Volume VI, issue ii February 2010

What d'Evegnee Girls are Made of :

The Spice

We've been warned about the sugar. We love the sugar! I can totally handle the sugar.

But how about the much-less-mentioned stuff hidden in there between the sweet stuff and the "everything nice?"

For us, the spice is not a mild mixture of parsley and sage (or rosemary and thyme, Mr Garfunkel!) It is more like a lip-numbing, burning blend of cayenne and cumin and ginger.

Our "little" Marie is a Viking in diapers. She thunders around the house in her Nordic-like fur-trimmed Robeez and we stand back and fear and tremble. If I stuff her, sausage-like, into her 12-18 month attire, it stretches across her bulbous belly, looking like it will tear apart as she bellows with Hulk-ish rage (minues the whole turning green thing).

As I was doing damage control (aka cleaning) yesterday, Marie enthusiastically emptied the contents of a bag of tortilla chips on the floor. Before I could rush over to my trusty broom, I could hear her shuffly, low-to-the-ground run and spied the dismount of her stunt just as she slid baseball style into the chips on her stomach. She then hoisted herself up and did a rather charming cha-cha through the chips, beaming as she savored each crunch.

I've heard of playing with your food. . . but dancing with it?

After I had swept up the dancefloor and finished the dishes, I let Marie play with the water in the sink as I wiped down the counters, and she contentedly dumped water from one cup into another for a few minutes. When I looked back at her, she had her head under the steam of water, gurgling merrily before she stood up and shuddered as it streamed down her face.

On Eve's birthday, I got a call from her teacher. Nervous that the cake pops I had sent for her birthday treat had contained a hidden surprise, my heart did a little flip as I answered the phone. If Marie is a Viking, Eve is a proper French Princess. She exhibits a tad of royal entitlement, but she also possesses enough savoir faire to have bourgeois manners to match. Naturally I was surprised when her teacher told me about Eve's "meltdown" at school.

During "Carpet Time" Eve wasn't participating in the sound-blending game as much as her teacher thought was appropriate, so she sent her out in the hall to practice her sounds with the teacher's aide. At first Eve refused, but then reluctantly complied. Later, her teacher decided to have a tete-a-tete about her less-than-agreeable behavior and Eve was royally unhappy about being singled out.

Her teacher said to her, "Eve, what's the problem?"

Eve glared back at her and growled, "You're the problem!"

Luckily her teacher said she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing, but I was stunned at Eve's bravado. Her teacher is a patient, angelic soul who was able to work out the kinks in Eve's attitude, but I've chosen denial (for now) about the light this little vignette sheds on what our now six-year-old will be like in a few years.

We Got Game

Our basketball bildungsroman came full circle yesterday when we played our original nemesis for the finale of the 5th grade 2010 season. They had mercilessly wiped the court with our city-league jerseys in the first game, but our team had grown since then. . . at least we thought they had.

Our (I said our. I AM part of the team. I'm the one that paid the fee, okay?) over-confident opponents strutted onto the court, saying things like, "We're going to SMOKE you!"

Ever heard of a little ditty called, "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," fellas?

I once again found myself shrieking much louder and much more often than I ever do, with my heart pounding as if I were watching my son play for the State Finals.

We were up by at least four for most of the game, but found ourselves behind by one with only minutes left. There was a crucial jump-ball which should have been ours, but which the refs gave to the other team. Eric excitedly approached the refs, waving his arms and only slightly raising his voice (wink, wink). I had been so proud of him for maintaining his "Idaho Eric" facade for the whole season. But in that moment "New York Eric" was choosing to make his presence known. I could see the gleam in his eyes.

Taking an extremely, passive-aggressive wifey approach, I cheerfully yelled out, "Calm down, coach!"

He heard me and he did calm down. At least until an elderly spectator told him to, "Just sit down!"

New York Eric spun around and said to the man, "They made the wrong call! Calm down, old man!"

To his credit, that's all Eric dished out, but then he came and knelt by me and whispered, "I was fine until Old Man Winter had to butt in."

Luckily for the refs, our team, and Old Man Winter, our team was able to clinch the victory in the last two minutes. In the victory huddle, Eric's players told him that the other team was undefeated. . .

UNTIL NOW, BABY!!!

I'm such a gracious winner! (But at least I'm a winner, baby!)