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.

Vacation Pics

Mark Twain's Mississippi

Gpa and Gma Tiark's House in Decatur, Ill
Gpa Ed's Big Golf-Course Back Yard
Our Very Own Monkey
John Deere Birthday for Destructo
Lovely Peacock
Sea Lion Show at St. Louis Zoo

Spitfire and Destructo on the move at the Zoo

Vacation Post

On the evening our vacation begins, we buckle the kids in the car, turn on the DVD players, say a prayer to the child-traveling gods, and strike out for the far-away land of Illinois! With 800 miles still to go from Texas to Urbana, the idea for the long road trip does not appear to be as wildly entertaining and adventurous as it did back in the planning stage. In reality, it seems a little. . . Dumb. But Dart Guy rises to the occasion--he is the ultimate traveling companion--better than the tranquilizer gun I wanted to be shot with before we even got started (if I had one, that is). He has mapped out two pages full of convenient, roadside parks where we can dump ourselves out and run for the safety of our own company for a few minutes. We do this around seven o’clock on the first night at a small, but quiet little spread somewhere in Oklahoma next to a high school. The grass is tall and soaking wet, and it is raining. The kids look like the Ingalls girls running wildly as they make for any and all standing water as quickly as possible. They are crazed with vacation excitement and the scent of freedom. Destructo sniffs out the deepest puddle and races for it, jumping giddily and landing with a satisfying, splashing thud. Then he sits--the water engulfs the lower half of his body--and he looks extremely joyful. He calls for Spitfire to join him, and the rest is history. Dart Guy and I strip them down at roadside, install them in pajamas, bribe them with thoughts of the St. Louis zoo visit planned for the next morning, and hurry to swallow up the miles while the kids fall asleep.
The zoo is a highlight for the kiddos, though the adults are ready for the sanctuary of the car by the end. Spitfire loves the monkeys, the elephants, the reptiles, the brightly-colored, wide-spread feathers of the Peacock, and the ice cream we get just before we leave. Destructo mostly just wants to run--his favorite thing at the zoo would have to be the fabulous bleachers at the Sea Lion show where he tests their strength by stomping heavily up and down the benches at break-neck speeds. After a few hours, we are back inside our handy, mobile, jail cell on our way to the Land of Lincoln. Illinois or Bust.

