Heath's preschool holiday break has begun and he decided to kick his off with a 5:45 wake up time this morning, just 2 minutes after Stella's 5:43am awakening. Merry, Merry.
I reminded him that he did not have school this morning to which he replied, I'm not on vacation. I have work to do. It was 5:50am. I told him he would have to settle for watching Bob the Builder. He was satisfied with this activity.
Lucky for me, I didn't hear any complaints three hours later when I suggested we suit up and run to the park. No one fought me on hats and gloves and shoes. No one tried to chew their way out of the burdensome weather cover. They simply sat back, munched on fruit bars, and sang Frosty the Snowman for the first mile of the run. Over and over. And over. With very limited lyrics.
Just as my gloved fingers had become sufficiently numbed to the point of not feeling the cold anymore, the singing ceased. I peaked around the front and found both kiddies were fast asleep. Again, lucky for me. I took the long way to get to the park, where they played until they were frozen and requested going home for hot apple juice.
Not a bad start to the holiday.
Stella has her second (and hopefully last) surgery tomorrow morning. This evening Mark and I reminded her that we would be going to the hospital in the morning, and further explained to her and to Heath that she would have another bandage on the boo-boo. She lifted up her neck, pointed to the swollen spot, and with utmost assurance said, Doctor check a neck, mommy. It okay.
It's so nice of her to comfort us.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Holiday Dumpster Diving
As soon as Mark can convince Heath to call it a day, we will be eating ice cream and watching the holiday classic, Christmas Vacation. Christmas time is officially here.
We got a call this evening from our sweet little neighbor who lives across the street. She wanted to let us know how lovely the outside of our house looks. I had a moment of paranoia and had to ask Mark if he thought she was being sarcastic, and truth be told, she is sitting over in her living room, staring out of her window, cursing the day we ever moved into this establishment. She also seemed to emphasize the word outside, so I was struck by the worry that she had seen through our front window and witnessed the bomb of toys that exploded over the course of the weekend.
Mark agreed. I am paranoid, and she was sincerely letting us know how fantastic our Festival of Lights is shining. It is truly bright, colorful, and beaming from a place of love. Our blow-up snowman, with his green mittens and candy cane, seems to proclaim, I don't care how environmentally-unfriendly I am. I'm Frosty, dammit. Just when you think the lights are red, then they are green, then blue, then white, then orange, then red again. Some twinkle. Some sparkle. And some just flat out scream.
And where did my resourceful husband stumble upon this collection of glad tidings holiday light hodgepodge? A dumpster, of course.
There's more where that came from, according to Mark. Looks like we're going Griswold all the way this year.
We got a call this evening from our sweet little neighbor who lives across the street. She wanted to let us know how lovely the outside of our house looks. I had a moment of paranoia and had to ask Mark if he thought she was being sarcastic, and truth be told, she is sitting over in her living room, staring out of her window, cursing the day we ever moved into this establishment. She also seemed to emphasize the word outside, so I was struck by the worry that she had seen through our front window and witnessed the bomb of toys that exploded over the course of the weekend.
Mark agreed. I am paranoid, and she was sincerely letting us know how fantastic our Festival of Lights is shining. It is truly bright, colorful, and beaming from a place of love. Our blow-up snowman, with his green mittens and candy cane, seems to proclaim, I don't care how environmentally-unfriendly I am. I'm Frosty, dammit. Just when you think the lights are red, then they are green, then blue, then white, then orange, then red again. Some twinkle. Some sparkle. And some just flat out scream.
And where did my resourceful husband stumble upon this collection of glad tidings holiday light hodgepodge? A dumpster, of course.
There's more where that came from, according to Mark. Looks like we're going Griswold all the way this year.
Friday, December 17, 2010
O Tannenbaum
While attending a lovely baby shower on Saturday for a friend who is having twins, I received some devastating news. A giant Christmas mother blunder had been made and I wasn't sure if I would be able to make things right. According to several ladies, the kiddie Christmas television classics had already aired. Rudolph. Grinch. Frosty. The freaky one with the big-eared baby and the Heat Miser. They'd come and gone, and thus, a memory-making experience for Heath and Stella was completely missed. And I had no one to blame except myself. And Mark. (In the greater interest of parenting responsibility equality.)
