Creature Discomforts

The land around our house is full of living things I’d rather not see, touch, or be near; though, to Spitfire and Destructo—it's a sporting paradise. Creature sport, that is. If it flies, crawls, slithers, boasts multiple appendages, has bulging bug-eyes or no eyes, is mud-covered, slimy, woefully scaly, or is protected by a hard outer shell (and I am not talking about an M & M), you will probably find it housed in one, of many, uniquely assembled containers around our home. Beware what lid you remove here.
“No snails!” I say forcefully, as Spitfire studiously examines the ground behind the porch, zeroing in on her victim. She ignores me, which is a favorite hobby of hers. Destructo, his head looking like a patchwork quilt since he rubbed liberal amounts of ketchup over its mostly bald surface at dinner, is more than mildly curious about what she sees. She growls at him when he gets near, and he shrieks back. It’s my turn to ignore. She merrily holds up her find for us to see.
“See! No snail!” she says triumphantly, her hand dripping with a long, squirming night crawler. I guess I should be happy--it's just an earthworm. Snails alarm me. Dart Guy is confused as to why your basic, mostly-empty shell bothers me, but fourteen million randomly strewn toys blocking a safe passage from hallway to kitchen doesn’t. I can’t say why. I’m sorry, Dart Guy. I know this causes a certain rise in your blood pressure. We do appreciate you keeping our residence above sloth status, even if we don’t tell you very often. Your spring cleaning has resulted in nothing short of a miraculous metamorphosis in our humble abode. I am shocked at the color and beauty of our floors you have exposed—who knew they looked so nice underneath it all?

Above is what can happen when you leave your child at home alone all day with his dad--boredom sets in and the electric trimmer comes out. When I left home this boy was perfectly whole, untroubled, happy, emotionally healthy--he had hair. Spitfire and I arrive home from a long day of girl bonding and lady-bug stalking to find Destructo in a state of anxiety--only a shell of the toddler he once was, lost and floundering in a world full of people with more hair (with the exception of Dart Guy, who took the clippers to his own head too). Okay, okay. I embellish some. Really he is fine, not scarred for life, but maybe I am, since Dart Guy took away most of the visible evidence that some of my DNA lurks inside of Destructo (curls). He does still have the brown eyes, which Spitfire recently informed me, on a tip-off from Dart Guy, means a person is full of. . . fish.



Below is only one of about fifty, poor, traumitized lady-bugs that had the misfortune of being captured on Saturday while Spitfire and a good friend ran wild at their camp-site. Said lady-bugs made the drive home last night in an empty raisen box and were easy targets this morning for Spitfire and Baldy Destructo, who decided to have a lady-bug throwing contest in our living room. We said a small blessing for our peace-loving, red and black friends.

Spring Garden!

It has been so long since I wrote in this blog, that I had trouble remembering my log-in. Of course, Spitfire, Destructo, and Dart Guy do not beg me to record things here since they are the embattled subjects of most posts, and instead, breath a collective sigh of relief when the entries have a dry spell. Sorry to end your nice respite, guys.
Our clan has decided to attempt a garden patch again this year, even though last year's effort plunged us into the red immediately and kept us there all summer by producing approximately five, sad, little, dilapitated, and withered herloom tomatoes, and a total of three string beans. Luckily, abject and total failure does not thwart us. This year, a competition brews--proposed by, none other than Dart Guy, himself, whom we have chosen, (during a specially called Session of the House that he missed) again this year to perform most of the work required to install our small, green enterprises. Dart Guy and I each get a plot or pot--Dart Guy plans an interesting pot-on-a-pole invention--and will get to use all the child labor we want or can induce by certain bribery.
Judging criteria of our dueling gardens' success has not yet been determined, but could mean the start of an elaborate counting system vunerable to scheming, conniving, and your basic vegetable "enhancement." If nothing else, this project will give us all a break from Fox News Channel and March Madness. May the best Gardener (aka conspirator) win!

