Monday, August 31, 2009


This is now the second week of Kindergarden for Spitfire, who appears to have warped into a poised, young-adult over night, leaving her parents in bewildering contemplation of the time passage between diapers and school supplies. Suddenly, Spitfire has become a testy fashion connoisseur , squashing my suppsedly well thought-out wardrobe aspirations for her, as well as my attempts at perfection in lunch box assembly, which are now required to pass a "friend test." I am somewhat taken aback to hear that the little cut-out hearts and star shapes adorned with sweetzie type messages that I have lovingly created and placed in her lunch pack each day are a source of humor for a discerning Spitfire and her peer group.

"You laugh?" I ask lightly, as though not very interested in her answer, all the while moving as close as possible with both ears cocked and ready. Maybe I hadn't heard her right.

"Yeeeeesss," she says impatiently. "When I take them out and show them to my friends, they make us laugh."

Mmmm. I absorb this painfully. This is like the first day all over again: Dart Guy, myself, and Destructo, quiet in his stroller, walk Spitfire up to school on the first day of big K expecting protests, tears, and drama, only to leave a newly commissioned sophisticate in a chair with Spitfire's name on it. There is an off-handed wave and a hug we insist upon, then we become non-factors. The only worrying and mourning imposed on this day is offered up by her parents.
It would seem we are on the fast track to uncool, a fact that is even more apparent while waiting outside her friend's door on the week-end, hoping to borrow a blender for smoothie making. I break out into a silly dance, pretending there is a tune playing somewhere, making Destructo giggle crazily in his stroller. Spitfire smiles ever so slightly, nervously glancing at the door on which she has just knocked.
"I hope Abigail doesn't see you," she says fearfully, watching the knob closely for any sign of movement.
What do you mean? These are happening moves, sister!

I guess it is lucky we still have Destructo's destructive ways to distract us from our precarious slide into the land of old and out-of-touch. This morning at five he wakes and immediately demands breakfast, though I stash him in bed with us in hopes of more sleep.
"I eat," he states forcefully. I ignore. Forcefully. Or sleepily.
Some random thumping noises alert me to the fact that he is trying to pull his Big Wheel fire truck into bed with us, possibly to ride it over the top of our heads. This thought brings me fully awake and upright, which causes Destructo to strike out gleefully and triumphantly for the kitchen ahead of me. I step on a plastic tire on the way, yelping loudly. Destructo comes to my rescue, offering to kiss my boo boo. At least to him, I am still a little cool.