tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77706823619750009392024-03-05T23:03:58.401-08:00MotherJoggerBloggerAn Experiment in Saving My Sanity.
(And having a little fun while I do it.)Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.comBlogger351125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-80890059104698101492015-10-12T10:47:00.000-07:002015-10-12T10:47:00.645-07:00What I Did On My Fall Break<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I have one day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
even one day. I have five hours of child-free time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having all children in
school, while my school is closed is like a blood moon phase in this
house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They are rare and </span>I pine for them like a wild
animal.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How on earth did I spend my time?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did two YouTube guided meditations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran four miles. I passed not one, but two
baby joggers and took note that I am not in that group anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Phew.) I did three quarters of a load of
laundry. Ate an almond butter sandwich.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Made
two phone calls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scheduled three well-visit appointments. Drank three cups of coffee. Took a shower. Shaved both legs; above the knee even. And <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had numerous
complete thoughts. It was so quiet I could hear the dog breathing.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it is now 12:32.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My four year old has to be picked up in 28 minutes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The panic is setting
in. You have 27 minutes left of your Fall Break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s it.
Did you do everything you needed to do? Did you do too much? Not enough? You won’t
have these five hours again until early December. What were you thinking with
the laundry?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You should’ve finished
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s never going to get folded. It
will sit on that chair in the living room for days. Shaving, Andrea? Really? Two
meditations? Who do you think you are, Buddha? You could've cleaned Stella’s room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her room…how
does a seven year old girl play that hard to make her room that crazily
cluttered? There’s no floor in there anymore. You were going to write today,
and this manic chatter does not count. But no…you sat on the back porch with that third of coffee. Dear God, those
papers are never going to grade themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You just keep moving them around the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could’ve graded while you drank the
coffee on the porch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s 12:42! You have
to get in the carpool line soon or they will charge one dollar for every minute
you’re late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And you can't be late, because you haven't done anything. </span>Tomorrow two kids will be
gone, but HE will be home with you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your
dear, sweet four year old who can melt your heart with his </i>I Wuv You<i>s</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, but you know. You know whatever you got
cleaned will never survive the afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And there’s no more break for you. </i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It is OVER.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That second YouTube meditation was totally worth it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xjghx78zkmuELlaa3hndZsJfhTGUfjnCYB7qS5sujrqU8B8xtCi0450EsG6t2nwgnf2MOar_K-XIKFrD6XRkFNafqgrd5dP2QpDv6D_N7-dwyyiZebeWfe82XWWW2tbr3VgbYw_PMdm5/s1600/IMG_1271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xjghx78zkmuELlaa3hndZsJfhTGUfjnCYB7qS5sujrqU8B8xtCi0450EsG6t2nwgnf2MOar_K-XIKFrD6XRkFNafqgrd5dP2QpDv6D_N7-dwyyiZebeWfe82XWWW2tbr3VgbYw_PMdm5/s320/IMG_1271.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-92119382997605768622015-10-08T08:05:00.001-07:002015-10-08T08:05:30.034-07:00Back to School<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I can’t remember my blog
password.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That has been my excuse for
not writing for quite some time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never
mind the fact that ideas and subjects and thoughts have been racing through my
head, dying to come out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t
remember my blog password. Oh well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
And when it’s been so long since
the last entry, I have struggled with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how
on earth can I</i> pack all that in to a unified paragraph or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t. So I’ll just do what the
professionals suggest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Anywhere. Just go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I’ve been teaching a class at a university.
It’s my first time at a giant four-year public school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The campus is constantly buzzing with
activity. (Unless it’s raining.) Fraternity pledging. Sorority bake sales. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Weekend </i>by The Hills blaring from some
microscopic iPod (boom boxes are long gone). Existentialism –Paris in the
Spring sign-ups. Skaters. Cyclists. I even saw a kid on a unicycle. And this
probably goes without mentioning, but everyone, everyone is looking at their
phone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I suppose it should be exciting to
be in an objective place of observation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After all, I am not a student.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
am not a full of wonder Freshman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
not a twenty year old who has settled into life on a college campus. I am a 42
year old mother of three who has a couple of decades between herself and her own
four-year university experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But it’s a strange phenomenon that
is happening this semester, every time I walk across campus to my classroom. At
first, I even dared to consider that what I was flooded with was a James
Taylor-esque sweet nostalgia for my collegiate days of yore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even when I was at my own giant four-year public school I was never any
of those things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not really. Sweet, I do
not recollect. It’s a sensation I have never been able to name. Certainly
couldn’t name it as a twenty year old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lonely would imply that it was almost fixable; that I just needed
friends around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Melancholy is far too
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Smiths </i>and nearly romantic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Empty makes it sound I felt nothing at all
during those days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I felt a
lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not numb.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I still can’t name it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I’ve even tried to ignore the
feeling over the last month or so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Blamed it on being busy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pegged it
for being overwhelmed by teaching, and three kids, and a new dog, and wanting
to sleep, and wanting to breathe for just a second before I get asked one more
question, or get slammed by one more demand outside of myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those discomforts are very real, but that’s
not it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s not the cloud that is
hovering over me; haunting me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It’s an ache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an ache that I feel for that girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That twenty year old girl who hurt so much from
something that had no name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
And it comes in flashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Junior year. It was exam week and you’re sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not with the flu or strep or even a bad, bad
cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the kind of sick that happens
when you haven’t slept in a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like
really slept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Skunk beer comatose doesn’t
count. It’s the kind of sick that happens when you’ve smoked too much and it’s
been cold and raining and you refuse to take the bus that stops outside your
apartment and dumps you off at campus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
can’t get on that bus because you’re afraid. Of what? The bus might move before
you sit down and you’ll fall down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
might forget where to get off the bus and you will be on the bus for the rest
of your life, not knowing when or how to get off. You don’t ever take that
bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So you walk. Two miles to
campus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now you’re there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s raining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you’re sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you have one more exam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For which class? Not really sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But you can’t muster the energy to walk that
two miles back home. In the rain and the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And you do not take that bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So
you walk to the Student Rec Center and you find the energy to climb onto the
Stairmaster beside the other girls that are there every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But you figure they are not at all like
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They probably go to class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They probably laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They probably don’t smoke a pack a day. And
they definitely don’t drink a case of beer that they purchased from the gas
station beside their apartment complex. They probably eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And like it. You feel better while you’re on
the Stairmaster. The mix tape your brother made is perfect for the Holidays and
exam time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Snoop Dogg’s Gin and
Juice <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">blends into </i>Steely Dan’s Don’t
Take Me Alive <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">giving way to </i>Run-D.M.C.’s
Christmas in Hollis <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is the perfect
precursor to </i>Sting’s Gabriel’s Message. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You
get off the Stairmaster and you feel sick again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s raining harder and the two mile walk back
home seems beyond dreadful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you’re
pretty sure you have a fever now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
find yourself in a coffee shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But not
really a coffee shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not like a
Starbucks because there wasn’t a Starbucks then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t remember the name of the place, but
you do know it’s beside the record store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’re in the coffee shop by yourself and acutely aware that you are by
yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You get a hot cranberry juice
and try to do the calorie math.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stairmaster
calories burned minus cranberry juice. But you have a fever and you are sick
and you almost don’t care. You think you study for a while, but really you fell
asleep. It’s safe to assume that you walked back home. In the cold and rain. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Your
grades were really good that semester.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For the last time.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I have been feeling, and I have been
beating it off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those flashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those aches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Back on campus. I have felt like
her again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-10756562628609436002012-05-12T09:29:00.000-07:002012-05-12T09:33:20.614-07:00Transitions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_h3zjqmvil1WchYhlAQ8-6NiIARxNoWTIZ2onMo9TYbeWsAWPb6J7zYCZtOzw0CKAAfMhEH6KhVvAyASydP9CelilwW5YXQxfBEL8NYLG43gIHLap3o5Ajjl8x53Tqes8RmUlBe7BFI8/s1600/165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_h3zjqmvil1WchYhlAQ8-6NiIARxNoWTIZ2onMo9TYbeWsAWPb6J7zYCZtOzw0CKAAfMhEH6KhVvAyASydP9CelilwW5YXQxfBEL8NYLG43gIHLap3o5Ajjl8x53Tqes8RmUlBe7BFI8/s320/165.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
When it was time to consider whether or not to send my oldest child to preschool I had what I would consider a mild case of <em>Holy moly, his entire emotional, physical, spiritual, and intellectual development and self-confidence hinges on my making the right decision, and if I make the wrong choice, I have forever ruined him</em> anxiety. I remember talking to the school Director on the phone, trying to get her to decide for me whether or not my two year old was ready for preschool. Two days a week. Three hours at a time.
<br />
<br />
<i>How is he with transitions?</i> she asked.
<br />
<br />
This question left me sobbing, unable to finish our phone call. I think I may have even hung up on her. I was stunned by her question. It wasn’t unreasonable. And the answer was not too terrible to utter. As a matter of fact, the trouble was I had no idea how to respond, because I didn’t know what she was asking. Once again, I was stumped by parenting.
<br />
<br />
It’s been awhile since I’ve been asked this question, but I am happy to report that I am quite clear on the answer.
<br />
<br />
How is he with transitions?
<br />
<br />
****ing horrible.
<br />
<br />
And I’m not just talking about the big ones. One caregiver to the next. Going from the 4s class to the 4/5s class. The end of a playdate. These are, of course, troublesome, but I am also referring to the space between drying off after a bath and putting on pajamas. It’s a nightly habit, with zero surprises, yet the amount of tomfoolery that can take place between the two non-event events can leave me heavy-breathed and clenched-jawed.
<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I have picked up a few tricks of the trade. Consistent schedules. Time warnings. Stating expectations. Velcroed pictures of activities to be yanked off after completion to keep us on task. This one was very effective. Until it wasn’t. Tweaking our system is our only constant.
<br />
<br />
So I wasn’t at all surprised when I was met with some resistance on Kindergarten Beginner’s Day at our neighborhood elementary school. He refused to get dressed. He refused to put on shoes. He refused to ever go to Kindergarten. He refused to have a summer break that would end with him going to Kindergarten.
<br />
<br />
With every shriek and scream of dismay, I chose the don’t respond and get hooked in the chaos approach. With few words on my part, he somehow managed to get in the car, fully dressed. He was saying no with his mouth, but his actions said, maybe, just maybe, I’ll go see what Kindergarten is all about.
<br />
<br />
On the ride to school, I thought I would take the moment of quiet to share my personal experience with Kindergarten anxiety. As I started to regale him with shared feelings of jitters, he cut me short with a simple request.
<br />
<br />
<i>Can you stop talking, mom?</i>
<br />
<br />
I complied and drove in silence the next couple of blocks. As we turned into the school parking lot, he spied a neighborhood friend getting out of her mom’s car.
<br />
<br />
<i>I changed my mind, I’ll go in</i>, he announced as I parked the car. A little familiarity was all it took.
<br />
<br />
All the rising Kindergarteners were shuffled off for an hour or so of what I assumed was a sneak peek at the exciting world of elementary education, while the parents gathered together for classroom/curriculum/extracurricular activities details. Mum was pretty much the word when Heath rejoined me in the school library. It was a slow leak of minimal information over the next week as to exactly what went down while we were apart. There was a snack. That’s all I know, and it took three days before he parted with that nugget.
