Letter from Spitfire to Cinnamon

Our Fearless Leader at VBS

Repeat and Pete being their usual Selves
What in the world is my next line?

A shout out to Dart Guy for a job well done. Your family wants you to know that there has never been a better Repeat in the history of Repeats at VBS!!!! Our neighbor is right--you make a very convincing, fifth Wiggle! We are so proud of you. Your kids are absolutely convinced that you can walk on water. I always new you had webbed feet . . .

The Bagina Monologues

watermelon from our garden

Sand Castles!!!

"Whose idea was it to read them that book?" Dart Guy asks, looking annoyed. Destructo runs through the house crying out Bagina! Bagina! You have a Bagina!
"That's not nice," Spitfire bites back. She looks with calculation from the the book she is reading. "You have a peeeeenis!!"
"We have to teach them about their bodies," I say defensively at Dart Guy's retreating back. Dart Guy leaves the room, mumbling under his breath about the PC police, and looking for a beer, or any other viable escape from a room full of loud, bodily declarations. I admonish both kids, explaining, for the hundredth time, that we don't make fun of private parts, and that we absolutely, positively, with no amount of uncertainty, DO NOT TALK ABOUT THEM IN PUBLIC.
I unhappily envision conversations like this while in line at the grocery store, or in a crowded sanctuary at church during VBS. I ponder writing up a response to memorize as a preemptive strike. Something like, I have never seen these children before. . . or, their father is to blame (sorry Dart Guy). . .

Happy Birthday Destructo!

Cool Dude, BME (before mi mi exits)


It's a Man Bag . . .really, Dart Guy says. . .

Today when you tell me that you want to be in a rock-n-roll band, Destructo, I say that you can be whatever you want to be!! (But please, don't grow up to have forty piercings, a history of extended periods in Betty Ford for drying out, and multiple, under-age girl-friends).
"But, you have to wait for me to grow older tomorrow,"you say, with a sigh of serious resignation. This month, I guess, is just for turning four. Rock-n-roll stardom can wait. Whew. I can hold off on hitting the sauce too.
I think you may secretly be Spiderman, Destructo, even though you deny it, and tell me, somewhat indignantly, that you are not able to climb across buildings. Dart Guy, Spitfire, and I are aware of your secret powers, especially those that helped us all leave the Mi Mi behind in a cloud of dust. Finally. It's history. Three cheers for the Last of the Pacifiers! It's better than the Last of the Mohicans.
I think I am the only one that misses it. :)
Happy Birthday Destructo!!!!!!

Happy 7 Spitfire!

Even Partners in Crime have to Sleep

Spitfire, it seems that each day your vocabulary arsenal grows, promoting gray across your parent's collective heads. It's true: we have now turned to a rusty version of pig Latin to communicate secret adult thoughts like, "did you stop by the liquor store today?" or "please tell me school is not canceled again."
Happy (late) 7th birthday to you, Spitfire! You are a mere pink blur on the horizon, now that you have learned to ride your bike, and, sadly, we may never truly catch up with you again.
Be aware, that Dart Guy is is fully prepared to use all your 7-year-old nuances when your first date shows up at the door (especially the one where you showed us how you learned to flare your nostrils).
Never mind that you pulled a gray hair from my head thinking i had splattered white paint through it, I will still be the first one to look when you have a new trick ( like flaring your nostrils).
I absolutely love that you want to live next door to us when you grow up, but you should know that I may hold you to that. I hold the Heavy Metal Band video in my hot little hands as any good extortionist would. We love you, Spitfire!

Praying to the Pacifier gods

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.

'ode to a Grizzly

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.

Kindergarten Graduation

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.

Happy Birthday Destructo!! (Betty Crocker your job is Safe)

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!!!

The Beer Song

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!)

Upside Down L

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.

Snow!

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."

Kittens!!

Ahhhhhh. I like when Destructo is napping. . .

