It's been a while since I posted a John and Sprite picture, but this one is guaranteed to melt your hard wires.
I hope you've updated all your files since this picture is going to make your motherboard a little melty.
That's sweet. I'm gonna frame that one.
Oh, wait, here's a picture..
I'm gonna frame that one too..
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.
"Poopy?"
I look up from my place of repose on Sprite's bedroom floor and focus on her. "Did you go poopy?"
Sprite is standing next to her Tickle Me Elmo, which is face down on the floor twitching as it tries to right itself. She is grabbing at her tushy as she watches me. "Poopy."
I move over to her and take a sniff for the tell-tale whiff. Nothing. "Do you need to go potty?"
She nods.
Could it be? Could she finally baptize the potty? "Well, let's go," I say, getting to my feet and leading the way to her potty and possibly the way to a diaper free child. (Long way to go, I know, but let me dream.)
We walk into the guest bathroom where her potty chair has been sitting, a little neglected for a couple of months. She has had a passing interest in it if only to activate the sounds by sitting on it and then running off.
I get down onto the floor and Sprite stands next to me as she stares at the potty.
"Potty," she comments, pointing to the little throne.
"Potty," I affirm, as I pull at the tabs on her diaper and take the absorbent barrier away.
Sprite is now naked from the waist down. She stands, facing the potty chair. She looks almost as if she's psyching herself up to do it. To be a big girl. To sit on the potty and get a sticker.
Then, before I can do anything, she pees on the bathroom rug. As she's facing the potty. A foot away from the potty.
My only reaction? I laugh. I laugh hard.
Sprite continues to stand there watching me lose it and John walks in and assesses the situation.
"Come on, sweetie," he croons, picking up the wet toddler. "Let's take a bath while Mommy pulls herself together." He looks over at me. "How can you laugh at her? You're not teaching her self confidence by laughing at her attempts to learn."
I keep laughing, way beyond redemption. "I'm sorry," I gasp.
He walks off with Sprite, leaving me and the wet rug behind.
He's right. How am I going to be a positive role model when I find humor in everything she does?
I need to clean up my act. But first, I need to clean up the rug.
(Next time, I'll make sure to seat her as soon as the air hits her tushy.)
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.)
(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?)
I know I wasn't quite ten, but I knew what love was.
His name was Sonny Malone. He was a rebel, an artist, a dreamer. He was a master on wheels and wore those red jogger shorts and that red koi fish shirt like no one's business. I worshiped him. But he only had eyes for Kira. (That bitch.)
Okay, stop rolling your eyes. And "Don't walk away." This will be good.
Beth Hering over at Momformation wrote this post about "Grease" and its 30 year anniversary which brought back memories of my childhood and the outlandish stuff I used to sigh over.
"Grease" was a definite favorite. I now own the Anniversary Edition with the Jacket over the cover and everything, but it made me remember another movie which ties into my afore-mentioned crush.
I loved "Xanadu" as a kid. Every time it came on tv, my sister and I were in front of it, memorizing the lines, trying to pin down Olivia Newton-John's somewhat ambiguous accent. We practiced dancing to it in our living room, usually with me picking Lee up and twirling her (on demand). (Yeah, that. Lee Ann may have been older, but I was stronger. Her hair weighed more than she did.) We sang the songs. We dreamed about naming our future daughters Kira. (No, that's not Sprite's real name.) (..You were wondering.)
We drove our parents crazy with reciting lines and pestering my dad to replace the needle on the record player to the beginning of certain songs so we could hear them again. (My dad was anal about his stereo and would rather hear the same drek again and again than the telltale scratch of a certain minor about to be grounded for daring to move the sacred needle.)
We owned the VHS to this movie and "Grease" and both got more play than any other movie in the collection. (And VHS was expensive back then. A collection of 5 raised eyebrows. 500 these days would be status quo. 5,000 would be worrisome as people would be wondering what you really do with your time.)
I loved the music and still remember every word to the songs. There was just something so perfect about the synthesizers, the magical romance, the roller skating, the "Glitz", and the entire genre it represented. It was camp! It completely captured the feeling of my youth and the self-centeredness of the early 80's. I didn't pay attention to the obvious innuendos. Those went over my head and I was happily ignorant as I focused on the Love Conquers All story with a somewhat happy ending. And I would wander away from the movie, satisfied that love (kind of) prevailed in this twisted world of rock'n'roller skates and satisfied that my barrettes with their streaming ribbons were still properly fastened in my disappointedly brunette hair as I fastened up my Strawberry Shortcake skates (Stop laughing!) and tried to recreate the "Magic" scene with dialogue and everything.
I sometimes think back to those days with such nostalgia, it almost makes me weepy. I was able to throw myself into the story lines so effortlessly. These days, it takes more effort and concentration, but I can sometimes still imagine myself skating along at the rink with "Suddenly" blasting through the speakers and the neon lights sparkling above my head as my left leg balances on those moving wheels while my right leg pushes back and up and then I am Kira, barrettes and all, flowing tattered skirts, leggings over my skates, gliding towards my Sonny (or the boy about to wipe out in front of me) and all was right with my world. (Don't worry. These hallucinations don't last too long these days. I'm okay.)
