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: Mommy I 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.
