It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like President's Day

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.

It’s President’s Day.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Rexerella

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

As the girls gathered round to choose their attire, Stella hung back and grabbed onto my hand.
“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.

Stella wouldn’t budge. Instead, she yanked on my arm and said, “Come wif me.”

I held her hand and walked over to the dresses. She yanked on my hand again, pulling me down to her level.

“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.

Stella leaned in and whispered, “They’re going to laugh at me.”

“No,” I whispered back. “They won’t laugh at you. Here, I’ll sit here with you while you pick one out.”

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. Oh no, she’s got it! She’s got that thing that I have! The thing that plagues you with nagging self-doubt.

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.

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, Wow, this is different. I’m nervous, can you just stand here with me while I put this get-up on?

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.

“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.

“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.

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.

“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.

I decided it was best to let the dinosaurs battle it out without a prehistoric drama agenda.
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?”

“I did,” she smiled, crashing the dinosaurs together. “I was a bootiful, bootiful Princess.”

I Want My MTV

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.

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.

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.

“All appropriate for their age,” he reassured me, nodding to my four month old, Forest, perched on my hip.

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 aren’t you just the cutest doting.

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.

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!

“…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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

As she readied herself for a night on the town, she mused to her friends, 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.

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?

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.

Busy Babies

First 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.

Good growing baby, 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. Busy baby, she added. You always have busy babies, don't you? 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.

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.

Stella's first first position. The picture is too blurry, but Beanky is on the barre beside her.

Beanky also joined Stella for the orange scarf dance. Shortly after this shot, Stella brought her trusty lovey to me and asked, Can you hold dis?, 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.

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 How much longer? I wanna go home stand-by.

Most recently, our dear Cali boys left after a two week adventure of pooling, playing, celebrating multiple birthdays, catching Cars 2 on opening day, and of course, mountaineering.

Checking out their carefully crafted beaver rock dam.

With Scruffy the Mountain Dog.

Early morning hike.

A little trail running.

Learning to play Lacrosse. Stella quickly mastered hitting people with her stick.

Crawfishin'.

Their reunion with Scruffy caught on film. We also met Scruffy's owners. Scruffy's real name? Scruffy. Scruffy.

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.

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?

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.

Yeah, 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. And I kicked that ball right out from that strawberry and won the game.

Okay. Maybe a little gloating in the privacy of your own family's car is permissable.

I Float, Therefore I am

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

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

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

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

How 'Bout a Little Rain with that Thunder?

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

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

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

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

Feelings, Nothing More Than Feelings

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

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

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

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

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

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

That hurts my feelings, he parroted.

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

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

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