Sprite's Keeper

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.

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.)

Lessons Learned

You taught us the meaning of love,

Sprite taught us the meaning of life.

You taught us to plan for the future,

Sprite taught us to live in the moment.

You taught us it's okay to to grow up,

Sprite taught us it's okay to act young.

You taught us respect,

Sprite taught us patience.

To our moms on Mother's Day,

We love you so much,

John, Jenny and Sprite

Hating the game, not the players

(Editor's Note: I read the comments on my WoW post this morning, and while most of the comments are very supportive of my WoW bashing ways, one really stood out. I mean, it was 900 pages long. It had to! So, I'm reprinting it since I believe it needs a response. This commenter and I have had many verbal sparring matches over the years. I respect the hell out of him, so it's okay if I rip into him a little. He won't mind. Honest!)

Alright Jen,   
(For those who do not know me, my humor is cynical which means a lot of screaming and finger pointing but in the end it’s just a rant that I’m having fun with. If this is offensive to someone please understand it is just a joke)

Let me try to explain and defend my friend John.  I know you are a very educated strong willed woman and living with you for several months, I know your personal time is spent doing things that you deem worthy.

I will start with your first paragraph.  Stealing time… What time?  The time you guys are watching TV together like a mindless drone, laughing at the jokes you have heard countless times in other sitcoms, talking about how you like a particular character in this TV drama and rambling about it for hours and hours afterward.  Does the show Friends and Scrubs ring a bell?  Would you call this quality time spent together?

TV, books and crochet are activities hence the word ACTIVE.  What WOW or any other game brings is interactivity. In a book the story is already laid out for you and you are vicariously living someone else’s life.  In a game you are control of the life and making decisions that govern how well this character evolves and competes with others, and god knows John could use some kind of decision making in his life even if it is in a pixilated world.

Would it be any different if he was a mechanic and spent this time in the garage building a motorcycle or hotrod? If he was doing the laundry and re-arranged the towels differently then what you are accustom to would you not complain about his folding skills? If he spent his every waking hour with you, would you not complain that he needs his own life and you need some space? The question you need to think about is before John started playing WOW what was your major complaint about him then?
 
I’ve been married for almost 12 years and alive for 36 and this is what I have noticed from both being married and watching my parents ... People get old, gas prices always go up, heath insurance is a joke, it’s always easy to pick on a world leader when living in a free country and wives will always complain about their husbands.  Truth be told, I said it, the cat is out of the bag. Come one everyone say it with me “Wives will always complain about their husband” Their we have said it, it’s kind of an eye opening isn’t it.

So pick your poison cause in the grand arena there are husbands that cheat on their wives, drink till they drop, neglect there fatherly responsibilities, get in to fist fights at the local pub, get arrested and much much more. If you can’t think of any others, then I suggest you turn on the local news. You live in south Florida, I’m willing to bet that within the 1st 5 min of the news there is a story of someone’s husband, boyfriend, or ex-husband that did something catastrophic.

You should be thanking your husband for picking a hobby that keeps him home in the house, with in ear shot and around in case there is a real problem. You should be thankful he is not out getting into trouble.

Don’t get me wrong, if he is neglecting his child, work, and you front yard grass is 8 inches long or he takes a 5 day vacation from work to sit in front of the computer with a 24 case of coke and a bag of cheetoes gaming away and only getting 2 hours of sleep a day… then yes, congratulations you actually have a real problem.

Let the guy have some fun, life is too short.

P.S. If you are OR thinking about scrubbing the grout out of your neighbor’s house I would suggest seeing a doctor cause your OCD has gotten way out of control and that my friend, is a real problem.

Love you guys miss you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ah, Richard,

My old roommate, husband to a wonderful woman, father to 3 beautiful children. (So I guess all your time wasn't spent gaming then, huh?) Discounting your political preferences, there's nothing bad I can say about you. About your comment, well, you're right. The fact that John is there if I need him (read paragraph um, somewhere in the middle, about the spider killing) is wonderful. He has never put the game over me or Sprite in many years. (Now, if you want to get into Diablo territory which I thought we buried years ago, you'll have to admit we had a problem.)
I have gotten over my Friends addiction and even stopped Tivo-ing old episodes (I mean, even I get a little tired of the Ross/Rachel cycle), but Scrubs remains a favorite (which you really should watch since Dr. Cox and you are remarkably similar-in a good way!).
My confession is, I have gotten used to having my evenings to myself. I use my treadmill, read, write letters to Sprite, campaign for literacy, the time is pretty much well spent. We've settled into a routine which I am very comfortable with.

