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.