The kids are overjoyed to be free from restraints and showered with love by Grandparents McCammack and Aunt Johanna when we finally arrive. It’s even better than the zoo. Ed’s dad grills yummy chicken and we have potatoes and veggies as a feast on our first night. A great start to what will be a very fine vacation week.
Spitfire is in full entomology mode at Gpa’s house, prowling in his big yard for rollie pollies, worms, butterflies, moths, and mosquito hawks (last night she informed me, in a dreamy, just-before-sleep voice, that she liked fireflies best, then ladybugs, then butterflies). She also loves to alert Gpa and Gma to the “invasion” of golfers in their back yard (their house backs up to a beautiful golf course).
“Gpa! The golfers are coming!”
Sunday is church, which we all enjoy. The kids love being with Gma and goldfish in the kids's room, and Dart Guy and I enjoy a class that Ed Sr. teaches. In the afternoon, our thoughtful hosts have arranged for a cake and an early birthday party for Destructo. We all have our fill of decadent cake with John Deere green icing that turns our mouths the same color! Thanks to Amy for wonderful pics of the event.
On Monday night, we visit with one of Dart Guy’s high schools buddies and his family. They have three boys for the kids to play with and are gracious hosts. We dine on steak and potatoes inside the screened patio while watching the kids play out in the beautiful, cool evening. Spitfire and Destructo are enamored with the battery powered car, which they are loathe to leave behind. Destructo doesn’t even mind riding shot gun instead of driving. Thanks to Travis and Joy, Tristan, Trevor, and Trey (sorry if I got the names wrong) for a very enjoyable evening.
Gpa’s basement is almost like another whole house, and in it, is one of the most addictive gadgets ever to be invented: the Wii video game. We laugh almost until we cry while watching Dart Guy try out his boxing prowess. The kids bowl, golf and play some sort of horse game. The adults get into aerobics, tennis, yoga, Tiger Woods golf, and skiing. We come away with a new respect for the power of the Wii, and the fun it can bring among families.
Our next outing is an adult get away to Parke county, Indiana, home of Historic covered bridges and Turkey Run State Park. The kiddos are left in the capable care of Gma and Gpa. Our destination is about one and ½ hour away ,where we have rented a cabin on the outskirts of the state park with thoughts of doing a little light hiking and enjoying some beautiful scenery. We are driving deeper and deeper into the woods, and I begin to notice very few signs of inhabitants. When we arrive, I immediately notice there is only one reception bar on my cell phone. The log cabin setting is picturesque, with little chipmunks scurrying and birds calling and a wavy, green, open field as part of our view--but surely there is a cell phone tower close? Did I fail to mention that I was a certified city slicker when booking--that I wanted to see beauty from the safety of city slicker accommodations, with cell phone access and internet access? I love the great outdoors as long as it is accompanied by a bit of luxury--er, I mean, a lot. I walk around the front of the cabin hoping for more bars to magically appear on the digital read-out.
“I can’t get any service,” I say to Dart Guy, my voice rising unpleasantly. “How are we going to call the kids?”
He gives me a dour look that says--what kids? Aren’t we supposed to be alone for two days? He holds up his own gadget, looking triumphant.
“Two bars. Right here.” He points to the ground below his feet.
I am suspicious of his announcement, but pretend to believe him.
Fortunately, the cabins turn out to be very nice--awesome really, equipped with a coffee maker, a small fridge, a microwave, and running water. I sigh with relief for these modern conveniences. Dart Guy urges me to have a drink. Or two or three.

But first, it's off to find fuel for the car and for us--we plan on cooking out and sitting bythe fire pit tonight. We decide to drive down the street to a little place on the map called, Marshall, but after making a sweep of the little town, wasting our precious, carbon-emitting gasoline, we stop next to a friendly looking Mom and kids and ask--gas station?
The answer is no, and we ask directions to the the next closest town.
“There are gas stations there, right?” I just want to confirm.
“Oh yeah. Quite a few--three or four,” she smiles a friendly smile. We thank her and head for Rockville, fabled home of three or four fuel stops. A few more words on our vacation later. . . Check out some pics! Thanks for reading. /div>

Easter Week-End Pics

In the late afternoon on Easter, the sun decides to show up for the party on our street! The neighbors gather for our annual, hard-charging, serious Egg Extravaganza. The girls are in complete, Egg-Hunt Party mode.

On the Friday before Easter, we head out to Oklahoma to attend my Aunt's 80th Birthday celebration (Great party guys!) amid strong winds and the kiddos bashing each other loudly with verbal insults (one coherent, one not)from the back seat. This is the view just outside my cousin's home, where we had the party, not far from my hometown. Wind farms have popped up all over the horizon in this part of the state. (you know, "where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain. . .")

We take the kids to a park after lunch to run off some energy built up from the long hours as a car hostages. Destructo takes off, running hard for a spot far away from any known authority.

Spitfire--Aspiring to great heights

Destructo and a new buddy at the party--mulling over issues of National Security. . .

