Sprite's Keeper

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!

A Moment

"This isn't an emergency, but-"

"I'll be right there."

I need to stop interrupting the receptionist at Sprite's daycare and let her finish what she needs to say. This could help determine how messed up my day truly needs to get and keep the receptionist from getting pissy with parents like me. (...Nah.)

I quickly find out that ants had used the heavy rains to invade the one year old playground and wreak havoc on the jungle gym. (And making a perfect example of the song, "The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah...")

Toddlers were bitten. Sprite was found to be particularly sweet and palatable.

I'm expected to stop by the school and just check her out to make sure she's not having any reactions. (Because the word "Mommy" must be the "M" in "MD", right?)

I think about this. My day is full. Too full.

It should only take a moment, I rationalize as I quickly move my schedule around to allow for 20 minutes so I can get in, get out, and get on with my day.

I plan my route to stop by at 10:30 as lunch is beginning so she'll be distracted and I can quickly get back to my busy day. Little do I know that 10:30 needs to have "-ish" attached to it.

"Oh, perfect. You're here. They're just finishing up in the lunch room," the receptionist says as I walk in.

I smile and look at my phone. Nope. 10:30. Did they jump the clock?

I walk into the lunch room and see Sprite getting ravioli pieces yanked from her hair as she sits in her seat. "Mommy!" she exclaims, seeing me and waving.

"Hey, babe!" I steer around the tiny tables and give her a small kiss while the teacher finishes cleaning her up.

"Sprite's left leg was covered in ants," the teacher explains, pointing out the red marks on Sprite's lower leg. I examine the area, tsk over the slightly swelling spots, deem it acceptable to survive the rest of the day while in daycare's clutches, and try to gracefully disappear.

Not so fast.

Sprite's hand immediately grabs mine. "Come!" she exclaims and leads me to the door which goes out. She thinks she's going home, I conclude. Silly child..

"No, no, honey," I respond, steering her away from freedom and toward the one year old room. "Let's go here." I'll just escort her in, I think, it should only take a moment.

I open the door and see the darkened room is already decked out in mats and blankets, ready for full bellied toddlers to tumble down and give the teachers a break.

Sprite leads the way to her mat and blanket and pulls me down to sit with her.

I'm trapped. There's no easy way to get out of here as the rest of the woozy tots clamber in and collapse on their respective real estate. (How much did Sprite pay to score a spot by the window?)

Now resigned to helping Sprite settle down, I stretch out a bit. Seeing me get comfortable makes Sprite more at ease knowing Mommy's not going anywhere. She lays down and starts to play with my left hand as my right hand carresses her cheeks and hair. Her eyes start to close and open a little more slowly every time she tries to come back from that point of limbo, sleep one moment away.

My mind starts to drift as I keep the pattern going, my fingers combing through her soft curling hair, occasionally running into small bits of her lunch. (Memo to self, the kid gets a good scrubbing tonight.)

Her eyes are now closed, but her fingers are still moving, playing with my engagement ring and stroking down my fingers in her own pattern.

At this moment, I should be thinking of the unfinished work I have waiting for me at the office. At this moment, I should be making mental notes of the calls I need to return. But, at this moment, all I can do is focus on her fingers slowly stroking mine, all I can do is stare at her peaceful face as her chest slows down and she draws deeper breaths.

All I can do is think about how, at this moment, there is nowhere else in this entire world I would rather be.

Her fingers are now still. She's asleep. I suppress the urge to peck her cheek and slowly, quietly arise to leave.

I slip out of the room and go back to my day where all of the piling paperwork and waiting phone calls suddenly aren't so important anymore.

And it only took a moment for me to remember what truly is.

Tuesday, Toddlers, and Tires- A Karma-dy!

Did I mention that I used to like Tuesdays?

"Tuesday! Why hast thou forsaken me? Because I blogged about you? Issues, dude!"

