You ever see that shirt with the funny chocolate quote? Drop the chocolate and noboby gets hurt? Destructo feels exactly that way about his pacifier, affectionately named Me Me, in our household. Today I do my best imitation of June Cleaver, taking Destructo in my arms and tenderly and patiently telling him we need to get rid of the Me Me. It's time--he's three years old now.
"I will get you something to replace it," I say softly, with heavily, practiced sincerity. "Anything. What would you like me to get?"
He looks at me with Big, Sad, Brown eyes. "A Me Me," he says forlornly.
You know the eyes, the ones that melt ice in the Antartica. The very ones that keep you up at night, hoping they can make all the right decisions, every day in life, all the way up to a stay in the White House. Those brown eyes are lethal. Utlimately, I cave and give him the me me, because I am really not sure who is more saddened by the thought of life with no pacifier--Destructo or his mom and dad.
The Gentle Giant--we miss you, Joe! I'll never forget our Chicago week-end when the four of us shared a hotel room at the dart tournament, and I apparently (I am foggy on this) advised you to see a doctor about your snoring! You touched many lives, not the least of which was Dart Guy's. He will need another sounding board for when I make him crazy. We love you.
Here is Spitfire at Kindergarten graduation. Though we urged her to slow down for a pic, she moved quickly forward, which strikes me as symbolic! It's hard to catch her in slow motion. She is quick to remind us that she is now a first grader, making her mom and dad pause to let the dizziness pass.
Destructo wants a firetruck birthday cake, so I research on Google and find the perfect cake, complete with video instructions. It looks easy! Besides, the caterpillar cake back in February for Spitfire turned out relatively edible and did bear a slight resemblance to its namesake--a caterpillar. I know there is trouble when Spitfire walks quietly up to my elbow midway through my culinary adventure wearing a decidedly glum face. "What?" I say, shortly. After all, I am in the middle of creating a fire engine masterpiece. "The cake isn't going to work out, is it?" she says, solemnly. So domestic goddess, I am not. But Happy Birthday to our favorite destructive three-year old anyway!! No matter that you have developed a fondness for pouring full bottles of liquid out in the middle of the living room floor when no one is looking(laundry soap takes aproximately 12 days to dry out of carpet, latex paint only about 4 days, and you can salvage some of the paint by scooping up with a large spoon), or even that you like to tackle us with now warning. We know you mean well, or else you are practicing for the Ultimate Fighting Championship, it remains to be seen. In any case, we adore you, in all your glorious destructiveness. Before you came along, we were not quite complete. You added just the right pizazz, making four our magical number--plus two cats whom you have trained in your likeness. Happy Birthday, Destructo!!!
It is Sunday night and I am trying my hand at singing the kids to sleep. Destructo has lived up to his name over the past couple of weeks (poured Spitfire's sea monkeys over his head, banged her on the head with an empty plastic bottle, and destroyed her lego masterpieces with calculating skill),so I am thinking that he will succumb quickly after so much excitement, but he tosses and turns. Maybe I am off key? I sing Christmas songs that they like and that are soothing--Silent Night, Silver Bells, Little Drummer Boy. And then finally. . .silence. I make a move to get up when Spitfire pipes up and asks about that other song. "What song?" "You know. The one about beer on the wall." (Dart Guy, she must be your daughter!)
So Spitfire is 6 this month, which comes as quite a surprise to her parents.SIX!The number right before 7, which, of course, turns directly into 18.We see the writing on the wall.
In a dramatic turn of events, the loose tooth Spitfire has nursed for days and days (i.e. relentlessly and methodically shifted back and forth until the pearly white literally hung from one fragile thread) makes a jarring exit during a particularly spectacular aerial assault on our sofa.I console Spitfire, whose main concern is that she missed getting the prize for her tooth falling out at school.Dart Guy sadly contemplates the newest stain on the pillow--blood.We decide that it fits right in with other marks there; milk, juice, spit-up, magic-markers, and various food stains have all converged to create a truly, original, one-of-a-kind couch cushion.
Soon afterward, Spitfire quiets long enough to observes that her look is like an upside-down L!
Today, she has recovered completely, and tries to teach her challenged student (me) how to jump rope.Apparently, my technique is all wrong.She shows me her thoroughly mastered system, jumping with both feet at once and counting each time, all the way to eleven.I take my turn, and she counts for me:
1. . .2. . .
"How many was that?" I ask, my feet hurting a little.
She looks at me skeptically."2?"(She can barely contain her disdain).Before I can say anything in my defense, i.e mid-rise dress heals, just finished lunch, she snatches the rope.
"See, you have to practice.Watch my feet," she commands.She counts up to the teens again, and I sigh.Take off my shoes.I manage 8 this time, which is highly respectable, in my view.Spitfire shrugs and take the rope, while I sit, vaguely nauseated by the feel of my just-eaten Taco Bueno violently sloshed around in my stomach.
She must have felt some bit of sorry for me, because she wrote this letter to me while I was out with Dart Guy:
Fabuare 20010:
From: Cadence To: MommyI Love You I mist you
Than she drew a picture of herself with a very large, glittering crown on the top of her head.Mmmm.Who wears the crown around here?I guess she has it right.
The numbers: Approximate inches of snow: 9 Number of hours without power: 15 Number of McCammacks on one mattress in front of fireplace: 4 along with 2 cats (very crowded) Number of clothing changes after cold and wet set in: Way more than host costume changes on awards show Amount of excitement from snow starved children: Too much to quantify The peaceful sleep of kids derived from a long day of snow fun: Priceless!!!!!!!!!
The creek behind our house is home to several ducks that didn't get the memo to fly further south for this winter. I am surprised when come across them today. "Aren't they supposed to go somewhere for the winter?" I ask Dart Guy, as the kiddos aspire to get too close to the edge of the steep creek incline--I feel my blood pressure rising. "Yeah"--Dart Guy answers immediately, as though duck migration patters should be well known to me. "Here."