I am completely aware of the levels of addiction and what it could be like and I'm very happy to say John is nowhere near that. He understands his priorities and he knows what comes first. (Did that just sound redundant? Yes, yes it did. Should I fix it? Maybe later.)

Oh, and one more thing I actually don't mind about the game. This game gives John a chance to be with his friends, even those who live states away. This game keeps him connected with you (one of our beloved friends) and others who have joined your GUILD. (That was correct wordage, right?)

I cannot fault him that. I cannot fault you. You two are both devoted fathers, husbands, and men. I am proud to have you both in my life. So, I refer to the title of this post when I say it's okay to hate the game, not the players.

I do take exception with one of your comments about controlling your character. Yes, reading a book is passive and you live vicariously through someone else's words while reading. However, controlling your character in a computer game is also passive (well, maybe passive aggressive since you all like to whoop ass on other players) since none of it is happening in real life. (There are also limited choices since everything your character does relies on the server's programming--ooh, that sounded geeky! Anyway, your character can only do certain things.You do not have the ultimate power. You have the power the server allows you to have.) There are people who live their entire lives as meek, understated individuals, afraid to make their own choices and live a reality, so they choose to enclose themselves into a virtual safety blanket of characters and power, none of which is real, and none of which will help them deal with actual society.

That is my problem with the game. While I can read and get into a book, and become engrossed with the characters, the book has a beginning and an end. The book ends, and I am back to reality, and the dishes are still not done, dang-it. With WoW, the game never ends. And I think this is where the addiction happens. Players get caught up in the game and don't know when to put it down since there is no ending. There is not really a way to just get up and say, "You know what? I'm done. I'm calling it a night." Nay, nay. There are more quests to be done, more enemies to slay, more characters to beat the ever-loving crap out of. (Reminds me of clubbing days when you saw the partiers who could not come to terms with calling it a night. They stayed until the owners or homeowners kicked them out.)

Maybe if WoW had time limits, and you were only allowed to get to certain areas within a 24 hour time span, us spouses and significant others would be more accepting of this pastime. (But then we wouldn't be able to complain about it. Life would be without drama. We as wives would have absolutely NOTHING TO NAG ABOUT!!! Scary stuff, that.)

And now, unlike the game, this response must end.

I must get back to the dishes and the laundry and the grout cleaning, and crap, there's that spider again..

With much love and respect, (And a guilt trip-it wouldn't kill you to visit!)

a Wife Aggro

Seeing the forest AND the trees at the same time

(Editor's note: this post is written without any research of any kind and is not to be represented as actual research since I was too lazy to do any type of research in the first place and this is only based on my observations and actual conversations and I'm already giving way too much information away, so never mind...)

While at the wedding this weekend, I ran into several old friends who have, since high school, gone to college, met and married men, and had children. The birthing war stories were plentiful due to an open bar and then we started talking about how life had changed since these dang kids showed up at our doors. The topics ranged from who does more to how we view our husbands to sex, sex, sex. (Ladies and gentlemen, the following is Rated M for mature content.)

Our husbands floated in and out of the conversation, usually long enough to catch a whiff of what we were pow-wowing about and then backing away slowly. VERY SLOWLY.

Birthing stories out of the way, (us C-section women will usually claim defeat to natural birthing stories since we never EXPERIENCED THE HORRIBLE PAIN THAT KEPT GRIPPING ME EVERY OTHER MINUTE AND DID I MENTION THE PUSHING? NO DRUGS, NOT ME! I DID IT AU NATURAL! IDOLIZE ME!) we moved on to our husbands. Poor men. They never know what's hitting them until they read about it the next day.

"My husband doesn't seem to understand how tired I am. I mean, I work just as many hours as he does, but when we all get home, I have to make dinner, I have to make sure the baby is fed and bathed, I have to put the baby to sleep because he doesn't feel the connection with the baby like I do. And then he wants sex on top of everything else?"

"Well, my husband thinks that even though I'm home all day with the baby, the laundry should still be done, the floors swept, and dinner should be on the table at the same time the baby wants to eat. He seems to think I can multi-task while nursing!"

It goes on from there, but I'll spare you the rest of those comments. The sex part is what really got us talking.

"I just don't feel it anymore. I don't feel sexy. I don't feel like I did before the baby."

"I'm afraid he'll start looking around if he thinks I'm ignoring him."

"My libido is gone. And he ALWAYS wants to."

"Mine seems to think I have my period. I've had my "period" for 2 weeks now!"