Of even greater concern was whether or not we'd missed Charlie Brown. Since the Great Pumpkin, the kids have discussed their excitement of viewing the Christmas Charlie Brown. Thanksgiving Charlie Brown was a mere tease. We've obsessively listened to Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas CD. On the radio, walking through stores, it takes only a single note of "Dr. Funk's" piano for the children to exclaim, It's Charlie Brown! They are, officially, hooked.
Fortunately for me, I was let off the guilt-hook when I got a wonderful tip Monday morning. Charlie Brown's Christmas would air again Thursday night at 8pm. I immediately shared the good news with Heath and Stella. They were thrilled, and immediately began a countdown to Thursday night at 8 o'clock.
The program did not disappoint. There was much guffawing over Snoopy's exaggerated sense of dog house decorating. They both tapped feet and bobbed heads to the jazzy, upbeat tempo. And in great protest, they smacked each other in the face when the show was over and bedtime was declared.
But what seemed to be universally appreciated in the Ropko house was Charlie Brown's tree. To most, it seemed frail, puny, and unfit to be used for true holiday decorating. Heath, however, instantly defended the tree when its pine needles fell to the ground. I like that tree. When Charlie Brown placed the heavy red bulb on one of its three delicate limbs, a concerned Stella whimpered, Oh no, Char' Brown Cribme Tree.
The roots of our heart-strings being pulled by the tree that upon first glance may seem to have nary a chance of making its way into any one's warm home for the holiday run deep. Much of my mountain folk family makes a living growing and selling Christmas trees in Western North Carolina. And as a child, I always found myself eyeing the tree that had an area that was going to have to be turned to the wall, because to some it would seem there was a gaping hole. To me, it had depth, although I wouldn't have known at the time that it appealed to me in that way. Ultimately it would be decided that there wasn't any sense in getting a tree that wasn't robust, and the "perfect" tree would be chosen.
The first Christmas of our courtship, Mark and I bought a live tree together. A few tree guys from Sparta, NC, living in a camper on Central Avenue for the month of December, have been our go-to fellas ever since. They always trim the tree to fit your stand, always help you get it on or in your car, always have some good-looking trees for not a whole lotta money, and always appreciate your business.
We almost skipped our guys this year. When we headed out as a family a couple of Sundays ago to get our tree, it was 5 o'clock. Heath had not napped that day. My patience was low. Stella was cranky. And the idea of driving to Central to get a tree, then have a late dinner, seemed to be pushing our moods luck. Not even two miles from our home, we passed a Christmas tree lot. It boasts NC grown Frasier Firs. It wasn't crowded. And it meant we could be eating and trimming our tree by 6pm. I shouted, Let's go there! So Mark did a quick U-turn, and with odd feelings of guilt, we pulled into a different tree lot.
I suppose the trees were grown in the mountains of North Carolina, but the tree guys working there were not. They were teenagers from Indian Trail. As I passed through the rows of Frasiers, while fragrant, I didn't find any that really spoke to me. Except for their price tags. They seemed to shout $85! $100! $75! I circled around looking for the irregular rack. There wasn't one. Or even one that muttered faintly, $30, $35, heck, even $45.
A mutual decision was made that we would grab our kicking and screaming children, try to explain to them that we ARE getting a tree tonight, but it will not be from this lot, and exit the premises and head over to the trusty lot in Plaza-Midwood.
It took five minutes to find our tree at the other lot. I spotted it before I had Stella out of the car seat. It's tall. Vibrant. Not too wide. And barely missing a limb. Oh, and it was $22. A guy helped us tie it to the top of the wagon, then said, Merry Christmas. We'll see you next year.
Yes, Mr. Man from Sparta living in a camper on Central. Yes, you will.
Mark straightening the tree. This is a long and tedious process. As a matter of fact, he will spend much of the holiday season asking me if I think it's straight enough. And I will answer, yes, whether I think it is or isn't.
