Sprite's Keeper

This gift keeps on giving.

It's my dad's birthday today.

I wanted to get him a gift, but there's only so many "Best Buy" cards to be had.

I wanted to get him a card, but Sprite created a paper trail from the stationary aisle to the deli and got us kicked out of the store before I could pay.

I wanted to call him to sing my birthday greetings, but my voice is sore.

So I went one better, I brought him the only thing that could give him something better than any gift cards, Hallmark cards, or warbled birthday tunes.

She gives hugs and kisses.

(Her return policy is a little warped, but totally worth it.)

Happy birthday, Dad. We love you.

It Ends With Cheese

My sister and nephew were over for the holiday weekend, sharing a spaghetti dinner with John, me, and the noodle flinging blob of sauce formally known as Sprite.

A bug (house fly) (Latin origin unknown, and I am so not looking it up, people) (All right, fine, the Latin name is probably DOMESTICUS IRRITATINGUS, happy?) had somehow gotten into the house and was buzzing around our table, either to try to partake of the meal we were enjoying or perhaps trying to warn everyone else about my cooking and the possible stomach endeavors to follow. Either way, it was annoying, but it did set off a sequence of events never played out in my home before:

Bryan: "Kill the bug!"

Lee Ann: "Bryan, eat your spaghetti."

John:"Where is my fly swatter?"

Sprite:"Nummy."

Bryan: "I can't eat. The bug keeps coming close. It's gonna touch my food."

John: "Seriously, where the hell is my fly swatter?"

Bryan:"Why do we have bugs anyway? They're not good for anything."

Me: "That's not true."

Sprite: "Eat."

Bryan: "Why?"

Oh, crap. He called my bluff. Um.... My mind could not pull up an answer.

Me: "Ask your mom."

Lee shot me a look across the table and then gave an appropriate response. How are we related?

Lee: "All bugs have a purpose here. Either as food for other animals or to help keep the system in order. Every bug has a reason to live."

John: "Except this one." The bug swooped in to pause over his plate and John tried to slap at it.

Swing and a miss.

Me: "This bug is good for nothing, therefore this bug MUST DIE."

Bryan (laughing): "Die!"

Lee: "Jenny..."

Seriously, how are we related?

Bryan: "I don't want this bug near my food!"

Sprite: "Boo!"

Me: "Sprite, stop teasing the dogs."

Bryan: "Go away, bug!"

The bug came to rest in the middle of the table. Sprite threw her handful of noodles to the floor, narrowly missing the beagle. John grabbed the bag of shredded cheese.

Bryan: "Kill it!"

Lee: "Bryan, lower your voice!"

Me: "Sprite, no!"

Sprite: "All done!"

John: "It ends here."

His arm arced in the air and the bag of cheese aimed for the bug.

SWAT!

Starstruck

I held my new niece Alyssa Nicole for the first time last Sunday.

The entire time, a slew of thoughts whisked through my mind:

"Oh! She's so tiny!"

"There's that new baby smell!"

"Wow, is she supposed to shudder like that?"

"She kind of looks like Sprite when she was just born!"

"Sprite's head was MUCH bigger."

I remembered after the fact that yes, Jen, babies do shudder a bit when first born while trying to regulate their body temperature. (Although the repeated tooting she did into my right hand which was supporting her assured me that something was definitely cooking on high in there.)

While visiting with Jeff and Loni, I got to hear the birth story (which is much better than mine) and how, 18 hours after Loni's water broke, Alyssa was finally freed from her first home via C-section. Poor Loni had to endure induced labor since Alyssa decided she would be born on the 4th, she just didn't want to put forth the effort. (Basically, she didn't want to mess up her pretty face.)

I caught this air of something about both Jeff and Loni which I couldn't quite nail down at first. And then I realized,

They were starstruck.

They both seemed to gaze at Alyssa with an almost sort of reverence. Jeff was in a fog. (But a happy one.) Loni was moving around with some difficulty due to her incision (but still much better than my own recovery) and looking at Alyssa repeatedly as if to assure herself that 1. Alyssa was safe in my arms and 2. Alyssa was actually HERE.

And I remembered how John and I had done the exact same thing with our newly born Sprite.

