Sprite's Keeper

Surge

"Banana!" Sprite cried, going for her standard homecoming snack. I quickly peeled one, gave her half, and set the other half down on the counter so I could answer to the two whining dogs who were yelping from their crates to get relief from captivity and to relieve themselves in the grass outside.

Distant sounds of thunder rolled into hearing range and I looked toward the East. Gray, but not ugly. Satisfied that we would most likely not have to deal with a big lightning storm, I secured the leashes and left the dogs to roam for a bit in the backyard while I got Sprite and her quickly disappearing banana settled and started dinner.

"Do you want to watch Sesame Street-" CRACK!

The thunder sounded louder and more insistent. Sprite's eyes widened. "Do you hear it?"

"Yes, I hear it. It's thunder," I replied, heading back out to retrieve Harry and Blue, who had also heard it and didn't want to be anywhere near it. (Both dogs are afraid of thunder and frequently pant and vie for lap space when the thunder is fierce. During violent storms, they're a lot of fun.)

"Flounder?"

"No, honey, THUNDER."

"I wanna see Flounder."

"What?"

"Ariel," she pressed, "I see Ariel. Yes?"

"I watch Ariel again on the DDD." (I refuse to correct her on this. It's much more fun watching others try.)

"Um, sure." I grabbed the remote controls (because apparently, we need three to be able to toggle back and forth between cable and DVD and radio and cosmic messages from beyond, SERIOUSLY? This is why people shouldn't be surprised we lose remotes so quickly! If one were to be removed, it would probably take a week for us to notice it missing.) and started to prep the DVD (already in the player as this week's movie du jour) when the lights flickered. "Oh, no."

"Mommy? Turn on Ariel?"

"Hold on, Sprite. The power went out." The power surged back on, but something was amiss. I looked up at the pocket lights in the kitchen and they glowed dimly. If the electricity was back on, it was definitely phoning it in.

"Mommy, turn on Ariel." Sprite's voice became agitated with impatience.

I sighed, pressing on the remote to try getting her beloved sushi loving redhead (Now, here's a thought. Has anyone ever wondered if Sebastian or Flounder ever feared for their lives when Ariel got hungry? Just me? Never mind.) while worrying that the half-caffeinated power would not be enough to make dinner.

The lights flickered again, like the street's transformer was trying to make it up the hill of electricity, then went out completely as the transformer gave up.

Sprite and I stared at each other in the darkened house, the late afternoon light not strong enough to illuminate anything more than Sprite's consternation. "No! Don't turn off the light!" She ran over to the wall and flipped the kitchen switch. Nothing. "Mommy! Turn on the light."

"I can't, honey. The power is out."

"PLEASE?" This tacked on question usually got my approval for whatever request she lobbed my way, but I was powerless to help her. And the house was powerless too as she vainly flicked the switch up and down to bring back the voltage.

"Sprite, the power is out. We don't have any lights."

She marched back over to me. "Turn on Ariel."

"I can't." I emphasized the "can't" as if this would clue her in to the limits in my feeble powers.

Her temper surged. "I do it," she announced, and turned to the remotes where she started pressing buttons. "Ariel, come on," she commanded, looking back to the silent TV with every move.

I watched, not even close to controlling the fit of giggles that came up. Sprite, in her anger, glared at me and cried, "No! Get Ariel! I want Ariel!"

I didn't know what to do. I knew the problem. I understood she was upset. I just couldn't make her understand why I couldn't fix it.

Bending down, I picked up the dissolving child and tried once more. "Sprite, we had a power surge. We have no power. No power, no Ariel. I'm sorry. I can't make it better right now."

Her eyes filled with tears as if I was punishing her. "My Ariel?"

"Sorry, kid."

Her cries became louder and her eyes squeezed shut as the tantrum took over. And I hugged her tight and wished I could plug some of her frustrated energy directly into the wall so she could have every damn Princess she wanted at her viewing disposal.

"Do you want chicken nuggets?"

The tears streamed down her cheeks. "Ye-eh-eh-es..."

"Good, because I hear Daddy outside. We're going out to eat."

"Watch Ariel in blue car?"

"Yes, love. You can watch Ariel in the blue car."

As John's key slid into the door lock, her stormy face brightened and she wiped away the watery evidence. She bounced down from my arms and ran to see John, who was a little surprised to find us in the dark. "Daddy! I get chicken nuggets! I watch Ariel in the blue car!"

John looked up from her excitement. "Power out?"

"Yup."

He knew no power usually means a hellish night with toddler. I married a smart man.

"Let's go then."

Homecoming

He was home. His business trip was finally over.

I hung up with him as I turned into the airport's entrance.

"Okay, Sprite. Daddy's here. Wanna go get Daddy?"

I peeked at the rear view mirror and saw her staring dimly at the DVD player. It was late, too far past her bedtime, way too far past her logic's threshold. We were both running on fumes by now and  I had the feeling that I could have dangled the Princesses in front of her face and her reaction would have stayed the same.

Once we parked, the tired child immediately demanded a ride in my arms as we steered toward Baggage Claim.

I looked around, slowing my steps down, trying to peer through the throng of people  congregated around the only working carousel. "I wonder where Daddy is." Sprite's head stayed glued to my shoulder, not interested in my one-sided conversation.

Then she heard it. A whistle coming from about 100 feet ahead of us. She straightened and looked into my eyes. "Daddy?" Her voice sounded hopeful after a week of only seeing him through the computer camera.