Check out early Christmas presents for Spitfire and Destructo!! We brought home two sibling kittens from animal rescue on Sat, names still pending, though Spitfire has some specific ideas on this subject, namely, that one should be called, Elizabeth, after a helper in her Sunday school class that she adores. I'm sure Elizabeth will be glad to hear this. Destructo has been surprisingly non-destructive with these kittens; he picks each one up gingerly (only once have I feared for Kitten's tiny little neck), with two hands spanning a petite belly, and parks he/she on his lap gently, being sure to keep a firm hold so the wiley, little creature won't run and hide. Again.
Spitfire has surely found Heaven on earth, and is convinced that she should stay home from school to take care of her new charges. She keeps excellent tabs on our furry friends, even orally detailing events that take place inside the litter box, as though she is a football commentater.
"They are going into the littler box. . . Now they are covering up everything, and moving it all around. . . "

Mmmm. How best to pick him up from this angle. . .

This is the life. . .

Kindergarten!!

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.

Dart Tournament

It is a fateful day when I agree to play in a Couple's dart tournament with Dart Guy. I think I was under the influence of too much sleep, a rare happening in our household. So here we are, entering the smoke-filled Dart Bar (it's like Texas--a whole other country), and I shutter seeing a large crowd of dart-playing connoisseurs milling around tables littered with all manner of dart paraphanalia. I live with one, but, even so, I feel decidedly inferior holding onto three darts and stepping up to the line to take my first throw. That's when I decided I need a drink. Or a few drinks. So I gulp some wine and try and stay near the "tip" case, which, unfortunately, is not a case containing a nicely prepared notebook filled with an array of helpful dart hints; but, instead is the case filled with extra plastic tips for when one or more errant dart throws creates a sensation all across the bar by violently slicing the short, black tip of your dart away from the steel shaft. My darts are a little wild today, or every day, to be honest, and they rush toward the electronic boards like rogue missiles destined to place me in war crime tribunals. I have a particularly disturbing image in my mind: me standing before a panel of somber, dart experts that deluge me with all sorts of terrifying, hard questions--Did you practice for today? Do you want to win as bad as Bruce Jenner wanted to win the gold in his hey day? Can you add numbers quickly in your head to determine the proper target on the board? At this point I begin to stutter and stammer and wish for a starbucks to wisk me away to lovely esspresso land. I go outside and take a sip of my Frappacino in the car. We lose our first match, since I cannot decide what end of the dart should be pointed toward the board. Dart Guy pretends that I do not frustrate him., and I am reminded of why I married him. He puts our team on his shoulder for the second match, dragging us to a win. His throws are graceful, perfectly aimed miraculous events. Five hours after this all began, we lose our last match. Though I have not really performed any great athletic feats here, I am ready for bed. We pick up Destructo and Spitfire from Grandma's, where they have created the world's largest House of Clutter, and enthusiastically enjoyed it. And that's the end of my bi-annual Dart Adventure. I leave the real dart playing up to Dart Guy, for which I think, he breathes a great sigh of relief.

Oklahoma Weekend

Spitfire and Destructo inside the Giant Windmill Wing
Aunt Kianna, Cousin Kalie, and Gpa Donnie standing by

Feeding the chickens--Spitfire called them stinky

Spongebob!!!

Growing up, I didn't really notice the wind in Oklahoma--that's how oblivious I can be. After this week-end, it is apparent to me why the part of Oklahoma that I grew up in, is the site for 98 HUGE, space-age looking wind mills. But the gales are welcome! They stave off the heat and allow us to enjoy family time on the porch. We watch hummingbirds flutter cautiously to the feeders. Later, when the hurricane calms some, Spitfire and I giggle at the sound of the them--miniature helicopters whizzing by us. We all have a good time visiting my sister, her hubby, and my niece (age 13 and bound for the WNBA or modeling at 6 feet tall and with beautiful, high cheek bones!) who drove the thousand hours in from West Virginia! Although I do have a mild panic attack when Destructo lands barefooted in fresh cow poop, Uncle Ron saves the day, scooping him up and carrying him straight to the kitchen sink (because no amount of germ juice can effectively remove a party foul of this nature, even though it was close by in my pocket).

