Sprite's Keeper

Fish Out of Water

Oh, my Land'o'lakes, what have we done?

John, you started it. (But I finished it, so technically, it's a wash.)

After Sprite had a very peaceful night in her Elmo couch, enjoying what I assumed to be a temporary parole from the crib bars, thoughts started to take shape in my mind of a future without the safety of the pen. (I know, I know, I shouldn't think.)

As Sprite played in her room the day after, I kept looking towards the crib. Then my inner voice started talking and had a one sided conversation with my reasoning.

You know, she did fine last night without the crib. And don't forget the crib is convertible, just take the front off and you have a toddler bed. Because, that's what she is, a toddler. It will be very easy to make the change. The kid will be fine. She's growing up and all you're doing is holding up the process. You're almost out of Ziploc bags. There was a coupon in the Costco mailer. Better cut it out while you're looking for the Allen wrench. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

I made up my mind and marched over to find John who would in turn find an Allen wrench since my inner voice neglected to tell me what one looked like, let alone where it was. Once he returned with it (And let me tell you, it looks NOTHING like a wrench, Allen!), I banished Sprite from her room while I made the transformation, turning her nursery into a little girl's room. (You would think John is the hands-on one in this relationship. Nope. All me. I like to build. Bookshelves, tables, drama...)

The whole process took less than 10 minutes. I thought there would be more fanfare than that. I thought it would require time and effort, a major shake down to find the manual, sweat and tears, and at least a cameo appearance by a D-list celebrity. Actually, it took 4 steps of unscrewing and re-screwing of the posts to convert it, mere seconds to remember the manual had been zip-tied to the bottom of her mattress springs and within reaching distance, a few tears as I visualized her falling out of the bed, and a door knock by our neighbor who looks like she could have been in an 80's movie, but is definitely not a celebrity.

Sprite came into her room as I carted out the front slats (which had her aquarium still attached. *Sob!* I used to covet that thing when Sprite was just a month old and hated to be put down. I always used the aquarium since the music would last for 15 minutes so I could eat something/use the bathroom/take a shower/let the dogs out. No more fishies. *Sniff.*). She paused as she took in the new look of her bed/former crib and immediately jumped onto it after realizing she no longer needed Mommy or Daddy to lift her for access.

Last night, she looked excited to be trying her new bed. (Yeah, it's been there since the beginning, but now there's an front entrance. It's new to her.) John decided we should lay out the Elmo couch in front of it in case she had a dream about qualifying for the gymastics portion of the Olympics and pole vaulted herself out of bed.

Sprite watched from her perch on her BRAND NEW toddler bed as we set up the couch and then immediately jumped onto the Elmo couch and snuggled down.

She didn't want to sleep in the bed.

John and I looked at each other. "Maybe she'll climb into the bed after we leave," he suggested. We said our good nights, collected our kisses, and closed her door.

I checked on her 30 minutes later. She was asleep, looking like a party crasher in her own room as she was splaid out on her Elmo pull out while the bed was occupied by the dolls she had thrown up there.

When John and I re-grouped for bed, we confirmed she was probably unsure about the bed seeing as this was a new change. And just like the fishies in the aquarium have a new view of the guest room while we figure out storage, Sprite has a new view of her own situation and is probably trying to adjust to the change as well.

I, for one, am never listening to my inner voice again.

Except for the Ziploc bags. We do need to buy more.

Thinking Outside the Crib

John was in charge of bedtime while I went food shopping tonight and had an epiphany. (Funny how he has them whenever I'm not in the house..)

He decided Sprite should lose the bars and try sleeping without slats for once so he set her up in her couch/bed cushion for a trial basis.

I came home to this.

He told me she fell asleep the way she normally falls asleep in her crib, by reading to her dolls and calming down.

She seems ready. Do you think she's ready? John thinks she's ready..

Everyone is telling me she's ready.

Am I ready?

Mommy's Half-assed Helper

Cool. My title has ass in it. That keeps me trendy.

Sprite has been starting to help out around the house. I like this. What I don't like is what it's doing to my OCD organized space. ARGH.

She loves to help throw something away. Every time you say, "Sprite, can you take this to the trash?", her feet move quickly as she races to the can to throw away the item of choice, almost like if she doesn't do it quickly enough, someone will swoop in and steal her prize and feed the garbage monster instead.

