a simple house noise, no worries. Now Mark is going to have to convince me that it isn't a pack of angry mice that are going to burst through her wall and lick milk off her face.