Sprite's Keeper

The Wanking Room

"I can do it at home, right? Then just bring it in?"

"No. It's best to take care of it there."

"But the directions say I have forty-five minutes to get it there. I can make it in time."

"John. Just do it there."

"Let me do it my way."

"UGH! Don't make me remind you about rush hour and trying to beat the clock...Huh, get it? Beat?"

"Not a good time, Jen."

"Really, I'm going to have nightmares of your car filled with screams as they die one by one on their way to the clinic."

"FINE! I'll take care of it."

Infertility does have its funny points..

*****************

We had promised ourselves back in the summer months that if no pregnancy occurred by the time we came back from our cruise in November, we would buckle down and submit ourselves for the extensive testing to figure out why, this being almost three years after starting the auditions for a new family member, we still hadn't cast the role. (And I was so convinced that the days of sun and fun and Sprite in the Kids Club would result in our own little souvineir without the crappy logo covering 50% of him or her. Never mind that the honorary middle name "Dream" would totally give it away.)

Well, two weeks after we had put away our suitcases and realized the pixie dust hadn't fixed our issues, the time came for me to call my doctor, a new doctor, one who would look more into why we weren't conceiving rather than hand me some Clomid and wish me luck with the quintuplets.

Meeting this new doctor was awkward as it came right in the middle of an annual appointment, so while she was "getting to know me", I was laying it all on the line. (Considering that I was laying on her table with a paper gown being the only virtue of my modesty, I was going for ultimate transparency.) (I was wearing my own socks too, since I figured letting her in on my secret of semi-annual pedicures would have been overkill.) At the end of the exam, we sat down and she drew up plans for me to have some bloodwork done, undergo a test in which my level of tolerance would be sorely tested, and a bonus test (buy three, get one?) for John to test his, um, endurance.

We also set boundaries: we were going to actively pursue a successful pregnancy for this year, and we were willing to go as far as Clomid (the doses, I've learned, can be changed to lessen the chance of multiples) and working towards fixing what was possibly broken, but we were not willing to cross the threshold of invetro.

(People are people, and everyone's beliefs differ on the subject, but John and I both feel that if there's nothing wrong, and a second child never comes, God is obviously telling us it's not going to happen.)

This was back in December. I dutifully went about my first two blood tests, both to be taken in the early stages of my cycle.

John begrudgingly signed on for a December 30th appointment so he could, you know, ring in the New Year.

Now, since we both had the day off, we arranged to meet each other afterward so he could drop his car off for some maintenance and catch a ride.

I pulled up to the dealership and he quickly hopped into the passenger side.

"How did it go?" I asked, pulling away from the Service Department.

"The Wanking Room?"

"The WHAT?"

"Hey, it's written right there on their website. The clinic calls it the Wanking Room. Wanna know why?" he drawled, giving me a leery grin.

"I know WHY, I'm just surprised they advertise it. So?"

"I'm done."

"Okay..."

He didn't grab my hint and run with it.

"Tell me what happened!"

"It's embarassing. You're sitting there with other men in the waiting room and you all know what the other is going to do. When they called my name, I could feel them staring at me."

"Go on."

"The nurse was HOT. I think they hired her just to get things started."

"Nice. Thanks."

"I'm kidding. No hotness at all. Very business like. Just handed me my cup, showed me to the room, pointed to the directions and closed the door behind her on the way out. Very quickly."

"Directions? The Wanking Room has directions?"

"You know, the prep, the aftermath, what to do when you're done."

"Awesome."

"Hey, I'm doing this for you, all right?"

"Okay, tell me about the room."

"Small. Almost like a closet. The TV was mounted on the wall, and there was an armchair."

Watching the road, I gasped in response. "Did you sit in the armchair?"

"God, no! I just took one look at the floor and thought they didn't get around to cleaning THAT much, I wasn't about to take my chances in the chair."

"Good man."

"Oh, and the walls were paper thin. Those nurses must be able to hear everything."

"Ha, they're probably sitting out there in the common area, listening for which movie you pick, taking bets on the titles. 'Hey, he chose Ass Me When. I thought he would be a Busted man."