I can hand her a diaper (wet, of course) and trust her to take it to the right receptacle, or at least go in the general direction before her toddler brain gets sidetracked by one of the dogs or the dog bowls. Lately, she's been eager in trying to help out, however her views of what belongs in the trash can are a bit skewed.

For some reason, she likes to place her shoes (specifically her sneakers) into the trash can. Maybe her inner fashionista is just done with her Winnie the Pooh sneakers and is trying to drop hints (along with the shoes). Now, my nightly closing routine has expanded to checking the waste basket before we send it to the curb to make sure she has something to wear to school the next day. I have also found a Tigger Mega block, one of her books, and a couple of pieces from her shape sorter. (I'm very glad she can't lift the dogs or I'm sure I'd hear whimpering from the trash can one of these days. Definitely Blue. Harry's way too smart.)

Basically, she's become a little helper and has assigned herself certain duties that only she may do.

Sprite's chore list includes:

Closing every door. It doesn't matter if you're standing in the path and your toes are in the way. The door must close and if you get sideswiped in the process, that's your own fault. (And, she comes back to check her work on this. If you wait until she's walking away to open the door again, you can hear her feet pounding closer to make sure this door stays CLOSED!)

Wiping her tray. When you hand her the wet wipe at the end of the meal so she can wipe her hands and face, she instead uses it to wipe her tray and THEN wipe her hands and face. (Her system has a few flaws. We're working on it.)

Official dog punisher. If we yell at one of the dogs, Sprite immediately stops whatever she is doing and joins the fracas to dole out any additional commands we may have neglected. She has also added pinching to her punishment and hitting. Pretty much Blue only. Again, Harry is a little too smart for Sprite.

Dishwatcher. No, not dishwasher. Sprite must stand at attention whenever I am cleaning the kitchen after dinner. When I open the dishwasher door and pull out a basket to start loading it, she immediately must push the basket back in, and pull the door up to close the appliance. We have had several stand offs with the dishwasher door and the time added to my cleaning routine. They usually result in me crying Uncle ("John!") and steering her away so I can finish in peace and my fingers can stay in one piece.

Restraint snapper. We are no longer required to snap her restraints. Nor are we allowed. She now has to do it herself and reward herself with a "Did it!" And we must respond in kind with "You did it!" (Failure to respond appropriately will earn you a tantrum.)

Dog feeder. Again the poor mutts get to suffer. (I think they're blaming us since we're responsible for bringing her into this world.) Sprite has begun rationing the dogs' meals in such a way, she counts their servings in fistfuls. One fistful goes to Harry. One goes to Blue. One goes into the water dish. (Even if it's not hungry.)

Dog watcher. Finally, something in which no contact is required. When we get home from work, the dogs immediately get snapped to their leashes and let loose so they can, well, let loose. Sprite must watch this happen. (I'm hoping this may help in some way with the potty training.) She also has assigned herself the role as commentator. "Boo, pee-pee." "Airee, pee-pee." "Airee, poopy." (Again, I'm not all that keen on watching my child watch the dogs as they mark up my lawn, but some little part of me is REALLY hoping, again, that this helps with the potty pushing.)

Light yanker offer. Every night before bed, she must be lifted into our arms to yank the chain controlling the light controlling the ambiance controlling her sleep schedule controlling the rest of my night. If she does not get to yank the chain, I don't get to enjoy my night. Nuff said.

Sprite assigns herself something new about once a week. It shows me she is growing. It also shows me how much control a 20 month old has over our home and how we're doing nothing about it.

Although, watching Harry lately, I think he may have something in the works. I don't know. I'm getting vibes..

It Ends With Cheese

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

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

Bryan: "Kill the bug!"

Lee Ann: "Bryan, eat your spaghetti."

John:"Where is my fly swatter?"

Sprite:"Nummy."

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

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

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

Me: "That's not true."

Sprite: "Eat."

Bryan: "Why?"

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

Me: "Ask your mom."

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

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

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

Swing and a miss.

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

Bryan (laughing): "Die!"

Lee: "Jenny..."

Seriously, how are we related?

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

Sprite: "Boo!"

Me: "Sprite, stop teasing the dogs."

Bryan: "Go away, bug!"

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

Bryan: "Kill it!"

Lee: "Bryan, lower your voice!"

Me: "Sprite, no!"

Sprite: "All done!"

John: "It ends here."

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

SWAT!

I don't care what she says, the cup still had milk in it.