On Sunday, I witness the transformation of my Dad from genteel farmer, to agile marathon runner, when he has to herd an errant, disgruntled group of the neightbor's cattle from his garden. Unfortunately, about half of the corn, potatos and onions get trampled--a sight sad enough to make a grown man cry. Though I didn't see any tears from my Dad, I do feel pretty sure he uttered a few choice words during the chaos. Spitfire loves the sight of lazy, eyed cattle up close until the big, lumbering, noisy bull comes into view, which is a little scary to behold.

She also loves the sound of "Jack," beloved donkey from a neighboring pasture, speaking distinctly to us while the cattle mew and complain at the rude interuption of their feast.

A great big thanks to Gma Janet, Aunt Glenda and Uncle Albert for hosting a great gathering and birthday celebration, and especially to my cousin Jennifer, who labored on an, absolutely, perfectly-rendered Spongebob cake. We all had a marvelous time. I am convinced there was something "extra" in that cake, which caused Destructo to engage in an impromtu striptease, complete with throwing his shirt into the crowd.

It is lucky that Dart Guy is unusually tough and pain tolerant--he can take all kinds of kid excretions, muddy, back-yard throw-downs, and, even the longest drive home in the history of drives home. While I commend the kiddos for pretty great behavior all week-end long, the streak is broken during 41/2 hours in the car back to Dallas. Aptly-named Spitfire is spouting off sass faster than I can comprehend it, but Dart Guy keeps his calm, even though our first inclination is to pull over and sass back. Cudos and love Dart Guy! Check out more pics below, and thanks for reading.

-C

One of the miniature helicopters

"Jack"

Strawberries and Blackberries

Garden, Pre-Cattle trampling

Up!

The plan for today is to pick up Spitfire's good friends Ben and Emily and go see the new Pixar flick, Up, at the mall. Excitement brews. When I pick up Spitfire, she is wearing a pair of Destructo's jeans, the hem of which reaches to just above her ankle. I question her about this particular fashion statement, and she tells me that Dart Guy is responsible, then refuses to change. Considering my history with certain items of her clothing, namely the recent ballet-costume faux pas, I decide to let it go, and we are out the door. There are smiles all around when we pick up Ben and Emily at their school. The first thing the three conspirators do is say that our car stinks! Like cheerios and diapers. Ugh! I take a wiff but don't get that specific combo. Off we go. Here is the conversation on the way to the movie:

Emily drops her cookie on the floor.
Spitfire: I think a frog will jump inside and eat that cookie.
Me: I don't think frogs like cookies, do they?
Ben: (in deep thought) Well, I've never seen a frog eat a cookie. . .
Emily: We did see a turtle in the road one time!
Ben finishes his cookie and Spitfire tells him to just throw the packaging in the floor.
Spitfire: It's ok, there is already 130, 000 stains in this car.
Ben: Mmmm. I think there is only 200 stains in here.

There is a definite trend on the subject of our car. . .

During Up, Ben is zoned into the movie, Spitfire wants to engage in a rather loud running commentary, and Emily peacefully eats popcorn beside me. All of us enjoy a really great movie, which has some teary-eyed, sweet moments, as well as great, adventurous animation.
Thanks to Ben, Emily and Spitfire for an evening of stellar preschool company.

Sunday Cook-Out

Thanks to friends and family that joined us for our cook-out/b-day gathering on Sunday! It was great fun, and our family looks forward to the planned pot-luck dinners over the coming months! Although we had already celebrated Destructo's b-day in Illinois while on vacation, we did get a really cool cake from Central Market and made it a partial birthday celebration. Spitfire was responsible for picking out the cake, and her choice may give some indication as to the type of cuisine we have at our house. I asked all the kids what the cake would taste like--a hamburger or a cake, and got a withering, you-are-silly-of-course-it-tastes-like-a-cake answer. We missed the Cullums! Hope you are feeling better, Melissa. :)