"I wouldn't be surprised. But what did surprise me was their selection of movies."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. It was an Apple TV, and everything was in categories, really easy to find what you're looking for. A LOT of movies."

"I think I want to work there just for the sheer humor of it all."

"The worst part is when you're finished. You have to press a button which emits a loud bell in the office."

"So they know you're done."

"Yup."

"And they know exactly what you did."

"Yup."

I remained silent, trying to picture the embarrasment of it all. "Thank you for taking one for the team, John."

"If you need me to do it again, I'll do it."

"Really?"

"I didn't get to finish the movie."

Like I said, even infertitility can be labeled a dramedy once in a while..

Sibling Rivalry

Our family welcomed its newest member on Friday night, Alejandro Miguel. (Sprite is already calling him Alex. If I keep slipping up on the pronunciation, do you expect a four year old to nail it first time out?) John and I had already blocked out March 16 on our calendars to skip work for the day and come out for the planned C-section, but Alex decided his schedule wouldn't work then and announced his intentions to kick off the weekend.

So, since I had to work on Saturday, we drove over on Sunday to see the little bundle.

Question, if you know, have the hospital rules relaxed in recent years? Back when I was growing up, visitors to the maternity ward or "mother/baby" floor had to be of a certain age to be allowed in. No kids unless immediate family, no exceptions.

Because of this, we dropped Sprite off with her favorite uncle while we visited. Her day had started with a pout when she found out this new baby we had been talking about for the past day and a half would not be subject to her own approval, but upon hearing she would have Felipe's undivided attention all to herself and could show off her new Rapunzel figure set in all its glory and he would HAVE to play with her? And only her? Better than a trip to the Disney Store.

But once we arrived at the hospital, we were peppered with questions on Sprite's wherabouts, why we had left her with Felipe when we could have brought her there.  Our objections, based on our own experiences were met with anecdotes of earlier visitors who had brought their children, no problem, to meet the baby and the hospital had not blinked an eye. Especially when Alex's big sister, all of 2, was also there and could have used some slightly older companionship to cauterize her growing contentions over the baby.

Yes, Daniela was a little jealous. This little girl, who only has to bat those baby browns to get your attention, was now seeking attention from everyone who came into the room, especially since they were bee-lining for the baby. She has never had much exposure to John or me, given our distance, but as soon as I had little Alex in my arms and Ingrid lining the three of us up for our first family photo, Dani was beckoning to my husband, "Tio! Ven aqui!" ("Uncle! Come here!") and repeated this phrase until he actually did her bidding.

Cut to an hour later when she wanted to cuddle with Mama, who was extremely tired and just beginning the recuperation part of her journey, and Kari, who was being very patient with her typically feisty and independent, now clingy firstborn, while playing defense when the toddler's sharp knees came close to her midsection. I watched Daniela play with her dad's I-Pad while Kari tried to close her eyes a little and took my chance on being rebuffed when I approached and held my arms out for Dani to come sit with me.

She came and we spent a good half hour bonding over a Memory game while Kari dozed and her husband tried to catch up on work stuff that got pushed aside when Alex decided to take over the weekend.

She even taught me the Spanish word for apple, manzana. (Them manzanas are pretty bueno.) (I'm working on it..) 

Sibling rivalry is something I've always wondered about. Being the younger one in a 20 month age gap, my memory does not serve me well as to how Lee Ann reacted when Mom and Dad brought "her" home. We grew up as the best of friends and worst of enemies, before settling into a good relationship.

I would worry about it myself with Sprite, should we ever be blessed with another baby, no, not pregnant, thanks for asking, that's getting old, isn't it?, but we seem to be over that age hump where Sprite is not so dependent on us for, say, fetching her a snack or a drink, she knows where everything is and we've "pre-schooled" it down to her level to give her a bit more independence when in need of it. She knows she needs supervision when brushing her teeth, but if the clothes are laid out, she'll find her way into them, and doesn't need much help in the bathroom department either. Reminding her to go to the bathroom instead of thinking she's entertaining us with her loosely defined "dance" is still a problem, but other than that, the kid is pretty self-sufficient.

