The Hills Are Alive With the Sound of Sledding

After a 2 day running respite, the family said so what? to the icy roads and headed out into the amazing sun. There's something brilliant about the sun bouncing off the white snow/ice. I practically needed sunglasses. Our road wasn't so bad. Mostly slush. But we crossed Sharon and headed into a wooded, hilly terrain that will lead you to believe that you aren't in Charlotte anymore. These babies were solid ice. I found myself secure for a few moments, then Sliiiiide. Stable. Sliiiiide. I finally jogged off the pavement, or at least what I think was pavement, in search of more snow-solid off-road patches.

At the very moment I had a morbid thought of Mark suddenly slipping and losing control of the baby jogger, I saw him wrap the safety strap around his wrist. I think this was the first time we ever used it.

One of the more impressive hills, one that isn't taken lightly in the best of circumstances, was completely covered with a thick sheet of ice. When we came to the corner, we were met by the sound of a whizzing sled. The person on their belly was so quick all we could make out was a purple jacket. Of course we suspected that it was one brave little girl. You can imagine our surprise when we discovered it was a woman well into her 50s. The AT&T truck ruined my hill with the chains, she said, pointing to the intrusive van at the top of the hill. But this didn't stop her from heading back down again.

She wasn't the only ole timer getting their kicks on the very cool wooden flyers. We discovered a man in his 70s sledding down an equally admirable slope. I can't find any kids to play with, he laughed. He plopped his belly down on the slats, gave himself a little push, and zoom! He was off. Down the hill, round the bend and out of sight.

Eventually we made it back to our house and found a large crowd of folks sledding at the end of a nearby cul-de-sac. Heath and Mark were all prepared to give the ole cookie sheet a whirl, but some kind neighbors let them take a number of turns on a real deal sled. Once again all the great snow play and fantastic sunshine did a number on Mr. Heath. After a hearty lunch of ham rolls and grapes, he insisted on putting on his cozy, fire trucks--his fleece pajamas that were fresh out of the dryer. Without a word, he was out in seconds flat. Lovely, lovely hour and a half nap for the little guy.

Speaking of lovely, Aunt Debbie and Goma volunteered to watch Heath and Stella tonight while we went out for some much-needed alone time. We ate Italian, then stopped at Caribou for tea and coffee. Mark and I courted one another in many local coffee shops all over Charlotte. It's still my absolute favorite date.

I feel almost refreshed. Good thing, too. No preschool tomorrow.

Ice, Ice, Baby

Once again, Heath and I were moments away from leaving a friend's birthday party with my mommy dignity in tact, when WHAM! A police car in Heath's hand makes contact with a fellow playmate's face. Good grief. Just when I thought I had learned my lesson in the value of an early exit. And I knew I was pushing my luck when I heard it was minutes away from noon, and we'd been there for an hour and a half without incident.

I'm finding it a little easier to recover from such moments. It used to be unbearable, now it just stings with an annoying embarrassment. There's just something about it when these things happen with Heath, they feel so personal. Like I just must be doing something wrong. Some sort inept thing in me as a mom. Maybe it's because he's my first. Maybe it's because he's a boy. Maybe it's because I'm a neurotic freak. I don't know. I know I don't feel it with Stella. Her cries, whines, meltdowns and dissatisfactions don't hit me the way that Heath's do. With her, when she goes boneless at the Blockbuster and starts to scream bloodymurder because I won't let her rearrange the New Release wall, I don't think, Man, what am I doing wrong? What can I do to stop this? Oh no, everyone is looking. I see it for what it is, growing pains of a 16 month old, and I am ruining her good time. But with Heath, that's not my natural instinct.

When we woke up this morning and saw the condition of the weather outside, we weren't even sure that the party was going to happen. It was also going to be a two birthday party day. One in the morning and one in the afternoon. A scenario that I was a little nervous about. An overwhelmed and overstimulated Heath is tricky. The afternoon party was cancelled, but we were on for the morning at Noah's Art.

When there's talk of ice on the road, I don't drive. Mark helped me coat-up and load-up the kiddies into the car and headed out into the sleety-icy-slush. The party was great. The kids made spaceship hats. Heath kept calling them space alium hats. They painted pictures of rocketships and made robots. When Mark and Stella picked us up, Heath let Stella carry the red balloon party gift. I could barely pry it from her hands so she could eat her lunch and take her nap. I eventually had to tie it to her jacket so it wouldn't get away.

After a morning of playing in the snow, Heath was already pink-cheeked and sleepy looking while we were on our way to the party, so I thought a late-morning birthday celebration and rocketship art would surely be the ticket to a lovely, lazy Saturday nap. Sure enough, the little bear fell asleep. It was only 45 minutes, but after the week we've had, I'll take it.

