I love my Varmint so completely.  She’s smart, she’s sensitive, she’s introspective, and most of all, she’s funny.  She loves to laugh and make other’s laugh.

I don’t know where she gets it.

We had taken the kids and their friends to Rehoboth Boardwalk, specifically Funland and Playland, so they could ride the rides that I had ridden when I was a kid.  We do this every year.  Every. Stinkin. Year.

Mind you, we don’t do it because the kids want to.  We do it because Mama is stuck in her childhood and is in denial that time is passing.  So I make the kids ride the same kiddie rides every year.

They take it in stride.  Like I said, they are good kids.  They don’t mind humoring Mama’s weird side every now and again.  But since it isn’t as entertaining for them as it used to be, Varmint makes it fun herself.  She get’s silly for Mama.

Case and point:

Here she is being silly for Mama.

Here is her friend Megan wondering what the heck she is doing.

And then Megan gets it and joins in.

I realize that most of you are like, “Uh, so what? So the kids are being goofy. What’s so special about that?”

Because most of the adults I know wouldn’t think of making a cake of themselves to make someone else smile.  They might crack a joke or something, but not at the expense of their own stature.  Kids will without hesitation, especially my Varmint; it’s sweet.

And I love her for it.

Ok, ok, I make a cake out of myself with regularity, but I think we’ve established that my growth is stunted.

It began innocently enough.

Our friend Willoughby came to visit us at the beach.  She brought with her toddler son,  my extreme-future fiance, Lane, (who I believe is cheating on me by falling in love with my Varmint, but that is another story,)

and she also brought us doughnuts.

It went downhill from there…..

Oh sure, everyone was pleased to get them, especially My Captain, who grabbed his FAVORITE…Boston Cream Pie Doughnut….before I could even snap a picture of the box:

This picture cracks me up for a couple of reasons:

1) He has food in his mouth and is trying really hard not to show it.

And

2) He is peeved that I’m taking a picture and is trying really hard not to show it.

Would you just look at his eyes?  He looks like he is about to lob that doughnut at me!  Not that I would complain.

Anyways….back to Willoughby’s doughnuts….  My Captain grabbed his, and then the boys dug in.  And I do mean all the boys.

Critter and his friend, Richard, began chowing on multiple doughnuts.

There was very little chance I would get their attention for a picture at this point, but I kept trying.

A little better.  I got Critter to fix his insulin-drowned gaze on me, and Richard to cock an eyebrow.  …sigh…

It took about half a minute after the ingestion of the last doughnut before the first sugar-induced volley was fired.

Thankfully I double-stitched all of the candy striped pillows, so they can take a beating.

Come to think of it, so can the boys.

If you need me, I’ll be hiding under my bed.

I made a Lemonade Pie today, because I was hot, because I’m talented in the kitchen, and because the pie has, er,  only 4 ingredients in it.

Simple.  Like me.

Check this out:

1 small can of lemonade concentrate, thawed.

1 small (8 oz) tub Cool Whip, thawed.

1 can Sweetened Condensed Milk.

1 Ready Made Graham Cracker Pie Crust.

Mix the first three ingredients.  Pour that mixture into the crust.  Freeze.  Eat.  Repeat.

Here is where I screwed it up.

“What?” You say, incredulously.  “How can you screw that up?  It’s ridiculously simple.”

Well, like anything else, I just don’t know when to stop.  So after I put it together, I decided to get all artsy-fartsy-food-network-Paula-Deen-crazy and decorate it with slices of lemons I’d dipped in sugar.

Do you know what that did?  It made runny lemonade on the top.

Genius. Pure genius.

So don’t be me.  Follow the instructions and leave it in its unadorned glory.

It’s so simple even a simpleton couldn’t screw it up.

….much.