I don't think it would be the biggest hassle in the world to introduce a baby into the fold, yes, she would be jealous over the new hire, and may think her benefits and 401K are taking a hit with the management restructure, but given that she's been in the job for so long now, I think, intellectually, she would be able to see that a baby obviously requires more work, and she can play up the "look what I did all by myself" card, so understanding that Mommy can't get on the floor and play with her while feeding the baby would probably not be too hard for her overall. I may need to put in a little overtime later with some one-on-one, but I can handle it.

Of course, I could be selling her short, and then drama classes would definitely be in her future..

Political conversations at 11:30 PM are never a good idea..

I'm tired of being called a liberal whackjob.

Granted, I did introduce myself as "John's liberal wife" when John brought over his "conservative friend" and her loony husband who immediately insulted all Democrats in general, and that was the first five words out of his mouth, but that was only to wipe the shit eating grin off his face. He laughed, pounded John on the back and hooted, "She's a feisty one!" before making some comment about how I must have been good at other things for my poor husband to keep me around.

Yeah, I'm good at forming an educated opinion.

Schmuck.

My point is simply this: I vote the way I want to see the country evolve, whether it be Republican or Democrat. I have switched sides without guilt when casting my ballot since I tend to vote for the lesser of the two evils. And yes, both sides have a lot of evil.

Immediately after the Arizona shootings, left and right finger pointers were at the ready, bringing up Sarah Palin's map of crosshairs and correlating it to a hit list. Even I, on Sunday, brought it to John's attention, saying that politics should be more careful about what they put out there. I would have to wonder, if she had brought that map before a public relations group prior to posting it on her site, would their recommendation have been "have you thought about flowers or hearts instead of targets?"

Are they related? How would I know? The only person who knows for sure is sitting in a twelve by twelve, and he's not talking.

But the sides began pointing fingers immediately.

I'm tired of being cast as "one of them" if I admit to favoring the D over the R. If I were Republican, I would still feel the same. I think both sides are guilty of fear mongering. I think the media as a whole is guilty of feeding us fear in great big supersized portions while reporting in other news that New York City Mayor Bloomberg is banning salt in restaurants.

DId you know the government is taking over our country?

(Did you know we asked them to?)

Before 9/11, "smaller government, more freedom, don't control me, don't lord over my life, don't decide for me."

After 9/11, "protect me, stop people from getting into our country, even if it stops me from leaving, keep me safe, sure, you can have a few of my liberties to make that happen.."

"Ban smoking! Make it illegal! No smoking in public areas anywhere in the city, beaches, parks!"

"What do you mean, you're banning salt in restaurants? It should be MY decision on whether or not I put a double cheeseburger into my mouth, not yours!"

We are a country of contradictions.

 I do find it sad, yet amusing that I tune in to The Daily Show for most of my political nutrition, people claim he's a liberal pusher, but I've seen him slam everyone with glee.

And he's nice to look at.

(Comments closed. Not because I don't want to hear your opinion, but because I want to give you five more seconds of your day today to have to yourself. You're welcome.)

Bookmark

I've always loved the word bookmark. Technically speaking, it marks the spot you want to come back to. Simple enough, right? A bookmark can flag a favorite paragraph, remind you of where you were, how much you have to go, its skills are endless as long as you can come up with another use for it.

But a bookmark mostly is a pause in your enjoyment. It allows you to move on with reality without relenquishing the alternate life you've temporarily lived and will sporatically live until you finish the volume. I just love the symbolism of it all.

Today, I am flying up to Washington DC to spend a long weekend with family, friends, and someone I've "known" for almost two years. While I am sure to have a wonderful time-

Memo to the pilots: PLEASE be in a good mood and alert. I am not a confident good flier and the fact that I have to sleep in the same room with my parents for 3 nights, which, while not a new experience but has not happened since I was in my TEENS, will most likely subject me to safety checks, re-imposed curfews, "Don't talk to strangers" talks, and possibly a few groundings as I may or may not revert back to the sullen, internal, egocentric teenage ways of the "just because I'm a minor", already has me in a few mental knots, so I would appreciate you getting us there and getting us back in one piece and alive as well. If you feel like springing the emergency slide, great! But do it after we've landed and come to a full and complete stop with all our tray tables stowed upright in a safe manner. Yes, I will be watching for demeanors while waiting to board. SMILE, dammit.