The Amphibian Issue

It's just a frog--I caught a number of them as a kid--but does it have to share dinner with us? Does it have to sit with beady, frog eyes staring at us while we chew mexican casserole and mixed veggies? I cringe inside every time the scaly green legs jump up and slide in oozing stickiness down the glass wall of its cell, while the kids exclaim with excitement and delight. Spitfire does not want said frog more than two centimeters away from her. I do not want said frog more than two centimeters close to me; and therefore, the line is drawn in the sand. The frog survives over night, sitting intimately close to Spitfire on her nightstand while she sleeps, and I catch a giant fly that is buzzing through the house and set it loose in the cage--my thought being that even poor, captive frogs need comfort food. But when Spitfire begins carrying our adopted amphibian around in the palm of her hand, and then generously allows Destructo to join in this stellar activity, I have to give the executive order to Free the Frog. It's just like Free Willy, I suggest--frogs do not thrive while incarcerated, and Mommy does not thrive while her kids handle a possible salmonella contaminated creature. Of course, all this falls on deaf ears, and I am going deaf from listening to the piercing sound of Spitfire wailing about the injustice of it all. I know I rode around completely unbuckled, even lying in the back window of my parent's car on vacations, busily making honking motions to passing truckers--and survived. I spent time scratching dirty bellies of chunky pigs in backyard pens, lived precariously without any contact with hand sanitizer, ate strawberries unwashed, picked straight off the vine. But still. . . I want slimy, warty, dirty frog to take a hike, and there is nothing that can console Spitfire when she hears the decision. Only time, and the arrival of a co-cospirator from across the street finally quiet the shrill sadness. As for me, I am relieved to eat dinner beyond the watchful eyes of frog, and hopeful that most amphibian poachers like him keep a very low profile in our yard.

Confessions of an Ungirlie-Mom

I'm not sure if I could have botched Spitfire's ballet recital event any worse than I did, but I will undoubtedly try again next year--I may not be girlie, but I am definitely bull-headed. On Tuesday night, I am preparing to take both kiddos with me to the dress rehearsal, for which I have decided that putting Spitfire's hair up in a bun consitutes enough of the "dress" part of rehearsal for me. She is wearing her jeans and ballet shoes, and I am fine with that. Sadly, she is too (already she must be duplicating my un-girlieness). She hates sitting still for my amateurish attempt at a ballet bun and protests soulfully for the ten-minute procedure, then we are out the door. I have to wrestle Destruco into his seat since he does not appear to be interested in anything related to ballet, but finally, we are on our way. When we arrive, I am immediately aware that we have come to the wrong venue--and that's not due to keen intelligence--it's simply because there are no cars in the parking lot! This is when I get that sinking feeling in the stomach and begin to weakly tell Spitfire we have five minutes to find the right auditorium. I make calls but don't reach anyone, so we drive home. Spitfire first angrily announces she will not be going to recital tomorrow (we won't if I don't find out where it is, I say naughtily), but then decides that being able to release the thousand bobby pins from her hair is not such a bad thing. For once, I am happy for the attention span of a five-year-old--it is all water under the bridge now, and a story to tell.

On Wednesday night, I labor on the bun again. Spitfire says she has never been more bored and I tell her to hold still and we repeat this about a million times. When I am done, I discover that the bulk of my work is resting oddly on the right side of her head, but I rationalize this--who said a bun has to be in the center anyway? My friend who lives across the street is kind and says it looks fine. We are dressed and ready to go. Spitfire's good friend and neighbor is going with us, but we decide to leave Destructo at home this time with Dart Guy, who breathes a sigh of relief.

When we arrive, there is no parking so we leave the car in front of a nearby house and walk. Inside, I step triumphantly up to the check-in desk, two highly excited girls in tow beside me. And that's when I hear the tiny voice--a little girl's voice just to our left--she tells us that Spitfire has her outfit on backwards!! I examine Spitfire critically, with eyes glazed over from years of ungirlish behavior. I just don't see it, but get an afirmative, mirth-laced, sympathetic nod from the check-in lady. Unable to find the bathroom, I strip her down behind a large, wooden door, then go back to the desk. The show must go on, right? Spitfire dances with her good friend, smiles all around. I get down on my knees in the front to take pictures, shamelessly clicking away, bending this way and that to get a view. Dart Guy shows up with Destructo, announcing that he wouldn't miss watching his girl dance. He is our hero, as always. We both enjoy watching Spitfire being just a little girlie.