After our short, but cozy nap, we got back outside to do some sledding like I used to do when I was little--on a baking cookie sheet. It's slick, it's fast, and on our decent hill of a backyard, it's downright daredevilish. Heath and Mark loved it. The more Heath slid off and rolled around, the more it thrilled him. Just when I thought he surely hurt himself, he would quickly recover and jump back on for one more turn. Stella, who does not own appropriate winter shoes, stood frozen in her wet Robeez, her red balloon waving in the chilly wind.

We braved the even icier roads and got a movie and Thai food. I picked out Motherhood with Uma Thurman and Anthony Edwards. It was a hasty, not well-thoughtout decision at all. I thought it might be light and breezily funny. Now I'm afraid it might just be not good.

My Tom Yum soup and Pad Kee Mao, now, that was good.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

Much better day. Heath helped me make potato soup this morning. He's becoming quite the little chef. He particularly liked washing the potatoes and adding the dashes of salt and pepper. At some point Mark called and suggested we not wait to do a weekend grocery store trip, in light of the possible snow and ice. I think I got hoodwinked into taking care of the dreaded task.

It wasn't so bad in terms of moods. Mine and the kids. But it was insanely crowded for a Friday morning. Everyone was buying milk and bread and beer and wine and ice cream and all those things that a person might need to hunker down for a winter storm. Too bad we won't get one.

But it was all very reminiscient of growing up here in Charlotte. These were days before Harris-Teeter and Trader Joe's. Food Lion was called Food Town, and they hadn't been busted for bleaching bad meat yet. Winn-Dixie was a popular choice, as well. That's where my mom shopped and anytime the threat of storm approached, you better believe we headed to the Winn-Dixie for bread and milk. I remember the shelves being completely wiped clean. And once a year, the predictions were true. We would get snow. A lot of snow. And school would be out for a week. And the world would just kind of, stop. I miss those days.

I got a surprise call from a friend this afternoon. She and her husband were in need of a sitter this evening for their 2 and a half year old. Heath and Stella joined me for the first hour of my time, and were terribly sad to head back home with Daddy. After the sweet little girl went to bed, I obsessively scrolled through many, many cable channels, lighting on nothing for very long.

I watched Grease, Along Came Polly, and Great Expectations. Then I turned to MTV and watched My Life as Liz and Teen Mom. These shows made me feel incredibly grateful that our children are 3 and 1. I am not at all prepared for teenagers.

Who knows, maybe it will snow all night and we'll wake up to wintery quiet that only snow can bring.

Thank You, Mr. Interior Monologue

Disagreeable, teething toddler. Clocked in the mouth by a monster truck. Day 4 of Heath's nap fast. A visit to the park that resulted in multiple egregious acts and one lame attempt at a public time-out. The mail came unusually early. Not such a problem, except I was late getting the return Netflix envelope out. Snookered into eating out at Salsa's with two (make that three... Okay, four) overtired children. And J.D. Salinger died.

Not too long ago I read something, somewhere, about a woman who would go through her day saying, I get to...instead of, I have to. Apparently this simple twist in phrasing was enough to change her perception, her heart, and her day.

So, let me try this again.

I played in the backyard with Heath and Stella this morning, taking advantage of the bright sunshine. Heath wanted to play hide-and-seek. He's terrible at it. I would hide my eyes and count to ten. Ready or not, here I come.

I'm right here, you found me, he would immediately yell. He hadn't moved anywhere. Stella didn't help much either. She would stand by him while I counted, saying, Bubba, Bubba.

After a nearly warm 3.6 run today, we met our friends at the park. It was crowded for the first time in a while. Shortly into our visit, Heath pushed Stella down. Before I said a word, he started heavy breathing and puffing his cheeks. He was overwhelmed and finding his breath.

And I didn't have to cook dinner or clean anything up. Kiddies in bed by 8pm and 30 Rock is on tonight.

I get to try it all again tomorrow.

The State of the Nap 2010

We're on day 3 of Heath's nap sabbatical, and I will call it a sabbatical because I refuse to believe that he has suddenly gone cold-turkey and it's never going to happen again. It is slowly, but surely, killing me.

It wouldn't be so bad if 1) he was a child who leaned in the direction of quiet play, 2) Stella didn't enjoy her two-three hour nap at the same time, 3) Stella would enjoy a two-three hour nap when there is something else going on in the house. She won't. If she knows someone is up, she seems to feel the need to join the party. And 4) the evening didn't turn into one cataclysmic meltdown after another when he doesn't nap.