- I will be missing John and Sprite immensely. They'll be fine, great even, with all the fun things he's planning for her during their freedom weekend from me. All the things I reject? He'll consider. All the things I immediately shoot down? Will get a fair and impartial hearing and maybe even a stay of execution from the judge. (I may have to check for tattoos upon my return.)

It almost feels like I'm pausing my life, a ginornous version of Tivo, and leaving it at a standstill to function in a different type of reality, with a different type of venue. Fun, yes. Home, no. (There's a big difference.)

So, I feel like I need to bookmark my life, therefore I'm bookmarking this site, a way to access the page I've left, remind myself that what I'm coming back to, which had me from the first paragraph, still has so much to offer, and I can't wait to read the rest.

The prettiest bookmark I've ever made.

I can't wait to see you again, Sprite. Take care of Daddy.

And John? I love you very much. I promise to call. (And no tattoos..)

I'll see everyone else on Tuesday. Have a great and safe weekend.
 

My flaws, let me show them to you.

Sometimes I forget that you only get to see what I am willing to show you.

It's difficult to count yourself as an "honest" writer when you have the power to embellish or omit certain things, things that may spin the axis of intent the tale sits on, things that may lead the reader down one path while the author is actually carefully paving another.

This is why I edit. A lot.

I try to remain as loyal as possible to every story I write, more as an honest serving of emotional calories for myself when I look back on this site and re-live our adventures. I'm actually proud of my willingness to show you the scabbed knees of my parenting skills, I want you to know how flawed I am, how much of a stubborn, indignant, line in the sand drawer I can be, how impatient I can be with John, with Sprite, with even myself.

Perfection is a standard impossibly out of reach, yet I try to the point of exhaustion. (You should know this by now.)

I am not a perfect mother. The stories I tell of our trip to Disney World, yes, this can show me to be a wonderful and patient mother, because I was focusing on the main crisis of our day there. I am an old hand at Disney World. Having worked there, I've seen a lot, done a lot, learned a lot of lessons that I swore I would carry on with my offspring. This is why I have patience in spades when it comes to handling a child with typical childhood fears.

I do not have patience when it comes to other things. Things like getting ready for school. More often than not, you will find me yelling for the tyke to put some caffeine into her step for once in her young life and explaining that all the pancakes went home and her only breakfast options are cheerios or broccoli. (Heaven help me if she ever picks the broccoli. Heating times will push me back even farther.)

I am not patient at all with her helping out in the kitchen. She runs for her step stool, so eager to be a part of my day, willing to shove her little hands into the mix and take on the role of co-producer of dinner (coming soon to a table near you). I would much rather her wander off to color, watch a cartoon, "yes, you may put a dress on Blue, but stay away from Harry", (sorry, Blue) anything to banish her from the kitchen so I can get things done in PEACE.

When I need to breathe, I am known to send John and Sprite to his office, her room, out of the house "and can you take the dogs with you?" so I can vacuum, mop, and re-charge my over-stimulated short fuse. Yes, housework calms me. (You should also know this by now.)

I get frustrated when Sprite, in all her eagerness, neglects to listen for my cues, the same cues that come with an angrier tone every time I have to repeat myself until both she and I are standing on the same emotional cliff and about to jump.

Sure, I told you about the one day I placed myself in time out since she was actually okay, it was me who was having the tantrum. That looked great to the naked eye, but do I tell you about the constant bickering that happens when I take her with me to the grocery store? How I've come to start doing my shopping on Saturday mornings when John can stay home with her and I can get through the store without having to stop because "that's pink, Mommy! I want to see that! Show me that!"?

Of course not. That stuff is boring. No one wants to hear about the mundane details of my life, the same mundane details you're probably facing from time to time.