<br />
<br />
Despite his withholding information, he requested a calendar to cross off the days until his first real day of Kindergarten. So far I’ve only had one anxiety attack regarding the school choice, which resulted in me searching online at 4am for other alternatives, including unschooling. Visions of the Ropko 5 happily travelling the country in a silver bullet air stream for an entire year, visiting every National Park from coast to coast, danced in my sleep-deprived noggin.
<br />
<br />
In the light of the morning, post-apocalyptic <em>you have to brush your teeth before you go to school</em> episode, a happy Heath was dropped off for a morning of whole child growth with his pals. I drove out of the school parking lot feeling quite certain he will be more than okay at his new school in the Fall.
<br />
<br />
How is he with transitions?
<br />
<br />
Perfectly normal.
<br />
<br />
How am I with transitions?
<br />
<br />
****ing horrible. My baby is going to Kindergarten.Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-81199660532399030752012-04-11T12:26:00.003-07:002012-04-11T12:32:43.537-07:00Spring Break<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XRl8qKJXZkeswjdGCCOme9aoFOabTD18TSRespbFf1Gcjsln012Fmpw-aTFIMfAdlxFkp7SgBH0Oifb5V4uBMZKlgv1m8xg9VzXP-RyXjLHqgxpQyiNHqhCTGCC56U1zeOwvSBnSxvsS/s1600/5138aviiYxL__SL500_AA300_.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 300px; height: 300px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730227816316234962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XRl8qKJXZkeswjdGCCOme9aoFOabTD18TSRespbFf1Gcjsln012Fmpw-aTFIMfAdlxFkp7SgBH0Oifb5V4uBMZKlgv1m8xg9VzXP-RyXjLHqgxpQyiNHqhCTGCC56U1zeOwvSBnSxvsS/s320/5138aviiYxL__SL500_AA300_.jpg" /></a><br /><div>This time of year has always done something to me.</div><div><br />In college I would sit in steely cold seats, giving professors blank stares in between longing glances out the window, dogwoods and cherry blossoms in full bloom pulling me to come outside. That is if I made it to class. I frequently opted to drink giant blue cups of skunky beer under the clear Carolina blue skies to broaden my educational horizon, counting the days until<br />Spring Break. </div><div><br />When I was teaching college-aged students I would resent their blank stares in between longing glances out the windows. I would have carpal tunnel from grading giant stacks of English papers and found their lackadaisical attitudes toward their assignments particularly egregious; everyone (myself included) in desperate need of a break.</div><div><br />Today, I am not twenty-one. </div><div><br />I am not a teacher. </div><div> <br /></div><div>I am a stay at home mom and I could really use a break right about now.</div><div><br />How do you get a vacation when you are in the trenches of the 24-7 deal?</div><div><br />The kid’s preschool has been closed this week. Yep. It’s Spring Break. From Preschool.</div><div><br />My parents offered to take Heath and Stella to the park, and Forest offered to take a long, luxurious morning nap. I took the opportunity to clean up the pit that has become Heath’s room and put away winter clothes. Doing this type of activity without interruption has become a luxury; a Spring Cleaning Break, if you will.</div><div><br />There was enough sand on his floor to make a sandbox. Odds and ends of Transformers, Legos, and Matchbox cars were tucked in every nook and cranny of the floor. Pictures of Dinosaurs, planets, and aliens crammed under the mattress. Pieces of his United States puzzle were tossed in a drawer full of mismatched and too small socks. Acorns marked important pages of books. At least I hope they were acorns.</div><div><br />I’m embarrassed to say how long it took me to put that puzzle back together. Let’s just say no<br />matter how hard I tried to jam North Dakota UNDER South Dakota the pieces wouldn’t fit. Just when I was ready to call Melissa and Doug and give them a piece of my mind, I realized what I was doing. Apparently I don’t have a piece of my mind left to give anyone. </div><div><br />Looks like I should’ve skipped those beers instead of classes. Good thing Heath is going to Kindergarten next year. I have a lot to learn.</div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-91692436100440937062012-04-11T12:13:00.003-07:002012-04-11T12:25:41.687-07:00How Does Your Garden Grow?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsGnoWcsGPl8lgBRlwpvkfUnJ0_yCLJQarKkupBgk3T1QKAyvnJbiPIYY3nxt5QzKp2hr84-6BTbfc3Kt3mpK4MR44krP5w-6MAg5YQ6WLI1VBDQ9_G0lp5lEL8mLDP5Y9Pe1kBVvCTlhN/s1600/034.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; height: 320px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730226318096515474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsGnoWcsGPl8lgBRlwpvkfUnJ0_yCLJQarKkupBgk3T1QKAyvnJbiPIYY3nxt5QzKp2hr84-6BTbfc3Kt3mpK4MR44krP5w-6MAg5YQ6WLI1VBDQ9_G0lp5lEL8mLDP5Y9Pe1kBVvCTlhN/s320/034.JPG" /></a><br /><p>My five year old would make an excellent son of a farmer. Most days he beats the sunrise<br />and before he can rub the sleep out of his eyes he is spouting out various heavy-lifting plans for the twenty-four hours ahead of him.<br /></p><p><em>Can I build a canal around the house?</em></p><p><br /><em>I think the front yard needs a mote.</em></p><p><br /><em>Can we go to Africa after school and dig for stegosaurus bones?</em></p><p><br /><em>I have an ice skating rink on my mind. How big does my hole need to be?</em></p><p><br /><em>I’m ready to make that teepee.<br /></em></p><p><em>Let’s go get some chickens for the backyard and have eggs for breakfast.</em></p><p><br /><em>We can use goats for milk and for eating the grass. Where do we buy one?</em></p><p><br /><em>I’ve got my fishing pole. Let’s get going.</em></p><p><br /><em>I’m going out to cut all the bark off that tree stump. Sound like a plan? I’ll be back with a knife.</em></p><p><br />I am truly grateful to have a child with incredible imagination and energy to back it up, but at 6 o’ clock in the morning, post-middle of the night baby brother waking, I am quite certain there isn’t a large enough cup of coffee I could guzzle to match Heath’s project ingenuity.</p><p><br />Thank goodness for four hours of preschool. He’s able to engage in transcontinental<br />dinosaur excavations with his pals, and I’m able to tank up on whatever I need to meet his creative interests when he’s home. </p><p><br />Several weeks ago he woke up with the desire to plant a garden. The original 5:45am plan<br />was to start digging in the yard immediately and plant rows upon rows of sunflowers, but I was able to talk him down from having to head out into the moonlight and at least wait until we could get the proper equipment to build some durable garden boxes and take some time to investigate what plants could be planted without the unnecessary angst of one last freakish freeze.</p><p><br />So Heath sat at the kitchen table and wrote out his list of plants, while I tried to inject coffee directly into my eyeballs to wake up. Tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers,<br />squash, watermelon, and red peppers made the cut. He worked hard on convincing me that he<br />shouldn’t go to school that day so he could complete the garden, but I reasoned<br />that it the next day was Saturday and he could go with Daddy to the hardware<br />store to get the materials for building the garden boxes. Reason actually won this time, and it worked in all our favor. I happened to catch a few minutes of NPR’s Science Friday while en route to a birthday party that very afternoon and was given a reliable thumb’s up on going ahead with the planting. Bees and mosquitoes are already in the midst. The time to sow our seed had come.</p><p><br />The following Saturday morning both Heath and Stella joined Daddy at a local hardware store.<br />They purchased 8 pieces of pine wood for two boxes (1x12x4), and 12 bags of potting soil. When they returned home Heath mightily hammered the pieces of wood together for the garden squares, while Stella happily hammered nails into the potting soil bags. After the boxes were complete, we dumped in the potting soil. Fortunately our fall and winter was consumed by taking care of one newborn and two preschoolers, so our ever-growing pile of backyard leaves had become some of the wormiest, mushroom-filled compost ever. We added<br />that to complete the boxes.</p><p><br />After school on Monday I took the kids to the hardware store and let them pick out plants.<br />At the time the store’s supply was low; they had yet to set out some of the heartier late-spring, early summer plants, but I figured a slow start was best. We got three tomato plants,<br />including one Golden Jubilee variety. Heath picked a red bell pepper. Stella wanted strawberries and broccoli. I chose romaine lettuce to round off our spring garden menu. We each picked out a new pair of gardening gloves, some organic plant food, and a small can of ruby red paint to brighten up our wood boxes.</p><p><br />The kids could hardly wait to get planting, but I was able to pacify them with some juice and animal crackers, while Forest nursed. I put him down for his nap then set out for an afternoon of gardening and painting. The kids wore their gloves for a total of two minutes, preferring the opportunity to squish the soil between their fingers, taking extra care to not squish the plentiful worms doing their fertilizing job.</p><p><br />I kept my expectations low with the garden box painting, but was surprised that there were no arguments about who gets to paint which side, and minimal leaves and grass blades were painted red. We do have a small patch of pinkish brick on our house when Heath thought it would look better red.</p><p><br />Every day we take time to survey the growth of our plants while we water them. This morning<br />I had a delightful sighting: flowers on the tomato and broccoli plants. And last night, just three weeks after we began our garden, we ate a salad that had our homegrown romaine lettuce in<br />it. It really was delicious. </p><p><br /> I think Mark and I were more impressed than the kids, though. Stella really could care less about eating a non-cookie vegetable, and Heath has a new obsession: climbing the enormous<br />magnolia tree in our front yard. That’s fine, as long as it occurs after the rooster crows.<br /><br /> </p>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-42074515457746975652012-03-17T12:49:00.003-07:002012-03-17T13:05:12.566-07:00Alston and Bird Corporate Cup Half Marathon, March 10, 2012: Race Report<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOgaD_WUDrB9JVYjEq2dsdQMDfd2nRmLrQX9Smit-43PpZyFG-Do08KiZn6S-90qNDC5FHpLIxDp3gBWHKGU-xh0zd4UWeuhHrHJsIegt1N-bzEpH2q_SPX0lULh9STFwJvjCOwWIjqCYp/s1600/034.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; height: 320px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720957061407242274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOgaD_WUDrB9JVYjEq2dsdQMDfd2nRmLrQX9Smit-43PpZyFG-Do08KiZn6S-90qNDC5FHpLIxDp3gBWHKGU-xh0zd4UWeuhHrHJsIegt1N-bzEpH2q_SPX0lULh9STFwJvjCOwWIjqCYp/s320/034.JPG" /></a>
<br /><div>With over 2300 runners participating in the Alston and Bird Corporate Cup 5K and Half Marathon, the first race of the Spring running season, early morning in downtown Charlotte was buzzing with pre-race energy. Bright a.m. sun with only the slightest chill to the air provided excellent race conditions. The large crowd was herded like cattle across the start line, then the zig and zag of maneuvering my way to a comfortable place in the race began. At an 8:48 per mile pace, I ran the fastest 5K I’ve ever run in my life.
<br />
<br />But I wasn’t running the 5K. I had ten more miles to go.
<br />
<br />So, I’ll back up my report just a bit here and cover some additionally important full-picture details. Baby Forest woke up two times the night before. The details are sketchy. I know for sure that I woke up at 5:15 with a baby in my armpit. He nursed, and then I put him back in his crib and went back to my own bed for 13 more minutes of sleep.
