The Difference Between a Bad Haircut and a Good One...

About a week. At least, that's what my dad tells me. For Heath's sake, I hope he's right.

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. I'm making shorts for the beach.

Shorts 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 Curious George. 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, Mama, in my ear.

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.

I must've gasped, because he instantly handed over the scissors, calmly stating, Hair grows back, mom. It grows back.

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.

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.

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 Southport, riding the ferry, sleeping in (oh wait, that's the vacation Mark and I will take in another four and a half years)...

Half-Baked

The Ropko clan found themselves on the McMullen Greenway not one, but two mornings this weekend. The Saturday night downpour foiled my Sunday morning Beatty trail plans. But a greenway run with the fam is a great second choice.

20 weeks in and I finally found my rhythm for running pregnant. Of course, in another ten weeks, I'm sure I'll have to adopt a whole new footing, but over the course of the last week, I found my stride.

I have to say, I think the Garmin has helped a lot. Slow as the pace may be, it's a pace. And it's gratifying to watch half a mile turn into one, then two, then three, then heck, four. Then 4ish, then, well, it's after an hour and I figure if I'm going to go back out and do it again tomorrow, AND keep up with the kiddies who don't ever stop for a break, I better call it a run.

But I do love that twinkly, chimey, ding-a-ling-a-ling when that mile is reached.

Meanwhile, I have a new tutee. Tenth grade English. Glorious.

38 and Counting

In eight days we will be leaving for our beach trip. We made mention of this at dinner tonight, specifically the need to pack everyone's belongings and hopefully not wait until the night before. Heath excused himself from the table, returned shortly there after, announcing that his stuff is ready for the beach.

I got my swim suit, t-shirts, shorts, pants, pajamas, a few winter things, and socks all packed, he said. I could tell even he was pleased with his own independence and initiative. Then he added, with the head shake of a weary older man, It's gonna take a lot of bags to pack all my stuff up.

That last sentence, along with the vague a few winter things, tipped me off that I had better go take a look at his packing job sooner than later. He was right. It was going to take a lot of bags to pack all the clothes he planned to take as he had simply dragged every last piece of clothing out of his three drawer dresser and dumped it in a pile in the middle of his bedroom.

He was trying to be helpful, and was even generous during the process. His old Thomas the Train swim trunks had been tossed into Stella's room. He had deemed them too small and thought she could wear them. She was thrilled and squealed, Pack this, and dumped it back in his "for the beach" mound.

I'll pack her Aqua polka-dot bikini, too. Just in case.

Oh Garmin, My Garmin

My Garmin Forerunner 110 is charging. That's right. My Garmin. I am now one of those people.

It kind of slipped my mind that this Wednesday marks the day that I came into the world, so when Mark walked into the house this evening carrying a package from Amazon.com, I not only had no idea who it was for, but nary a clue what was in the box.

Heath, however, had many ideas about the whose and the whats of the package. He was quite certain the package was for him. He was also quite certain that it was a race car. Because, well, he doesn't have enough of those.

Mark told him it was for me, and it finally dawned on me that it could very well have something to do with my birthday. When I expressed this wondering aloud, Heath scrunched his mouth, perplexed. I could see the bubble thought: Mommy's do not have birthdays.

But I do. And it was a birthday package for me from my brother and nephews in San Diego. A Garmin Forerunner 110. A most pleasant and welcome surprise.

I can hardly wait to take it for a spin tomorrow. I'll be the first person in Garmin history to watch my running pace plummet over the course of the next few months.

Trails, Tennis, and a Little Anger Management

After a week of daydreamy thoughts of running the trails in San Diego,and grumpily grumping through each day, resentfully running on a treadmill, Mark suggested I head out for a trail run at some point, any point, for the love of God, please, go for a run on a trail, somewhere, anywhere this weekend.

The deliberation was short and I agreed, and even managed to turn the deal into a family affair. If we went out to Colonel Francis Beatty Park, I could run the 5.75 loop, while Mark and the kids batted around some tennis balls on the court. (Tennis has become a growing obsession of Heath's. He's got himself a pretty decent left-handed swing that frequently makes contact with the ball. And when it doesn't, he flings the racket to the ground, then collapses in a heap of unbridled frustration.) And I could get a feel for the trail without having a preoccupation of pregnant running vulnerability.

The last time I ran the Beatty trails just so happened to be the day before I found out about baby #3. That particular day I ran the 5.75 miles loop times 4. I concluded the run feeling good, time restraints preventing me from taking off to make it 5 times, and ultimately taking Mark's words uttered the previous day to heart. "You're totally ready for a marathon." I was ready. Vaguely tired, but isn't everyone who has been running that much. The next day, moments before registering for the Charleston Marathon (maybe next year), we discovered the exact cause of my fatigue.