I remembered the clueless admiration glued to our faces as we stared at our daughter and knew right then that we were looking at proof that God actually does exist.

I remembered comparing our own gargantuan fingers and hands to her impossibly small and seemingly fragile ones.

I remembered the blank fog in my head when I would try to recall something I had learned in childbirth classes only to have to resort to my own instinct instead.

I remembered feeling like someone just said, "Here, catch!", throwing this precious baby into my arms and expecting me to take her and run.

I remembered getting released from the hospital and thinking to myself, "That's it? They're letting us go with this baby? What makes them so sure we can handle her?"

I remembered the un-eclipsed joy and wanted to experience it again. I suddenly craved it.

I wanted Sprite's first year back, the highs and the lows. The first weeks of vague oblivion, the uncertainty of life and how it would go. The somewhat queasy feeling of possible doom and the ironclad certainty that life as I knew it was over. And especially, the overwhelming punch in the gut of love that swept me off my feet.

My uterus contracted a little (or maybe my stomach flipped) as I smiled foolishly into Alyssa's sleeping face and studied her perfect features as she grimaced and yawned in the way newborns do. She didn't cry. She didn't squawk. She DID keep tooting, but silently enough that I missed that too.

I know I promised John that I would wait until life seems a little more stable before I start charting my cycle and pestering John to "do the deed", (Oh, wait, my parents read this site. My mother-in-law reads this site too....Eh.) but I so want another baby. And holding Alyssa cemented that for me.

(Sigh) I'll be good. For now.

(Editor's Note: I have gotten some requests, but I'm not posting pictures of Alyssa until I can get some clearance from Jeff or Loni, and due to their lack of sleep or routine, I wouldn't expect them to remember their own names right now, much less give their sister-in-law approval to run baby photos over the Internet, so I'm giving them a little time to get their reality in gear before I bombard them with requests.)

(I''ll call them tonight.)

They Weren't Happy With Just Fireworks..

I've heard of going out with a bang, but coming in with one?

Jeff (John's brother) and Loni (his lovely wife) celebrated their Independence Day by bringing in a dependent, which kind of negates the Independence if you think about it. (Still reeling from your hangover? Take some Tylenol, come back in a couple of hours. I'll still be here.) (And I think blogging under the influence is illegal.) (Or it should be.) (Although it would definitely explain some of the strange posts I've seen lately.)

So, anyway, our niece was born, everyone is fine, I'm trying to get John to say yes to going over to the East Coast today to see the new bundle of baby and fawn over her with the rest of the Cohens who will descend upon the hospital. (Oy, we should call ahead and warn the Maternity floor or people will scream and it won't be the babies. At first.)

Alyssa Nicole, welcome to the family.

No photo essays today in honor of your birth.

(Plus, Sprite kept me up really late last night, but I swear, you're the reason I'm taking a holiday. You know, since you were born on one and all...)

(We love you.)

Pregnant Pause A.K.A. Math on a Sunday?

Consider this picture taken at my sister's-in-law baby shower a couple of weekends ago:

3/5 of the women in this picture are pregnant. That equals 60%. More than half!

So, who's pregnant besides the obvious choice in the bottom row?

(No, I'm not one of them.)

(You can relax now, John.)

(For now.)

Blessed are the ignorant..

Dear couple with the baby we saw at Fireshouse Subs on Sunday,

Hi. We're the family who was sitting at the table next to yours. Ma'am, I saw you looking over at our table with a mixture of pity and apprehension. I know. I can admit it. We looked a little pathetic, didn't we?

Mom and Dad shoveling food in faster than we could swallow while trying to convince the cranky toddler to try a couple of bites and throwing pieces of sandwich from one tray to another, playing a sort of mealtime hopscotch. And while we're doing this, we're arguing with each other over whether or not to give the tot a sip of soda while the tot, obviously strung out on preservatives and all sorts of bad food, is reaching for the forbidden soda and whining for it. And then Mom snarls at Dad to go get the girl a "cookie, dammit!" Sorry sight, right?

I heard you telling your parents (at least I assume they are your parents considering you called them Mom and Dad, but I could be mistaken) about the great lengths you had gone to find the organic Cheerios you were feeding your son and how, since he is beginning to chew harder foods, you are being careful to read the ingredients on every product you bring into your home. 