All right, it had been two weeks since John was laid off and a day after he got hired at his new company, so Tuesdays already had a black mark upon them. But this Tuesday, even though it lost to last Tuesday, made a valliant effort to be miserable.

As the work day ended, I looked forward to making the trek home with a hungry Sprite, get her fed, make a casserole for a Pot Luck my job was having the next day, and take on the Nord. I had a full plate.

Tuesday decided I needed more..

I picked Sprite up from school and we made our way home with the rest of the rush hour warriors. Our route has a break in it where the majority of the travelers separate from the rest, thus lifting the congestion and making the ride a little smoother.

When we hit the break, my dash emitted a audible warning. I looked and read that my tire pressure was low. I considered this as I continued on my way, although fate would not have me consider it for long. ("Cue ominous music!") 

Ten seconds after the light came on, I felt the vehicle shake slightly as a burring sound (That's the only way I know to describe it, like someone rolling their "r". Which reminds me, I can not roll my "r"s. John, Spanish being his original language, can roll em with the best of them. So, I think he should roll mine too, saving me the effort and humiliation when people think I'm trying to swallow my own tongue.) as I immediately removed my foot from the gas and shoved it full on into my mouth to stop the fresh stream of curses about to spew out.

I steered the van into a recently abandoned model home parking lot (there are tons of these in my area with empty parking lots to match the increasing amount of empty houses) and got out to check. Yup. There it was. Right rear wheel, flat. Crap.

Sprite was busy watching a DVD while trying to strangle her doll with its own hair (Huh, looks like she'll be a multi-tasker.) and ambivalent to my stress as I grabbed the cell phone and dialed R-E-L-I-E-F (Read: home).

"Hello?"

"John, I've got a flat."

"(Sigh). Where are you?"

I did my best to provide proper landmarks and hung up, waiting for my knight in his silver Honda to drive up and save us as I noticed thunderclouds looming in the distance.

John arrived with his Fix-A-Flat can and we tried to patch the tire. No go. "There's the problem", John said as he looked around the tire. A 2 inch wide razor was embedded into the tread. As the can emptied into the tire, the air came rushing out through the razor wide hole. "We're going to have to change it."

As John set about getting the jack out of the van and the spare tire from under the van, and (smart man, I told you I married a smart man) provided some cookies he had thought to bring along for the now impatient Sprite who wanted food or would start rioting, he mentioned to me in passing, "When you blog about this, tell them that this isn't the first time I've come through for you." O-kay.

This isn't the first time he's come through for me. (If you want more than that, you'll need to ask for it.)

Thunder sounded overhead and fat raindrops began to dot the pavement with the promise of a beat down if we didn't get our butts in gear. I helped John as best I could (mostly standing over him and making sure he knew that if he didn't get this tire on quickly, I would nag him endlessly. I'm not sure if he was trying to beat the rain or shut me up, but it worked.)

Lightning flashed across the sky as we quickly stowed the now defunct original tire and random jacks and nuts (Why was there a spare nut? Is that bad?) and made our way home to save the rest of the evening.

The end. (No, it isn't, but I'm sure I've reached the end of your patience level.)

Oh, yeah, Tuesday? You are officially on notice.

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?)

Stormy Skies With a Hint of Sun

John has an interview set up for tomorrow.

I cannot believe how he has hit the ground running.

Last night, he spent all his time after Sprite went to sleep hunting down jobs on every search engine he could find, even one that Kyle, a rogue commenter, suggested last night. He has picked up some leads and the same supporters as last time have rallied around him once more to spread out their tentacles of hope and opportunity.

While most people (Damn straight I'm raising my hand on this one!) would retreat to their respective corners and lick their wounds for at least a day or so, John has not let this side line him whatsoever.

He's in good spirits. I'm the pessimistic one, but I can't help but be bolstered by his unflagging energy and determination. We're in a flipped position.

I'm supposed to be his shoulder, I'm supposed to be murmuring words of encouragement.