You want to read about the shining details! The cute little Sprite-isms that happen when a three year old takes on a thirty-three year old who just happens to remember what she herself was like as a kid and uses it as a great defense when the three year old tries what she THINKS is something new.

(My mom loves to crow about how revenge is sweet since Sprite is giving it to me as good as I gave it to her. I love to banter back that it's not revenge if I ENJOY it. And I do. The kid is a challenge and I'm up for solving the puzzle. In pen.)

My point is that I'm not a perfect mom. I'm not a mom who believes I need to be Sprite's best friend. It would be like being best friends with me. I know me. I piss me off sometimes. I'm not one for painting whenever the mood strikes since I know the paint tinted water will slop all over my floor somewhere between the table and the sink thanks to little Miss Helpful. I'm the mom who cringes when Sprite spies the play-dough set and wants to play with it since instead of the hours of quiet activity it promises, she will need and enlist my help at many points throughout the process. Fun.

Nope, not perfect and nowhere near ready for the Mother of the Year title.

The only way I am perfect is how perfect a fit I am as a mother to Sprite. You could place yourself into my shoes and find yourself thinking the very same thing with your own child. We are perfect for the children we raise.

You know, we parents are more alike than the experts realize. I am not all that creative when it comes to parenting. Sure, I like to think things through from her point of view, only because this stuff fascinates me. (The minor in psychology doesn't hurt either.) You've all done the same things with creativity, whether it be slipping veggies into the lasagna or stopping by a Dairy Queen for a cone just because it's the afternoon and you want to see your kid smile or inventing a new game for brushing teeth to trick your little plaque monster into actually hitting the back rows or just sitting there watching him or her play quietly and feeling so lucky that you, YOU get to be a part of their lives, are trusted with their hearts, are considered the best mom in the world, even if they are biased because you make kick ass pancakes and try (and fail) to make Mickey Mouse ears with the last bit of batter just so they can be greeted with a silly surprise on their Sunday breakfast plate.

In the world of parenting, there is no hierarchy. Sure, a lot of people think so, by seeing someone react to a situation different than they would or reading in Parenting magazines of how we're SUPPOSED to raise our kids, the experts telling us "Don't spank!", "Don't yell!", "Let your kid call you Bob if she wants to!" , but we let professionals set the standards way too high. It's time to reset those standards or just make our own.

I lose my cool. I yell. I bribe. I even plead if I think that will help me get my way.

She cries, she throws fits, she becomes a boneless heap if she thinks that will help her thwart me.

But because I don't tell you these things, these less interesting slices of Sprite, we come off somewhat shiny and untarnished.

Only the marks of imperfection can create textures. And we have a lot of textures.

My kid is loved, she loves in return, she feels compassion, she knows who to run to when she feels afraid or threatened.

That makes me a great parent.

What makes YOU a good parent?

Fall Out

I can't tell you how much it meant to me to read those comments yesterday and realize just how much I resemble all of you. In the spirit of parenthood, all of our torches seem to burn brightest when it comes to protecting our young.

I love you for that. Honest. 

Yes, I should have contacted management or the police that day and made the man explain himself, but by the time I took control of my emotions, he was so far gone and I wasn't sure if I was coming or going, it just didn't occur to me until after the fact.

Yes, I should have called out the greeter for her inactions. (It was brought to my attention by a friend that the greeters are most likely trained to not get involved in any altercations to avoid any liability on the store's behalf. Welcome to our litigious society, here's your subpoena..)

The shoulda coulda's stayed with me for a while.

I absolutely love the comment made by Jen: "..i've tried teaching my children that if someone tries to take you ... you need to yell 'THIS IS NOT MY MOMMY/DADDY!' " (And folks, I've been a reader of hers for a long time. If she uses her Caps Lock, she is dead serious.) I am immediately going to change my teaching strategy to reflect this statement. It is everything it should be as well as a warning flag to other people in the area that something is not right.

Jen also made the comment that she was interested in working on something to put out to help with teaching/ learning about stranger danger. I cannot get onboard that train quick enough. Whatever age, even the TEENS, all kids need to be taught about strangers and what to do when a stranger approaches them.