I saw you give the boy, who is probably about 10 months right now, a toy to play with and he occupied himself with it quietly, giving you all a chance to enjoy a leisurely meal while the toddler (and bad influence) at the table next to you was building a complicated looking structure with her pieces of bread and meat and then going all Godzilla on it with one swipe of her hand. (If I could compare the two tables, I'd say your table had the perfect weather with sunny skies while our table was experiencing hurricane warnings with a high chance of scattering debris.)

It's okay. I'm not taking it personally, because I know something you don't. You will be us. Soon.

Your day will come. When your son begins to walk, and talk, and decides he's not on the same page with the decisions you've been making, your day will be here.

You will have that day when your perfectly clean child decides to take the entire plate of food and hold it over his head, showering sodden bits of bread and lettuce all over his pristine curls.

You will have that day when you are throwing food from one parent's tray to the other because your obedient son all of the sudden decides he only wants food from Daddy's tray and even though Mommy is the one supplying the food, you will do everything you can to make sure it looks like the food is in fact coming from Daddy's side of the table to avoid the tantrum that he will initiate anyway when he catches you in the act with the turkey arcing through the air.

Your day is on the horizon when your golden child, always contentedly sipping from his sippy cup filled with exactly one part nursery water and one part 100% apple juice, will look up and realize his entire life is now hinging on one sip from the soda you are enjoying yourself, and you will be forced to have a battle of wills with yourself and your husband over whether or not you should give in and let him have a sip, thinking on one hand that you may be providing the gateway junk which will in turn pave the way for more bad food to be allowed entrance into his unsullied temple and then the other hand will slap at you with "It's just a sip. It will shut him up." And you will cave.

You will wonder where your good eater's appetite has gone as you make quick calculations in your head over how much turkey and bread and lettuce made it into his mouth versus the floor and whether or not a cookie, while not a substantial source of vitamins and protein, will hopefully fill him up and then order your hapless husband to get the freaking kid a cookie, the same husband who is tired by now of playing hoagie hockey and defending his own meal from marauding tiny hands, and he will look up blankly at your request making you repeat the demand with a "dammit!" and the child, upon hearing the word "cookie", will cry for the cookie while not taking the time to understand that the timespan between hearing the word "cookie" and the cookie's actual appearance is not instantaneous and the volume level will rise until not even the appearance of the sweet merciful tantrum ending cookie will calm him down.

Yes, mark my words. You will be here.

So, no, I'm not taking your pitying looks to heart. Every dog has its day and every toddler has his tantrum. And yours will have his.

In the meantime, soak up all his cuteness and obedience for this is his way of letting you rest up before the real fun begins.

Cheers,

The mom at the next table

Neat and Tidy Boxes

This entire job thing has had me wired.

John is doing everything he can and more to make our lives a little more stable, so this is more about me than anything else.

I just want to clean.

That's right. I want to clean. My house. Hell, I'll clean your house if you don't mind me yelling at you for spilling something on the freshly mopped floors afterwards. And take your shoes off! Where do you think the dirt is coming from anyway?!

Last night, when I got home with the child, I shoved some food into her mouth, then shoved her, still chewing, into John's arms and banished them both into John's office/man cave, pausing in the slamming of the door for the briefest of seconds to make sure Blue's tail didn't get caught as she and Harry were forced in as well.

Once my hostages were secured, I attacked. The floors.

They needed it anyway, so I'm glad I was inspired enough to tackle such a project. (Think about it. A wood floor, a Beagle, a Yorkie/Rat terrier, and a toddler who likes to share her food with certain canines in the direct vicinity. Such a combination makes for necessary daily swipes with the Swiffer, but the Swiffer went on strike a couple of months ago and we're not negotiating. So, it's good old mopping now.) (My arms need the workout anyway.) 

I swept, I vacuumed, I mopped. The floors never got such TLC. I went to sleep last night feeling somewhat calm and wishing we had some guests over, if only to see the clean floors.

I woke up this morning and eyed our bathroom. "You're next", I whispered as I got ready for work.

Talking with a co-worker this morning, I described my latest urges and documented the almost frenzied Martha Stewart hour I had endured and enjoyed last night. My co-worker looked at me and said, "Well, Jen. That's just you. You like everything in its place. Your desk is like that here. Everything is in neat and tidy boxes. You're just trying to make yourself feel better while John is looking for a job."

