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.