<br />
<br />It was a quick 13 minutes. Next thing I knew, it was time to get up, have my trusty pre-race breakfast of Grape-Nuts, too much coffee, and not enough water. My neighbor/running partner picked me up at 6:45, and with jittery bellies and full bladders, we headed downtown to find a place to park and pick up our timing chips. </div><div>
<br />We bantered about my favorite race topics: are we going to need these gloves and hat? Will I survive with just water station stops or should I bring this cumbersome water bottle? Did you bring your Gu Chomps? Where is my race bib?! Oh my word, I left it at the, oh wait, there it is. If I put my Gu Chomps in my rump pocket, will it make my behind look that much bigger since I seem to have some additionally stubborn baby-having flesh about my bottom half? If we go to the potty twice before the race begins, will that keep me from peeing on myself around mile 10? Is a 2:15 a wacky goal?
<br />
<br />We found our free parking, picked up our timing chips, used the potty, used the potty again, then we were off, ready to run 13.1 miles.
<br />
<br />Now, let’s pick up the story at the 5K mark.
<br />
<br />The 5Kers broke off and I kept wondering if my Garmin was playing tricks on me, because it had me at a steady 8:48 mile pace. I don’t run 8:48s. Or do I?</div><div>
<br />Around the 6th mile I thought, wow, this feels good. Maybe it’s time for a Gu Chomp.
<br />
<br />The directional short version for taking such energy performance supplements is Gu early and Gu often. I have always disliked such products. Eating as I run has always felt counterintuitive and flat-out awkward, so I have always waited until I am already exhausted and way past the point of being helped by an energy aid, then I clumsily fiddle with the packaging and completely lose my rhythm. But I thought, why not try to follow the directions this time and see what happens. I even went so far as to have the package already opened so I wouldn’t have to go through the angst of trying to open it mid-run. Forward thinking, I know.
<br />
<br />I chomped and grabbed some water at the 6th mile. It was only mildly graceful as I spilled half the water all over myself; the tossed Dixie cup missing the trash can by a long shot. I shook off the littering worry and braced myself for the monster road hill that I knew was coming, even averting my eyes from the mass of black pavement ahead.
<br />
<br />Yet the hill came and went, and I was pleased that I didn’t expend a lot of negative physical and mental energy on the spot. And it was a good thing, because the 8th mile was rapidly upon me.
<br />
<br />Mile 8
<br />
<br />There’s a funny phenomenon around the 8th mile that happens to me. It never occurs during a leisurely, for-pleasure long run; it only happens at races. At mile 8 I am suddenly bombarded with emotions of thrill and gratitude and delight that for some reason are so overwhelming, I start to feel like I’m going to cry. And I’ve noticed that the more I try to fight them off (because who wants to be the chick who cries as she runs?), the more I choke on the feelings. I think about my kids. I think about my husband. I know they are waiting somewhere on the course for me and I decide it’s better to have this gasping, spluttering outpour of psychophysical reactions now than when I actually see them, otherwise I might collapse in a heap of tears at their little sure-to-be perplexed feet and DNF the race.
<br />
<br />All the while I am glancing at my Garmin noticing that I have yet to cross over the 10 minute mile pace. As a matter of fact, I continue to stay well below. And I feel, dare I say, better than decent.
<br />
<br />We wound our way through a zone of subtle hills, and just as I am readied to round the corner and head into the tenth mile, I saw the loveliest sight I’ve ever known. There was a man holding a baby, wildly waving and woot-wooting. A goldilocked little girl happily ringing what I later found out was a borrowed cow bell from a neighboring race enthusiast. And a big boy so delighted by my long-awaited presence he couldn’t help but run out to me and grab my hand. I instinctively slowed down, and tossed the unnecessary hat and gloves I’d been clutching for the last 9 and a half miles. The man with the baby in his arms yelled, <em>keep going! Go, mama, go!</em></div><div>
<br />
<br />So I kept going with only a small inkling of <em>why doesn’t Forest have a hat on his head?</em> preoccupation. After all, loading up three kiddies to watch mommy run is its own marathon. He’s a good man.
<br />
<br />Mile 10
<br />
<br />That’s when it happened. It wasn’t a complete system breakdown, but I was overtly aware that my fluid flight was beginning to border on laborious. My knees were still rising and falling in a cyclical motion, so I had not entered the just shuffle ‘til it’s over zone, but I was starting to feel my body.
<br />
<br />Mile 11
<br />
<br />The last two and half miles were nothing more than a steady up-road incline. Just as I was reminding myself that I have felt bodily actions more intense than this, for much longer than this (giving birth, for example), I caught my running partner’s gaze.
<br />
<br /><em>What are you smiling about?</em> she asked, sporting a grin of her own.
<br />Oh good, I thought. I’m still smiling. I didn’t want to Negative Nancy the experience, but I hoped if I went ahead and said it out loud, the power of the impending hip nag would lighten.
<br />
<br /><em>My hips hurt</em>, I admitted, imagining the relief they would feel if I could stop and do one giant high school cheerleader sized herkie, they would then crack and give way to a swift leg turnover. I vowed to incorporate a stretching regimen into my daily life.
<br />
<br />Mile 12
<br />
<br />My soreness admission didn’t seem to drag anyone down. I had another Gu Chomp at the last water station, in complete disbelief that we were nearly finished. I kept glancing at my Garmin, certain I was running in the 12 minute mile zone. But I wasn’t. At my slowest moment, I hovered at 10.
<br />
<br />The finish line was in view, and according to my watch I was not only going to come in under my 2:15 goal, I was going to finish with a PR. I still had a little steam left in me, so I charged forward. A vague sense of nausea came over me, but I kept chugging along.
<br />
<br />Then I saw my cheerleaders. Mark had managed to reload the troops into the car at 9.5 miles, drive over to the end of the race, and meet me at the finish. Just the last second boost I needed to propel me happily over the finish line.
<br />
<br />A very shivery Stella admired my medal that had been placed around my neck.
<br />
<br /><em>You winned the race!</em> she boasted.
<br />
<br />Baby Forest gave me his best I Heart My Mommy grin. And Heath gave me a hearty high five.
<br />
<br /><em>Nice race, mom</em>, he complimented, while looking past me to the baby pool loaded with blue and red and purple energy drinks. <em>Now can I have a Powerade? </em>
<br />
<br />2:09:40
<br />
<br />It is good to be back. </em></div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-30958978680126193992012-03-11T06:07:00.009-07:002012-03-11T18:52:08.600-07:00A Week In the Life<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGX_fpjcpKV7Q4MtFKNLA20wQQeMqyFNXLF7uinJjNwASKuYvYDftKB0Kglgjz2k8WELknrpCAHseYsFCHVGKbnUcS_Db5_6_6skPOPSFp82uXQWxtO1NbVy5Sy1fkFzZmtCnogACp_C0G/s1600/047.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGX_fpjcpKV7Q4MtFKNLA20wQQeMqyFNXLF7uinJjNwASKuYvYDftKB0Kglgjz2k8WELknrpCAHseYsFCHVGKbnUcS_Db5_6_6skPOPSFp82uXQWxtO1NbVy5Sy1fkFzZmtCnogACp_C0G/s320/047.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718822489429209954" /></a><br /><div>My motherhood rhythm has been off this week. I’ve had to break it down into smaller victories so as to not completely lose what is left of my mind. No one starved. No one remained dirty. </div><div><br />Big needs were met, but the little things felt weighty. Tiny little gnats slapping me upside the head. Multiple emails sat in the Draft Box. Never-ending loads of laundry half-folded, the other half staring at me from the sofa, and another load already lining up in front of the washer. Grocery bags on the floor that seemed to take an extraordinarily long time to unload because someone had a need more pressing than getting the Kale in the fridge in a timely manner, like Heath running into the house to inform me that Stella was pooping in the backyard. For the second time this week. Apparently she is too busy to stop doing whatever she is doing to come inside and take care of such business. </div><div><br />And after at least six weeks of solid sleeping through the night, Baby Forest decided to shake things up a bit and wake up at two. And four. And six. Just when I was starting to think I might be catching up from months of bleary-eyed, zombie-like living, here we are again. </div><div><br />By Thursday, just when I was quite certain I would not be able to take another sleep deprived day, I discovered the ACC basketball tournament was on. It’s March? How the heck did this happen? Where have I been? Where am I? Who are all these kids?! </div><div><br />That same night, Heath and Stella were in the bath tub, not at all minding my pleas to keep the water in the tub. They kept reassuring me that it was all part of their pirate boat crashing game. I kept reassuring them that they would be taking separate baths for the rest of their childhood if they continued. </div><div><br />Baby Forest kicked about in his baby bath tub, making just as big of a water fall mess as his older siblings. I took the opportunity to ask him if he remembered that I had a race to run on Saturday and would it be too terribly inconvenient to not get up all night long for the next night or two. He gave me a bright-eyed wide, gummy grin, completely evading my question.</div><div><br />But that’s when I saw it. The swollen spot on his bottom gum, surrounding the slightest hint of white tooth ridges. Baby Forest’s first tooth had broken through! </div><div><br />That’s why you’ve been so wakeful, I said, reaching a finger into his mouth. He latched on with his right hand just as I rubbed the edgy enamel. He held onto my finger and gave it gentle nibbles, while furiously kicking his feet in the water. </div><div><br /></div><div>Where have the last six months gone? I wondered aloud, taking a long, deep breath, relishing the tender moment between mom and baby. It’s going too, too fast, I sighed.</div><div><br />And then I got smacked in the back of the head by a wayward Pirate rubber ducky. </div><div><br />I wonder what this next week will bring.</div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-15582959422090971722012-03-01T04:22:00.003-08:002012-03-01T04:27:42.698-08:00Post-Baby Running, Personal Trainers, and Fartlek Motivators<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyxbyxxoBgmWVg-vpmznNJNh2ocXZRpFNSCPuvH1kvSkGS-Vj7cpJLql0h81xJQ0tx91SCsuTmNVwIpRh9wLEWtC6pKs0V36QBjhJxNW2mGBBqeKLyfj3MWYKTa9DNigp4djrIGNfRs_y0/s1600/007.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714903856042467810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyxbyxxoBgmWVg-vpmznNJNh2ocXZRpFNSCPuvH1kvSkGS-Vj7cpJLql0h81xJQ0tx91SCsuTmNVwIpRh9wLEWtC6pKs0V36QBjhJxNW2mGBBqeKLyfj3MWYKTa9DNigp4djrIGNfRs_y0/s320/007.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>Baby Forest will be six months old on March 6th, and four days after that, I will run my first postpartum half marathon. Getting back into long run shape has been nothing less than a humbling roller coaster ride full of warm-heart bursting personal triumphs and boo-hoo sludge-covered, uphill trudging. </div><br /><div><br />I never quit running entirely while I was pregnant. Of course, I wasn’t Amber Miller the woman who ran the Chicago Marathon at 39 weeks pregnant, then gave birth to her second child several hours later, but I exercised with great regularity. I ran the morning Forest was born. On a treadmill. For thirty minutes. And calling it running may be a stretch. Trotting is a more accurate description, and I don’t know that I actually made it a mile in that thirty minutes. My point is (before I start to feel ridiculously sorry for myself) I exercised my entire pregnancy and that helped tremendously when it came to hitting the road after the baby was born. But let’s face it, there’s a distinct period of transition that occurs from trotting with an 8 pounder in your belly to not having that baby in your belly anymore.