The whistle sounded again. This time, I spotted him in the crowd.  Stopping, I put her down and pointed him out to her.

"Daddy!"

She had spotted him. Forgetting about the distance and the people she would have to navigate to get to him, she bolted.

He leaned down, his arms opening wide while I fumbled for my camera to try to capture the moment they made contact with each other. I didn't quite get what I wanted.

 

I watched them embrace and heard her scream with excitement and him exclaim over her dress and her hair, compliments he knew she wanted to hear, the musical voice he knew she loved. He pulled a Belle doll out of his carry-on bag to present to her, but the doll played second fiddle to him. She was much more interested in him.

I walked over to the two of them lost in their greeting, one spilling over with words she didn't quite understand to fill him in on everything he had missed in her week, and the other studying her closely for any signs of change that may have possibly happened while he was away.

Reaching them, I stole a kiss for myself, happy that my partner was back, my co-pilot in parenthood. We secured his luggage and walked out of the airport quickly, as if that would expedite out return to normal, at least the normal we knew.

A few moments later, I realized they had stopped. I turned around and caught them still chatting and soaking up each other's essence. This time, my camera captured exactly what I wanted to see.

 

Only he can make her smile like that. And only she can make him smile like that.

Happy Father's Day, John. Sprite and I love you very much.

And a happy Father's Day to everyone else out there too, especially if you can make your kids smile just by coming home.

Despite her enthusiasm, she's definitely not a fish.

I got a few comments here and there since Friday asking for an update on Sprite's swimming lessons. I thought I would add a quick snatch of how the lesson went in yesterday's RTT, but tangents got in the way and it became it's own long winded post, instead of a long winded paragraph. So, sorry. And you're welcome for sparing you from its wind on Tuesday.. (I care.)

Saturday was busy enough as it was. We began with a birthday party which we literally ate and ran from just to get to the YMCA's pool in time. Poor kid was asking for her share of the birthday cake along the way as I had been teasing her all week about how she would be able to sing "Happy Birthday" to someone other than "Friend" (which is usually what she fills the name in with when she has the song in her head) and get in on some sugar action, and then we cut her good times short by throwing her some cheetos and pushing her out of the park's pavilion before she could sing for her sweets. (We know, we're mean.) But any sour mood she sported from our refusal to let her have any fun (I know! We're mean! Consider the motion approved.) lifted when we pulled into the parking lot and the pool came into viewing (and smelling) distance. I carried her over and as soon as she saw the bobbing blue, the chattering began.

"I see the water! See the water? Do you SEE it? I swimming? Mommy!" she slapped her hands on my cheeks and turned me to face her full on. "I swimming, Mommy? Yes?"

"Yes, you're going swimming, Sprite." I put her down in the shady area where parents and children were starting to stake out territory for their towels and such. Not even a second after her feet hit the floor, she bee-lined for the water.

"Oh, no. Not yet." John grabbed her and parked her on the bench table so I could attack her with the SPF, which she objected to. (Yeah, cry now, kid. Are you going to be thanking me later when you are skin cancer and burn free? Of course not!) (So ungrateful..) While John and I took turns getting into our water attire, we both dealt with her repeated efforts to gain access to the agua.

Eventually, the roster was called and the teacher, Ms. Carol, had everyone in the parent/child group (age 6-36 months) join her in the pool. As we walked toward the steps, I noticed most of the other parents still huddled under the shade acting like we were getting ready for the final oral reports in high school Speech class and no one wanted to be called first. Screw that, I thought. I need to get there before Sprite tries to dive in herself. The fifteen or so toddlers waded in with their parents and the tears started. Some whimpered. Some cried. Only Sprite cried with joy, her screams echoing off the water as she looked all around her, excited for the experience of being submerged.

The lesson itself was very informal, just parents getting the kids used to the water, maybe introducing them to kicking, working on climbing onto the wall to escape the water, blowing bubbles, CPR lessons for the toddlers, an Algebra pop quiz, you know, the usual beginner's stuff.

John and I swapped out regularly as we led Sprite around the shallow end, noticing that she wasn't really interested in kicking, raised an eyebrow at our clownish looks when we tried to teach her the blowing bubbles, and seemed to think she had a handle on this whole swimming thing herself as she kept trying to escape my clutches in the middle of the pool.

"I swimming," she would cry, then push away from me. Her head would then disappear for a count before I could reach in and bring her to the surface, where, you know, the AIR was. She would sputter for a few seconds, wipe the water from her eyes, smile big, and try again. (Well, at least she's not a quitter.)

The teacher made her rounds and is probably regretting making a left toward us instead of a right for another couple and their 9 month old son, who doesn't quite talk yet.

"Look, Sprite, it's Ms. Carol," I began, thinking it would be a good idea to directly introduce Sprite to her teacher who may or may not be ultimately responsible for traumatic chlorine swallows in her near future. (And I was totally prepared to point fingers when the blame game began.) I barely closed my mouth when Sprite launched herself right out of my arms and into her teacher's.

"Hi, Carol! I swimming! This is my mommy! My daddy," she shouted, pointing toward John, "and I have Tinker Bell!" Her hands slapped her chest in an effort to get the Tinker Bell picture emblazoned on her swimsuit into the conversation. "Carol, are you blue?"