Of even greater concern was whether or not we'd missed Charlie Brown. Since the Great Pumpkin, the kids have discussed their excitement of viewing the Christmas Charlie Brown. Thanksgiving Charlie Brown was a mere tease. We've obsessively listened to Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas CD. On the radio, walking through stores, it takes only a single note of "Dr. Funk's" piano for the children to exclaim, It's Charlie Brown! They are, officially, hooked.
Fortunately for me, I was let off the guilt-hook when I got a wonderful tip Monday morning. Charlie Brown's Christmas would air again Thursday night at 8pm. I immediately shared the good news with Heath and Stella. They were thrilled, and immediately began a countdown to Thursday night at 8 o'clock.
The program did not disappoint. There was much guffawing over Snoopy's exaggerated sense of dog house decorating. They both tapped feet and bobbed heads to the jazzy, upbeat tempo. And in great protest, they smacked each other in the face when the show was over and bedtime was declared.
But what seemed to be universally appreciated in the Ropko house was Charlie Brown's tree. To most, it seemed frail, puny, and unfit to be used for true holiday decorating. Heath, however, instantly defended the tree when its pine needles fell to the ground. I like that tree. When Charlie Brown placed the heavy red bulb on one of its three delicate limbs, a concerned Stella whimpered, Oh no, Char' Brown Cribme Tree.
The roots of our heart-strings being pulled by the tree that upon first glance may seem to have nary a chance of making its way into any one's warm home for the holiday run deep. Much of my mountain folk family makes a living growing and selling Christmas trees in Western North Carolina. And as a child, I always found myself eyeing the tree that had an area that was going to have to be turned to the wall, because to some it would seem there was a gaping hole. To me, it had depth, although I wouldn't have known at the time that it appealed to me in that way. Ultimately it would be decided that there wasn't any sense in getting a tree that wasn't robust, and the "perfect" tree would be chosen.
The first Christmas of our courtship, Mark and I bought a live tree together. A few tree guys from Sparta, NC, living in a camper on Central Avenue for the month of December, have been our go-to fellas ever since. They always trim the tree to fit your stand, always help you get it on or in your car, always have some good-looking trees for not a whole lotta money, and always appreciate your business.
We almost skipped our guys this year. When we headed out as a family a couple of Sundays ago to get our tree, it was 5 o'clock. Heath had not napped that day. My patience was low. Stella was cranky. And the idea of driving to Central to get a tree, then have a late dinner, seemed to be pushing our moods luck. Not even two miles from our home, we passed a Christmas tree lot. It boasts NC grown Frasier Firs. It wasn't crowded. And it meant we could be eating and trimming our tree by 6pm. I shouted, Let's go there! So Mark did a quick U-turn, and with odd feelings of guilt, we pulled into a different tree lot.
I suppose the trees were grown in the mountains of North Carolina, but the tree guys working there were not. They were teenagers from Indian Trail. As I passed through the rows of Frasiers, while fragrant, I didn't find any that really spoke to me. Except for their price tags. They seemed to shout $85! $100! $75! I circled around looking for the irregular rack. There wasn't one. Or even one that muttered faintly, $30, $35, heck, even $45.
A mutual decision was made that we would grab our kicking and screaming children, try to explain to them that we ARE getting a tree tonight, but it will not be from this lot, and exit the premises and head over to the trusty lot in Plaza-Midwood.
It took five minutes to find our tree at the other lot. I spotted it before I had Stella out of the car seat. It's tall. Vibrant. Not too wide. And barely missing a limb. Oh, and it was $22. A guy helped us tie it to the top of the wagon, then said, Merry Christmas. We'll see you next year.
Yes, Mr. Man from Sparta living in a camper on Central. Yes, you will.
Mark straightening the tree. This is a long and tedious process. As a matter of fact, he will spend much of the holiday season asking me if I think it's straight enough. And I will answer, yes, whether I think it is or isn't.
With much angst around whether or not the tree was straight and being held in the stand with as much stability as possible, Heath decided to take matters into his own hands and began making a diagram of exactly how the tree should be straight, and exactly how to go about making this happen.
Stella. "Helping."
