Sprite's Keeper

RE: your mom called

Slow day, I guess. The following is a series of actual email messages sent back and forth between John and me (ALL DAY!) showing our communication is still very much intact after all these years and so is our snark:

To: Jen
From: John
Subject: your mom called
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She left me a message thinking the verizon phone was yours...

I think she was returning your call?

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Yup. I spoke to her.

Found out the big news too.

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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??

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Hi!

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Hi!?
...what big news?

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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News? What news?

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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You're such a pain in my ass...

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Oh, THAT news.

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Wait, what news?

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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You don't know?

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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No I don't. I kinda like it that way. The less I know the better off we all are.

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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You're right. It IS better that way.

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Oy...<eyeroll>

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Do you still love me?

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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<contemplating>

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Think hard.

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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...ya ARE kinda cute... <pat, pat>
...it's a tough one -- one I'll have to sleep on. ; )

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Careful, buddy. Don't forget who you're sleeping next to. So, I guess you don't want to hear the news?

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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I just saw visions of your Mom with THE knife in hand as I read "careful buddy..." *

...yes what's this big dumb news?

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Oh, so now it's dumb? *sob*

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Yup, you got me...i give up.

DO NOT TELL ME THE GODDAMN NEWS!!!!! : ) LOVE YOU

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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I am SOOOOO going to blog about this.

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To: John
From: Jen
Subject: RE: your mom called
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Hello?

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To: Jen
From: John
Subject: RE: your mom called
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you need a job.

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* To clear my mom from possible imagination crimes, he was referring to our second date in which he and I were leaving my parents' house and my mom was in the middle of cutting a cake when I said something snarky to her and she responded with a snarky comment of her own while holding the knife up in a mock menacing manner and John got the second date considerations over whether he should keep seeing me and my wacky family. Luckily, we got to the third date and the rest is his story. Literally.

Oh, you know what? I STILL haven't told him the news. I'm gonna go email him now..

One is the Loneliest Number

Sprite was preoccupied with trying to extricate herself from her carseat (luckily, she has weak thumbs or we'd be in trouble) and we had a couple of hours to kill in the car on our way back from the East Coast.

John and I sat in the front, him driving, me backseat driving and playing with the I-Pod, bursts of conversation revving up every time a forgotten thought flew across our mental landscapes, (I'm in a wordy mood. Go with it.) but otherwise, comfortable companiable silence.

Our conversation drifted from that day's events to Sprite stuff to the future. (Oh, the future...)

We discussed the two babies (Extra! Extra! We just discovered a third family member is pregnant! Officials have asked everyone avoiding the baby circuit to boil their water until further notice.) on the way and when we would add another sprite to the brood.

John, who is hesitant to enter the gene pool again, asked point blank, "Why do you want another baby? Why can't we be happy with just one?"

I thought about it for a moment. Should I give him my usual response? ("Sprite needs a sibling." "I want another baby." "I miss the infant phase." "The better to gang up on you." Etc.) Instead, my mouth opened and words I hadn't even considered escaped before I could mull them over and approve them for release. (See? I told you I was in a wordy mood.)

"If something happens to us, heaven forbid, who will Sprite be able to turn to?"

John thought it over while I comprehended what I had said. Yes, this made sense. I continued. "Sprite is our only legacy right now. We are all she knows. If she had a brother or sister with her, if we're gone, I think it would make it easier for her and her brother or sister to turn to each other for comfort."

I am not an only. Neither is John. Thank God we have all of our parents still healthy and full of life. Growing up, we never experienced the kind of trauma or strife some kids have no choice but to endure. But, if we had been subject to the experience, the people who would have gotten us through it would have been our siblings.

Yes, Sprite has aunts and uncles clamoring over each other to shower her with love and attention, and 2 sets of grandparents who are smitten with her to the point of almost obsession (she IS the first girl on both sides, you know), but she doesn't see them every day. John and I are her links to life. We are the guides who hold her hand when she needs comfort or direction.

I never like to think of the what-if's. (Oh, who am I kidding? I OBSESS over them!) But what if something happened to us? We have a contingency plan on where Sprite would go, how she would generally be raised, and a basic idea on how the rest of her childhood would play out. (The charts and timelines are saved on a harddrive.)