Ms. Carol (poor Ms. Carol) looked at us for a second with a blank smile on her face. "How old is she?"

"Two and a half," I replied, smiling in the hopes that she would find Sprite's verbal assault cute.

"And why is she asking if I'm blue?"

"It's the color you have on. She just forgets to add 'wearing'."

Ms. Carol nodded and beamed at Sprite. "We're gonna be good friends this summer, aren't we?"

Ms. Carol, you have no idea.

The overwhelmed teacher took her for a few moves and complimented Sprite's willingness to climb out of the water and jump back in. She offered us some pointers on helping Sprite learn to kick, cuz, you know, that's important to swimming survival and stuff, and blow bubbles. "Just let her blow bubbles in the bathtub. (Um, Carol, do you know that we've been trying to stop her from swallowing bath water for a while now? And now we are to encourage it? Forget Sprite being confused. My hand is raised.)

Ms. Carol tried to pass Sprite back to me, ending our turn with her, but Sprite would have none of it, and all of Ms. Carol. She clung to the woman and cried, "No! I want Carol!"

"Honey," I coaxed, "MS. Carol needs to help other kids. She'll come back later." I finally disentangled Sprite from the instructor who swam away. "Let's work on climbing out, okay?" I waded over to the wall and released Sprite who grabbed for the ledge.

She no sooner lifted her tushy to rest on the step when she started shouting, "Carol! Hey, Carol! Come here, Carol!"

John intervened. "Sprite, she's busy. Here! Come jump into Daddy's arms!"

Sprite didn't acknowledge him as she continued calling out for her new friend. "Carol! Carol! GET BACK HERE, CAROL!"

"Sprite, use your indoor voice." (Yes, I know we were outside. Trust me, I felt stupid saying it, but was pulling at strings to get her voice lowered. And the acoustics on the water's surface? Gives the term "voices carry" a whole new meaning.)

The rest of the lesson sped by with us alternately playing spotter to Sprite in the water and keeping Carol out of harm's (Sprite's) way.

Finally, we noticed the shady area becoming very crowded and realized we were alone in the pool. Sprite tried to stretch out on the ledge despite our requests to leave.

"Go way, Sprite sleeping. Come back later." She turned her head away from me as she tried to lay down on her tummy in the inch of water on the step.

The teacher made her way over. "Hey there, Sprite! It's time to go! Don't you want to go?"

Sprite looked up at Ms. Carol and smiled. "I sleeping."

"Well, that's not very comfortable on that concrete. Why don't you let Mom and Dad get you dry and warm? We'll see you back here next week, okay?"

Sprite slowly released her grip on the aquatic dream and let us reel her in.

As we walked back over to the tables for our things, Carol came over and softly said, "She's going to be one of my more memorable students this summer, huh?"

Sprite lifted her head off my shoulder and grinned that toddler watt smile.

Ms. Carol, you have no idea...

Saturday, I've been waiting an entire week for you.

"Hey, Sprite! Daddy's coming home tonight!"

Trust me, kid. On the inside, I'm dancing my heart out too.

We can't wait to see you tonight, John. We'll be the ones dancing near Baggage Claim.

You may have to claim us too..

Um, do I still get the day off tomorrow???

A match made in Concourse C

"I'm going to miss you both."

"I know. We'll miss you. And I'll show Sprite your video every time she asks."

"It'll be Saturday before you know it... Why are you staring at my nose?"

"You have a little something."

"Where?"

"Left nostril... Other left nostril."

"..... How's that?"

"Gone."

"Okay."

"Hey, be glad I caught it. I don't think the security checkpoint guys would be as nice about it. They would want you to pass it under the x-ray machine or something."

"Thanks, Jen."

"You're welcome."

"Ugh, two flights ahead of me. I should buy a travel pillow."

"You stuffed your regular pillow into the carry-on. You don't need a travel pillow, you're going to be getting off the plane as quickly as you get on both times. Besides, the prices here are ridiculous. If you really need the pillow, just pull it out of your bag."

"Yeah, but-"

"What are you doing?"

"Just hold still... there."

"John?"

"What?"

"Was there something there or were you just reacting to me calling out your booger?"

"No, you had a small something there. I just got it for you."

"You picked my nose."

"...Yeah, I did. So?"

"Wow, that's love."

"You gonna miss me?"

"Yup. About as much as I'm gonna miss that booger you just took."

Seriously, is it Saturday yet?

I want my Mommy.

The other shoe has dropped. (John's trip being the first foot in need of a Dr. Shull's.)

When we heard about John's upcoming (read: now) trip, I pulled an Ace out of my sleeve to keep my life semi-normal. I dangled the grandchild card in front of my mother and she took the bait, offering a week of services ranging from plain ole' house sitting to child distraction to company to another body to make the house a little more full to detract possible intruders who would somehow KNOW there was another body in the house and decide to pick on the house two blocks over. (This is the way my mind works. Scientists are looking into it..)

She and her arsenal of quilting crap rode into town late last week and all was good. John left, Dad came and left, and the toddler turned to Baba for everything, somehow realizing that even though I make the rules, I call Baba "Mom", and since I call someone else "Mom", I am no longer the  "Mom" Sprite thought I am, therefore my throne has been usurped in Sprite's eyes, and Baba is now Supreme Ruler. She's WRONG of course, but two year olds tend to skip steps when it comes to logic (kind of like men when reading instruction manuals), so we'll let it slide for now. But still! All was good!