Decorating the reachable areas of the tree. Stella is wearing my headlamp. This was her solution to the "is it straight enough?" dilemma. I am busy sweeping up the first of many to-be-broken bulbs.
O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree, thy candles really do shine so brightly. Especially if you squint your eyes and have a crappy camera.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Thunder Road: The Race to Mile 7
Just one week after breezing through the BRB marathon, Mark was up at 6am, prepping for the ever-popular Queen City marathon. Thunder Road. It's packed. It's hilly. And it's a darn good time.
Oddly enough, I found myself up at 6am, equally excited about the race. In addition to my Crazy Runner of a husband, I had a handful of ladies running the half course. All women who have shared the joy and aching arms and backs that comes with pushing our children in joggers around the up and down streets of our city. And for the first time in a very (and I do mean very) long time, Mark and I shared a hot cup of coffee by the glow of the Christmas tree, bantering quietly about the morning's festivities.
I'd spent the evening before studying the TR course map online, plotting my best spot to cheer on my favorite folks. Between Mile 7 and 8 was most appealing. I could catch the halfers at one of their most "need a boost" moments. It was a spot off the main roads, and completely blocked by traffic cops; no cars allowed. And it was 3 and a half miles from the house, which meant I could squeeze a run in myself by tossing the kids in the jogger. The trick: having us all ready and enthusiastic about going by 7:45am.
When Mark left the house at 7am to pick up a fellow running neighbor, Stella and I were up, had consumed cereal and mini-waffles, and were cuddling on the couch, whispering about Christmas and running and train tracks.
At 7:15, we were dressed, tires on the jogger pumped, and snacks stashed.
7:20, Heath was up.
7:25, Heath and Stella were playing a mutually aggressive game of footsie on our bed.
7:27, Heath and Stella were in their separate rooms, screaming for each other.
7:30, Stella was running through the house refusing to put a jacket on.
7:34, a jacketed, barefoot Stella was running through the front yard.
7:36, Heath and Stella, shoed, were begging to go in the car.
7:45, Stella kicked at the weather cover I desperately tried to attach to the jogger.
7:47, Heath continued to play a non-mutual game of Catch Me If You Can.
7:50, both children were in the jogger, while I sat on the front porch and cried.
I was convinced that I had missed my opportunity to see Mark and friends at mile 7ish. And it would be pointless to jump in the car, because the streets were shut-down. At 7:53, still on the front stoop, defeated, I finally noticed that the children were in the jogger, silent, and staring at their frantic mother.
Don't cry, mom. Let's go, Heath soundly suggested.
So we went.
At a 1/4 mile, I had to retrieve fruit bars from the basket. 1/2 mile, milks were handed out. 1 mile, lost a pink boot. 1.2 miles, lost another pink boot. 1.5 miles, was told about lost pink boots. Buzzed back around to retrieve them, check my phone. 8:30am. The lead runners would be cruising through mile 7 around now. I picked up the pace, the children noting my increase in speed and began to shout, Go, go, go!
We passed the quiet mall, resting up for a day of Christmas shopping. A closed Christmas tree lot, supplies already dwindling. And then the kiddie chattering came to a sudden halt. At the corner of Colony and Sharon, three police cars sat, directing SUV after SUV elsewhere.
Road race, the officers yelled to the impatient drivers. Streets are closed.
We easily zoomed across the street, onto the forbidden path to the course. And just as suddenly, I saw them. Runners. Group by group, one by one, they whooshed down Sharon Amity right onto Sharon.
My original plan was to turn into Foxcroft neighborhood, but seeing Sharon Amity was actually closed, I darted down an additional quarter mile to the corner of Foxcroft and Sharon Amity. Mile 7ish.
8:42, and not a moment to spare. In no less than five minutes, familiar faces started to pass. We parked ourselves on a friendly lady's lawn to hoot and holler.
And oh, did we hoot. And we hollered. And we clapped. And we woo-hooed for the next 45 minutes.
Our friend, Julie, was first. I was so excited to see her, I forgot to get my camera out and snap her picture.
There goes DeDe. His exact words when he passed by: What have I gotten myself into? He ran an awesome race. Like Mark, he is a Training Minimalist.