So, today, I hopped on the trail, sporting my new (and now favorite!) Running Skirts maternity tank, ready to be thrilled with making it one time around the loop. The day already promising to be warm and sunny, I was not alone out there. Other runners. Folks on bikes. Dogs, of the leashed and unleashed variety, all trampled across the perfectly dry and not too terribly rooty course. Beatty was a good move on my part--not too hilly. No surprising dips that would take incredible leaps. I found an easy pace and cruised right along, jumping out of the way when a whizzing bike, or unruly pup, approached.

Once again, I missed the one hour cut off, by only a few minutes though. I saw my OB on Tuesday and confessed my lingering a bit over that mark. You're fine, she reassured. She repeats this phrase to me a lot. You're fine.

I expected to find the kids and Mark on the courts after I wrapped up my run. The courts were full, but no one under 5 feet tall was playing. Then I heard familiar hooting and hollering off in the nearby woods. It seems they got on the trails, too, and were thrilled to show me their treasures: a tennis ball with a red number and a dirtied, yellow golf ball.

We worked on Heath's frustration today, Mark announced.

Heath smiled, pleased with the day's lesson, I supposed. He then showed me the edge of the tennis racket, void of red paint, revealing the silver innards of the racket, complete with zillions of scratch marks. You smack it like this, he demonstrated a major whacking in the air.

I won the game, he added, then took off running for the playground.

ReLAX, You're Allowed to Hit with that Stick

My eight year old nephew is number one in Lacrosse. I'm not just saying that because I'm a doting Auntie. He's really #1. It says so on the back of his Lacrosse uniform.

In addition to traipsing around on trails while I was visiting SoCal, I also had the opportunity to see him in action at both a practice and an actual game. Lacrosse seems to be a little boy's dream come true. The years of "Keep your hands to yourself," and "We don't hit with sticks," and "That's his ball, you'll have to ask for a turn," are squashed to oblivion, and there's nothing left to do but dig your way out of a scrum, smack your stick on your opponent's helmet or stick, and steal that ball! Smacking the heck out of some kid's stick.

Not only could I keep up with his whereabouts thanks to his lucky number one, I could always spot the rasta socks. One love, indeed.

According to the scoreboard, his team didn't actually win the game. But he couldn't have cared less. He was mostly impressed with how sweaty he was when it was all said and done. And I was just happy to be the doting Auntie taking an overabundance of pictures of her nephew playing his heart out. He IS number one, after all.

Happy Trails...

It took crossing the country, flying over 2000 miles to get myself back on the trails. Excessive? I don't care. After a few months of sticking to the treadmill lest I barf and/or pee my way through a queasy first trimester run, it was well worth the trip to get back where my running feet happily belong.

I found myself in San Diego on a crisp, clear, and sunny 60 degree Wednesday afternoon, after a flight from Charlotte, lengthy enough to start, finish, and thoroughly enjoy a collection of short stories by a woman straight outta Greensboro, Jane Borden, I Totally Meant to Do That. Having begun my day at 5am, then crossing multiple states and time zones, I was most definitely tired, but more than that my burgeoning baby belly was sore from sitting in the tiny, cramped plane seat. With the gift of three extra hours in my day, I decided to begin my visit in San Diego with a little neighborhood run.

I easily found the bike trails by my brother's house, and was already feeling better as the Southern California sun beat down on my face, the kinks in my body cracking their way out of my system. Quickly down the path that was currently free of all bikes, I found that I was alone, unless I counted the multiple jack rabbits that would scamper across the paved road. And just as quickly I came to a clearing on the left of the path. A small, brown sign post read, Trail. I thought, You see a sign that says trail, you run it, don't you?

I did. Run it.

I was five steps in and a sudden light, airy feeling fell over me. The weight of whatever world of care I've been carrying melted off my skin. I'm not kidding. I almost wept. Oh, how I've missed this kind of running. This kind of dirt beneath my feet, rocks skipping across my path running. Just as tears sprang to my eyes (seriously, I'm not kidding), I saw this...

That's the ocean in the distance. In the picture, it seems a bit faint, but in person, it was right there. I was grateful to have not only brought my phone with me, but it just so happens I finally joined the 21st century three days earlier and upgraded to a phone with a camera.

And I kept running. Blissfully, silly grin spread across my face, running. I did stop after an hour; my OB's max for me. Of course, the second day that I was there I happened to notice the two warning signs: Rattlesnakes and Mountain Lions. I considered the headlines: Pregnant Woman Mauled by Mountain Lion. Rattlesnake Jumps on Pregnant Woman's Back. North Carolina Tourist Attacked by Mountain Lion and Rattlesnake at the Same Time, Oh, and She was Pregnant.

But I went back to the trails every day that I was there, running and grinning like a fool. (Occasionally looking behind me, making sure a rattler or rabid mountain lion wasn't ready to pounce. Or bite. Or strangle.) Obeying doctor's orders and cutting myself off at 1 hour.

Okay, maybe it was 1 hour and three minutes that one day. Okay, four minutes.

As Dale Evans Rogers sang, It's the way you ride the trail that counts. Here's a happy one for you.