</div><br /><div><br />Two weeks after Forest was born, I was managing a two mile run at an almost non-wincing, lumbering twenty minute mile pace, quite certain I was never going to be able to run again without peeing all over myself. At four weeks I was able to push a baby and one preschooler in a jogging stroller with minimal need to borrow one of Forest’s diapers, but mid-hill I would question whether or not I needed to go back and pick up my uterus. I was reminded at my 6 week OB visit to do those Kegels, Lady! (I’m doing some right now as I type.) At eight weeks I was clipping along at my original twelve minute mile zone and breezily taking care of 4 miles. Twelve weeks rushed by and I found myself in the ten-minute mile pace territory I had rarely dared to cross. And at 16 weeks I realized that running a half marathon in March didn’t seem too terribly lofty.</div><br /><div><br />But many days the fatigue of parenting three small children, breastfeeding a baby, laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, taking kids to preschool/dance/flag football/playdates, volunteering at their school, writing, checking in with friends and family, brushing my teeth, blah, blah, blah, blah…well, my running can feel like I’m pushing all three kids in a rickshaw-sized triple jogger, legs spinning furiously in place, getting nowhere, slowly, and I think I must be out of my mind for even considering a half marathon.</div><br /><div><br />After I dropped Heath off at preschool today, I headed home with Stella and Forest, already semi-dressed for a run, double jogger sitting out in front of the house accepting no excuses for not being used, and feeling unenthusiastic about putting my body into motion. I quickly found some excuses. Forest fell asleep in the car and I didn’t want to wake him. Stella wanted to watch Miss Sunny’s Spider Patch Friends and I didn’t want to wake the whining beast inside her. Emails needed to be answered. Calls needed to be made. Laundry needed to be started. Guilt hovered above me. And then it was ten and despite having had breakfast and six snacks, Stella was asking for lunch. Forest was awake and in need of a scenery-change as well. So we loaded up the jogging stroller and headed out with a mild case of running depression that I hoped would be cured by a 4-miler.</div><br /><div><br />Five houses deep into the run, I glanced to the left at the house of my running partner/neighbor, hoping she would be outside with her son. You know, to stop and chat and never start this run back up again and maybe try again tomorrow. But she wasn’t there, so I plodded along, handing cracker bowls to Stella and listening to Forest sing to the trees overhead.</div><br /><div><br />Just before I rounded the corner out of our neighborhood, two lady runners crossed the street in front of me. I stopped the jogger to let them by, certain my slow pace and buggy pushing was not going to match their steady clip. They looked back at us and said, actually, you may be faster than we are, then their ponytails bounced off. At that very moment I found myself wrestling the jogger through an overgrown bush and was acutely aware that I was not donning cantaloupe colored tech tees and azure arm warmers. No. I was wearing a Gym Teacher Gray Sweatshirt and my husband’s running shorts. I was not a running fashion speed demon force to be reckoned with.</div><br /><div><br />It’s not that I detected the slightest bit of sarcasm in their voice. I didn’t. As a matter of fact, I kind of got the impression they were being courteous and aware of the fact that we were on a major road with little to no room for passing, and the mom with a terrible case of bedhead, two kids, and a dismal running attitude might need to be up front. But when they started to pull away from me, and I was finally able to dislodge the stroller’s front wheel from an unruly shrub, I took the opportunity and drive to do a little speed work.</div><br /><div><br />I’ve always heard the best way to improve your pace is to run with faster people. So that’s what I set out to do. I was going to catch those faster-than-me ladies. My legs propelled themselves as if independent from my body. Then I had to slow down for another street curb hedge, instructing Stella to keep her limbs inside the jogger, mommy doesn’t have time to stop. I tried to hold my body erect, as opposed to lying down on the stroller’s handlebars to take a running nap like I usually do. Stella’s motivational chants ranged from you gotta catch those lady runners to you’re never gonna catch those lady runners. I attempted to remove the burdensome thick cotton top layer without actually stopping. The stroller veered left, while I extracted my right arm. </div><br /><div><br />Lady runners are getting away, Stella warned.</div><br /><div><br />I stopped undressing, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, and plowed forward, one arm of my sweatshirt wrapped around my neck, flapping in the breeze behind me. And then I heard the chimey ding-a-ling of my mile marker Garmin. 9:02 mile pace; a personal best.<br />At some point I lost sight of my lady running partners. Maybe I passed them while I was yanking my sweatshirt over my head. But I think Stella was right. I was never gonna catch those lady runners. I settled back into a luxurious 10 minute mile, then 11, then back to 10, all the while shaking off those runner’s blues.</div><br /><div><br />It worked. I might even go so far as to say that I’m getting excited about my upcoming 13.1. And now I have a race plan: find a couple of ladies who run faster than I do and chase them like a maniac.<br /></div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-39041869117027784142012-02-21T11:22:00.001-08:002012-02-21T11:28:41.430-08:00It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like President's Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRm9MwqunmBmbaU3sMagT77k6RZBk9z5TqrXPG1Vxn5MwEolCrMBiEnXApyYjzZUf5KK8fp6VYMebCUmxtq8Cir4ucxD_VGIlXUKMvcTxj27WaYRa6NYK0kN9DjqdWgYCdsCJ6FJAnzRUs/s1600/Mount-Rushmore-2-mt-rushmore-presidents-day-AboveTheLaw-Above-the-Law-blog.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 218px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711673028839993490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRm9MwqunmBmbaU3sMagT77k6RZBk9z5TqrXPG1Vxn5MwEolCrMBiEnXApyYjzZUf5KK8fp6VYMebCUmxtq8Cir4ucxD_VGIlXUKMvcTxj27WaYRa6NYK0kN9DjqdWgYCdsCJ6FJAnzRUs/s320/Mount-Rushmore-2-mt-rushmore-presidents-day-AboveTheLaw-Above-the-Law-blog.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>It’s 7:13 on a Monday morning. I am not preparing two lunches. I am not beginning my gentle suggestions that we get dressed for school. I am not slurping and slopping coffee all over myself because I am clumsily multi-tasking breakfast prep for three children and maybe a bowl of cereal for me. I am not fooling my daughter into thinking that her hair is not being brushed while in reality I am trying to tame her lovely, but wooly bedhead mane. I am not surprising anyone with my bizarre (daily) request that we brush our teeth before we leave the house. I am not getting dressed in my running clothes wondering how in the heck I’m going to muster the energy to make my actual run after our morning preschool drop-off race. No. Not today.<br /><br />It’s President’s Day.<br /><br />According to Heath, my five year old, President’s Day is his favorite holiday. He hates (his word, not mine) Valentine’s Day, because it’s for the girls. Stella, my three old, hates Boweltimes’ Day (her word, but I think I’m going to make this one mine), because, well, Heath hates it. New Year’s Eve is a little scary due to the late-night fireworks. Christmas Day is an anticipatory, sensory overload destined to leave a five year old in a puddle of tears and snowman wrapping paper wreckage loudly requesting that we not have Christmas next year. And Heath took issue with the pilgrims when he dared to wonder, where did all the Indians go?<br /><br />Apparently President’s Day is benign enough to celebrate. When I told the kids they would not have school on Monday, Heath suggested they spend the night at my parent’s house Sunday night and have a President’s Day party on Monday. I wasn’t sure what a President’s Day party was going to look like. Do you decorate with balloons? Eat marble cake shaped like the Oval Office? Take turns discussing your favorite and least favorite President and why? Play a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey (and Elephant, Whig, Boston Tea…)? Then it occurred to me that what we were really talking about was a nearly kid-free night for my husband and me. I could leave the party details in the capable and more than willing hands of the grandparents.<br /><br />So what on earth did we do with our President’s Eve? We ate take-out Thai in an oh, so quiet house. Baby Forest sat in his high chair and enjoyed rice cereal and uninterrupted cooing and oohing and ahhing from both mom and dad. Baby was asleep by 7:30. Ice cream was consumed in bed while we watched something on TV, but I can’t remember what it was, and I was asleep by 9:05.<br /><br />It’s 8:12 on President’s Day morning. Baby Forest is beside me on the bed kicking his feet around and making baby dinosaur noises. I should probably start baking 44 cupcakes, iced to look like each President. Washington will be easy, but I’m struggling to recall what #13 Millard Fillmore looks like.</div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-5318911226860179402012-02-15T07:45:00.003-08:002012-02-15T07:56:21.878-08:00Rexerella<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZuFMwron05KKPwaVtiKpETnXTfW81bPignbk-pCqd2V5ymhJ2bhchsKYGqvtHUVXIlwQCE8KHtWw1i1W9j4e5I2TBfz-Hmit-HU6sNsUettAEVCF8q9JO40VvwDQXRVkBKUh3rT6gPGG/s1600/001.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709390500684718386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZuFMwron05KKPwaVtiKpETnXTfW81bPignbk-pCqd2V5ymhJ2bhchsKYGqvtHUVXIlwQCE8KHtWw1i1W9j4e5I2TBfz-Hmit-HU6sNsUettAEVCF8q9JO40VvwDQXRVkBKUh3rT6gPGG/s320/001.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>The Ropko household has broken out in a winter rash of birthday parties. They have bounced in castles, bowled, played video games, made magic wands with sticks and glitter glue, been repeatedly told to not open someone else’s present, and eaten their season’s quota of cake and icing. Heath, our five year old in his fourth year at the same preschool, is a birthday party veteran. However, Stella, our three year old in her first year at preschool, has experienced a variety of celebration firsts. She was not just an invitee by way of being a younger sibling. She partied hearty at not one, but two affairs in one weekend. And she got some rare one on one time with Mommy, her party chaperone.</div><br /><div><br />The Saturday party was for a boy preschool pal. While her other friends from school bounced and munched on pretzels and grapes, Stella preferred to sit in my lap and attempt to braid my hair. I had a moment of comparing. No one else is sitting with their mom. Should I make her get in to bounce? I’ll just feel her forehead—maybe she’s coming down with something. Nope.</div><br /><div><br />As I mulled my daughter’s clingy behavior over in my head, a fellow mommy noted, “Stella, you probably don’t get a lot of time with just mom. I wouldn’t let her go either.”