We all seemed to agree on the fact that men and women seem to view life after baby very differently. Men can't seem to see the forest for the trees. All we women see ARE the trees. And every one of those trees represents something we need to do right then.

Why do men feel that life goes on as normal after a baby is born? Just another mouth to feed, no worries.

Why do women feel that everything has changed in every aspect of their lives after a baby is born, including how it affects what color nail polish she wears?

I really wanted a man's opinion, so, l am using John as an example since he's within reaching distance. Plus, I usually don't have to choke an honest answer out of him.

"John, what do you think about during your day?"

He looks at me, confused. This could be a completely innocent question without motive. This could be an invitation to a fight. He needs clarification. "What do you mean?"

"How many times a day at work do you think about Sprite?"

He shrugs. "She's always in my thoughts, but not right there at the forefront. I know she's at day care, I know she's safe. I'll see her at the end of the day."

Ah ha! Here's where we differ. I think about Sprite in every aspect of my day. When I see that it's raining outside, I wonder if she's out in the playground at school, caught in the downpour, and hope the teachers are paying attention to get her out of the rain. When I look at the clock and see it's noon, I wonder if she's napping and if she will have a long enough nap today since that will foretell what time to put her to bed. I ask the teachers endless questions when I pick Sprite up at the end of the day to see what she ate, how much she ate, and how her diapers were so I know that she's already had fish today, therefore our menu for dinner will be chicken, and I won't be (too) horribly surprised if I change her diaper and find 3 shades of red from a diaper rash which has been simmering all day.

John walks into the school, signs her out, picks her up, and doesn't really bother to learn the names of the teachers in her room or the other kids. He just doesn't think it's that important. He got what he came for. Mission accomplished.

Encouraged by this trend I was sensing, I delve further into John's psyche, although he does not like me messing with his stuff, mentally or physically.

"What about when she goes to sleep?"

John rolls his eyes. "I put her in her crib. The monitor is on. I'll know if she's crying. What else do I need to do? Check on her twenty times a night like you do? She's OKAY."

I have a night time ritual which started when Sprite was born. She's been asleep for an hour. Check on her. Look over her for a couple of minutes to confirm breathing motions. Rest hand lightly on chest area or back area depending on how Sprite is flipped and confirm my earlier confirmation. Lather, rinse, repeat almost every hour until I fall asleep myself. I have been known to wake up to use the bathroom at 3 AM, and pick up the monitor to see if I can HEAR her breathing, and if I can't, I will go to her room and check on her myself. Sprite is well past the danger zone for SIDS, but I dare you to find me a mama who doesn't do this for at least the first 5 months. Go ahead. I'll be right here waiting.

See? I told you.

Oh, sex. What can I say about sex in the most vague general way since my parents read this blog regularly? Sprite was conceived through immaculate conception. John had the most honorable intentions. I swear I never have done anything remotely sexual in my entire life. And I'm a virgin. No? Okay, moving on.

Honestly speaking, I think sex has suffered. It's just not as important as it once was. Where it used to be Number 5 and rising (enough snickering out there, people!), now it's Number 25 and falling behind the dishes which seem to be reproducing on their own since I don't remember using that many dishes to make dinner and when did we purchase a fondue pot and how the hell did it get dirty?

Other aspects of our relationship have risen up through the charts like rockets and now hold an untouchable solid gold status. Like teamwork. We rely on each other so readily now to pick up the slack when one of us just can't do everything. "You take Sprite and play, I'll do the dishes and set the laundry up." "I'm getting on the treadmill, can you give Sprite her bath?" "I just don't feel like it, dammit! YOU do it!" (To defend myself, the last one has only been used once, and I was really tired and felt a cold coming on and I don't really feel like I owe you any further explanation, so there.)

We have managed to salvage our time without the Sprite (no, that's not a typo, I sometimes refer to our daughter as "The Sprite". I think it's cute. Stop questioning me!) to once a month when her daycare graciously opens their doors for a babysitting program in which we get to make them deal with the effects of giving the kids too much sugar during the day and trying to make them sleep when there's no way they could POSSIBLY sleep while they can hear Elmo traveling through Grouch-land which is on for the older kids in the next room.

During this time, we typically have dinner and see a movie, not because we're not romantic, but because we're TIRED. I have just enough energy to keep my eyes open after 9 PM. Dancing and karaoke are just not in my cards.

Yes, we can pull romance out when it's really needed, but sometimes John needs to be reminded that a foot rub means a foot rub, nothing else.

Now, we could go even deeper into THAT issue, but not tonight, honey. I have a headache.