So, Heath and I are basically camping out in my bedroom for 2 hours while I gently coax him into napping. We watch Between the Lions, a soothing choice from PBS. We read a few books. And then I whisper, Okay, we're going to rest. It's the same routine we've praticed every motherflippin' day for who knows how long. And now suddenly, No, thank you, he says. Polite, sure. But maddening, nonetheless.

When my sweet, soft urging falls flat, I move to a different tactic. Bribery. Maybe we'll have some ice cream when we get up from our refreshing nap. Won't that be yummy? Heath, not one to be a foodie, isn't impressed with this offer. Where's Santa?

He's at the North Pole. Maybe we can try to find Santa after our nap, I hopefully suggest, wondering how I'll swing a Santa sighting if this does the trick.

Santa. Ice cream. Playing at the park promise. This kid isn't budging. So I decide, maybe I'll just close my eyes and he'll follow suit, especially if I leave the choice up to him.

Here are the books. You can read through these, and chat with yourself and Puppy, that's fine. Mama's going to shut her eyes for bit. I roll over, feeling a little sure this has done the trick. He's flipping pages and muttering about Chinchillas. I've almost drifted off...

Mama, he whispers. Well, Heath's version of a whisper is more of a breathy, low-toned voice. Mama, you done resting. And that's when I get a finger in my eye and my eyelid is lifted up.

At this point, my only choice is to plead. And when I plead with Heath, the battle is over. And I never win. Please, please, please, let's just take this time to recharge. We'll feel so much better.

You can't say no, mom. This has become a favorite phrase. You can't say no.

I'm not willing to throw in the towel just yet. But everytime I close my eyes, even when I tell him I'm meditating, not sleeping, I get an eyelid jerked-up.

In an effort to preserve at least one child's nap time, my plan tomorrow is to have an even bigger stack of books and a handy remote control for some PBS shows.

Ah, Mark is home. It's ice cream and Six Feet Under time.

Heath, Where's Your Blowhole?

It felt great to run this morning, despite the cold. Sure beats running in the rain. Not to mention the fact that I was pushing only one baby. Stella is a light load.

We're working a new technique to help Heath in his more overwhelmed moments. It consists of little more than getting him to focus on his breath.

I'll do it out of my blowhole, he said, rubbing the top of his head.

I told him that would be fine.

So, this evening, after another no-nap day, we had ample opportunity to say, Heath, where's your breath?

In the middle of a Stella toy-takeover, both kids screaming, I said, Heath, where's your breath? He took a big gulp of air, puffed his cheeks, blew it back out with great force. Then resumed the hostile invasion. I said it again. Heath, where's your breath? He gulped his air. Finally on the third breath-blowing question, he made it into a calmer space.

Meanwhile, during the Heath-breath trial, Stella is running (yes, her shuffle has become a quick-step run) through the kitchen, puffing out her own cheeks, saying, Pfff, pfff, pfff.

Mark said, Stella, where's your breath?

She stopped, hiked up her dress and patted her baby belly.

Netflix came today. More Six Feet Under tonight.

Free the Lobsters!

Oh boy, another no-nap day. The early part of the evening was wrought with meltdowns. Fortunately, none of them were mine. I was very relieved to have somewhere I needed to be this evening, so Daddy was on his own. It's always nice to come home to a quiet house, full of sleeping children.

I can't complain, though, because Heath was downright angelic during my visit at school. I guess he held it all in, leaving himself in a puddle of pent-up emotions when we got home.

The smoothie making was a hit and so fun to watch. They all cut up their fruit with their plastic ware, some using various ends of the knife. Many choosing to toss a little greenery from the strawberry cap into the blender. They huddled up to watch it whirl.

At lunchtime they sit at little tables, on little chairs. Some eat their lunch quietly, taking slow deliberate bites. Others (like mine), seem to STAND BY their chair, as opposed to sitting. They're all pretty silent at first, unpacking everything. Then the chatting begins.

This is my sister's cup. I'm eating all my chips. I have ham rolls. (Mine, again. Heath and those ham rolls.) I like turkey. I like turkey, too.

They discuss the pictures hanging on the walls. Who painted that? What's that say? That's a lobster. Where's the lobster?

There was a poster hanging on a wall with various pictures of sea life. A lobster was in one shot. One little girl was intrigued by the picture of the lobster and had to move in for a closer look. Then she turned to me, got as near to my face as she could, and said:

Some people put lobsters in a pot and they cry so I don't eat lobsters because they are sad in the pot. And they catch the lobsters and put them in the pot. Do you like lobster?

I was very relieved that I don't eat lobster. Not for any humane reason. I simply don't like the taste. No, I don't eat lobster.

She nodded her head. That's good.

I'm glad there wasn't a picture of a dolphin. I would've been busted on the tuna campaign.