Then the call came. (In the middle of us watching Harry Potter, no less. So rude.)

An issue had arisen, not one I can speak of since it's not my business to speak of it, you hear? Or not? (Everyone's fine. I'm not even fully aware of it myself, but everyone is fine. And that's all I know about that.) Anyway, my mom was needed back on the East side of the world that is Florida, and she asked me if it was alright if she left, even though her plan was to stay on through Sunday morning.

"If you have to go, go," I answered. "We're okay here. We love having you, but if you're needed, then you should go."

Crap. She believed me. I was hoping she would call my bluff and see how much I wanted her to stay.

Mom left yesterday morning and I texted John to tell him the news. He wrote back that he will gladly take the child off my hands for all of Sunday when he's back safe and sound. (Especially since once Sprite realizes it's just me and her, she will turn the dogs into her little minions and stage a coup on my sanity. And you know what? I think she'll win.) He had offered this little prize on Sunday morning when I drove him to the airport, but I laughed it off since Hello! My mom will be here! This is gonna be a cake walk! I have since had my lawyer draft a contract insuring John's agreement to take over toddler watch on Sunday and am waiting for the fax from John and his notary.

This post may come off as a little (a lot? My judgment is skewed.) whiny, but I am only in the "breaking the ice" stage of my pity party so allow me a few vents. (Plus, it's my blog. I'll whine if I want to.) (Sorry for the subconscious song download into your frontal lobe.. I should go back and delete that last tangent.) (Nah.) As much as I love my independence, a trait Sprite surely inherited from me, I have also realized that sometimes it's just NICE to be able to depend on my mom. It's nice to be able to "tag out" when I need a breather. And it's sobering to realize what a cake walk my life has been so far.

I always take John's presence for granted in the fact that I can bitch and whine about him putting the kid to bed since "it's been a day" and sometimes, when John sees a certain look on my face predicting the ensuing night will not be a fun one, he even offers it just to give me a break. Do you know how lucky, truly LUCKY I am to have this kind of teamwork in my home?

So when he has to leave town on business, do I take on the extra responsibility without complaint? No, I call my mommy. And I was getting away with it too. But, she's needed back at home. She's wanted here, but not needed, truth be told.

After my mom called me from the road on her way home and I realized Sprite and I would not have our favorite Mom there when we arrived home, I suddenly became very tired as I pictured a long night and an even longer bedtime as Sprite ran rampant over my inert body splayed across her hopscotch rug. I also imagined I was about twenty pounds lighter, so the daydream wasn't ALL bad.

Once home though, things weren't bad at all. The dogs were walked, the toddler was bribed with M&M's to eat one stupid piece of ground turkey fed, got a dunk in the tub, and even had a video conversation with John on the computer, before she asked for endless stories got one book and tucked in. The night ran long, but we survived! And we will survive tonight, maybe even tomorrow. And Friday night? I am going to stick a DVD on repeat play and hope she stays still while I crash somewhere nearby, maybe even on the hopscotch rug, which seemed pretty comfortable in my daydream may even have a sleep over with her!

Basically, we will get through this. I will man up and parent my kid like so many single parents do out there without the option of giving themselves a time out. I honestly respect the hell out of my sister who does it day in and day out with my nephew.

So no more complaints! I'm going to be a manmom and suck it up until Saturday night when I arrive at the airport with a bathed and nightgown-ed toddler in my arms ( I swore I would never take my kid out in public while dressed in pajamas, but this vow was made before I found out that Sprite has a penchant for her sleepwear. I'm willing to be "that mom" for a couple of minutes and may even go the extra mile and let Sprite ride the baggage claim belt for a few. Only if she's good, of course..), and when I see John come up the concourse with a big smile on his face and his arms opening wide, I will shove said toddler into his waiting arms and excuse myself for a stiff one welcome my missed and under-appreciated husband home with a big kiss and THEN shove the kid into his arms and buy myself a drink.

Now, I'm asking all of you. To the married's whose spouses sometimes skip town for a few, what do you do to  make things easier on you and the kid? To the singles who I am raising my glass to, how do you keep it together the way you do? I have until Saturday evening and I don't want to resort to counting down minutes. (The hours have already been calculated.)

Is it Saturday yet?

And now the conclusion to our story!

In case those tuning in missed out on yesterday's fun,

Just click on this here link and read over Part One.

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

Reacting to the nurse's words, I drove Sprite in to be seen,

Even though of an expensive co-pay, I wasn't really keen.

She wasn't crying anymore, but her hands remained clasped tight,

Never moving from their eternal post at her belly button site.

She still refused to walk and stand when we got to the parking lot,

So, I carried her in and registered my mysteriously broken tot.

Yet, once the bracelet was applied and we were in the waiting room,

Her gray cloud disappeared and took with it the haze of gloom.

She started chattering excitedly, looking around in glee,

And taking a few steps at a time, between the chairs and me.

As soon as the triage nurse called for Sprite's name,

Sprite jumped up and smiled broad, was this some kind of game?

When the nurse tried to examine her, she started bouncing about,

The nursed glanced back at me patiently, taking in my look of doubt.

"Don't worry, you're not jumping the gun, she should still be seen,

These symptoms you've described should be checked, her bill of health marked clean."

We were taken to the exam area, where John found us soon,

And listened with amazement (and a little relief) to Sprite's happy tune.