I swallowed her words and pondered the aftertaste. I get it. This is about control.

John was laid off on Tuesday. I have no control over that. Neither does he. So, I am amping up my efforts on what I can control. I can control the clutter in my house. I'm almost anal about it. Now, it's taken on a compulsive life of its own while we're still reeling from the job issue.

I hate uncertainty. I have no control over it. That's why I hate it. I have no control over death. That's why I fear it. I have no control over John's employment status. That's why I obsess over it.

I have control over how clean my house is. That's why I revel in it.

The unknown scares the hell out of me. There are people out there who throw all caution to the wind and take chances, even if they know the wind may steer them into inclement weather. I am not one of those people.

I am a planner. I am a list maker. I am a list checker. I am realistic with a healthy dose of pessimism.

We're all on this path of life. When things like a loss of a job or the loss of a family member or the uncertainty of war, economy, gas prices (You see where this is going..) throw a blanket of fog over the path, we can't see what's ahead, even with the help of high beams. Our steps become more uncertain as we weigh the obvious choices. We can keep walking the path, even though we may take a wrong step and plunge into the abyss, or we can stop altogether and try to wait for the fog to clear, even though this may delay chances we need to take to keep us on the path in the first place.

John is forging ahead on his path, armed with his resume and his warm personality which won me over almost a decade ago.

I just hope he doesn't mind me cleaning up a little after him.

(If they made an Air Wick candle with a bleach smell, I would be ALL over that.)

Sampler Plate

(Editor's Note: The following four events happened within the span of 24 hours and while they made up interesting little snippets, they were clearly not filling enough to shape a full post, more like appetizers. So I combined all the appetizers together and no matter the mixed flavors, you'll still leave my site feeling full. Bon appetit!)

Sitting at the dinner table last night, I was trying to persuade Sprite to stop shopping from my plate and start sampling her own, yet every bite I put to my mouth earned an "Um?" from my audience.

"Sprite, eat your food. It's the same thing I have." I lifted a grape to my lips and she quickly scanned her offerings and determined that grapes were not on her plate. Her eyes locked on mine. Liar!

"Pease?" she asked, looking at the grape intently. I begrudgingly bit the grape in half and shared it with her.

Again, this happened, her wanting the food on its way to my mouth,  to the extent that I would pop 2 grapes into my mouth for every half one she would beg from me so I could, well, half my grapes and eat them 2. (Get it?) (Not even a snicker? What, weekdays mean you can't be silly?)

We were getting down to the last couple of grapes in the bowl while John was sitting back, watching the two of us wrestle over the fruit and he made a comment about how cute and beautiful our daughter was and how much she's speaking these days and whoa, isn't she just amazing and smart, and I'm paraphrasing here since I was concentrating more on grape negotiations than the adjectives John was using to describe our daughter and therefore not using any quotations to capture his words and permanently affix them to him and do you think I should finally put a period on the end of this run-on and let you get on with the story? (Ooh, used a question mark! I'm sneaky like that.)

As he was extolling on her virtues, she asked again for another grape. "Pease?" she asked, her eyes on the prize.

Well, I must have been moving too slowly for her because the next word out of her mouth was "Now?"

I gaped at her and John gaped at me. Dude, she didn't!

We couldn't correct her, we were laughing too hard. (Is that bad?)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This morning, John taught Sprite a new word. "Sup."

As in: "Hey! Sup?" (In case you're not clued in, sup is just shortening "What's up?". I'm pretty sure mostly everyone knew this, but there may be some lurkers who have just woken up and realized it was the 21st century, and they just HAD to check on my blog, so I'm trying to make everyone feel welcome here.) (Keep your shoes on, though. You're not THAT welcome.)

She picked this up right away, of course.

"Sup?" she asked her banana slices one by one, as she picked them up from the plate and devoured them.

"Sup?" she asked me when I extracted her from the torture device car seat after we pulled into daycare.