I made a trip to Barnes and Noble the morning after this incident (I call it an incident since it seems less abrasive than "nightmare") and asked the head of the children's department, my friend Trish, if they had any books for stranger danger. She immediately found one, but skimming through it proved it was targeted for kids above the age of seven. We weren't able to find anything meant for young kids, kids not old enough to read but definitely old enough to call attention to themselves when they need to.

Google wasn't much help either. Other than the Berenstein Bears, I wasn't able to find any other titles that would relate to kiddies.

I think this is needed. I think this is something that parents need to be proactive on, not reactive as I was. I had been teaching Sprite about stranger danger, but not pushing anything. Now, I think I've overdone it with the rush of cautions, the bombardment of drills on who is a stranger and who isn't.

In the days after the "incident", she has been more clingy, more afraid of dark spaces, public places, even of her room. After a first night of burning all watts until she fell asleep, John had the brilliant idea of closing the dogs in with her to keep watch over the unknowns that attack a young child's imagination. For the past week, they've been biding their time until she finally hits the snooze button for the night before we release them to their own pillows. It has helped in the fact that now, she can fall asleep without hurting her retinas with all the electricity (plus, the airport called, we were a distraction to the incoming flight patterns) and we don't have to come running at every cry.

For a solid week, I fielded strong (wickedly strong) hugs to both my legs forcing me into a standstill as I would make dinner, repeatedly telling her to go sit in the other room, a room where she has full view of me, can hear me. Time after time, I would become more irritated as my little shadow followed me too closely before I was yelling at her that she wouldn't get dessert, get to go to the pool on the weekend, anything, just PLEASE SIT DOWN! I'M RIGHT HERE! NOTHING WILL HAPPEN TO YOU!

I started it with my initial reaction to her being lifted by an unknown man. With John's help, I finished it by practicing patience, tagging out for a breather and letting John take the brunt of her heavy handed love. We seem to be back on solid ground now since the past few days have brought me more personal space. I even cheered when she entered her room on her own without an escort. (Naturally, I did need to turn the light on for her, but we're big believers in baby steps.)

We're still going to work on stranger danger, and I'm going to work with Jen to get some tips put together that focus on the little kids out there

After all, our shifts are never over until the kids are safe and sound in their beds, right?

Right.

 

I highly doubt I'm a flight risk.

Flipping the fuck out in the entry way of Walmart is not how I wanted to start my weekend.

Yet, that I did.

My intention was a quick trip in with Sprite, pick up some groceries, and get home so I could get dinner in the oven for us and my best friend who was coming into town on Friday evening. John wouldn't be joining us since he was expected at work until midnight to monitor for any explosions that typically accompany a mass computer upgrade.

What I got was a parental nightmare complete with "What if?" scenarios dancing through my head and making my heart race for hours afterward.

We walked into the busy portico and grabbed a cart, Sprite keeping one hand on my leg at all times as she trailed behind me, a practice I've reminded her to do several times before if she doesn't want to hold my hand.

I positioned the cart in front of me, rejecting Sprite's request to sit in the main bucket of the cart. "Nope, groceries go in there. You're my co-pilot today."

She dropped the fight, content that she had her stuffed Lady dog with her, ready to be put into the child seat she usually hated.

I bent toward her, my hands outstretched, my eyes on her, suddenly aware of a person coming in from outside, and heading toward us quickly. Our personal space being invaded, I looked up, as this person was too close, still coming, and scooping his hands out, his fingers coming around to grip under Sprite's armpits, and lifting her up about a foot.

Sprite didn't know who was lifting her since her back was to him. She only knew that she saw my smile switch immediately into a full moon of shock, right before the words came tumbling out quickly.

"Excuse me! EXCUSE ME! NO! NO NO NO!" (I remember wanting to curse, but mindful for some reason that Sprite would hear it. Next time, if this ever happens again, Heaven forbid, she'll have a front row lesson in profanity.)

This man, older, definitely not wiser, with a weathered face that had most likely seen decades of farm work, his thick fingers more accustomed to heavy machinery than computers and keyboards, was holding my child in mid-air.

A man I didn't know. A man who didn't know me. Which meant he sure as hell didn't know her.