My words are ready. I've written them down.

He just doesn't need them right now. He doesn't need the reminders. He's already on the right path. He has his map and even stopped to ask for directions. He doesn't need any game plans I have to offer.

He needs me though. A little rah rah cheer would also help.

"Go, John! Get that job! Before they hire another slob!"

No?

"John, you'll make it, yes, it's true! You will because we believe in you!"

Much better.

Just don't ask me to get in any pyramids. I hate heights.

A Reprieve!

After long conversations, long stand offs and long bouts of crying and hysterics (mostly me), John and I have reached an understanding.

John's desire to save money by moving Sprite to another daycare had us with one foot out the door of our current beloved daycare center and me with a hair trigger temper as we debated the costs and benefits of displacing our Sprite from place to another.

Was $30.00 a week really going to be that much of a benefit in the grand scheme of things? We weighed all options, experimented with time frames and menus and costs, and even studied the lunar cycles to determine if that would have any effect on our decision. (It doesn't, however John did note that on full moon cycles, I seem to become a raging bitch very easily, so this is good to know for both of us. He is now better prepared, and I now have something to blame my mood swings on.)

We looked at every aspect of our budget as I was digging my feet in the sand (you know, the free sand) on the issue and we discussed all of our options.

I was willing to give up some perks to show my commitment to our new frugal way of life. I immediately offered up our Sunday breakfast trips to the Gods of Finance. John seconded the motion and there was $30.00 a week saved right there, exactly what would be needed to match the cost of the cheaper daycare. This appeased the Gods...for a couple of minutes. Then they wanted more (the greedy bastards). Even with the match on spending for the more expensive more cherished daycare, they wanted more savings. So, I gave up our Friday dinners out. Another $30.00 a week saved. They considered this offer and tried to achieve a hat trick with our Saturday dinners as well. At this, I balked. I need one night a week in which washing dishes would not be involved in my after dinner ritual, so heels in the (free) sand (again), I resisted and mentioned that a certain husband of mine has a monthly stipend for his World of Warcraft habit which can be sacrificed very easily. The Gods backed off. (Come to think of it, I may use that bargaining chip again...)

So, here we are. Happily back to square one. Feels like home and while Sprite has no idea what fate almost befell her, I am relieved to see this bridge behind us. We crossed it, although the sides got a little singed.

It took almost losing the place I complain so much about to realize just how much I actually love it. I know Sprite loves it and that's what matters most.

If it does come up again that we need to save money, I may be willing to give up my Saturday night feasts in order to save Sprite's daycare center from the chopping block. Or John's allowance for World of Warcraft.

Yeah, that should definitely be first.

Confessions of a Veggie Pusher

Beth Hering over at Momformation wrote a post on weight issues for children in which a majority of the parents studied didn't recognize the excess weight on their children. This hit me a bit hard.

You see, I have a weight issue. I have been up and down on the scale since puberty, recently losing weight in a healthy way, pushing the excercise, limiting the carbs, limiting the sweet stuff. The bathroom scale is half friend (Woo hoo! I'm down!) and half foe (Can I blame this on PMS bloating? Last night's raid on the cashew stash?).

John also has the same issues. He has also battled his food demons and sometimes won, sometimes lost. Right now, he is winning, but not as ardently as I am. (Ooh, can I blame this on World of Warcraft?) (Please?)

John and I made a pact to ourselves a while ago that we would not bring junk food into the house to keep the temptation away. This was actually well before Sprite was a twinkle (Twinkie?) in my eye. This pact is still iron-clad and if you look in our pantry (no, it's okay, I'm allowing it) and fridge, the worst thing you'll find is Smart Ones Desserts (my little reward for making it through a workout and you simply HAVE TO TRY the mint chocolate chip sundaes. You'll thank me.) (You're welcome.)