I hadn't seen the movie since I hit the teen years, although I had John download the music onto his I-pod a while back just to hear ELO rock those synthesizers again. I still yearn for it sometimes. It makes me feel like "I'm alive."
I held that movie in high regard for many years until my mother gave me a DVD copy of it. I sat down to watch it one night, heavily pregnant with Sprite. I tried to make John sit for it, but he turned tail as soon as he realized singing and roller skates were more than just passing references in this movie. So, I was alone. And I watched. While I was impressed with my memory of entire scenes of dialogue (Especially, the "Tuesday's Wednesday" speech. Anyone else remember that?), I was also surprised that I overlooked so much of the obvious bad acting and over-the-top plot lines that made this movie everything it was. I found myself fast forwarding to the musical numbers just to relive those particular scenes like Gene Kelly in "Whenever you're away from me". I ended my viewing session wishing I had never seen it again, that I had just listened to the soundtrack and preserved my memory of those days when my sister and I fought over who got to be Kira and who was forced to be Muse # 3.
I wonder if my own daughter will someday wax poetic about movies like "High School Musical". (Yikes.) Will I be forced to hear the same songs over and over again? Will I be forced to memorize lines with her until I'm repeating them in my sleep?...You know, now that I think about it, I probably owe my parents an apology for all that torture I put them through with the endless repeats of these movies. (Does Hallmark make such a card?)
Hi there! How are you?
I'm sorry? What do you mean, there's something on my leg? Well, I... oh, THAT! Yes, that's been there for so long, I'm just used to it by now.
How long? Oh, the last week or so. It comes off every now and again to eat and clean off, and then, THWMP, right back to where it was.
Does it speak? Why, yes, it speaks. It actually has quite the vocabulary when it's in the mind to talk, but mostly, it's just there, wrapped around my leg. It is a little cumbersome to walk though...
Having it removed? Well, I'm not sure. I spoke to the doctor who told me this would be temporary and it would detatch on it's own when it's ready.
What about John? Yes, he has this problem as well. You see, it's more attracted to him than me right now. It even named him "Daddy" and that call is followed by the physical suction to John's leg. Sometimes, it will climb "up" to John's arms and remain there until it falls asleep or is lured away by food. It's quite interesting to watch, really.
Thank you, it is cute, isn't it? See? You made it smile. ...Um, I don't think touching it would be a good idea. It may bite. Just looking out for you there.
How much longer? Oh, about 17 years or so. At least, that's what the doctor says.
Yes, I agree. We definitely have a lot of paitence.
Be glad there's only one? Funny you should say that, I was just telling John a couple of nights ago when it was attached to him that I wouldn't mind there being another one attached to me. He just shook his head at me.
Am I crazy? Well, I - You have to go? So soon? Oh, o-o-okay. Have a good afternoon!
Cheat Night! I want Italian.
I am a good girl for most of the week, eating the right foods, walking the treadmill, etc. But, one night a week, I get to be bad. And this bad girl wants bad Italian and the bad heartburn that comes right after.
John and I loaded the toddler into her carseat and arrived at our favorite Italian restaurant in our area. The sign on the door didn't bode well as it advised the restaurant was closed for a fire and wouldn't be open for a good week. (Burnt garlic rolls, anyone?)
So, while meandering from there, we found ourselves at another Italian place, a geniune "Hole in the Wall" joint, family run, in fact, the owner seated us herself.
We ordered from the menu and I got up to make a trip to the salad bar. It was very small, with a sneeze guard that probably wouldn't hold up during a sniffle covering the scant offerings. I saw lettuce, tomato, onions, some pasta salad, and, huh, what is that? Is that what I think it is? It looks like...
"Ma'am?" I asked the owner who happened by at that moment. "May I ask what that is?" I pointed to the round brown things sitting in a tray right next to the ranch dressing.
The owner looked at where I was pointing and then back at me. "You don't know what that is?"
I smiled. "I think I do, but I wasn't sure."
The grandmotherly owner smiled back. "It's donuts. Please, help yourself." She turned and walked away.
Dude, where's my camera? Little bite size, brand name bag'o'donuts, chocolate of course, sitting right next to the salad! I've seen pudding in a salad bar, I've seen fruit salad, but donuts?
I could barely contain my laughter as I brought my plate of salad minus the donuts (Ya know, they just don't go with italian dressing. Well, maybe they do, but try it yourself and get back to me. My stomach thanks you.) back to the table. John asked me what was wrong as I was doubled over in silent hysterics. I mean, I was CRYING.
"You won't believe what's in the salad bar!"
John, of course, did not believe what I was telling him and went to see for himself. He came back smiling and said, "You MUST blog about this!"
Given the fact that the donuts seemed so out of place in the salad bar, we looked around and noted that pretty much everything else was out of place. It seemed a little dingy, had me wondering if the health inspector has ever seen the inside of it, and had me comtemplating possible cures for food poisoning, but I have to tell you, the food was actually very good. The dinner itself (not the salad, hells no..) tasted even better than the major Italian chain restaurants. I shared Baked Ziti with Sprite and John had a sampler plate which we raved about on the way home in between jokes about the donuts.
We even thanked the owner as we paid, promising her we would return.
And yes, we will come back. (Once we're sure there is no food poisoning.)
And I think we'll save room for dessert too.
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.
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?)