Her teachers found this hysterical when her greeting to them was "Sup?". I'm pretty sure they'll be shooting daggers by the end of the day when twenty-something toddlers are all racing around the one year old room shouting "Sup!" at random intervals.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I sat with Sprite at daycare, getting her comfortable with her surroundings, and one of her favorite teachers entered the room. Sprite made a beeline for this teacher and proceeded to shove into her lap while my lap was still warm from her tushy. (Yes, a little sliver of me died right then and there, but I smiled through it.)

I used this as an opportunity to escape with few tears from her Spriteness and made my way to the door. The teacher, seeing me, said, "See ya! Have a great day!"

Sprite looked over to me while sitting court in this teacher's lap. "See ya!" she parroted, then went right back to worshipping her teacher.

(Another attack, this time a parting shot.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I came back to pick up Sprite this afternoon and a toddler ran over to her and yelled "Sup!".

I guess "Sup" has now taken on "good bye" as a possible meaning, kind of like "Aloha" and "Shalom."

Sprite has started a new trend in the one year old room. She's trendy like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fin.

(Tums, anyone?)

Big Purple Elephants Welcome (Mostly)

This follow up has been a long time coming.

Despite the fact that this website is dedicated to the wackiness of a toddler's life, I wrote a post on World of Warcraft a couple of months ago and trashed it good naturedly. Well, maybe not TOTALLY good naturedly, but I'm sure the big purple elephant forgives me. (Mostly.)

I still get frequent hits on this post thanks to a post on Momformation in which a lot of women out there weighed in on how much they hate their husband/boyfriend/significant other's gaming habits and the toll it's taking on family life.

In fact, a few people have taken my blog and linked me to some World of Warcraft fansites and bashing forums where my words have been twisted, turned, and villified in some cases by people who either love or hate what I have to say on the matter. This has forced me to add the label on the left side in which I am kindly asking you to let me know before you use my material elsewhere, because I do like to see what is being said about what I said. (Did that make sense? Eh. It's late. It'll make sense in the morning.) 

I am considering (although that may give it more attention than it deserves) adding a direct link to the original World of Warcraft post and reopening the comments section since I truly am interested in how others have dealt with this issue. The more comments I get from people (and it's mostly women), the more concerned I am about how they handle it and what they can do to make their lives a bit happier in the face of this cult in the making. Or at least give them a big cyber hug.

Here's my disclaimer. (Funny how a mommy blogger would need a disclaimer, but, again, if I'm not getting paid for my assvice, I'd rather cover my WoW bashing tushy here.) This post is going to discuss how John and I have come to terms with the other woman in his life and how we all live together without me going all stabby. (Again, said in jest. I don't stab. My revenge is a little more creative and time consuming than that. The choreography alone is months in the making.) So, please, this is just what John and I have done which helped US. It may not help you. Or you. Um, you probably. But definitely not you. Are we clear? Groovy. Now, grab your frontal lobe, slap it good, and make it pay attention as this is where it counts.

First the back story. Back in 2000, John discovered an online game called Diablo and was quickly hooked. The fact that our good friend and roommate, Richard, was also on the game, only hooked John more as they joined forces nightly for HOURS on end to do battle, rob, steal, whatever, with and against other players. I remember battling with him constantly over the amount of time he would spend on the game, sometimes all day if he could. He finally gave up the game. I was happy that he gave up the game. Life was good. I gave him back his cat. (The fact that he didn't originally have a cat is irrelevant here. The point is, I gave it back.)

Life moved on and we got pregnant. Life sped up and we gave birth. Life came to a screeching halt when last year, John started playing a demo game (See? That's where they get you! "Try it free! 15 days! No harm, no foul!" You're screwed.) of World of Warcraft, and little by little, I would walk into his office and find him, well, walking. Or dying. Usually one or the other. (At least, that's what I always find him doing. I'm sure he's doing something Wow-ish the rest of the time, but I see what I see.)

This became problematic when he took every opportunity (the baby is sleeping, play a little WoW) to sneak onto his game (Jen is sleeping and the baby is sleeping, play a little WoW) and snort some more of the cyberspace cocaine. It became a battle when every minute I turned around, he was glued to the monitor and his character's backside. (Which now has a tail. Is that an upgrade?)

We argued about it. A lot.

