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.