She no longer resembled the sad little waif I had described on the call,

In fact, she was jumping on the hospital bed, not looking sick at all.

The doctor ordered an X-Ray and a catheter to get pee,

Yet, now all of these tests no longer seemed needed to me.

We described what we had seen and heard and what we knew as fact,

While thinking somewhere deep down in that this may have been an act.

Finally, the doctor returned with an X-Ray and the scoop,

"All this white stuff that you see? Is a few days worth of poop."

And as she explained the interior of Sprite's intestinal map,

John turned to his treasured girl and quipped, "Kid, you're full of crap."

"An enema for now," the doctor said, "and the rest in time will pass,"

As John thought of the expected bill, "That is some expensive gas."

The nurse brought in the torture device and began her intrusion,

As Sprite held onto John's neck, screaming with shock and confusion.

To add insult to injury, she had to walk the corridor,

For the stuff to work even better, I helped her pace the floor.

For a few minutes, it was a grand ole time, she had a cheery greeting,

For every patient we passed on the ER floor, every child she was meeting.

Until it happened, quick as a shot, a wave of fear passed through my pup,

And she held up her arms, her eyes wide in alarm, and shouted at me, "Up!"

I somehow got her back to base and knelt down in front of her,

And opened my arms for my poor little girl whose insides began to stir.

The noise made quite a symphony, and John thought I was daft,

Because it struck me as funny, and I laughed and laughed and laughed.

All the while, Sprite held on, her knuckles surely white,

Us both in tears for different reasons, we must have been a sight.

Finally, the explosion passed, and she relaxed in quiet relief,

Happy to get the poop party started, thankful the hurt was brief.

An ER trip, enema, and blocked up bowels, three milestones all in one,

Who knew that this trifecta of firsts would be so much fun?

So to sum up my epic poem and find closure to the frustration,

She went in with possible! appendicitis, and walked out with constipation.

Our night was over before it began, and we made our weary way home,

Sprite to bed, John to WoW, and me to this here poem.

So my friends, that is all there is to this tale of woe,

We may have missed Must See TV, but we definitely got a show.

(Yes, she's feeling much better now. Sprite was back to her usual shenanigans the very next morning.)

It was a quiet afternoon...

When the call came my way,

"Our Sprite isn't feeling quite herself today.

She's refusing to walk and she won't stand up straight,

And when we offered her a snack, she wouldn't touch her plate.

She's now lying on her side and crying out in pain,

And her face is getting red from the emotional strain.

We'd really like it if you would come and have a say."

I shut down my desk, grabbed my purse, and said, "I'm on my way."

As I headed over, I placed a call to John,

And we pondered together over what could have harmed our spawn.*

I hurried through the daycare and rushed into the space,

And immediately zoned in on her flushed little face.

Her teacher sat close by, rubbing circles on her back,

As they sat sequestered from the rest of the toddler pack.

"She's been saying something hurts in her tummy-tum-tum,

And she just won't get up off her bummy-bum-bum." **

We both agreed quite readily that something wasn't right,

This sad whimpering urchin was not our spunky little Sprite.

I knew that I should get her to the doctor really soon,

As I carried my child out into the late afternoon.

I quickly got in touch with the nurse on call,

I took a breath, said a prayer, and then I told her all.

The pain and the crying, her doubled over gait,

Her unwillingness to walk or even move as of late.

And she wouldn't let me feel her stomach, her hands stayed on guard,

But when I snuck a quick touch in, her belly felt quite hard.

I told myself it was nothing as the nurse took quiet stock,

And what she asked me next gave me a small shock.

"Is appendicitis in your family history?"

I paused a bit, and answered yes for my mother and for me. ***

"Well, it could be small, it could be big, I hope you're not too far,

You're going to need to bring her in, but right to the ER."

I kept driving on, passing the street to our house,

As I calmed the child and placed a call to the waiting spouse.

And even though a meal and sleep never looked so inviting,

I knew the night ahead promised to be more exciting.

Well, right now I'm tired, and I'm sure so are you,

So come back tomorrow morning and I'll tell you Part Two. ****

* I mean spawn in the nicest way, but hey! It rhymed!
** Her statement may have been taken a little bit out of context, but the gist is the same.
*** My mom had her appendix removed some years ago and I had an inflamed appendix which they decided not to remove. I didn't think appendicitis was hereditary, but apparently, the nurse thought it was.
**** You have to admit, the poem is running a little long. *****
***** Yeah, I'm a stinker...

Redux Reflux

(Editor's Note: Lately, I've been looking back on my archives, just trying to remember the frame of mind I was in when I first posted them, and as I went 2/08 through 2/09 posting every day, there was a lot to comb through. Would you believe I have almost 600 posts in this site? I know, talk about hot air! If the government could develop hot air (which is not steam, I checked) into an energy resource, this site would probably be able to power up Manhattan for a day at least. Anyway, I happened upon this one post which reminded me of my post last week when I joked about how much of a failure I am. Please to read this one and enjoy with me how much of a hovering parent I was just one year ago, when organic cookies and unsweetened applesauce were just as important as the child's safety. And this was AFTER I had already shed most of my hover-iness. Such a wreck... Meh. At least I can look back and laugh.)

(Editor's Note II: This may be the laziest post I've ever written. Feel free to flame me for this.)

Foresight (For Naught?) (Originally posted May 21, 2008)

Not to be confused with foreskin. (Sooo glad I have a girl so I could dodge that circumcision knife...)