Having another child would be wonderful. While budget and timeframes do not allow for it right now, I can see another one on our horizon. Sprite would be a wonderful big sister once she gets over her jealousy issues and the dogs would probably seek refuge elsewhere once they realize we must clearly not love them anymore if we're bringing ANOTHER one home. My brain is just wired to have more than one child.

Now, don't get me wrong. Having an only child may be beneficial in the ways of finance and Sprite never having to fight anyone for John's or my attention. She wouldn't be compared to her sibling, can always have the bigger piece, and avoid any and all aspects of sharing.

But, she wouldn't get to experience the kind of love and kinship that grows out of a bond like this. A mutual history, origin, someone who loves her regardless of whether or not he or she LIKES her at that moment in time.

John seemed to accept my answer and even warmed up to it, so I'm hoping that when things become a little less tight financially, I can start nibbling for a sibling....

On a Scale of Snark, It Rates High..

It's well known that I'm a backseat driver. (Although it's been known for years. You would think John would just avoid getting behind the wheel when I'm immediately to the right of him.)

So, let's set the scene, shall we?

John was driving, Sprite was watching Elmo use the potty for the zillion-th time on her DVD, and I was watching the side streets, the lights, the pedestrians, and everything else I thought John wasn't watching.

As we slowed to make a right turn into a plaza, I noticed another vehicle turning left from the opposite side into our direction, and a pedestrian about enter into our route, all while carrying on a conversation with our beleaguered driver.

"...and you would think, by now at least, that - watch out for that guy- and that one's making a left over there- we would be better able to - hey, watch that guy!- John, are you looking?"

John finished the right turn and continued through the plaza. "Jen, will you just let me drive?"

"The store is just ahead. Park to the left."

John sighed. "Jen,  you need to stop trying to control the conversation and the traffic at the same time-"

"I multi-task."

"You multi-spaz." Swoosh. Nothing but net.

I looked at him. I saw the smirk playing around his lips. He knew he had snarked me. And good.

I think a golf clap would be adequate accolades, but my laugh was succinct in its praise.

Good job, John. Gotta give the credit where it's due.

And John is due.. (Mwa ha ha!)

 

She Could Have Asked For A Cookie.

As I walked over to the garbage can, I noticed Sprite, her back facing me, hovered over the dogs' bowl, perusing the choices of the dry food.

Her hand came up to her face.

I stopped in my tracks. Did she just eat dog food?

"John, she's not eating dog food, is she?"

John, standing to the left of her at the counter, looked away from the Costco coupon book and down to where Sprite was doling out what she deemed appropriate rations of food to Harry and Blue. He caught her lifting another piece to her mouth. "Now she is."

I bent down and pulled a surprise attack, prying Sprite's mouth open to retrieve the taboo treat, and flicking it away to the floor where Blue immediately gobbled it up. ( I guess the two second rule is good in the canine world too.) "No, no! We don't eat dog food!"

Sprite immediately started to pull away and charge back toward the bowl which was now obscured by Harry and Blue, obviously happier to have access to their food without the middle man.

"How much do you think she ate?" I asked John. Sprite, her attention diverted, ran to her room.

"Jen, she's fine."

"Was it a kibble or a bit?"

John sighed, distracted from his coupons again. "Does it matter?"

I opened my mouth then shut it. No, I guess not.

Spaghetti

Mommy's always rhyming, let me try.

Spaghetti by Sprite.

(Ahem)

Oh, how I love to play with my food,

To mold it and fold it, before it gets chewed.

Spaghetti's a favorite, it's already a mess,

And Mommy can't yell if it gets on my dress.

The sauce adds some color as I make my art,

It may not be Picasso, but hey, it's a start.

I can mash it and smash it all over my tray,

And no clean up cuz Mommy just takes it away!

And if I want another texture instead,

I just drop the noodle and turn to my bread.

But noodles are bendy and easy to throw,

At the dogs, at the walls, at Mommy.... uh oh.

I guess this means it's the end of my fun,

Mommy just came over and told me I'm done.

I'm off to the bath, good night everyone!

The baby's cute, but what's with the cake?

We got permission from the parents (whom I suspect thought they were ordering dinner when we called) to post some pictures of Alyssa.