Spring of Our Discontent

My hair stylist pointed out that I had some gray hair last time I went to see her (I will forgive her because it seems she doesn't yet realize how vain I am), and I am convinced that I have aquired more after last night. Who knows, next I may be sporting all-over blue and getting a senior discount at places. My kids worked diligently on getting into the Disgruntled Behavior Hall of Fame last night, beginning with our walk through the neighborhood. Halfway down the block, Spitfire and her good friend decide to turn back and ditch the scooters for their bikes, as I try to keep a giddy-with-freedom Destructo from angling into the street at each and every opportunity (we didn't bring his stroller this time, which turned out to be a grave miscalculation on my part). When we arrive, a dispute arises about scooters and bikes and who gets to ride which mode of transportation, and then Destructo squeals as though being put through a Chinese water torture when I try to get him buckled back into his stroller. In the end, the walk gets scrapped, and my clan heads back to our house across the street, amid desparing cries and accusations of war crimes against my soldiers. Inside, I put dinner in the microwave and try to tune out the sound of Spitfire wailing woefully at the open window (the neighbors think I am beating her mercilessly?). Instead of eating his dinner, Destructo decides to throw it, and then crawl up onto the table simply because he can, now that we have started seating him in a booster instead of his high chair. Afterward, out of sheer hopelessness, I take them to the park, dump them onto the open grassy area, and hope they run until they can't run anymore. Of course, kids at this age don't ever hit the "wall," as they are fueled by some type of magical energy bank that never goes dry, but, I reason that it is worth a try. We find some dandelions blooming.

Back at home, it's time for our bath and bed routine, which goes suprisingly smoothly. I lie with Spitfire as promised--the plan being to get up when she falls asleep. But at midnight I wake and find that I have carelessly wasted several hours of rare, me-time sleeping! Agh!! I get up, defiantly, and make for the TV, just as Dart Guy ambles back home from the dart league. My poor, better half is caught in a season of discontent, and doesn't quite know which direction to turn, having left this house only hours earlier while it was still inhabited by a right-minded, somewhat well-mannered, possibly even smiling, supportive wife. The only words of comfort I have for you Dart Guy are these: Your week in Vegas is just around the corner. Cheer up.

The Mystery Gum

As in most households with kids, we revere silence as something close to holy, though it is also regarded with a healthy degree of skepticism--what’s going on if the kids are quiet? When Destructo suddenly falls mute after a rousing, completely incomprehensible rendition of the alphabet tune, it is cause for mild to moderate concern. I go searching. When I find him, he is looking decidedly guilty, glancing at me warily from the corner of his eyes and trying hard to appear nochalant.
“What?” I say, suspiciously. “What have you done?” Guilty until proven innocent prevails at this address.
I can find nothing out of place, nothing torn to shreds, nothing adorned by great, flourishes of a so-callled, “washable marker,” nothing systematically disassembled and left in indecipherable pieces. I don’t know what to be worried about, so I ask him again, pulling his pacifier out so he can answer—and then I see it—the huge wad of vividly, pink gum stuck to the rim of his blue “na na.” As fast as a laser beam, his arm snakes out and grabs the gum-covered soothie possessively, plopping it back in his mouth and commencing a great, ferocious type of sucking. He dares me with his eyes to take it again.
“Where did you get that?” I ask, knowing he will probably take a page from Dart Guy’s play book and answer with a noncommittal grunt. Since we are not in possession of any pink gum here, I reasonably suspect this is of the ABC variety, and shudder at the thought of it. I can only hope it belonged to someone we know, and was not picked up at street side when they were outside playing. He sits blissfully watching me, then takes it out and strings it carefully across the room when I turn my back, singing the ABC song again. I guess the holy silence is over!

The offending suspect above--Dart Guy's shop vac--recently coughed up (with some help from Dart Guy) my wedding ring, which I hadn't seen in nearly a year. Important note to girls: this is a good way to end up with two wedding rings, although you may want to choose a variety of vacuum that works with a little less force/intensity-the ring has lost a bit of its luster. Nothing a good cleaning won't cure, I think. Cudos to Dart Guy for being the kind of guy who buys another wedding ring, no questions asked, and for spotting this little sparkle at the bottom of a grimy shop vac!
Here, I enlist Spitfire and her girlfriend to put a hex on Dart Guy's garden spot. It is a competition to see who can balance the longest--and who can wreak more havoc on the inner sanctom of his raised bed. All is fair in love and gardening!