For those who are thinking more towards foreboding, then you and I are on the same wavelength. We work well together, you and I. (And just between us, if I wasn't happily married and trying to convince my husband that a second baby is EXACTLY what our budget needs, I would totally be into you...)

All mothers (at least the ones not in the news for really horrid reasons) have some type of foresight when it comes to their kids. You know, the sixth sense, a mother's intuition, inner voice, etc. Fathers do too, but I have seen one case where the dad obviously had his inner voice's volume turned down or on mute since he thought letting his toddler walk on the ledge of a mall fountain was perfectly acceptable while every mother in the vicinity was mentally preparing to adopt this child as soon as they hit the speed dial for DCF on their already whipped out cell phones. (I couldn't find mine.)

My foresight is what gets me into trouble with John sometimes. While we were staying at my folks' this weekend, he took Sprite to see his parents while I joined my sister and best friend for a girls' night out. I walked him and Sprite out to the car and kept reminding him of what not to do thus earning some points on my Frequent Flying off the Handle Miles.

"She has organic cookies and unsweetened applesauce in her diaper bag. Don't give her any other sweet snacks. No chocolate. No candy. No sugar. No ham." (In my defense, baked ham is coated in sugar and pineapple slices, so it fits...Wanna fight about it?)

John gave me the look. You know. The look. The one that says "Don't go there."

I gave him my look. The one that says, "I've been there since late 2006. I own there. Come on over. The weather's nice."

I kept going with my check list anyway since I knew I would be thinking about it later and it made better sense to ruin his next 10 minutes than my entire evening. "Make sure she stays away from the liquor bottles (you know, she may try to pour a little Kahlua into her milk and she's not a happy drunk) and keep a constant eye on her."

John stared at me for a few seconds as he sat in the car. I stared back, unrelenting.

He sighed and drove off.  (Granted, I sometimes go overboard when I talk to him or others on the safety and care of Sprite, but I have to remind John, I do this more to appease my own inner voice than nag him just for the sheer joy of it.) (Okay, sometimes, just for the sheer joy of it, but this time, I swear, my inner voice needed some appeasement.)

I am forever looking into my crystal ball at cause and effect. Cause and effect is what makes Sprite's World go round.

Example: If Sprite stands on that table and acts like a bed-jumping monkey, she may lose her balance. This will cause her to fall. And Mommy will be forced to put down the laundry/phone/blog, so it's best to circumvent the fate that beholds the teetering tot before it happens and save the tears for something more serious, like when Mommy doesn't let her sit on Blue. (Blue doesn't realize how much I really do for her. Get a rub or avoid possible injury? Guess what wins?)

Yes, this can be tedious and annoying to others. I'm not going to defend why I do it. I know it's annoying. But, it's me. And that's my kid. No, not that one. That one.

John is more laid back in his approach. He takes the "Maybe she won't be interested in the outlet/broken trike/lawn mower and there will be no problem." or "Let's burn that bridge when we get there." avenue. My crystal ball shows me a lot of pot holes in his ass-phalt (no, not a typo, shut up Typepad), but I have to live with it for the most part.

John's foresight has not been entirely clear in the past, but never where Sprite is concerned. He's always really careful with her and is more gentle with her than, say, the dogs. He thinks nothing of body slamming our beagle (she's not complaining, PETA, okay?), but won't let Sprite get her hands too close to a door jamb to protect her little fingers. (If you think his reasoning is off, you're obviously not a parent.)

I see this. My mind registers that I see this. So, why do I have to say it? "Make sure she wears a sweater if it gets cold tonight." His automatic reply is usually, "I know" and an eye roll. I know he knows. He knows I know he knows. And now you know I know he knows I know he knows. You know? (No?)

Maybe instead of muting my foresight, I should mute my mouth. (Oh lordy, I can hear him agreeing from across the house.)

Nah, John's life would be much easier. And I don't want that..

(Hm, he's quiet now.)

(That's much better.)

Not to be confused with foreskin. (Sooo glad I have a girl so I could dodge that circumcision knife...)

For those who are thinking more towards foreboding, then you and I are on the same wavelength. We work well together, you and I. (And just between us, if I wasn't happily married and trying to convince my husband that a second baby is EXACTLY what our budget needs, I would totally be into you...)

All mothers (at least the ones not in the news for really horrid reasons) have some type of foresight when it comes to their kids. You know, the sixth sense, a mother's intuition, inner voice, etc. Fathers do too, but I have seen one case where the dad obviously had his inner voice's volume turned down or on mute since he thought letting his toddler walk on the ledge of a mall fountain was perfectly acceptable while every mother in the vicinity was mentally preparing to adopt this child as soon as they hit the speed dial for DCF on their already whipped out cell phones. (I couldn't find mine.)

My foresight is what gets me into trouble with John sometimes. While we were staying at my folks' this weekend, he took Sprite to see his parents while I joined my sister and best friend for a girls' night out. I walked him and Sprite out to the car and kept reminding him of what not to do thus earning some points on my Frequent Flying off the Handle Miles.

"She has organic cookies and unsweetened applesauce in her diaper bag. Don't give her any other sweet snacks. No chocolate. No candy. No sugar. No ham." (In my defense, baked ham is coated in sugar and pineapple slices, so it fits...Wanna fight about it?)

John gave me the look. You know. The look. The one that says "Don't go there."