He took one step back, and my volume of no's increased as my own body finally remembered that I should move, I HAVE TO MOVE, and I pushed forward and forcefully grabbed her away, not caring if I hurt her with my grip, caring only that he not touch her any further.

"Are you CRAZY?!" I sputtered, meshing Sprite to my body as close as possible.

He stepped back, a small smile on his lips, his hands held up, "Well, excuse me," he remarked, almost sardonic in his manner, and walked away quickly, stepping into the bowels of Walmart, toward Electronics.

My hands shook as I placed Sprite into her seat, her face still a mask of confusion over seeing her mother act in such a way. I was now conscious of our audience, dozens of people frozen in time, their only focus on me as I surely more resembled a feral animal than a woman who was getting ready to stock up on bananas. I turned to see the greeter standing less than 10 feet away near the anti-theft stantions, watching me also, a look of boredom on her face more inclined of watching a television show and about to reach for the remote.

I also didn't fail to notice the always littered bulletin bord directly in front of us, spilling over with names and faces of kids who have disappeared or were abducted in the past.

Once I had Sprite situated, I looked back into the store to see if I could spot him, only one thought on my mind.

I wanted to kill him.

The adrenaline pulsed through me suddenly, needing release. That little act of idiocy he had just performed had landed him on my target list and I wanted revenge.

Honestly, I still don't know what I would have done if I HAD seen him again in the store. I'd like to think I would drag him to the Cutlery aisle and proclaim the world free of one more schmuck, then meet the arresting officers with a smile (hell, I'd probably call them myself) asking only to freshen up before I readilly admitted to murder, but I just don't know.

Determined to check the shopping off my list, I pushed the cart into the store and made it as far as the produce section just beyond the entrance before my resolve broke. I hugged Sprite tightly, my hands knotting into her messy ponytail, her elevated seat making it easy to assure me that she was here. With me.

Then I called John, not sure how he would react to my recounting of thirty seconds worth of time. Would he think it was something harmless and I had taken the dramatic route to resolve it?

I only had to say that a man, someone we didn't know, had physically picked up our daughter and John was ready to abandon his evening's plans and join me in the manhunt.

I declined, thankful that he was in the same mindset I was, and continued down the aisles, being stopped frequently by other shoppers, mostly women, mothers, who had seen the confrontation and asked the same thing:

"Did you know that man?"

"No."

"Honey, I would have hauled off and hit him."

(God, I wish I had.)

I don't know what his intentions were. Was he thinking he would be helpful and lift her up into the cart for me? Was he thinking he was being funny? (I keep getting reminded of that gag from Family Guy in which the pervert is trying to kidnap a baby from the shopping cart in a grocery store and the mother keeps catching him and they laugh about how he almost got the baby that time, isn't it all just fucking hilarious, I will never watch that show again) Was he truly going to grab her and flee?

While I was right there, not even a heartbeat away from her? WITH MY EYES ON HER?

The world has a lot of nuts in it.

I have to think he would potentially harm her. I took that stance the day they let me take her home, adopting my Mama Bear reactions, treating anyone outside of family and friends like a possible threat. I highly doubt any parent would always assume the former helpful approach.

Regardless of his intentions, he had done something wrong. He had touched my child. Thanks to today's society and population of offenders, people have had to account for their responsibility in just looking in a minor's direction for too long.

I have been in that "What if?" scenario twice myself, both times between the ages of seven and eight, the latter happening when I was standing on my front lawn, twirling a baton, the front window open to allow my mother a clear view of my actions. A blue car turned onto my street and stopped in front of me, about 10 feet away. The man, alone in his vehicle, leaned over, popped open the passenger-side door and smiled at me.

"Hi! Do you think you can help me-"

He never got the rest of his act out as I dropped the baton and bolted for sanctuary, my mother running out seconds later to look for the coupe which had peeled away just as quickly.

I was eight when that happened. Sprite is three, still not quite there with the ways and dangers of the world.

The rest of our grocery run turned into a hard line lesson on stranger danger and what to do.