She's sleeping, so please be quiet.

As she sleeps, her grandmothers are planning her wedding and discussing who gets to hold her next.

Her grandfathers are planning her future and both seem to have a handle on her.

Alyssa is planning her next diaper and then plans a nice long siesta.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm planning to cut into this cake. Want some?

Sprite: Don't mind if I do..

 

(Editor's Note: I'm sure no one will get why the cake is in there so I'm handing you the "Ah ha!" moment. Since Alyssa was born on July 4th, the cake is in the shape of the flag, even though I didn't know Alyssa would be born the same day I made the cake. But it still works out in the end, and I really didn't need to tell you this, did I? Eh, it's the weekend. I'm out!)

"I'll See Your Grandfather's Death and Raise You.."

John and I were in the car this morning, listening to our favorite morning radio show, "Bob and Sheri". It's a syndicated show based out of North Carolina which happens to be broadcast on our local station here in SW Florida. Unfortunately, we missed the intro to the segment, but Sheri was counting down a list of pet peeves written by a woman named Meg. (Due to the fact that I missed the opener, I don't know the origin of this list, so I can't give credit where it's due, but it was hysterical.)

The list dealt with pet peeves most people can agree with: people who smack their food (I have a personal issue with cereal and munching, but that's another post entirely), people who talk just to fill the silence, etc.

But one of her items hit home and had John and me reeling with laughter. People who interrupt or trump your telling of a story with an even bigger one to show they have it better (or in some cases worse).

I have a friend. We're not close anymore by any means since my entering the child rearing stage left her unable to relate to me much anymore as every word out of my mouth became "Sprite this" and "Sprite that". I'm still very fond of her and miss her sometimes, but oh well.

Anyway, she had this one habit of trumping stories to the point where I would want to smack her a little. (Sometimes, a lot.) I would call her to rant about something and she would interrupt with, "That's nothing, I had an even worse.." and so it would go. (Her interruptions always began with "That's nothing" or "Don't worry".)

Every story I had, be it happy or sad, or even just run of the mill whatever, would go from:

Me: "I got this great blouse for $5.00 at JC Penny after I found it on a clearance rack and they gave me an additional 50% off!"

Her: "That's nothing. I was there this morning and saw two of the same shirts at different prices and after bringing it to the manager's attention, they gave them BOTH to me for $4.00." (Right. I'm sure if my shirt had been a dollar, her response would have been that they PAID her to take the merchandise.)

It didn't matter what the issue was. She always had a comeback and it was always broader in scope and better than my own pitiful experience. (And seemed to highlight the fact that my life would never be as wonderful or as tragic as hers.)

Best case in point: I graduated from college with a major in Criminal Justice. Before 9/11, I had been intent on joining the FBI and even applied for an internship in one of their local offices. After a few phone calls, I was weeded out of the candidates (a lot of it had to do with me not speaking Spanish which is a MUST in that area) and my application (and hopes and dreams *sniff*) was sent to the shred bin.

When I called to tell her my candicacy was over, all of a sudden, she had a story about how the FBI had called HER to try to offer her a position as an interpretor since she seemed to speak and write a certain language I had never heard come out of her mouth before. (Here's where I lost her. She majored in Business Admin. She had not applied for the Bureau. She made it seem like her reputation was that far reaching that J. Edgar was calling out from the grave to "get THAT GIRL on our side!") (I didn't believe her. Duh.) I really wanted to call her out on it, but why bother? It just wasn't that important to me. At the time.

It had been like this for years, but took a while for it to really grate on my nerves. I thought I was alone in this as I have never met someone else who treated every story like a challenge that needed to be beaten down and then kicked in the gut to boot.

But this morning, this list confirmed for me that there are others out there. Other people who use your triumphs and tribulations merely as an opening for their own verbal memoirs and turn it into a one man/woman show.

I'm pretty sure (all right, I know it) I've done this myself a couple of times, but who hasn't? We all have a story to tell. Some of us just prefer to give ourselves a blog to do it. (Lessens the chance of interruptions.)

I'm trying to be more cognizant of other people's feelings when it comes to this and make the decision more often to just listen and offer my sympathy or accolades rather than raid my mental archives for a similar story or better one, but I'm sure I'll blow this resolution occasionally.