Reading this post had me thinking about what we feed Sprite. If you read the article (and please link to it and read it because there is some sobering information in it), you'll see that parents often turn a blind eye to how big or overweight their kids really are. I think a lot of it is in what we feed our kids and the amount of sedentary entertainment they enjoy. McDonalds makes little Katie happy? Well, then give her the fries! And Super-size it! Little Bobby wants pizza for dinner and nothing else will do? Well, one slice shouldn't hurt him. And I guess, since he's eating pizza, I should too. Little Debbie (Get it?) (Sorry.) wants to play her video game? Well, she's happy and I can work in piece, so be it.

I did not want to fall into this cycle. I promised myself back when Sprite started solids that I would be the soldier defending her system against the junk. I remember how appalled I was when I discovered orange stains on her onesie as I picked her up from daycare one day and discovered the stains were actually cheesy dust from cheese balls the kids had been eating for snack. (At first, I thought, "Hello? Choking hazard?" Then I thought, "Why are they feeding an 11 month old cheese balls?")

I also promised myself that I would only give her 100% juice. When I discovered the juice in her daycare was actually "juice drink" and had no actual juice in it, I quickly cut off her access to it, asking them to give her milk or water instead. (This was right around the time she started having issues with her Huggies. Little did we know this was actually a precursor of things to come for Sprite and her issues with acidic foods.)

I have realized (and begrudgingly accepted) that we do not have total control over what she eats in daycare, so I have learned to turn the cheek when I hear about the chocolate chip cookies and the chips Sprite has eaten that day. I have also looked the other way when Sprite is there for Parents Night Out and her dinner consists of pizza and more pizza. 

But as soon as her feet step off Daycare soil, she's mine. (Mwa ha ha ha!....Oh, sorry. Didn't realize you could hear that...could you?)

At home, her menu is more simple. Okay, a lot simple. People in prison have better access to junk than my 1.5 year old has. During meals, Sprite eats what we eat. If we're having broiled chicken and spinach for dinner, guess what's on her plate? And yes, she eats the spinach. She even eats the notorious broccoli and LIKES IT. (We're total veggie pushers.) We keep her diet very healthy and focused on proteins, fruits, and vegetables. Don't get me wrong. The animal crackers and Goldfish are staples in her snacking diet, but yogurt and cut up grapes make the rounds on a regular basis as well. And she does get a sugar cookie at the grocery store to keep her happy (and quiet, yes, that too..) so we're not completely banning the bad stuff.

All good, right? Well, for the most part, sure, but I sometimes feel like I'm taking things too far. Let me explain:

This past Saturday, we were at Story Time with other kids and their parents. A friend of ours offered all the kids some chocolate chip cookies, each about the size of a toddler's spread out hand. I declined for Sprite, choosing instead to give her the organic animal crackers I had already packed for her.

This same friend is also a teacher at Sprite's daycare and offered Sprite a munchkin one morning when we walked in. I, again, declined for Sprite, saying she had just eaten and refused most of her own meal, although it was plainly obvious Sprite was studying that piece of donut as if it was the key to the universe, and she wanted in on its secrets.

Recently, John accompanied Sprite and me on a shopping trip and offered her a sip of my (watered down) diet cola. I flipped out. I had been warding off the sodas when everyone else had been allowing little sips here and there and my OWN HUSBAND betrayed me! Her innocent palate had been marred by COLA! (See? I'm a little out there..)

In fact, now that I'm thinking this through, I'm remembering several occasions in which I have not let Sprite have the junk, steering her instead to something else, something less fattening. And this is where my fear takes over. Am I programming her to lead a life filled with "Eat this, not that" and planting the seeds of worry over her self image?

I find myself studying her sometimes and wondering, hmm, is her tummy supposed to be that big? Are her legs too chubby? When will she lose the cankles? Then I mentally shake myself and remember, oh, yeah, she's a toddler! Toddlers are supposed to have baby fat! They're supposed to have chubby cheeks! ( The better to nibble them... )...But does she have too much? (Ugh, I'm shaking my head in disbelief at MYSELF here.)