I gave him my look. The one that says, "I've been there since late 2006. I own there. Come on over. The weather's nice."

I kept going with my check list anyway since I knew I would be thinking about it later and it made better sense to ruin his next 10 minutes than my entire evening. "Make sure she stays away from the liquor bottles (you know, she may try to pour a little Kahlua into her milk and she's not a happy drunk) and keep a constant eye on her."

John stared at me for a few seconds as he sat in the car. I stared back, unrelenting.

He sighed and drove off.  (Granted, I sometimes go overboard when I talk to him or others on the safety and care of Sprite, but I have to remind John, I do this more to appease my own inner voice than nag him just for the sheer joy of it.) (Okay, sometimes, just for the sheer joy of it, but this time, I swear, my inner voice needed some appeasement.)

I am forever looking into my crystal ball at cause and effect. Cause and effect is what makes Sprite's World go round.

Example: If Sprite stands on that table and acts like a bed-jumping monkey, she may lose her balance. This will cause her to fall. And Mommy will be forced to put down the laundry/phone/blog, so it's best to circumvent the fate that beholds the teetering tot before it happens and save the tears for something more serious, like when Mommy doesn't let her sit on Blue. (Blue doesn't realize how much I really do for her. Get a rub or avoid possible injury? Guess what wins?)

Yes, this can be tedious and annoying to others. I'm not going to defend why I do it. I know it's annoying. But, it's me. And that's my kid. No, not that one. That one.

John is more laid back in his approach. He takes the "Maybe she won't be interested in the outlet/broken trike/lawn mower and there will be no problem." or "Let's burn that bridge when we get there." avenue. My crystal ball shows me a lot of pot holes in his ass-phalt (no, not a typo, shut up Typepad), but I have to live with it for the most part.

John's foresight has not been entirely clear in the past, but never where Sprite is concerned. He's always really careful with her and is more gentle with her than, say, the dogs. He thinks nothing of body slamming our beagle (she's not complaining, PETA, okay?), but won't let Sprite get her hands too close to a door jamb to protect her little fingers. (If you think his reasoning is off, you're obviously not a parent.)

I see this. My mind registers that I see this. So, why do I have to say it? "Make sure she wears a sweater if it gets cold tonight." His automatic reply is usually, "I know" and an eye roll. I know he knows. He knows I know he knows. And now you know I know he knows I know he knows. You know? (No?)

Maybe instead of muting my foresight, I should mute my mouth. (Oh lordy, I can hear him agreeing from across the house.)

Nah, John's life would be much easier. And I don't want that..

(Hm, he's quiet now.)

(That's much better.)

Great Expectations

I caught a post over at Momformation by Kristina Sauerwein in which she was celebrating her son Ryan's first birthday and thinking back to the expectations she had envisioned while anticipating her c-section. She thought/hoped her son would be born with a head full of hair, hopefully adopt his sister's napping rituals, and she would also be able to tackle his, well, tackle box, which is something I think all new mothers or mothers with only female experience wonder about.

I shared a smile over this and remembered my own expectations when I was pregnant with Sprite. Sure, I had hopes and dreams for how she would be, but I also had hopes and dreams for the kind of mother I would be.

I would be perfect. (Stop snickering over there! I have a point!)

Whenever my little angel cried, I would immediately find the answer to her problems and she would quiet down into the sweet cherub who slept like clockwork.

Diaper blowouts? Of course, my diaper bag would store 2 replacement outfits within its arsenal and I would never leave the house without confirming I had enough diapers for an overnight stay. This included trips to the store. 

I would never yell at my darling girl when she broke a rule, instead I would come down to her level, make eye contact, explain in a clear and concise voice what should be done, and she would do it.

I would never spank my child either, instead using my words to teach a solution thus earning her respect and her earning my respect in return.

I would answer all of her questions of "Why?" and even encourage them, giving her as much time as she needs to grow into an independent thinker.

I would keep up with my child, playing with dolls and sipping my "tea", and not resorting to repeated movies to get through the day.

My child would never be seen in a store without shoes and I would be able to cast judgment on those who actually thought it was "okay", because my daughter would be wearing her footwear.

My child would never question my authority, because I would never give her the opportunity to do so. My word would be law and she would know better than to disregard that law.

And of course, I would have my child potty trained by 2 since my child would obviously be perfect like my ideals.

(Where's my drink?)

Let's fast forward a couple of years and see how I've lived up to those expectations, okay?

I'm not perfect. (Do you REALLY need examples?) (Okay, fine..)

Crying: For the first three months of her life, Sprite had a crying fit every night at 7PM that lasted for about 60 minutes, which John and I quickly named "The Witching Hour". We realized it was all a part of growing, and while she was most difficult to deal with during her venting session, we were getting off lucky. But NOTHING calmed her down. Smooth jazz? NO. A pacifier? UH UH. A guarantee that she would be the absolute favorite child no matter how many kids came our way? I'm serious! I was thisclose to calling a notary! NOT EVEN A PAUSE. I should have known then that she was setting me up for a big fail-a-ganza. (FOOL!)