Everyone knows someone who is holding a trumpet and is at the ready to blow it. Maybe it's okay to blow your trumpet once in a while, but even trumpets have mutes.

You know? That reminds me of a time when I was at a concert and the trumpeteer was blowing his horn, but hadn't secured the mute correctly and halfway through this song, the mute shot clear across the Orchestra Pit and-

-Oh, really? You can play the trumpet? Wow, that's impressive. But THIS trumpet player was -

-No, I didn't know you played with the Phil Harmonic, but I don't see what this has-

-Your trumpet did what? That's just imposs-

--Um, yeah, I gotta go to work. We'll talk later.

 

Comparison Study

I need to get my head out of the clouds and back onto my shoulders where work is piling up while my brain checks out. But before I do, I was just thinking of how having a baby correlates to films and the genres it would incorporate. (Because what I should be doing is obviously not as interesting.)

Sprite's Keeper's Comparison: Stages of having a baby.

In the planning stages, it's a drama.

In the conception stages, it's a porn.

In the developing stages, it's an action film.

In childbirth, it's a horror film.

In babyhood, it's a Disney flick.

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Ooh, it's almost 4. 1 more hour to go...

And I really need to go.

Music A-pee-ciation

Last Sunday, while cooing over Jeff and Loni's new little princess, Princess #1 was getting some face time with John's mother in the lobby.

She pointedly told Ingrid, "Poopy" and grabbed at her behind. Ingrid checked her and found her clean.

"No poopy," Ingrid responded, smiling at Sprite.

Sprite said once more, "Poopy."

Then, she walked away from us and over to a wall of windows where she sat on the low sill and proceeded to prove that she did indeed have a retort in her shorts.

That Sunday became a red letter day. Sprite is ready (I hope) to start potty training. (If she isn't, I figure we've screwed up a couple of times already with milestones, this shouldn't push us too far over the edge.)

Since then, every night after dinner, we've been placing Sprite on her potty for five minute sessions. I was told by someone (she has 5 kids, she's an expert in my opinion) to start doing these sessions after a meal since the food pushes everything through a bit and increases the urge to go. (I could have left that part out, right?)

Since we started doing this, we've hit a small snag. This particular potty has music, so when Sprite's butt meets the seat, it automatically starts a song and catchy jingle. (Catchy enough that it resounds in my head when I sit down for a pee break myself.) On Tuesday, I noticed just like Monday, that when the song would begin, Sprite would get up from the seat and start dancing like some bottom baring hippie.

Well, learning from the rug incident, I didn't think that was a good idea to have dance breaks. So, Wednesday, smart mom that I am, I turned off the music setting. Sprite came in, disrobed with my help, and sat down. Hm. Something wasn't right. She got up, looked behind her, and then sat down again.

Nothing. Her eyes swung to mine in question. Dude, where's my music?

I smiled back, blatantly ignoring her look. "Yay, Sprite! Can you go pee-pee? Pee-pee for a sticker!"

Sprite stood up again and pulled on the "tank" of the toilet to expose the back end and the switch for the music. She unerringly went straight for the switch and turned it "on".

"Hi there, big kid, welcome back! You're so smart, you're right on track! Take your time and concentrate, going potty's just so great!"

She danced, rocking out and sitting on the potty only to trigger the music once again.

And proud of herself for outsmarting Mommy, she still took a sticker.

"Sticka!" she said, holding it out to show me, rubbing it in.

(Kid, I'm letting you keep the sticker, but if you think that's going on your chart, think again.)

Protecting Our Kids (Or Are We Just Blowing Smoke?)

Hi, I'm Jen. I'm a former smoker. It's been.....carry the 2.....multiply the 3....Hell, I don't know anymore.

(Sometimes, I compare smoking to drinking. You never really quit. You just take REALLY long pauses because if you are weak, you could fall right back into the routine.)

I started when I was 20. I really couldn't tell you why. It pissed off my parents. I was raging against the machine. I was attracted to Joe Camel. Pick one. I was addicted, although I was not as hardcore as others. I could go a couple of days without one before it would draw me in again.