He had good points to defend his gaming. It provided an outlet for him to de-stress from toddlerville. Agreed. I do the same with this blog. (Only I poke fun at toddlerville. And John. But mostly toddlerville.) It's a way for him to meet up with friends like Richard who live elsewhere and he would never see otherwise. Agreed again. I do the same with this blog too. Our big contention was the time he spent on the game. It was out of control. He was rushing to the console every chance he got to the point that I didn't even have to wonder where he could be. I knew where he was. I didn't have a laptop then so we were battling each other every night for screen time as soon as the kid's head hit the pillow.

We had a la-hong discussion about his gaming ways and the way it was chipping at the fragile family life. He kept going back to the fact that it's his hobby. I understand a hobby, but I also understand the distructive nature of gaming and the effect it has on entire families. (I've read a lot of comments. Believe me, I understand.)

John and I agreed on one big point. The game should NEVER interfere with or supercede time with Sprite. This negotiation was settled very quickly. If John was needed in any way Sprite related, the game was dropped immediately, even if his character was getting the crap kicked out of him at that moment. (He dies all the time anyway. He should be used to it by now.)

Another point we agreed on. Bedtime. Game over at 10PM Eastern. No gimmees, ifs, ands, buts, or butts with tails about it. Sometimes, I do need to throw something at him to remind him of our agreement, but he's pretty good about it most of the time. I haven't had to hone my throwing skills for a couple of weeks now.

We took a long hard look at our evening activities and what we like to do. I like to relax with a good workout on my trusty treadmill and watch tv or read or blog (sometimes all at the same time) before bed. These activities are not John's idea of a good time. Richard reminded me of this in a comment he wrote about my WoW scolding. And I understand it. John does not need to be with me every moment from the time we get home until the time we leave for work. It makes sense that we have some actual ALONE time which does not include each other. Unless I take up knitting in which I need him to hold yarn, he does not need to validate my parking in front of the tv.

Sometimes, we have our date nights and WoW isn't touched at all. I know John misses it on those nights, but he doesn't complain.

But, to make sure John understood that I truly want him to have his hobby and know I support his time alone (NOT the game, but his alone time), he has one night a week when, as soon as Sprite goes to bed, I let him be and he can game all night if he wants to. He savors his Friday nights. In fact, if you think of it in terms of dieting, Friday night is his cheat night and he can gorge all he wants on raids and pillaging and general cyber mayhem until he drops. He is aware though, that any lack of sleep is his own fault and I will be very pissy if he's slacking on the parenting post due to a WoW binge.

I figured that as long as John understood the importance of the game and how unimportant it really is, I could forgive the fact that he plays.

So, that's the way we work it out. We're very happy with the schedule and I've even forgiven the occasional last minute raids he wants to join. I have told him no some times as well when I knew the next day would be very busy and he would be needed.

So, he gets to play. I get to make fun of it sometimes, and Sprite gets Daddy time not out of obligation or the server being down, but out of Daddy's genuine desire to be with his daughter.

There are some out there who have commented elsewhere and on this site about how this game and their partner's gaming has seriously impacted their lives and I feel for them. I hope they can take some of the things John and I have worked through and let it inspire them to try to make it work for them. Hopefully, they can learn to deal with having the game in their lives and work out a schedule or maybe use the laptop this post is on to beat the hardheaded partners over the cranium for better emphasis. (I kid.) (?)

Okay, I'm putting away my torch. I'm stepping off my soapbox. Please refer to the above disclaimer if you seriously are comtemplating beating anyone over the head with a computer (if you can't consider the pain of your partner, consider the uselessness of a dented laptop), and try to play nicely. It's 10:05PM, and I need to work on my aim.

Tomorrow, we're back to our Sprite Ways of Wackiness.

(Editor's Note: This post was written late Monday night. Yesterday, John was laid off. Last night, not one minute was spent on the game and all his time was spent updating his resume and applying for jobs through all the major search engines. Although, it does make me wonder, if WoW paid people to play, would we women be a little more understanding with the excess time spent on the game? "It's okay, honey. I'm in overtime!" )

Make A Memory

My dad finished college when I was 16 years old. I remember this since we took a week-long vacation to Disney World to celebrate. It had been a long time coming, but he did it. It had been a long struggle for all of us, and I remember the times prior to his graduation when he wouldn't be home for dinner due to school, or had to take weekend classes, late classes, any class to continue his education, balancing this with a full time job and a family with two young daughters. He burned the candle at both ends for years, knowing on one hand that he had to accomplish this goal, worrying on the other that he was compromising his family life at the same time.

