Birthday Thanks

Thanks to all who came and perservered! All the presents have been appropriately dissasembled and tried out and are very appreciated. The Guess Who game is a big hit--thanks to the Cullums. The dinosaur puzzle was great fun during Destructo's nap time too--thanks to the Walkers. Thanks to the Phillips for the great Playdough bucket--in our house, we live by the motto: one can never have too much playdough! it's awesome. And thanks to Gma Janet for duty above and beyond regular Grandma duty. We love you.

Happy Birthday Spitfire!

One bouncy day later and you are five years old. Thank you for enriching our lives. I value your questions ("do you nap while you're at work?"), your answers ("no, I did not put Destructo's pacifier in the fish tank"), and your aspirations ("I don't want to move out when I grow up"). Each day with you is a gift.

We love you, Spitfire!

Communication

As a kid, the index finger lifted slightly over the steering wheel while driving, was a form of communication. Between two precariously passing farmers on a narrow dirt road, it might mean--"surely this path is big enough for both of us?" or "what's the warrenty on your truck?" The downtown cafe was notoriously crowded at the crack of dawn each morning, where the locals gathered to talk weather, peanut prices, or what the neighbor had worn to Friday night's basketball game. I think about this as Spitfire, freshly annointed five-years-old from a rousing bounce-house party extravaganza, sits with a friend from next door awaiting gourmet chicken nuggets from our kitchen (a product of my microwave expertise, since Dart Guy makes most of his stuff from scratch to show me up). At her age, I lived a fair distance from any of my friends, and the internet was still just a speck of an idea in Al Gore's mind (lol). I couldn't jump on Facebook and see what the whole world was up to, or send a text message containing highly evolved acronyms to my best friend. I had dogs and cats and my sister and a very large blank slate out my back door. Friends had to come over to visit or I was stuck creating strange imaginary worlds in my favorite stand of trees behind our house (which, quite possibly, explains a lot). I think social networking on the internet, email, and text messaging is just fine, and, believe me, I do my share. It's a very useful way to stay in touch in this age of far-off families and loosely, connected suburban communities in which few people really know their neighbors. But I do worry about my kids growing up in this age of digital communication, what it will mean for their friendships and other relationships they will form. For the moment, I am extremely grateful that she can walk out her front door on many days of the week and yell across to one of her good friends, whom she can see, face to face, and exchange a hearty hug with, given both fickle preschool hearts can agree to do that.
Just before the nuggets are finished, I ask the girls what they would like to eat along with them (carrots? corn?) as they play a cool new game from Spitfire's birthday, called "Guess Who?" at the dinner table. They reply, "ketchup!" in unison, which I think is a sure sign that, although a generation and multiple advances in communication separate us, some things remain the same.

The Present

I have had to ask myself, over the past few days--Who is this docile (Spitfire) child that has invaded our home? And where is the real one—the one that keeps a terrible, rumbling roar close at hand so that its use can be swift and sharp and biting? I don’t have any really good answers, except that maybe, it’s the effect of The Present. The present phenomenon reminds me of the commercials that were airing around Christmas time—the ones that depicted a little boy playing Atari exclaiming about the best present ever, and then cutting to the boy, all grown up, doe eyed over a brand new car. I definitely remember my own Present—a baby doll that sprayed pretend tinkle after you fed her a bottle of water. My first day with said baby—Christmas day--I nurtured her single-mindedly, without regard to interested adults milling around our family gathering or cousins my age who tried enticing me outside to play or upstairs for a rousing game of pool. This is the same way that Spitfire behaves with her new fluffy cat that purrs, speaks, growls, and “snores” just like a real cat, and given a breadth of a second, she will artfully describe all of Valentine’s many attributes and functions in the form of a never-ending soliloquy, as she did to the few bored spectators at ice skating lessons last night. Such is her loyalty and infatuation, that I hear only one rancid, werewolf snarl when Destructo invades her territory and spreads yogurt covered hands across Valentine’s revered fur. Now, Destructo well understands the importance of this newly minted member of our family, touching him with light hands, respectfully, while keeping a wary, watching eye on Spitfire. He has decided that interfering with such a solid relationship between toy animal and docile child is not in his best interest, and instead, performs his best downward facing dog in the middle of the living room floor. He goes one step further than most yoga aficionados, and pushes forward, sliding his head against the carpet and moving around the room in that position, stopping only when he wobbles and falls over, then cackling loudly at his, apparently, hugely entertaining trick. Dart guy shakes his head at this. He’d rather see Destructo zig zagging around the room with a football, leaving pretend attackers scattered around on the ground in confusion. I try and reassure him. Maybe that will be next week.

Thanks to all the Edelweiss attendees! Birthday night for Dart guy was outstanding. I love you all for being great friends to dart guy and his family, for gamely performing the chicken dance with him, and for being warm and funny with the two youngest members of the “Happy” group. Thanks especially to Grandma Happy, for being the kind of Grandmother who allows daunting annihilation of all things not firmly attached or anchored down in her home. We love you.