This morning, John gave Sprite her sippy cup (yup, still called a "noah") of milk while we raced around to get out of the house on time.

Sprite came over to me as I was gathering our things.

"All done," she announced, waving her cup at me. "Empty."

I took the cup and shook it a bit. Nope, there was still milk in there. "I don't think so," I responded, holding it back out to her.

Sprite ignored the cup and smiled at me. "I think so."

She turned away, walked to the pantry door and pushed on it to make sure it was shut. "I think so," she repeated, walking out of the kitchen.

I could hear John chortling in the bathroom. He had heard. And he also heard the silence as I clearly didn't have a comeback to her sass.

Tomorrow morning, my routine will go like this:

1. Drink coffee.

2. Wake up toddler.

The current arrangement is just not working for me.

Sweet and Snarky

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..

A Moment

"This isn't an emergency, but-"

"I'll be right there."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not so fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I mention that I used to like Tuesdays?

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

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

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

Tuesday decided I needed more..

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

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

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

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

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

"Hello?"

"John, I've got a flat."

"(Sigh). Where are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Asking the Internet Gods for Advice.

On our own for the evening, Sprite and I set up camp in her room to play a little before bedtime.

She quickly found a Melissa and Doug wooden puzzle set and started to match the loose pieces to the board. The cow went into its alloted slot. The pig followed. So did the sheep. Then, Sprite picked up the final piece, a horse, and placed it into its spot.

"Good job", she said, then turned the puzzle on its end to dump the pieces and start over.

The pieces were correctly placed a little more quickly. "Yay!", she exclaimed, clapping her hands and then starting over yet again.

I sat back, watching her, as she congratulated herself every time she finished a puzzle.

If she hadn't given herself accolades, I would have. It's become a habit. But has it become a bad one?

Everytime she does something correctly, we automatically respond with a "Yay!" or "Good job!" or "Huzzah!". Well, maybe not "Huzzah", but I may decide to sneak this into her repetoire anyway, even if only to screw with her teachers at daycare a little. (Tit for tat, right? They lose diapers. I teach Sprite strange words to confuse them. In my mind, it works out.)

Has it come to this? Have we become the type of family I had trained myself to hate? (Obviously before I had a kid, otherwise I would hate ME and I clearly love ME too much to do that.)

When does it stop? When do we stop praising her for using her fork correctly? When do we stop complimenting her for every little toy she helps to put away?

When does "Yay!" stop becoming a regular tack-on to singing the ABC's? Or counting for that matter? Or getting through "The Wheels on the Bus" or "Itsy Bitsy Spider"? ( "Yay!" is a frequently used expression in our house, can you tell?)

When does good behavior or applied knowledge start becoming an expectation and stop being an opportunity for praise?

I have no answer for this. (I hate when that happens..)

Do you?

No, not you.

Yes, you.

I am turning to you, Internet. Clearly you have more up your sleeves than just pop-up ads and daily prizes I've won.

When should I stop praising my child for everything she does and start treating her like an actual human being who doesn't get a cookie just because she hasn't slammed her plate down to the floor to show she was finished? (I keep telling her, "I'm done" is just as effective, although the dogs clearly prefer her method.)

Show me the way!

Vegas(,) Baby(!)

"No dice!"

Huh?

I could swear I heard her say "No dice". I look over to Sprite who is sitting on the floor in her room next to Rupert, and playing with her flash cards. (I had such high hopes for those things, but she seems interested in only sliding them into the box or dumping them out of the box. I don't think Baby Einstein intended that to be one of the uses, but she likes it, so eh.)

Sprite is putting a flash card on Rupert's lap (which in turn provides enough momentum for Rupert's soft body to flop over) and then turning it over so the picture side is upright. She looks at the picture side. "No dice." She then takes the card and gives him another, picture side down.

What is this, kiddie Craps? ( Although this may explain her focused interest in counting. Sprite is looking for a future in counting cards.... Nah.(?))

I see this happen a couple of times. Where is she learning this? It obviously looks to me as if she's pretending to play some kind of card game. Every card she gives Rupert is at first face down. When she turns the card over, she repeats "No dice!" and takes it away. It looks like Rupert is losing, whatever the game is.

Later, in the kitchen, I ask Sprite if she wants some banana with her snack. "No dice," she answers, then takes a swig from her sippy cup.

I'm almost relieved John and I are not big drinkers or I may soon be hearing requests for a dirty martini in her sippy cup.