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!)