Since she's three, she needs to up the drama and the volume, screw what people think my overly protective dramatic tendencies.

"And what do you do when a stranger comes over to you and asks you to go somewhere?"

"....Scream and run."

"Good girl."

Sure, the next time may be innocent, but I'm not willing to take that chance.

(This happened on Friday, July 16th. The next week, I met John for a weekday lunch and we made a Walmart run for odds and ends since Sprite was in school. Showing him exactly where it happened, he made the comment about how close it was to the entrance, how easily the man could have walked out with her if my head had been turned. Just hearing it made me sick. I also pointed out the same exact greeter standing at half-attention, her mind more on the floor than customer traffic.)

Now I'm asking you for your honest opinion. What would you do if you were in my spot? Not knowing what the person's intentions were, don't even assume what could or could not have happened, what would you do if someone you didn't know picked up your child? If you think I overreacted, go ahead and say I did. As long as comments are respectful, I respect the comments.

Week of Thanks: I'm thankful for a healthy child.

Being your oridinary average run of the mill (redundant much?) three year old, there's not much going on in Sprite's World that can throw me for a loop.

She mostly suffers her colds in cheerful silence, never complaining about the sniffles or coughs that come her way. Most of the time, we learn of her illness through her sneezes and the resulting color of the dangling participles (sorry for the visual, but that is our child's way. We've learned to stop gagging. You should too.) (Veteran parents are probably rolling their eyes, thinking, "You want disgusting? I can show you disgusting.") (No, thanks though.)

She scratches the hell out of her skin thanks to Eczema, but oh well. Here's a band aid and long sleeves. Stop yer bitching. (We're talking about my bitching of course.)

She feeds off the energy of her older cousins, but what kid doesn't? It's attention! From an older kid! Let it go unless you start to hear the older role models practicing their cursing skills, then remove the sponge-like small one from their presence. (We're talking about- yeah, you get it..)

Here's the point. I can't complain. She's a textbook child. (The attitude may be abnormal, but the pediatrician says I have no case.)

Most of the time, if you watch a child on the playground for about 10 minutes or so, (keep in mind, obviously watching a kid who is not yours may mean the child's parent is probably watching YOU, but we all do it.) you can get a good clue about how that child is in general. Factors will pop up and notify you of a possible physical or mental condition because the child is acting normally and some of these conditions will present themselves naturally.

But what about the kids whose conditions are invisible?

You wouldn't be able to tell if someone has Epilepsy unless they say something, right? Or unless they have an episode.

It is National Epilepsy Awareness Month and Kirsten over at Gone Bananasis promoting the hell out of it. Of course, her reasoning is close to the heart. Her daughter Meg was diagnosed with Epilepsy at a very young age, and while she lives the life of a normal child and loves everything about Hannah Montana, (By the way, is it just me or does Miley Cyrus slur her words? Oh, sorry, back to the more important topic) Epilepsy still is a very foreboding shadow on an otherwise sunshine day.

Kirst makes it her mission to keep Meg's life as carefree as possible (although she can't shield Meg from homework. That always sneaks in somehow.) while also educating others and raising funds to find a cure for (or at least a way to prevent) Epilepsy.

She's hosting a give away to drum up some buzz about getting the word out about epilepsy and the little known facts.

So go on over, say hi, and get acquainted with a cause that needs more support.

And be thankful for the health in your body, your child's body. Suddenly, childish angst doesn't carry so much weight, does it?

And now the conclusion to our story!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She started chattering excitedly, looking around in glee,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a quiet afternoon...

When the call came my way,

"Our Sprite isn't feeling quite herself today.

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

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

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

And her face is getting red from the emotional strain.

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

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

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

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

I hurried through the daycare and rushed into the space,

And immediately zoned in on her flushed little face.

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

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

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

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

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

This sad whimpering urchin was not our spunky little Sprite.

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

As I carried my child out into the late afternoon.

I quickly got in touch with the nurse on call,

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

The pain and the crying, her doubled over gait,

Her unwillingness to walk or even move as of late.

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

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

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

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

"Is appendicitis in your family history?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

I knew the night ahead promised to be more exciting.

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

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

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