Happy Birthday Dart Guy!

Warning: The following blog entry may contain sentamental comments

Dear Dart Guy,

Only a real man can be a stay-at-home dad. Even though you've got a lot of other irons in the fire, like dejaying (http://www.happytunespro.com/), the dart association (http://www.txdarts.com/), and being a fantasy football commissioner and guru, the truly, hard work you experience is Mon through Fri without ever leaving the house. Your family thanks you, on this day that your were born, only 19 years ago (hee hee), for sticking with us through an assortman of lovingly inflicted abuse. For you, our Man of the House, each day is a test of patience, fortitude, latitude, and attitude, and you weather it like a marine in heavy combat, taking it on the chin with a nochalant smile, and then leeringly suggesting that perhaps another child could add to the fun. Thank you especially, for putting up with the over heated bathroom after I shower ("a camel would suffocate in here!"), suffering through whatever organic, plastic free, environmentaly friendly, and heart healthy trend I am pursuing at the moment ("don't buy any more of that #%@$ John Wayne eco-friendly bathroom paper!), and being able to work around multiple different bodily excretions our children throw at you. I know that Brad Pitt says he can deal with anything from a child, whether it is vomit, poo, or a virulantly bleeding scrape, but let's face it: he's got a few more hired hands around than you do. When it's all said and done, it's just you, Spitfire, and Destructo on the front lines in the battle field, and I have to say--I wouldn't want it any other way.



I hope you enjoy the dinner with friends and family. And, of course, the Dart playing afterwards. We love you Dart Guy!!

Worry Free

Four o'clock is the witching hour at my house. Spitfire, in a long, lived, time, honored tradition, turns into Mr. Hyde on many days between 4 and 6, and there is no clear reason for it that we know of--it just is. Destructo is heartily trying to follow in her revered footsteps, and doing a fine job of it. I arrive home after work yesterday—Inauguration Day—to find these paranormal creatures in their finest hour. Destructo is wailing about the injustice of sitting in “time-out” from a remote corner of the house, and Spitfire is competing with him for a win in the volume category from her bedroom. Dart guy is looking grim. Passionate, obstinate, verbally demonstrative Dart Guy is silent and wearing a permanent scowl, and I know this is not only because the werewolves are at large in our humble abode, but also because his ticket didn’t get sworn in at Washington. Though I do not feel quite the same way, I am proud of Dart guy—that he is the type of person who really cares about what direction things are going in the world.
I plunge into the middle of this environment doggedly, trying not to join the glowering, shrieking masses by focusing on my nice Frappuccino buzz (from a secret stop at Starbucks after work). After coffee, I can do anything, right? Dart guy has dinner going—what a wonderful man. He has made fantastically, decadent mashed potatoes from scratch, and has even included the skins. Hmmmm. Although I can feel the pounds attaching to my hips, I can’t wait to have some. We finally get everyone to the dinner table. Spitfire prays. She thanks God for the food and for allowing Destructo to say “Go Illini!” (University of Illinois cheer) in an especially funny way. The kids eat like we have never fed them before, with Destructo downing the turkey I meticulously cut into perfect bite sized pieces in two swallows. I sometimes worry that these two will grow up to be frightfully obese telemarketers who go home and eat steaks whole along with a heaping mound of fantastically, decadent mashed potatoes. But I also worry when they don’t eat very well, which leads Dart Guy to remark that worrying is my one true calling. I disagree, but just in case he has a point, I have decided to worry less as one of my New Year’s Resolutions.

Happy Inauguration Day everybody, a day late. One good man left office, and hopefully, one good man begins in office. Beyond that, I’m not going to worry about it. (at least not very much, anyway)

Spitfire and Skating

I take Spitfire to ice skating lessons after work even though we are all famished. It is only 5 o'clock, but we are behaving as though we have hiked the Grand Canyon today. I stand possessively cradling a bag of potato chips near the kitchen sink, gobbling like a refugee and glancing at the clock. Spitfire retreats to a corner of the living room to hover quietly over her snack and protect it from a prowling Destructo. With only twenty minutes left before lessons, we leave. Dart Guy warns Spitfire not to get any body parts too close to my mouth in the car, and I narrow my eyes at him as we go. On the way there, Spitfire speaks with authority about everything, and I try to stay engaged, as I have read about how this is a crucial time in her life--5 years old in two weeks!--for building her self esteem. I want to give her my undivided attention so she will feel worthy and confident when she grows up, and live an absolutely outstanding and fulfilling life.
We arrive at the Galleria and Spitfire immediately seeks out her skating friend, who stands precariously balanced on thin, metal blades, smiling quietly. I am forgotten except for when Spitfire realizes that I did not fish her gloves from my bag. She yells loudly across the ice, waving her hands and letting all spectators know that I have overlooked her gloves. I remember now, as I duck down and fumble for her gloves, that she is bold and fearless, and collects friends like I collect the pennies at the bottom of this disorderly purse. Maybe her self esteem is on the right track after all.