We got kisses and high fives from Daddy before he took off into the pack again.
And there goes Jen. We were happy to take her baby socks, fingerless gloves, and big ole smurf hat.
Our friend/neighbor Laura. Had a baby in May! Go, Laura, Go!
Oddly enough, I found myself up at 6am, equally excited about the race. In addition to my Crazy Runner of a husband, I had a handful of ladies running the half course. All women who have shared the joy and aching arms and backs that comes with pushing our children in joggers around the up and down streets of our city. And for the first time in a very (and I do mean very) long time, Mark and I shared a hot cup of coffee by the glow of the Christmas tree, bantering quietly about the morning's festivities.
I'd spent the evening before studying the TR course map online, plotting my best spot to cheer on my favorite folks. Between Mile 7 and 8 was most appealing. I could catch the halfers at one of their most "need a boost" moments. It was a spot off the main roads, and completely blocked by traffic cops; no cars allowed. And it was 3 and a half miles from the house, which meant I could squeeze a run in myself by tossing the kids in the jogger. The trick: having us all ready and enthusiastic about going by 7:45am.
When Mark left the house at 7am to pick up a fellow running neighbor, Stella and I were up, had consumed cereal and mini-waffles, and were cuddling on the couch, whispering about Christmas and running and train tracks.
At 7:15, we were dressed, tires on the jogger pumped, and snacks stashed.
7:20, Heath was up.
7:25, Heath and Stella were playing a mutually aggressive game of footsie on our bed.
7:27, Heath and Stella were in their separate rooms, screaming for each other.
7:30, Stella was running through the house refusing to put a jacket on.
7:34, a jacketed, barefoot Stella was running through the front yard.
7:36, Heath and Stella, shoed, were begging to go in the car.
7:45, Stella kicked at the weather cover I desperately tried to attach to the jogger.
7:47, Heath continued to play a non-mutual game of Catch Me If You Can.
7:50, both children were in the jogger, while I sat on the front porch and cried.
I was convinced that I had missed my opportunity to see Mark and friends at mile 7ish. And it would be pointless to jump in the car, because the streets were shut-down. At 7:53, still on the front stoop, defeated, I finally noticed that the children were in the jogger, silent, and staring at their frantic mother.
Don't cry, mom. Let's go, Heath soundly suggested.
So we went.
At a 1/4 mile, I had to retrieve fruit bars from the basket. 1/2 mile, milks were handed out. 1 mile, lost a pink boot. 1.2 miles, lost another pink boot. 1.5 miles, was told about lost pink boots. Buzzed back around to retrieve them, check my phone. 8:30am. The lead runners would be cruising through mile 7 around now. I picked up the pace, the children noting my increase in speed and began to shout, Go, go, go!
We passed the quiet mall, resting up for a day of Christmas shopping. A closed Christmas tree lot, supplies already dwindling. And then the kiddie chattering came to a sudden halt. At the corner of Colony and Sharon, three police cars sat, directing SUV after SUV elsewhere.
Road race, the officers yelled to the impatient drivers. Streets are closed.
We easily zoomed across the street, onto the forbidden path to the course. And just as suddenly, I saw them. Runners. Group by group, one by one, they whooshed down Sharon Amity right onto Sharon.
My original plan was to turn into Foxcroft neighborhood, but seeing Sharon Amity was actually closed, I darted down an additional quarter mile to the corner of Foxcroft and Sharon Amity. Mile 7ish.
8:42, and not a moment to spare. In no less than five minutes, familiar faces started to pass. We parked ourselves on a friendly lady's lawn to hoot and holler.
And oh, did we hoot. And we hollered. And we clapped. And we woo-hooed for the next 45 minutes.
Our friend, Julie, was first. I was so excited to see her, I forgot to get my camera out and snap her picture.
There goes DeDe. His exact words when he passed by: What have I gotten myself into? He ran an awesome race. Like Mark, he is a Training Minimalist.
We got kisses and high fives from Daddy before he took off into the pack again.
And there goes Jen. We were happy to take her baby socks, fingerless gloves, and big ole smurf hat.