I finally stopped pilfering cigarettes from my best friend when I found out I was pregnant. I haven't touched them since. (John is extremely grateful since he is not a smoker and hated the smell of it on my clothes and hair and basically EVERYTHING I was around. Funny that I never noticed the smell until pregnancy gave me hound dog strength sniffers and then I was repulsed by something that had never really bothered me just months earlier.)

I'm not here to preach about the horrors of smoking. I understand the horrors, I understand the risks, and I understand that the smokers understand this as well. They hear it on a regular basis from the nonsmokers. My best friend, Susan, is a smoker and has been hitting up the cancer sticks since we were an impressionable 16. (I'm trying to remember here, Sue. Let me know if I'm off. I mean, off on this. I know I'm just OFF, but the off I'm referring to is, aw, you know what I mean!) I know she knows how harmful they are, and I would love to see her quit, but I will not hound her with pamphlets when she visits, because I will lose my Starbucks friend. And I'm already losing some Starbucks in my area. And that is sad.

I am writing this post because another blog friend, Lisa, over at Boondocks Ramblings, wrote an interesting post about buying a Curious George book for her son Jonathan, since he seemed to like the monkey with the wandering mind. She looked through the book and saw something in one of the pictures which really is shocking these days, a man sitting on a picnic blanket with his family and smoking. (I'm sure that back in the day this illustration was originally produced, the audience would have been more horrified with the clothes the man was wearing than the burning cigarette.)

I don't think her intention was to call attention to the irresponsible artist who drew that illustration, more to point it out in a Ha!Ha! Look what I found! way since this is something you just don't see in kids' literature anymore.

Yet, I know many mothers personally, who would have placed a call to the publisher and demanded a reprint, recant, and burning of the "offensive" books along with full refund and public apology.

Why is smoking so offensive to parents nowadays? Why is it being rated like a language in the films? I'm going to focus on pop culture here, mostly because Lisa found this picture in a children's book, a popular one at that.

In today's All About Health-minded society, we are constantly reminded about the dangers of nicotine and smoking and the steps Hollywood and the media at large are taking to stop smoking from looking enticing to the virgin-eyed teens (RIGHT.). It's even affecting the ratings system in films so parents can go the extra step to make sure their child won't see the character puffing away on film. (Although they only have to look out the car window on the way home to blow that theory to Hell.)

However...

I find it almost impossible to escape tobacco's history in pop culture and the way it was almost celebrated back in the 60's and prior. Almost every classic movie before then had a major character smoking in it. Women were offered cigarettes from their would be heroes, because it was considered classy and polite. ("Cancer, milady?" "Why, thank you, kind sir.") "Thinking" men needed a cigarette or cigar to occupy their fingers and mouths while they chewed the scenery in the days of method acting. It was cool. ( Did the first shot of Danny Zuuko not have a cigarette hanging out of his mouth in "Grease"?) (And yet so many kids with the ever obsessive parents out there know every line to the movie...Whoa, did I just stumble upon a possible contradiction? Yes, I think I did.)

 Smoking is and always has been a lingering smell in pop culture. It even infiltrated the cornerstone of our most revered childhood dream makers. WALT DISNEY was a notorious chain smoker. (They airbrushed the cigarettes out of the pictures in the 80's to make him look more innocent because EVERY picture had a smoldering cigarette in it.) Smoking made it into the animated classics like "101 Dalmations" where Cruela Deville was puffing away.

No matter how much we try to shield our kids from this stuff, they will see it and notice it and may even imitate it. (Does anyone else remember the bubble gum cigarettes back in the 80's where if you puffed really hard, you could blow sugar smoke? That didn't do any damage, right? Right?)

It's our jobs as parents to educate the kiddies and make sure they understand why they shouldn't smoke. It's our jobs to be as proactive as we can to make sure our children understand the dangers of it and how to react positively to peer pressure.

But when they turn 18, our jobs will become more of a consulting gig, and we will have to take a back seat as they decide for themselves whether or not to ride the tobacco train, and no matter how much we tried to shield them or teach them about it, as my parents did with me, some of them will still go ahead and puff away, as I did.

Maybe, this will all be a non-issue by the time Sprite is old enough to be impacted by it, but I will be honest with her and tell her that Mommy did smoke when she was younger. But Daddy didn't. And hopefully, she'll inherit Daddy's common sense.