House on the Right

Who knew I was marrying such a right-winger? Full fledged dart obsession--check. Closet white-collar redneck--check. A propensity to streak when dared--check. Fantasy football addict--check. Flaming right-winger? That must have been in the fine print. I missed the part that would have tipped me off to Staunch Capitalist, overt NRA Proponant, and is-the-government-tapping-our-phones Conspiracy Theorist. It is said we all lean a little right as we get older, and there is that strand in the goetee that appears to be fading. . . We are both approaching a milestone birthday, though I prefer to pretend that it's 30 instead of 40 (after all, our children deserve to learn from first rate imaginations). It's more than ok, Dart Guy--I'm with you on a lot of things. I admit that I tune into Presidential addresses and Fox News Answers to the Address more often than I use to, even though it's a toss up on whether the drama is better there or on Grey's Anatomy. I think I am lucky to get my Daily News Feed from you, even if it is decidedly biased. I appreciate and admire that you carefully gather Right information, form your views, and take the time to send your Congressman impassioned and educated letters . Our children are lucky to have you as an example of how to care about the world, and also as a first-rate Moderator, especially because they almost always come at each other with unpleasant intentions--one from the left, one from the right.

Is There Life Beyond the Dishwasher?

Destructo snatches a triangular pie server from the dishwasher with the speed of a Nascar driver, wielding it through Combat Zone A (our house) like a highly skilled swordsman. Spitfire watches him with aloof distain, though he is obviously ready for war. She is in rare, five-year-old form since returning from two hours with her friend from across the street, who is more highly regarded than either of her parents. Dart Guy is indulging in Doom and Gloom (see Glenn Beck), having decided to cut Coca Cola from his life (it's not even Lent, I cry!). I respectfully suggest that he KO Fox News Channel instead, but recieve an especially black stare for my efforts. Spitefire doesn't appear to like me today, either, since I sent Dart Guy to retrieve her from the nieghbor's house, where she would prefer to live. I continue loading up the dishwasher, which I do in my sleep too, and, luckily, am aided by Robin Hood Destructo, who has laid down his pie-server-sword and taken up with a wooden spoon for his fraternizing. When it is time for Dart Guy to make a deserved exit from the day's chaos, escaping to Dart World, both children line up at the window, one wailing mournfully, as though being left at an orphanage, and one waving and calling out with grave enthusiasm. The neighborhood shudders at the sound, and Dart Guy shakes his head. I decide I should be prepared for him to make for Mexico, because, even with State Department cautions about the dangers there, it may be safer for his sanity than here.

Caffeinated

What does one do with two agitated, sleep-deprived children just home from an over-night stay at Grandma's house (i.e. an evening of lovingly imposed spoiling)? Go to Starbucks, of course. This mostly benefits me, but has the added bonus of a gratifying, if short-lived, mood-boosting effect on Spitfire and Destructo (they get decaf but not sugar-free!). I did read about how to save for your children's future recently, and realized that Dart Guy and I could save fourteen trillion dollars by the year 2022 (the year Spitfire will be 18) if I would stop buying over-priced lattes from Starbucks each day. However, I have decided to rationalize spending their college money on coffee by telling myself I am Stimulating the Economy. Just now, I am in need of stimulation, since Spitfire has learned how to bypass the child-proof knobs located strategically throughout our house. The Great Potty Escape is just not the same anymore when the werewolves are able to cross the treasured, bedroom threshold, arriving breathlessly exilerated to pound on the ultimate gateway to privacy (locked bathroom door), apparently motivated to be continually socialable even while one of us is conducting highly specialized business in the Potty Room. It is lucky that Spitfire is now starting to give free Science lessons while I am indisposed --"Daddy says that when the Earth is light where we are--morning time--it is dark on the opposite side--night time, and that the earth rotates around the sun every day." Otherwise, I'm sure I would feel entirely abandoned and forlorn.

Dart Guy and I salute the good people of the Brazos Valley Hunt Club! Thanks for allowing Dart Guy to play music for your Hunt Club Ball. This club believes in, and works hard to preserve the traditions of Fox Hunting that originated hundreds of years ago in England, while enforcing new standards of conduct such as "hunt and release," and prohibiting the purposeful release of quarry into the field (cheating!). For info on the hunt club, visit:
http://www.worldcaravan.com/bvh/FAQS.htm

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