Our friend/neighbor Laura. Had a baby in May! Go, Laura, Go!
It was great to see all the runners on the course, especially so many mom friends from the preschool. The comment that buzzed through the crowd: Charlotte is surprisingly hilly.
Mark's goal was to run in under 4 hours. His time for TR was 4 hours and 10 seconds. He was minorly bummed about those 11 seconds. Still, back-to-back weekend marathons. Not too shabby.
And it was a great entertainment for the kids. They argued the entire run back home, which only made me run that much faster. 3.5 miles in 30 minutes. I think that's a PR for me.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Like Donkey Kong
It's on, that is.
In our long relationship of running, Mark has been nothing short of a marathon enthusiast. But this weekend, he will be committing a first. Running marathons on back-to-back weekends.
Our week has been so jam-packed with preschool potlucks and PreK Open Houses and swim lessons and Christmas prepping and on and on, I still don't have the full report on what transpired at the Baton Rouge Beach Marathon last Saturday. I know he ran it under 4 hours. I know he enjoyed the post-race fare of Jambalaya (no bagels and bananas for Louisianans). I know he was home by 3am on Sunday. (I also know he was grumpy as all get-out upon his return, but whose counting.)
I waited for him to hobble around on stiff, sore legs on Monday. Or complain of aching muscles and back. Nope.
On to the next one. Thunder Road tomorrow morning.
Go, Crazy Daddy, Go!
In our long relationship of running, Mark has been nothing short of a marathon enthusiast. But this weekend, he will be committing a first. Running marathons on back-to-back weekends.
Our week has been so jam-packed with preschool potlucks and PreK Open Houses and swim lessons and Christmas prepping and on and on, I still don't have the full report on what transpired at the Baton Rouge Beach Marathon last Saturday. I know he ran it under 4 hours. I know he enjoyed the post-race fare of Jambalaya (no bagels and bananas for Louisianans). I know he was home by 3am on Sunday. (I also know he was grumpy as all get-out upon his return, but whose counting.)
I waited for him to hobble around on stiff, sore legs on Monday. Or complain of aching muscles and back. Nope.
On to the next one. Thunder Road tomorrow morning.
Go, Crazy Daddy, Go!
Friday, December 3, 2010
Dump Trucks and Heavy Loads
It was no joke when I was talking about the load of the baby jogger I was pushing last night. Turns out Heath is a whopping 42.8 pounds and in the 97th percentile for height. We found out today during his 4 year check-up. And the little miss of the house is a stunning 25 pounds. We know this because she insisted on being weighed, too. As a matter of fact, she insisted on having a turn with everything they did with Heath. Blood pressure check. My turn. Vision test. My turn. Weird beeping ear thingie. My turn. Immunizations...
...she didn't request a turn. Instead she stood beside the nurse and said, It okay, Heef.
It was okay, but that didn't stop Heath from periodically mentioning that lady who did that to me and his plans for telling her not to do that again next time he sees her.
A couple of lollipops and a trip to Mark's work eased the pain. Rows of dumpsters, a tour of the inside of a dump truck, and watching a busy worker separating the contents of a dumpster with a mini-excavator on a concrete pad makes everything better.
And a solo, pushing no one but myself 6.5 miles on the greenway does the trick, too.
...she didn't request a turn. Instead she stood beside the nurse and said, It okay, Heef.
It was okay, but that didn't stop Heath from periodically mentioning that lady who did that to me and his plans for telling her not to do that again next time he sees her.
A couple of lollipops and a trip to Mark's work eased the pain. Rows of dumpsters, a tour of the inside of a dump truck, and watching a busy worker separating the contents of a dumpster with a mini-excavator on a concrete pad makes everything better.
And a solo, pushing no one but myself 6.5 miles on the greenway does the trick, too.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
22 Days, According to the Penguin
I am flying solo with the kiddies until Sunday. Mark is in Louisiana for the Baton Rouge Beach Marathon, checking off yet another state in his quest for running at least one marathon in all 50 states. He's really outdone himself in prepping for this one. Let's see, he ran Grandfather Mountain...in July, and then...he pushed the kids 8 miles every Saturday since then, and...he pushed them a whopping 15 the day after Thanksgiving...