I just worry that she may be predisposed to the same weight issues John and I have struggled with. It may be in her genetics to gain weight more easily than others and she may have to struggle with her own self body image while looking at images of emaciated models and asking why she wasn't "blessed" with their body types.

When she steps on the scale in our bathroom (she likes to activate the display and giggles when it comes up), I have a momentary flash of the (hopefully fictionous) future when she's stepping on the scale in her teens and not emitting a giggle when she sees the numbers come up for her scrutiny.

Right now, she is exactly where she needs to be, her weight and height are proportionate to each other. According to the charts, she's perfect. (well, her head is a little big, but that's neither here nor there..)

I, of course, want her healthy above all else. I do not think a couple of pounds above the recommended weight will hurt her. I do think I am being too strict with her diet, but I also don't want to be too lax as in, she sees the Golden Arches and immediately is begging me for Mickey D's.

It's a fine line to walk, harder to walk it when you yourself have struggled with the issue at hand. Looking around at the kids I see, I agree that most parents do not realize what they're encouraging or enabling when they turn a blind eye to their child's growing girth. However, I do think, in my own aspect, I may need to take the glasses off once in a while and just let her be.

(Did you know you just burned 12 calories reading this? 22 calories if you clicked on the links and read those too! )

(Yes, I agree. I'm way out there. Can someone reel me in please?)

(Please?)

They never mentioned THIS milestone in the baby books...

It's going to happen.

John went to see a daycare I liked. He checked it out. He liked it. They have 2 slots left in the one year old room. He wants to transition Sprite soon.

I want to cry.

Yes, I like the new daycare we agree on. Yes, the teachers seem very friendly and professional and the one year old room is even sectioned into 12-18 month and 18-24 month areas which reduces biting and bullying (which runs rampant in most centers). Yes, there's a playground right outside the one year old room and plenty of sand, so we can continue to look forward to daily sessions with the vaccuum. It's also over $100.00 cheaper a month. That's pretty good considering I want to upgrade my Lexus.

But..

My heart is breaking. The teachers at our current daycare have watched Sprite go from blob to slob (watch her eat spaghetti, you'll agree), from just laying there to almost running and proudly asserting herself out on the playground. They have helped to mold her into the independent child with a penchant for mischief that I make fun of in photo essays. (Done with love, of course.)

These teachers were there to see her first attempts at crawling (I happened to be there too, thank goodness) and her first successful steps. They have watched her blossom into who she is and love her almost as much as we do. Sprite knows instinctively where her feet need to take her as soon as we enter the outer office. She has her favorite toys. She has her favorite teachers. (I have mine too.)

Since John works a little farther away, it's usually me who drops her off and picks her up and answers the calls for every little sneeze and misstep. I understand if he's not as attached to the people as I am. I understand that, looking at the budget, John can distance himself from the emotions attached to this transition. Numbers-wise, it makes sense, although sense-wise, the prospect of this change just makes me numb.

I don't want to do this. This is a VERY big deal to me. How will Sprite like it? How will the new teachers like Sprite? How will they like me and my self-depricating snarky behavior? Will Sprite be able to handle the move? Will she adjust to the new faces and places? Will I be able to adjust? This kind of thinking makes me want to hug a blankie or something. My brain hurts with the impact of it.

It's going to happen. The band-aid is going to be ripped off. John has given me a week to make my peace with it, but I want more time, say, until she's ready for kindergarten?

I'm tearing up now. I need to toughen my shell and be a rock for my daughter to cling to when she experiences it, but who am I going to cling to? This is a first I didn't want to see happen, but it is going to. We will survive this. Sprite will make some new friends. I will write about new complaints other than missing diapers and pink eye suspicions. Life will continue on for Sprite in her journey through daycare. The scenery may change a little, but we'll get there.

(Someone hold me!)