</div><br /><div><br />The mom was right. As a matter of fact, I was suddenly unable to recall a time when I’d been with just Stella since our third baby was born in September. I kissed her on the neck and sniffed her hair. Eventually, a few trucks were brought out to zoom and roll about on the floor. Unable to resist the sound of a fire truck’s engine, Stella released her mother-grip and joined the crew, and I made a mental note to carve in (somewhere, somehow, whatever it takes) Just Stella Time.</div><br /><div><br />So when Sunday quickly rolled around and the Who’s taking Stella to the party and who is going to stay home with Heath and Baby Forest was on the table, I eagerly agreed, ready to capitalize on my newfound understanding that a girl needs time with her mommy.<br /><br />This all-girl gathering was honoring yet another preschool mate and the invitation suggested one wear Royal Attire. I was lucky to get Stella out of her Scooby Doo pajamas, and so as to not completely spoil the mood, I’m pretty sure I didn’t attempt to brush out the blond bird’s nest resting on the back of her head.</div><br /><br /><div>It was a lovely tea party, complete with fairy wands made out of pretzel rods and star-shaped rice krispy treats, and princess juice served in delicate tea cups. The Princesses gathered round a craft table and made magic wands and decorated jewelry boxes (or as Stella called them, Lightsabers and Pirate’s Treasure Chests). And buckets overflowed with Princess costumes and fairy wings and glass and glittery slippers and beaded necklaces in brilliant reds and yellows and pinks and purples for guests to play dress-up.</div><br /><div><br />As the girls gathered round to choose their attire, Stella hung back and grabbed onto my hand.<br />“Want to pick out a dress?” I suggested, gently guiding her toward the bucket where two girls exchanged a yellow Belle dress for a blue Cinderella gown.</div><br /><div><br />Stella wouldn’t budge. Instead, she yanked on my arm and said, “Come wif me.”</div><br /><div><br />I held her hand and walked over to the dresses. She yanked on my hand again, pulling me down to her level. </div><br /><br /><div>“Do you want to put on one of the dresses?” I asked again, taking note that most of the girls had already been through multiple wardrobe changes.</div><br /><div><br />Stella leaned in and whispered, “They’re going to laugh at me.”</div><br /><div><br />“No,” I whispered back. “They won’t laugh at you. Here, I’ll sit here with you while you pick one out.”</div><br /><div><br />I smiled at her and helped her pull on a turquoise Ariel dress, meanwhile I felt like I had a golf ball lodged in my throat and equally raucous thoughts to go with it. <em>Oh no, she’s got it! She’s got that thing that I have! The thing that plagues you with nagging self-doubt.</em></div><br /><br /><div>I flashed to being five year’s old in a ballet class with four other girls. They were all students at a local Catholic school and carpooled together to dance class. They were chummy, giggly, and dressed in identical plaid, pleated jumpers. And then there was me; outside of them. They never did or said anything unkind. They never said anything at all. Maybe that’s what I found innately offensive. But I doubt it. I think what was troublesome was my own feeling of awkwardness. But at five, I didn’t have the words, and I didn’t know who to tell.</div><br /><div><br />Standing there with Stella as she pulled on some red ruby slippers, I stopped holding my breath for the angst I supposed she was happening, and suddenly found myself relieved to have been standing there with her, holding her hand while she put on the costume. Relieved that at three, in whatever limited emotional vocabulary she has, she was able to tell me, <em>Wow, this is different. I’m nervous, can you just stand here with me while I put this get-up on? </em></div><br /><div><br />Later that evening, after bath and bedtime books were read, I tried to have a party debriefing to see if she had any unresolved feelings to analyze. </div><br /><div><br />“Was it different to go to a Princess party?” I asked, trying to lightly use my fingers to detangle her hair without her knowing I was actually brushing her blond rat’s bed.</div><br /><div><br />“Pway wif me,” she said, pushing away both my hand and my counseling attempt. Instead, she handed me a blue T-Rex, while holding her own green triceratops.</div><br /><div><br />I tried to use the dinosaurs as play therapy, reenacting the party scene. My T-Rex, named Rexerella, was feeling shy about putting on a Princess costume. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>“Not like dat,” Stella complained. “Hold it like dis.” She showed me how to properly hold the dinosaur by the back, then tried to eat Rexerella. </div><br /><div><br />I decided it was best to let the dinosaurs battle it out without a prehistoric drama agenda.<br />I finally kissed her goodnight and just as I was about to close her door, I asked her the only question that ever needed to be asked, “Did you have fun at the party?”</div><br /><div><br />“I did,” she smiled, crashing the dinosaurs together. “I was a bootiful, bootiful Princess.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-26880336065001401582012-02-07T05:30:00.000-08:002012-02-07T05:38:49.053-08:00I Want My MTV<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_AcSZ8SUR5ZyTyqvm18zaoTvKz-33CJll_u4fpvFe6j0xpJjenOfirU82GKLI1D0c2-vET3IXnwFv4re2nUjSHNIPy6T3Pwkx_NvTgbrYG5j0AJdAmHTHjriuJ-JCSOx1m2oEudi5M6pr/s1600/013.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706387316447469618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_AcSZ8SUR5ZyTyqvm18zaoTvKz-33CJll_u4fpvFe6j0xpJjenOfirU82GKLI1D0c2-vET3IXnwFv4re2nUjSHNIPy6T3Pwkx_NvTgbrYG5j0AJdAmHTHjriuJ-JCSOx1m2oEudi5M6pr/s320/013.JPG" /></a><br />I am resistant to technological change. My cell phone is not Smart. My Netflix DVDs are delivered by a kindly mail person driving a USPS truck. My nephews (11 and 9) explained the difference between a DS and XBox, and I pretended to understand what they were describing. My Facebook page is not a timeline, and I am frightened of Twittering (or is it Tweeting?). But as my family grows in number, and grows out of clothes, and grows hearty in food appetites and extracurricular activities, I grow in my quest for saving a buck. <br /><div><br />So I made a big leap. I decided to “bundle” our package. Cable, internet, and our home phone would now be conveniently under one discounted mass media umbrella. And this would somehow magically increase our television channels from 6 to 8 billion and six.</div><br /><div><br />The Cable Guy arrived at our house one post-preschool afternoon. Heath and Stella were cozied up for an hour of decompression that includes snuggling up with their Lovies (matted, cataract-eyed, noseless stuffed Puppy, and well-worn fleecey Beanky, for her), a snack, and some PBS Kids adventures. When the screen went blank, Mr. Cable was met with shrieks of dismay and howls of protest. He did his best to explain the process and tried to mesmerize them with promising tales of deep-sea Sponges that talked and little boys who go on amazing animal adventures.</div><br /><div><br />“All appropriate for their age,” he reassured me, nodding to my four month old, Forest, perched on my hip.</div><br /><div><br />Thing One and Thing Two weren’t buying what he was selling and continued to shoot him surly, furrowed brows between shouting muffled pleas to stop into their Lovies. According to them, this man had come to ruin their lives. I smiled at Cable Dude, silently hoping Stella would not call him a Penis Head, her latest pet name for strangers in Trader Joe’s who dare to come close for some <em>aren’t you just the cutest</em> doting.</div><br /><div><br />And with the flip of a switch (modem, I suppose, for the technically savvy), PBS was replaced by Nick Jr. As if she was sprung to life from the pages of our books, there was our household’s favorite gregarious pig, Olivia. Looks of horror and disbelief melted from their little faces. Angry wailings fell silent. Pupils dilated; mouths dropped agape.</div><br /><div><br />Mr. Technology began his tutorial on the magic that is DVRing, while I feigned listening, distracted by my own noisy thoughts. What have I done?! I’ve ruined my children! </div><br /><div><br />“…and ESPN channels begin here,” he continued. I snapped back to attention long enough to make note of not mentioning the ESPN channels to my husband, Mark, for fear I would surely lose my get-the-kids dinner/bath/bedtime sidekick forever.</div><br /><div><br />Heath woke up the following morning with big plans to not go to preschool so he could stay home and watch the new channels all day. “Sound like a plan?” he asked. </div><br /><div><br />I remained non-committal. Sure enough the “problem” resolved itself after twenty minutes of Little Bear. He was ready to see what his friends at school were doing.</div><br /><div><br />Not much has changed. Turns out I had to call back and get them to add voice mail for an additional charge. Out of 10,000 channels to choose from, Mark complains that I still manage to watch multiple episodes of House that were already available before we brought the media conglomerate into our lives, and Mark discovered the forbidden sport channels, yet we are still partners in parenting.</div><br /><div><br />I did happen upon a few minutes of Jersey Shore and saw Snooki for the first time. I only know her from Bobby Moynihan’s impersonation on SNL, but here she was, live and in the flesh.<br /></div><br /><div>As she readied herself for a night on the town, she mused to her friends, <em>I’m wearing two pair o’ underpants, ‘case I piss myself like I did last night. I got the thong on with booty pants over them.</em></div><br /><div><br />I relayed this important information to my husband, who said he was going to throw up if I didn’t change the channel. We both came away with the same question: what are booty pants?</div><br /><div><br />There’s something to be said for being out of the loop. Of course, now I know what to wear next time I plan to pee on myself.<br /><br /><br /></div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-82956659497487650922011-07-01T04:57:00.000-07:002011-07-01T11:40:25.798-07:00Busy BabiesFirst day of July and we are just cruising right along with this summer. We started the week off with a visit to the OB. With kids in tow, I was grateful for the shorter wait this time, and it seems baby bump number three's growth is progressing nicely.<br /><br /><em>Good growing baby, </em>my OB said as she ran the measuring tape up my ever-growing belly. Suddenly her hand furiously jerked in response to the growth-cooperative baby's kicks. <em>Busy baby, </em>she added. <em>You always have busy babies, don't you? </em>she mused, while Heath monologued a one act play about the Osteoporotic bone sculpture display engaged in fistacuffs with a T-Rex (played by his left hand), and Stella took a stirrup's blood pressure.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Stella is loving, and I do mean loving, her Tuesday morning ballet class at the local Y. When I tell her it's time to get ready for dance, she eagerly scampers off to her room, returning with her shiny purple leotard, pink tights, and beloved pink slippers.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxK-I95Z3pASEAcZOvVDOKFAGMN-HKEPtCEitO4N_aGZL5nJdGDUMRNXIocPXTK3E3NiRhqrAJvSpx8hrOqS0xDsq4i19B3i16E8fU81wMaZJR2l5AqMlm7YXIeqjhYjgR2AiWtOhr1YI/s1600/025.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624357188124774994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxK-I95Z3pASEAcZOvVDOKFAGMN-HKEPtCEitO4N_aGZL5nJdGDUMRNXIocPXTK3E3NiRhqrAJvSpx8hrOqS0xDsq4i19B3i16E8fU81wMaZJR2l5AqMlm7YXIeqjhYjgR2AiWtOhr1YI/s320/025.JPG" /></a> Stella's <em>first </em>first position. The picture is too blurry, but Beanky is on the barre beside her.