...yep. He's ready. After all, this marathon is merely training up for Thunder Road. One week after Baton Rouge. Marathon Maniac, indeed.
I, too, have been feeling a little wacky with my running desires as of late. I won't go so far as to say exactly what I am deliberating, but it's more than I ever imagined considering. So, with a new pair of trainers, the need to push through the idea of not running today, and really wanting to avoid the 5-7pm frenzied meltdown fest that has been occurring these days, at 5pm I loaded the kids in the jogger--cajoled by fruit bars, a stop at HT for milk, and the promise of a neighboring house with a glowing Penguin/igloo Christmas countdown on their front lawn--and set out for a chilly, nearing-dark run.
It seems my running these days has consisted of solo runs on the weekend, or pushing teeny tiny Stella while Heath is in preschool, so I was surprisingly stunned by the unbelievable load I was struggling to push. Finding my rhythm was nearly impossible. With Heath on the left, the stroller constantly veers to the lighter right, so I spend most of my time adjusting, desperately trying to keep the contraption rolling straight.
The sun was down before we made it to the HT. The kids opted to stay in the jogger while we awkwardly wheeled our way to the dairy section. Heath sighted that it was too chilly. And midnight. So they stayed under layers of fleece blankets, while I opted for a half gallon of milk. We'll need more by noon tomorrow, but the idea of adding a giant plastic jug to my jog seemed terribly unappealing.
When we exited we were met by the ringing Salvation Army bells. I let Heath put a dollar in the red donation bucket.
What do I get? he quietly inquired.
The warm feeling in your heart for giving to others, I answered.
He was bummed and sank back into his seat, covering his face with Puppy.
We took the longer way home. The Christmas decorations, bright traffic headlights, and a brisk chill in the air were plenty of entertainment. Home by 6:30. And barely a peeping whine for the rest of the evening.
5 miles. Pushing 100 pounds and a half gallon of milk. In the dark. Am I in training? Not really. But it certainly smoothed the witching hour ruffles.
...yep. He's ready. After all, this marathon is merely training up for Thunder Road. One week after Baton Rouge. Marathon Maniac, indeed.
I, too, have been feeling a little wacky with my running desires as of late. I won't go so far as to say exactly what I am deliberating, but it's more than I ever imagined considering. So, with a new pair of trainers, the need to push through the idea of not running today, and really wanting to avoid the 5-7pm frenzied meltdown fest that has been occurring these days, at 5pm I loaded the kids in the jogger--cajoled by fruit bars, a stop at HT for milk, and the promise of a neighboring house with a glowing Penguin/igloo Christmas countdown on their front lawn--and set out for a chilly, nearing-dark run.
It seems my running these days has consisted of solo runs on the weekend, or pushing teeny tiny Stella while Heath is in preschool, so I was surprisingly stunned by the unbelievable load I was struggling to push. Finding my rhythm was nearly impossible. With Heath on the left, the stroller constantly veers to the lighter right, so I spend most of my time adjusting, desperately trying to keep the contraption rolling straight.
The sun was down before we made it to the HT. The kids opted to stay in the jogger while we awkwardly wheeled our way to the dairy section. Heath sighted that it was too chilly. And midnight. So they stayed under layers of fleece blankets, while I opted for a half gallon of milk. We'll need more by noon tomorrow, but the idea of adding a giant plastic jug to my jog seemed terribly unappealing.
When we exited we were met by the ringing Salvation Army bells. I let Heath put a dollar in the red donation bucket.
What do I get? he quietly inquired.
The warm feeling in your heart for giving to others, I answered.
He was bummed and sank back into his seat, covering his face with Puppy.
We took the longer way home. The Christmas decorations, bright traffic headlights, and a brisk chill in the air were plenty of entertainment. Home by 6:30. And barely a peeping whine for the rest of the evening.
5 miles. Pushing 100 pounds and a half gallon of milk. In the dark. Am I in training? Not really. But it certainly smoothed the witching hour ruffles.
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