Carmen and David are pretending that the living room is a big back yard.  They’ve got horses back there, they say, and they’re building some fences.

I leave my bread in the kitchen to take a look. 

“This is our backyard,” Carmen says, grandly gesturing with her arm like I’m looking at her back 40.  I take a look at the fence David is building but she stops me at a receipt on the floor.  “But don’t step here, I’ve got poison for the fire ants.”  She points at an Amazon box from yesterday.  “And don’t go here, because there are ants.  And here, and here.”

Can’t be a proper Texas childhood without fire ants.

~

Last week Carmen was opening a stack of junk mail, tearing it open and digging for surprises (stickers, cardstock credit cards) like a bunch of hungry kids attacking a fallen pinata.  She got hold of a piece of mail addressed to me, and I was afraid the letter inside would rip before I had a chance to read it. 

“Carmen,” I said, “Is that your name there?”

She turned the envelope over.

“It has a J,” I pointed.  “Who in our house has a J in their name?”

She stared at the address label.  I decided to help her along. 

“Does Daddy have a J in his name?”

“No.”

“David?”

“No.”

“Carmen?”

“No.”

“Oh.  Well, who do you think this letter is for?”

She fingered the envelope.  Who cares?  She just wanted to open the dumb thing.  I decided I needed to drop another clue.

“What’s Mommy’s name?”

“Chief!”