One of our nightly summertime beach rituals….one that is a tradition that goes way back into my childhood… is walking into the Town of Bethany and getting an ice cream cone.  Sometimes we linger to listen to the band-du-nuit, sometimes we walk on the boardwalk and get eaten by mosquitos, sometimes we just sit and people watch.  But whatever our whim may be, it starts with  the cold deliciousness of frozen milk and sugar.  What evening could go wrong when it starts with that combo?

We allowed Critter and Varmint to bring a friend this year.  And we introduced them to this hallowed tradition.

They didn’t fight it.

But here is where things got interesting.  Our friend Megan, who is a ballerina, among other things, and has no extra body fat to her name, got the largest, most impressive ice cream cone I have ever seen.  It was on a King Sized waffle cone.  It was several scoops.  It was adorned with the most beautifully beachy colored sprinkles.

And it was as big as her head.

My Captain took a picture of her with it.  You know, something we could show the ER docs when she went into hyperglycemic shock.

It was ginormous.

And we all laughed at the thought of her actually consuming the whole…or even most of it.

Well, she did.  She dispatched that bad boy with alacrity.  Even ate stray fallen sprinkles she found on her shirt later.

I was immediately filled with awe and great respect.  My whole life I’ve been a ‘chow hound’, impressing all of my friends with my gastronomic feats.  But here was this little 50 pound sweet girl who demolished that cone like weight watchers at an all you can eat Chinese Buffet.  It verged on horrific, but never quite crossed that line.

And then I was tossed into a deep depression, the likes of which you’ve never seen.  I had realized that she COULD eat like that and still be thin and spry and nimble.  If I had eaten that, I would be asleep in ten minutes, AND gain five pounds in the process.  I became jealous.  Then filled with anger. Then I took a sharp left into Denial.  Until I finally achieved acceptance.

I’m speaking to her again, finally.  But I ain’t buyin her no mo ice cream.  No sirree.

That’s for My Captain, and HIS hollow leg to do.

My 11-year-old Varmint “App’d” me last night.  And I didn’t care for it in the least.

She and her friend, Megan, went out to dinner “As Big Girls” at Grotto’s Pizza in Bethany Beach.  And by “As Big Girls” I mean that it was something different from going up to a McDonald’s counter and ordering dinner.  It was dining at a sit-down, hostessed, use-your-manners-at-the-table, kind of restaurant.  They had their own money, they had their own cell phones, and they had years and years of coaching.  They were ready to fledge.

This was it.  This was Varmint’s first, experimental dinner out without Mama and Troy.

After a little gnawing of my knuckles, and after several false starts where I actually, appropriately, stopped myself from hovering, I crumbled and called her.  You know, just to check in. Not because I was worrying.  Not because I was trying to control her.  And not because I was afraid they would fail.  I just realized that I had forgotten to teach her how to calculate a TIP.

It went like this:

Me: Hi love.  How’s it going?

Varmint:  Fine!  We’re waiting for our pizza now.

Me: Good.  Look, I don’t mean to disturb you, but I need to tell you how to figure out a tip.

Varmint: That’s ok, Mom, my phone has an App for that.

Me: …….(silence)….

Varmint:  Mom?

Me:….Oh, ok, Love.  Do you need anything?

Varmint:  I have to go now, Mom.

Me: …..Ok Sweetheart.  See you later.

Varmint: Bye.  CLICK.

I sat staring at my phone for a moment.  My 11-year-old daughter had just “App’d” me.  Is there any more obvious message that I had become obsolete as both a mentor and a fount of knowledge?  Could there have been any more tangible way to deliver that blow?  She didn’t need me.  She had her phone, which did everything she wanted, and probably with greater speed and accuracy than I could.

A simple choice stood before me:  curl up in the fetal position in a corner, sucking my thumb, and wishing for my own Mommy, or take the hit gracefully, with aplomb, and model to my child that change is good.

…..So while I was in the corner, I thought of the perfect solution:

Steal the battery out of her phone.  Sabotage her development.  Delay her progress.

Genius.

Clearly I was meant for the selflessness of Motherhood.