I have a fond memory of me at 8 years old, waking up after midnight and wandering into the family room where my dad was set up with textbooks surrounding him, and the television supplying background noise. I had not seen him since that morning and he had just gotten back from his night class. He was studying, highlighter in hand, while a Snoopy cartoon played on the set. (Back then, the Disney Channel often ran Peanuts on it's graveyard schedule.) He looked up as I wandered into the room and smiled. I braced myself for the stern command I knew was coming. "Go to bed."

Instead, he patted the black and white houndstooth pattern couch he was leaned up against. (Remember, this was the 80's.) "Can't go to sleep?"

I nodded and settled on the couch cushions, stealing glances at his book to see if I could understand any of what he was studying. I don't remember now what the subject was, I just remember thinking my daddy was the smartest guy in the entire world right then and there.

We sat there in silence, me enjoying my clandestine tv watching and my dad letting me get away with it RIGHT UNDER HIS NOSE. I fell asleep out there on the couch with the noises from the tv sending me off and woke up in my own bed the next morning, as if the night before had never happened.

Recently, my parents were over in our neck of the woods visiting for the weekend. We took Sprite to the park and brought along their camera. My dad mentioned that he wasn't in a lot of our childhood photos since he was always the one behind the camera, making the memory. He regretted this. I made sure to get my hands on his camera and snap some pictures of him and my mom scampering after Sprite, but his remarks stayed with me and this memory came to mind in an instant.

I look back on those photos of my childhood for help in remembering some events in my life that honestly blur together in such a way that I sometimes forget the plot and cast of characters. Yet, in one of my all-time favorite memories, there are no pictures preserving it, the images are crystal clear, and my dad is the star.

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As told by John:

I don't have a particular memory of my dad which stands out from the rest. When Jen asked me for a memory of my father and me, I took a while to think of it and, even after thinking about it for days, could not give her an answer. So I told her about something I treasure in my father that influences the way I live my life.

My father put his family above everything. Every decision he made was for the family. My dad first came to this country from the Dominican Republic, determined to make a better life for his wife and three children. (Felipe wasn't a blip on the radar at that time.) My family was very comfortable in the Dominican Republic, but did not have access to the same freedom and and possibilities we would have in the U.S.

So, we came over with Green Cards and not much else to our name. My mom and dad worked hard to make it and give us kids everything we needed. None of us had a good mastery of the English language, but we learned quickly. I remember my dad opening a landscaping business and working long hours to see it through. It was hard work and he sacrificed a lot of time and patience to make it successful, but he did. All for us. He could have given up at any time. But he never considered that.

I watched my dad and my mother and the way they were with each other as I was growing up. I never saw my father treat my mother with anything less than respect. He showed her he loved her by his actions, by his words, and by his devotion. He continues to inspire me in the way I live my life and treat my own wife and daughter. In my childhood, he was my dad. As I move into adulthood, he has become my mentor.

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My favorite memory of John:

I wasn't a happy camper in the first minutes after my C-section. My doctor had just shown us the screaming Sprite, still covered in all sorts of yuck (just because it was my yuck doesn't make it any less yucky), and had handed her over to the nurse to clean up and administer the first Apgar test. (Sigh, testing this early in life. No wonder school has a bad rap.)

I told John, in the midst of a rolling dry heave (side effect of the spinal block), "Stay with her. Don't leave her for one second." (My paranoia thought up all sorts of baby switching scenarios.) John agreed and left me to accompany our newborn to the nursery for her bath and first shot.

After I was sewn up and wheeled into recovery, I could barely move my head as the nausea kept reoccuring and I was allowed to hold my daughter briefly. I drifted in and out of sleep due to the painkillers and did not make one movement from my bed.

Every time I stirred awake, I would look over at Sprite's bassinet, set up right next to my bed. It was always empty for her daddy was always holding her, staying true to his promise to me. From that day, I have never doubted where his heart stood in regards to his daughter.

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Happy Father's Day to the men in our lives. And a special shout out to Jeff, who will have a little girl to own his heart in the next month or so.