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoowLZtHhZEZKfyRI9FNyfk9GC5bXkdD1EtusikSS7ozrQgJEvegLU3gAMngX4TYFX-eiDd_XM8Bi8br8uRxI1otsehksmM84GszN9UHp5oQorV6tYb0sm29UlNCUa9ZlNZm9SHAu0u6Bd/s1600/027.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624357185800448386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoowLZtHhZEZKfyRI9FNyfk9GC5bXkdD1EtusikSS7ozrQgJEvegLU3gAMngX4TYFX-eiDd_XM8Bi8br8uRxI1otsehksmM84GszN9UHp5oQorV6tYb0sm29UlNCUa9ZlNZm9SHAu0u6Bd/s320/027.JPG" /></a>Beanky also joined Stella for the orange scarf dance. Shortly after this shot, Stella brought her trusty lovey to me and asked, <em>Can you hold dis?, </em>and while the soft sage blanket has accompanied us in the car and is carried into the dance studio the last two classes, I have since been charged with holding it while Stella dances her heart out.<br /></div><br /><div>It's also Heath's first venture into the art (or pain) of waiting for his sister while she engages in an activity that has nothing to do with him. He has made a co-waiter friend, an older brother of one of Stella's dance mates. They pass the time by playing with Lego Star Wars figures, obsessively checking out the soda machine in the waiting area, and watching the teenaged camp attendees come in from their outdoor activities. And when the fun of these pastimes is exhausted, Heath resorts to the old <em>How much longer? I wanna go home </em>stand-by<em>.</em><br /></div><br /><br /><div>Most recently, our dear Cali boys left after a two week adventure of pooling, playing, celebrating multiple birthdays, catching <em>Cars 2 </em>on opening day, and of course, mountaineering.<br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiatlbPrnEK6C67L0i2HixvXLlcc54Bsr1fJ-71LKftsWqc1RmFAhk6duNMLvcTJtgKYqPcK6CzDPoGHfQo4KZ4u8W-I-Epd5Sx0Kft4w9f4ZHxYT4U7krvlyvUvATDLDbMQfFlvZ5PLhen/s1600/210.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624357178971202626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiatlbPrnEK6C67L0i2HixvXLlcc54Bsr1fJ-71LKftsWqc1RmFAhk6duNMLvcTJtgKYqPcK6CzDPoGHfQo4KZ4u8W-I-Epd5Sx0Kft4w9f4ZHxYT4U7krvlyvUvATDLDbMQfFlvZ5PLhen/s320/210.JPG" /></a> Checking out their carefully crafted beaver rock dam.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimNuFRktyro0d_PTaPz3LGRrk4lStmgDO7SCuubO9wfYVQDV2ZULEToRJTWfD5QRoSAFQTdMDjon0lMWuUWsq7KyIeadjNUPu8xFePRO3AzuTiUA6pp8cL6Kq5_GoR8_gu0b16QxT8Iejr/s1600/198.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624357170714428978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimNuFRktyro0d_PTaPz3LGRrk4lStmgDO7SCuubO9wfYVQDV2ZULEToRJTWfD5QRoSAFQTdMDjon0lMWuUWsq7KyIeadjNUPu8xFePRO3AzuTiUA6pp8cL6Kq5_GoR8_gu0b16QxT8Iejr/s320/198.JPG" /></a> With Scruffy the Mountain Dog.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisvb1eWo79t18mH7MKil0XaAmkms594i9qIJcLGlOzCwvYiglwMW3VfqYIxdDJJ-TtKlUEpf30coqssRJftZgOz1wfiqGyPHgSrb_LKMr_FS4hB3kzLT9XWkfUWrfPoGR8PJqC4K6cMN99/s1600/140.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624357166119983666" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisvb1eWo79t18mH7MKil0XaAmkms594i9qIJcLGlOzCwvYiglwMW3VfqYIxdDJJ-TtKlUEpf30coqssRJftZgOz1wfiqGyPHgSrb_LKMr_FS4hB3kzLT9XWkfUWrfPoGR8PJqC4K6cMN99/s320/140.JPG" /></a> Early morning hike.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5t2T_WP_l6hwtYLaLMu6vPqTIW85Pn-qjDM2dv3yAS024a7HBPEJLVo3HmwlSlZ1vSFfp9WHSYKdxnVN4QyflbXZRcfTyo74dNh2s6RQl0LCX9_jvWN9mwo9YHVgqWMu1kEQf_qfjfe8/s1600/133.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624354715710620626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5t2T_WP_l6hwtYLaLMu6vPqTIW85Pn-qjDM2dv3yAS024a7HBPEJLVo3HmwlSlZ1vSFfp9WHSYKdxnVN4QyflbXZRcfTyo74dNh2s6RQl0LCX9_jvWN9mwo9YHVgqWMu1kEQf_qfjfe8/s320/133.JPG" /></a>A little trail running.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuK-l4I-gQ_tIIAzf51djN_gE81jjLX1bLS_zqA1q-FSLz43_bFRK98iJQpwEzpRMD_KhQjmLFwr8f8_Jr40_uYX_8gSpzFJE3nqxb8Z_qZ-OitbdxMoMuRAJN6Wux9OFUZfOIbaWtNZ6/s1600/106.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624354710860284114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuK-l4I-gQ_tIIAzf51djN_gE81jjLX1bLS_zqA1q-FSLz43_bFRK98iJQpwEzpRMD_KhQjmLFwr8f8_Jr40_uYX_8gSpzFJE3nqxb8Z_qZ-OitbdxMoMuRAJN6Wux9OFUZfOIbaWtNZ6/s320/106.JPG" /></a> Learning to play Lacrosse. Stella quickly mastered hitting people with her stick.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigtPdeuHBUS9abWfGHhINeSAbrTxrKqxuyca4Bisw2q9wqtWlLgp8OZMGIA5qIewOehmsxLlWUYbh4sbgfFmOO1iggwXXXqOzl7AnDO1uMF01Rkzroxlm5PhzkqxgwJZN_XSSdOr73tFsk/s1600/033.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624354703205894546" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigtPdeuHBUS9abWfGHhINeSAbrTxrKqxuyca4Bisw2q9wqtWlLgp8OZMGIA5qIewOehmsxLlWUYbh4sbgfFmOO1iggwXXXqOzl7AnDO1uMF01Rkzroxlm5PhzkqxgwJZN_XSSdOr73tFsk/s320/033.JPG" /></a>Crawfishin'.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujiOUEBLrMdNY1cyQeEzvesdCfRPjqPRvbXVdFcMyKBK0-CjDJFKh0A5PfaCG_TH03hyphenhyphenb8baHkkTt9d1idfH3eHIxd21y2Uw6nqTSRTUDDV4bCx6STpirhpMHOS_0Fm-v9kQlydxGAh9k/s1600/016.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624354687978958866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujiOUEBLrMdNY1cyQeEzvesdCfRPjqPRvbXVdFcMyKBK0-CjDJFKh0A5PfaCG_TH03hyphenhyphenb8baHkkTt9d1idfH3eHIxd21y2Uw6nqTSRTUDDV4bCx6STpirhpMHOS_0Fm-v9kQlydxGAh9k/s320/016.JPG" /></a> Their reunion with Scruffy caught on film. We also met Scruffy's owners. Scruffy's real name? Scruffy. Scruffy.</div><br /><br /><div>And while Heath patiently waits for his sister on Tuesday mornings, as of this week Stella finds herself in a familiar predicament while Heath has his soccer practice on Tuesday afternoon. Sure, she has more practice in watching Heath have all the fun, but she has grown less passive in the process. I was only able to take a few pictures of his first practice at a local park, because most of my time was spent keeping Stella out of the mix. Eventually she took solace in repeatedly racing across a neighboring baseball field.</div><br /><br /><div>Heath enjoyed the running, dribbling, and kicking drills, and even managed to keep an opponent from scoring in a very friendly first Lemon Team against Strawberry team scrimmage. Heath was a lemon. And if you ask him, the lemons won. Because they're better than the strawberries. And faster. And stronger. And did he mention better?<br /></div><br /><div>I encouraged some good sportsmanship by yammering on about always congratulating your opponent on a good game and the importance of recognizing their athletic abilities. </div><br /><br /><div><em>Yeah, </em>he said, nodding his head enthusiastically, while I was feeling quite certain I had impressed upon him some excellent sense of being a good sport. <em>And I kicked that ball right out from that strawberry and won the game.</em> </div></div><br /><div><br /><br /><div>Okay. Maybe a little gloating in the privacy of your own family's car is permissable.<br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNUXzdYcTITVpQq2mckwBAB1vsMFdXzcX36fef8SmepqViLpj0GLzVcNFaX4oPv9mYeO4jc_bAU-JibCaCKteG9oKRQ6XQQ-9qIapxFUe_C9wIKqwCmZjtn5TgAKYqHh7xcQro595hsK3l/s1600/006.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624354690427645314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNUXzdYcTITVpQq2mckwBAB1vsMFdXzcX36fef8SmepqViLpj0GLzVcNFaX4oPv9mYeO4jc_bAU-JibCaCKteG9oKRQ6XQQ-9qIapxFUe_C9wIKqwCmZjtn5TgAKYqHh7xcQro595hsK3l/s320/006.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-83543797879675356562011-06-25T09:22:00.000-07:002011-06-27T11:10:21.830-07:00I Float, Therefore I amNext to blogging and posting pictures of yourself on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Facebook</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />When the guilt of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">frivolous</span> 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">else's</span> flurry of energy.<br /><br />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.Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-31118904873067985502011-06-10T07:28:00.001-07:002011-06-10T15:06:37.157-07:00How 'Bout a Little Rain with that Thunder?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5rkB_JjeCqJ1C6mt_6DvcjunbZn2oFMb59YaX_oIYy1o8n07IEJsdBdfT_kLTE6fDEICzaZlyu8rSDvJksUic8N-esIPWet4PiXyimrIv3esrwHjSUJpnJT4jfWibGKJA-c9IoCG8DsGN/s1600/938.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616715600638806562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5rkB_JjeCqJ1C6mt_6DvcjunbZn2oFMb59YaX_oIYy1o8n07IEJsdBdfT_kLTE6fDEICzaZlyu8rSDvJksUic8N-esIPWet4PiXyimrIv3esrwHjSUJpnJT4jfWibGKJA-c9IoCG8DsGN/s320/938.JPG" /></a> (The mountain dogs last summer. Will they still be there?)<br /><br /><br /><div>'<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tis</span> 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, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">pajamaed</span>, and slightly glassy-eyed. Very ready for Friday night take-out Chinese and bedtime. Daddy should be home with the eats soon.<br /><br />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, <em>Two whole weeks! </em>Apparently there's a trip to the mountains in the works. Heath can hardly wait to reunite with Sam the mountain dog.<br /><br />Oh, here's the rain. Now, where's my Hot and Sour soup?</div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-7297910515591785602011-06-07T05:37:00.000-07:002011-06-08T18:28:17.629-07:00Feelings, Nothing More Than FeelingsPregnancy-wise, time has started to stand still. I have a sneaking suspicion I am going to be pregnant forever.<br /><br />Meanwhile, the kiddies were engaged in an amicable round of <em>Let's Play Trains</em> 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 <em>excuse me'</em>s and <em>trade you this Percy for that coal tender </em>and <em>how many minutes with that Thomas </em>are uttered.<br /><br />And then <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">someone's</span> 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">smackin</span>', voices go from sweet to eardrum-popping shrill in seconds flat, and the name-calling begins.<br /><br /><em>You <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Poopie</span> Duck Cracker. </em>This is Stella's latest dagger in Heath's heart.<br /><em></em><br /><em>That's not my name. My name is Heath, </em>he screamed with self-righteous indignation, having only half an hour ago called her <em>Butt Cracker </em>when she dared to cuddle his Fire Fighter Curious George.<br /><br />But I was pleased in that moment that he chose to use his words, and I boldly encouraged him to tack on the statement, <em>Name-calling hurts my feelings.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>That hurts my feelings, </em>he parroted.<br /><br />She stopped re-aligning her row of trains, looked him in the eye and shouted, <em>You're not your feelings, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Heef!</span></em><br /><em></em><br />Heath considered this for a moment, then silently resumed his own line of train driving.<br /><em></em><br />If she can work out the yelling-kink, Stella may have a great future in counseling.<br /><em></em><br /><em></em>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-89848696411828219432011-06-06T18:39:00.000-07:002011-06-06T19:14:44.431-07:00PopspitalsDespite 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCgyM69Kwh4Nwky1lgZiddpUIhyaVEPbyVM459iq5YuxGSujAH_E9oK1j03q7qYThZrh0VqtIflmsa6mTmDD27ev-T9nUWxQqjHwgNs4O_WdReZUaP3aL8jLDOD5OHYFZMLleGiADPzDBF/s1600/024.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615287967527758306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCgyM69Kwh4Nwky1lgZiddpUIhyaVEPbyVM459iq5YuxGSujAH_E9oK1j03q7qYThZrh0VqtIflmsa6mTmDD27ev-T9nUWxQqjHwgNs4O_WdReZUaP3aL8jLDOD5OHYFZMLleGiADPzDBF/s320/024.JPG" /></a> Post-pool popsicles.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIZOzKoR20kGYECLqNYvc2nnpUkfuFOYmIUsBYObfmJE81ncn6xlA2hwHWXxdo12215qXsbGdrXBd2Qabl7NfD9W8Xqk5TfqmMFdnf-UqcBgRSyN6tWC8U8PmebSmGf-H4wS0PhAX7FILd/s1600/016.