Diaper blowouts: I remember a moment during my first Mother's Day breakfast out with family when I smelled that yeasty breast milk hint and felt something on my arm as I held my adorable little spitter. She had experienced a blowout and needed changing fast before our meals came. I called my sister in (she was sitting next to me) for reinforcements and we set off for the ladies room to change Sprite quickly. As soon as we got her onto the changing table within the cramped restroom, I quickly realized that I had one dress/onesie (which was already used and pushed down into the bag to be forgotten until that very moment my pancakes were being delivered to the table) and one diaper left. Oh yeah, and no wipes. My sister and I took turns holding my "Just learned how to turn over, let me show you my neat trick, Mommy!" wiggler and running to the sink to wet down paper towels so we could clean her off. We were just short of giving her a bath in the sink, she was so covered. Why hadn't I checked the bag before we left? Why hadn't I followed my own orders to make sure I was prepared for this possible scenario? Free failing, people.

Yelling: At the first sign of Sprite's ultimately large sense of self, I was extremely patient with her and turned every discipline worthy action into a teaching lesson for both of us. Looking back on this, I was just excusing her behavior and not nipping her actions in the butt bud, but then, when she was one, everything was done for curiosity's sake anyway. Now, she blatantly defies authority again and again for attention, whether good or bad. I find my voice rising all the time in outright shock, "Sprite! Stop pulling Blue's tail!" "No, you may NOT sit on Harry!" "Do NOT close that door!" "Get away from the oven! Hot! HOT!!" and my all time favorite and most repeated "What did I just say?" when she neglects to put on her "listening ears" and tries the same thing again, usually right in front of me. (Mom, I can already see your fingers itching to click on "Post a comment".) (Oy.) (I can envision her comment now, "Dear Jen, Fail. Love, Mom. PS- What goes around comes around.")

Spanking: I still have yet to spank Sprite, but then again, most of her crimes are considered misdemeanors and corporal punishment should be reserved for felonies. My parents spanked us on occasion (read "when deserved") and Lee and I grew up just fine, same for John, but I still hold onto the idea that words are much more meaningful and can strike a bigger blow than a slap across the tushy. I want Sprite to know when I'm disappointed and work hard to avoid me telling her that. I want Sprite to apologize for her actions, not cry (or worse, laugh) when I'm punishing her. So, the jury is still out on this one. (But, I have been tempted a few times..)

"Why?": At first, I entertained her questions. Now, I understand why the standard adult answer is "because I said so." It's the only answer that doesn't invite the next "why". It's final. It's law. Move on, little lady. Nuttin' else to ask. I haven't used it though... Yet. (I think I have a Pass on this one!)

Energy: Hey, some days, I can hack it and run circles around Sprite. Some days, if she skips just beyond my grasp, I can only sit there, because the very thought of moving makes me even more tired. So I try to entice her back into grabbing distance with questions like "Do you want to wear this pretty dress I'm holding?" or "Wanna cookie?". And yes, I have succumbed (a few times) to another showing of "The Little Mermaid" so it will keep her in one room (even if her attention is elsewhere) and keep my ass in one spot (and hopefully my sanity as well). (Er.. half a fail, okay?)

The shoes: I kept my word on that promise until one day not so long ago when we had just come back from a long road trip and needed to make a quick stop at Walmart on the way home. Sprite has a habit of removing her shoes and socks right before we stop, no fail. We could be in the car for 20 minutes or 20 hours and she will somehow know when we're getting close for you hear the THUMP THUMP of her Kiddie Keds hitting the floor. And in our van, she usually tosses them behind her head into the cavernous back. John and I were in a hurry to just get in, get out, and get home to collapse and I didn't have time for a search effort so I unbuckled her, placed her on my hip and hurried in. While walking through the store, I looked down at Sprite sitting in the child seat, looking disheveled from the long ride, her shirt smeared with Goldfish dust and possibly the remnants of an earlier sneeze, her diaper obviously full to bulging through the seams of her shorts (Ouch on the wedgie! Yet, they never complain until you fix the Huggies. What's up with that?), and her bare feet dangling down. She looked like THAT kid. Which made me THAT mom. I immediately apologized (albeit silently) to every other mother I had ever ridiculed before(silently) (Hey, I'm not stupid.) and forced myself to choke down another sip of irony and failure.

Authority: Oh, the ones! How easy it was to deflect and divert! If Sprite wanted to climb onto the coffee table or scale the tv cabinet, I would just turn her attention to something less arduous like blocks and toddler friendly activities. Then she grew a memory. And an opinion. And an attitude. My authority is merely an obstacle now, something to be overcome with charm or plain determination. Our wills battle daily and if she loses, she merely moves on to the other obstacle known as Daddy. Le fail.

Potty training: She'll be three in November. FAIL.

What am I getting at here? Well, the expectation that I would excel at this parenthood thing laughed in my face and revealed me for the fraud I really am. I am not the perfect mother. I'm a good mother because I tolerate my kid's antics (and even encourage them sometimes), but I am so far removed from who I thought I would be, I don't think I would recognize the expected me if the expected me gave the current me a LOOK on the playground.

I wish you could have seen me when Sprite was still malleable and easy to manipulate, basically before she went vertical. I was living up to my expectations (for the most part) and honestly believed I could carry it on until she was eighteen.

Once her personality woke up and she grew into a sprite, I had to drop those expectations because they no longer fit the new expectations: Keep her alive and keep my sanity. 

I just received a book about surviving toddlerhood which I will be reviewing. Maybe this book will give me new expectations on the type of mother I will become.  Maybe it will just reinforce what I've already learned, which is to expect nothing but surprises.

You can expect my review next week. No fail.