I Float, Therefore I am

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

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

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

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

How 'Bout a Little Rain with that Thunder?

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

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

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

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

Feelings, Nothing More Than Feelings

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

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

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

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

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

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

That hurts my feelings, he parroted.

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

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

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

Popspitals

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

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


Post-pool popsicles.

In her beloved hand-me-down Thomas suit.

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

You build space ships with them, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, yes. It is possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As old as Papa.

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

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

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