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615287962115547330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIZOzKoR20kGYECLqNYvc2nnpUkfuFOYmIUsBYObfmJE81ncn6xlA2hwHWXxdo12215qXsbGdrXBd2Qabl7NfD9W8Xqk5TfqmMFdnf-UqcBgRSyN6tWC8U8PmebSmGf-H4wS0PhAX7FILd/s320/016.JPG" /></a> In her beloved hand-me-down Thomas suit.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyOw2iCVLuxPWiixxFBc7EAxi5LcDPzW7pH34Hzv6SsDWfcSnbzwK2BMdpaDpgyQCXjLc1-uxclyDKCxghosHfFFt_iOmjVe1NEVs0I-fajmNwf9cV3nNPeakt6prgjL4yrHDKyd4wW2aG/s1600/023.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615287959277051682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyOw2iCVLuxPWiixxFBc7EAxi5LcDPzW7pH34Hzv6SsDWfcSnbzwK2BMdpaDpgyQCXjLc1-uxclyDKCxghosHfFFt_iOmjVe1NEVs0I-fajmNwf9cV3nNPeakt6prgjL4yrHDKyd4wW2aG/s320/023.JPG" /></a> And what does one do with all the popsicle sticks being consumed this summer?<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIUCPHMOYRIaDHY_ytld4b7KyarrEeKkFKSoUMxkMBJ248QTN2WTkPreZynNltWC2aCEMLIfnkBvVOiU9MXEbKLofYFSSqIxAygcFPQCF5oVI4wiCSnBgPKaQ4M4Wg2DTFTj0fxkPk7XY/s1600/026.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615287953161567074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIUCPHMOYRIaDHY_ytld4b7KyarrEeKkFKSoUMxkMBJ248QTN2WTkPreZynNltWC2aCEMLIfnkBvVOiU9MXEbKLofYFSSqIxAygcFPQCF5oVI4wiCSnBgPKaQ4M4Wg2DTFTj0fxkPk7XY/s320/026.JPG" /></a><br />You build space ships with them, of course.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zzuxcSzuKcWomaCIFBnX9IuodGiPcdcGlE7PVTUDdHAhPkjyuoKWB5E5CcHV2hZqdFR3AteHN02YFA7RbpcptENcSQXpWYh3srkHZz4TnG89zo4_bHHdnu-buTgtBXQlUYxP9k3VfKtA/s1600/030.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615287943064053074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zzuxcSzuKcWomaCIFBnX9IuodGiPcdcGlE7PVTUDdHAhPkjyuoKWB5E5CcHV2hZqdFR3AteHN02YFA7RbpcptENcSQXpWYh3srkHZz4TnG89zo4_bHHdnu-buTgtBXQlUYxP9k3VfKtA/s320/030.JPG" /></a> <em>Needs more glue, </em>Heath frequently shouts as he constructs his space ship. We ran out of popsicle sticks. Stella offered a solution. <em>Need to eat more popspitals!</em><br /><br /></div></div><br /><div><br /><div>Guess you know what we'll be doing tomorrow. Going to the pool and eating more popspitals. </div></div></div></div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-13100755730658548602011-06-04T06:55:00.000-07:002011-06-06T11:25:19.894-07:00If You're After Getting the Honey, Then You Don't Go Killing All the BeesIt's a great line from a great song from a great show. Thanks to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Netflix</span> we are currently revisiting our obsession with HBO's <em>John from Cincinnati</em>. 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.<br /><br />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, <em>Sing it, mama. Sing it. </em><br /><br />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, <em>Play it! Play it! </em>So I flipped their grilled cheese sandwiches and ran off for our computer.<br /><br />The number of times I played and replayed the <em>John from <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Cincinnati</span></em> opening credits/theme song is innumerable. Between the catchy Joe <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Strummer</span> 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, <em>Again!</em><br /><em></em><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrWZlh7DnBE">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrWZlh7DnBE</a><br /><br />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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">JFC</span> episode. Opening credits and theme song began to roll. Mark said, <em>I think Heath was singing this tonight. He knows all the words. Is that possible?</em><br /><em></em><br />Oh, yes. It is possible.Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-62570929489344597412011-06-01T17:25:00.000-07:002011-06-01T18:27:55.405-07:00How 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 <a href="http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/episodes/rhinoceros/introduction/1179/">Rhino on PBS' <em>Nature</em></a>, or pour through their Animal Weekly Reader books for the thousandth time, I am inevitably asked the following question:<br /><br /><em>How old do you have to be to get a (fill in the blank with animal of interest)?</em><br /><br />The first time Heath asked this question was a couple of months ago when he had a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">playdate</span> 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: <em>How old do you have to be to get a cat?</em><br /><em></em><br />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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ropko</span> cat is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">probably</span> not in the cards.<br /><br />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 (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Tyrannosaurus</span> Rex, Triceratops, Pterodactyl), I say he has to be as old as Papa.<br /><br />Tonight as we were wrapping up our second reading of <em>Rainbow Fish and the Big Blue Whale, </em>Heath inquired, <em>How old do you have to be to have a whale?</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>A whale really wouldn't be happy living in the house. They need to stay in the ocean, </em>I explained.<br /><br /><em>I'll put him the bathtub, </em>he thoughtfully suggested.<br /><br /><em>I don't think the bathtub would</em><em> be large enough, </em>I countered.<br /><br /><em>I'll get a bigger bathtub. Or a smaller whale.</em><br /><em></em><br />Once more I suggested, <em>Whales just really need to stay in their natural habitat.</em><br /><em></em><br />He wasn't budging. <em>How old you gotta be? </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>As old as Papa.</em><br /><em></em><br />At last, he was satisfied and ready to move onto the next book. Before I could start <em>Black Bears, </em>Heath lit up with an idea. <em>How old do you have to be to get a goldfish?</em><br /><em></em><br />I don't know why it hadn't <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">occurred</span> 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. <em>You know, I think you have to be four years old.</em><br /><em></em><br />Heath took a very deep breath, clapped his hands, and <em>woo-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">hooed</span>. </em>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, <em>And when the goldfish dies, I can get that cat!</em><br /><em></em><br /><br /><em></em>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-33015919732006889182011-05-31T18:54:00.000-07:002011-05-31T19:41:32.084-07:00Toasty TuesdayA Tuesday that feels like a Monday. It just doesn't pack quite the same delightful punch as a Monday that feels like a Sunday.<br /><br />But we fared quite well. The day began with an instant desire to paint a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">RadioDogMan</span>, and I have to say, I really wanted to see what this would look like.<br /><br />It looks like this. Apparently those are headphones on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">RadioDogMan's</span> head and they transmit special messages. Messages about bad guys and panda bears.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbLEEhn5oxIFjlaoCYtNZna4XFq2-hs3a4T-DPGWhBk3QHJ-cFL5BjLm0ctTDcwsRtHIchtH5YE_CyA9V_R7gwArVKtLvAxyGfw4Q7yINHuF7bqDmpbYMEtRJuNp5rZ5q4od_hwmsukPz1/s1600/002.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613065079793161682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbLEEhn5oxIFjlaoCYtNZna4XFq2-hs3a4T-DPGWhBk3QHJ-cFL5BjLm0ctTDcwsRtHIchtH5YE_CyA9V_R7gwArVKtLvAxyGfw4Q7yINHuF7bqDmpbYMEtRJuNp5rZ5q4od_hwmsukPz1/s320/002.JPG" /></a>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, <em>The mess. The mess. </em>Very Marlon Brando in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Apocalypse</span> Now. <em>The horror. The horror.</em><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_nOjqfyYWPM1gjBgvrdP8Ofs8GSlKU68jqxB2bu-4mnx3yJzeTWECGkhYNh4Y-m0UqGZZZsGqfJVfUnZ-0HmU5x9aP1RfHQ0QIKiUiQCGDJG6BX-m7dIEs7A2jwW8_zdj3nnfHsxW570/s1600/003.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613065070029243250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_nOjqfyYWPM1gjBgvrdP8Ofs8GSlKU68jqxB2bu-4mnx3yJzeTWECGkhYNh4Y-m0UqGZZZsGqfJVfUnZ-0HmU5x9aP1RfHQ0QIKiUiQCGDJG6BX-m7dIEs7A2jwW8_zdj3nnfHsxW570/s320/003.JPG" /></a> 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.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>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.<br /></div><br /><div>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. <em>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?</em><br /></div><br /><br /><div>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.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">OB's</span> office.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>The pool. Thank goodness for the pool.<br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7HP_zQw9ykxKzQ5wQ6C2Z20V9VY66MxNBHt1CR6hJEayKwq2G6S375zpiqTiQUMP_wbGsGK6emM7hl0VaV9_9F4o0HblfuQBSo1yFYqEM41xm9sZqWtEq9li7wmx_GrFyp7ny0zIKfJ1/s1600/011.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613065069336524178" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7HP_zQw9ykxKzQ5wQ6C2Z20V9VY66MxNBHt1CR6hJEayKwq2G6S375zpiqTiQUMP_wbGsGK6emM7hl0VaV9_9F4o0HblfuQBSo1yFYqEM41xm9sZqWtEq9li7wmx_GrFyp7ny0zIKfJ1/s320/011.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-29768762207760787762011-05-30T18:30:00.000-07:002011-05-30T18:55:10.701-07:00Memorial MondayA 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.<br /><br />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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">BFF</span> was sporting a water gun and a joy for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">dare devilishly</span> jumping off the pool steps into the water.<br /><br />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, <em>Stella's pool), </em>where she floats and wanders about in her trusty pink princess race car float, proudly announcing, <em>I'm swimming, I'm swimming.</em><br /><em></em><br />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, <em>I'll be here tomorrow. You be here tomorrow, too.</em><br /><em></em><br />He's right, we will be back tomorrow. And if new <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">BFF</span> isn't there, I'm sure Heath will find himself another one.<br /><em></em><br /><br /><br /><br /><em></em>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-89105537853517786612011-05-29T17:42:00.001-07:002011-05-29T17:57:28.199-07:00Come 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">rhythm</span>, and it seems he's grown a head or two since last summer and can now safely wade halfway across the pool.<br /><br />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.<br /><em></em><br /><em>Hi, what's your name? </em>he inquired like an old pro.<br /><br /><em>Ruth, </em>she replied with a nervous giggle.<br /><br /><em>My name's Heath, </em>he said, then flipped and flopped away showing off his best dolphin moves.<br /><br />She bounced along with her friend, another gal in a purple suit and green goggles. <em>He's cute, </em>she whispered to her pal, then the two tee-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">heed</span> their way to the other side of the pool.<br /><br />Oh, brother...Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-39637832051587945452011-05-28T17:42:00.000-07:002011-05-28T19:02:37.572-07:00Dirt Department GuyThis was Heath's official, self-appointed job title for the day. <em>Dirt Department Guy. </em>It is most appropriate for him.<br /><br />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 <em>for a giant shark mouth, </em>much dirt had to be placed on the floor.<br /><em></em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOUhTD60JhXlnc7-NDETzkB_hOB5Nk5hXecY0DrrOJ-vXwsv4sK0m7YTSaWDe9br1DucgzbOx1ApooVc6im6GD3Po-UmV5bQwDi5vDAT5SHsQsKMsot4W6ssYLiYg8TqCa0NJbs3Xwv1jR/s1600/049.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611934070005326274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOUhTD60JhXlnc7-NDETzkB_hOB5Nk5hXecY0DrrOJ-vXwsv4sK0m7YTSaWDe9br1DucgzbOx1ApooVc6im6GD3Po-UmV5bQwDi5vDAT5SHsQsKMsot4W6ssYLiYg8TqCa0NJbs3Xwv1jR/s320/049.JPG" /></a> <em>For stability, </em>he explained, as he patted the damp mud onto the boat's deck.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwx75NdlgyAIKlP6YJdZQrDSDqILpnlrThyphenhyphenA2Wcq5uCUv8DMgWKoaw23h2RT35ZLH3gVTB4gZCq-r-joUvGvO4KtbKgQi6hmdPtSB8mb3BypFK2T6pV1BsVYX_3DT4xEYu5YAgixpKxGNx/s1600/047.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611934066087693234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwx75NdlgyAIKlP6YJdZQrDSDqILpnlrThyphenhyphenA2Wcq5uCUv8DMgWKoaw23h2RT35ZLH3gVTB4gZCq-r-joUvGvO4KtbKgQi6hmdPtSB8mb3BypFK2T6pV1BsVYX_3DT4xEYu5YAgixpKxGNx/s320/047.JPG" /></a>Within one load of damp dirt, a lone worm wiggled. <em>His poop will be good for the tomatoes, </em>he announced, then gave it a home by our plant. I have high hopes for that plant. Too high, probably.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZOCtZOP-SWcT29wit1HtBwIWV7FqbLbuwhxnwVakA5XSqMlG3jAjbTRVj20iYc9gGsY17tMXrnXMoj851_82rDqW1qPsVLPCeA6GUtMRKfH5EZm-QymadZMnsm-o-zMmJSWiwJQKuSIP/s1600/046.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611933457097486498" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZOCtZOP-SWcT29wit1HtBwIWV7FqbLbuwhxnwVakA5XSqMlG3jAjbTRVj20iYc9gGsY17tMXrnXMoj851_82rDqW1qPsVLPCeA6GUtMRKfH5EZm-QymadZMnsm-o-zMmJSWiwJQKuSIP/s320/046.JPG" /></a> The worm and the Heath.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZBQ-WLelhpF9IsskehYwkkebYxSsWTn6Zz5gHS6KN9TiOvX4sU0PGvINmpavHbkurQWK9OkF61eGBLDM0LesJS_wdAVuQhE7CkoV02Og5RW0sa4bid8EOWbK_7uHLDudBBwG5JPPQnFZ/s1600/042.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611933449455816786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZBQ-WLelhpF9IsskehYwkkebYxSsWTn6Zz5gHS6KN9TiOvX4sU0PGvINmpavHbkurQWK9OkF61eGBLDM0LesJS_wdAVuQhE7CkoV02Og5RW0sa4bid8EOWbK_7uHLDudBBwG5JPPQnFZ/s320/042.JPG" /></a> <em>Needs more dirt, </em>he yelled. He IS the Dirt Department Guy, so he should know. I was getting a little nervous about the precarious stick, I mean, <em>sail. </em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVUgDoBEh7xkXXCW6Ubpar6ltB5mqz0YylVg43pRW37KTdhptKHkadxOV30CpMpjuoeKgw1gUcfc3sTzQ2Js4UYXGaU4MtmY5WAnQNDn9Yze8Yj_YUWU4v-0r9kXlWCZRVkA9CAdlh9-W/s1600/035.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611933446481600786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVUgDoBEh7xkXXCW6Ubpar6ltB5mqz0YylVg43pRW37KTdhptKHkadxOV30CpMpjuoeKgw1gUcfc3sTzQ2Js4UYXGaU4MtmY5WAnQNDn9Yze8Yj_YUWU4v-0r9kXlWCZRVkA9CAdlh9-W/s320/035.JPG" /></a> Heath's boat. I find it <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">reminiscent</span> of Tom Hank's boat in <em>Castaway. </em>Not bad survival skills for a four year old.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANBlxZ-Z5U_9zQsIK8BPATMc8lW9Ajn_BerTv-PF1ecvte03nsExCf8qsAUGeGJjLU_Hoi2Zm9LdAdH7gwN0vMZuUdmUHsCaPWTdFVWOIIG41xNTUt3toIWFSwp0rHpoP8qoBzADthKdi/s1600/033.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611933441852568530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANBlxZ-Z5U_9zQsIK8BPATMc8lW9Ajn_BerTv-PF1ecvte03nsExCf8qsAUGeGJjLU_Hoi2Zm9LdAdH7gwN0vMZuUdmUHsCaPWTdFVWOIIG41xNTUt3toIWFSwp0rHpoP8qoBzADthKdi/s320/033.JPG" /></a> 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.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGyDzPbEItsTJUyUJdf4ZqXMRcFYbNP5h_jTYjfXNSvLPgajFI8DtMiB90DlDV-MsKON48_aWY2M7mE2Uq_GjLda9SGRvu0Ei8A4v4VOTSSp-Dv9DMH0S4_nNLSBz6r32pAi2DJ7Tw8POC/s1600/025.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611933437949878354" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGyDzPbEItsTJUyUJdf4ZqXMRcFYbNP5h_jTYjfXNSvLPgajFI8DtMiB90DlDV-MsKON48_aWY2M7mE2Uq_GjLda9SGRvu0Ei8A4v4VOTSSp-Dv9DMH0S4_nNLSBz6r32pAi2DJ7Tw8POC/s320/025.JPG" /></a>Back to the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">rockin</span>' 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.</div><br /><br /><div>And we concluded our 2<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">nd</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">daddyless</span> day at a nearby park where Stella climbed the play structures and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">swung</span> 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-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">oop</span>, 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.<br /></div><br /><div>When the, uh, <em>mother </em>of all such words was used not once, not twice, but thrice times in a row, I said, <em>hey, let's get ready to go get some dinner somewhere. </em>As you can imagine Heath had no interest in leaving his <em>friends, </em>as he now referred to them, and was quite certain they would be calling him into the game any minute now.</div><br /><br /><div>A brisk and graceful exit did not take place. But we made it to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">McAllister's</span> Deli for dinner, and I did not have to cook or clean up dinner this evening.</div><br /><br /><div>Daddy will be home tomorrow at 1pm. </div></div></div></div></div></div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-40599825852891838912011-05-27T09:55:00.000-07:002011-05-27T20:25:27.193-07:00Summer Breakin' 3: Back to the BugalooThanks 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 <em>caught a few minutes of Oprah </em>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<strong>,</strong> closed-captioning on. I had a choice. Tyra or Oprah. Oprah won.<br /><br />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 <em>capture and load</em> 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.<br /><br />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 <em>Super Why</em> while I ran on the treadmill. Joyously visited a local bookstore, while eagerly selecting a birthday present for a preschool pal. Reasonably accepted <em>no </em>as an answer to all 1000 <em>Can I get this? </em>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.<br /><br />If only I could remember what Oprah said, I could probably do it again tomorrow.<br /><br /><div></div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-23819809655586843052011-05-07T20:00:00.000-07:002011-05-10T09:27:57.576-07:00Run Like a Girl, May 7, 2011, Race ReportA couple of months ago I decided that running the <em>Run Like a Girl</em> 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.<br /><br />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. <em>I want to run that race. </em>And that was replaced with a third thought. <em>I can't run that race, </em>which was replaced with a fourth, <em>I must run that race, </em>that was<em> </em>edged out by, <em>You can't do it. </em><br /><em></em><br />The dithering. It went on and on and on.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <em>Run Like a Girl </em>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.<br /><br />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: <em>should I wear this jacket or not? Should I carry my water bottle or not?</em> 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.<br /><br />The 8kers were off first, followed shortly by the smaller group of 5kers.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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, <em>Go, Mama, go!</em><br /><em></em><br />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, <em>On your left</em>s, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <em>Go, Mama, go! </em>Then I saw their sweet faces and very nearly choked on my overwhelmed emotions.<br /><br />58 out of 116 participants. 13th in my age group. Turns out baby number three is a pretty darn good running partner.Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770682361975000939.post-11609424696709199322011-04-15T17:44:00.000-07:002011-05-11T05:22:20.447-07:00The Difference Between a Bad Haircut and a Good One...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDERY_f_8yLqQLiEtf536yCgZvV9YdbpORPhLXIyANbkkGl-DTm6HoYP5Mx6zhl3UEOpD7YgqQMsuE-St2CFwCiiG3GiUvFUA93_5eWH7KAj6j0A9UreL6UuQwiCgo5UPsxl1ZvddCwm0/s1600/dutch-boy.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 278px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 211px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595981551731465890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDERY_f_8yLqQLiEtf536yCgZvV9YdbpORPhLXIyANbkkGl-DTm6HoYP5Mx6zhl3UEOpD7YgqQMsuE-St2CFwCiiG3GiUvFUA93_5eWH7KAj6j0A9UreL6UuQwiCgo5UPsxl1ZvddCwm0/s320/dutch-boy.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5K9esJcgg9gDC3YkmdtURZdjtTQUW3idwO5Sn_f_ue_HKY91H2tBGmXkuDcwZA0-eTgXmXFO3G4ZKvp9IuLUlTrfQr4K11tblrDtw_hx_KKrOUcvkM8dUMHfgl_POFVYTb6eQW6Gid-Ap/s1600/prince_valiant.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 181px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595981545650777218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5K9esJcgg9gDC3YkmdtURZdjtTQUW3idwO5Sn_f_ue_HKY91H2tBGmXkuDcwZA0-eTgXmXFO3G4ZKvp9IuLUlTrfQr4K11tblrDtw_hx_KKrOUcvkM8dUMHfgl_POFVYTb6eQW6Gid-Ap/s320/prince_valiant.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>About a week. At least, that's what my dad tells me. For Heath's sake, I hope he's right. </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Shortly after Stella hunkered down for her two hour afternoon snooze, I decided to take a pregnant pause and put my own dogs up, while Heath happily snipped at ribbon with his trusty green preschooler scissors. <em>I'm making shorts for the beach.</em></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><em>Shorts</em> may have been a stretch. They were mostly snippets of blue, yellow, and brown ribbon tied together. He was pleased with his creation and settled back for a snack of goldfish crackers and milk, and a little viewing of <em>Curious George. </em>And I settled back for a few minutes of silence and a moment or two to relish the busy bouncing bundle of baby in the belly joy. Then a pregnancy-induced coma nap, apparently. Fifteen minutes, tops, until I heard a breathy, <em>Mama, </em>in my ear.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Groggily, I turned to find Heath, green scissors in one hand, strands of hair in the other, and some of the most banged up bangs I've ever seen in my life.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">must've</span> gasped, because he instantly handed over the scissors, calmly stating, <em>Hair grows back, mom. It grows back.</em></div><br /><br /><div><em></em></div><br /><br /><div>He's right, it does grow back. But I found myself unsure whether I should laugh or cry, because his long locks, while certainly in need of a trim, now resembled something between the Dutch Boy paint icon and Prince Valiant. </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>And that's how we ended up at Great Clips at 5:15 on a Friday. Sadly, he refused to let me take a before picture. The nice lady at Great Clips did a reasonable clean-up job, and certainly enjoyed a chuckle at Heath's hair creation. At least we'll have lots of after pictures on our week long family vacation at Holden Beach. We leave in the morning.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>I'm not sure what I'm looking forward to more: 5-8K running in the salty air, trail running on the six miles of trail at the Carolina Beach State Park, the ice cream bar in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Southport</span>, riding the ferry, sleeping in (oh wait, that's the vacation Mark and I will take in another four and a half years)...</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div></div>Andrea Ropkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02014233748365951729noreply@blogger.com0