Sprite's Keeper

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..

Judging by the photos, you'd think we spent our vacation in a Benetton ad..

I should confess now. Hell, I should have confessed back in June when John bought the damn thing, but I think you can tell by the quality of the pictures that have been appearing on this site. John has gotten himself a fancy schmancy high quality costs as much as an actual cannon complete with cannon balls, hehe, I wrote "balls", Canon camera.

He's been playing with it ever since, testing out speeds, settings, even the holy "manual" setting in which you actually need an eye for that sort of thing, or patience and an updated eye perscription. He's even let me practice, and I've shown some of the results here on this site.

I still have my point and shoot, which sits dutifully in my purse, ready to use at a moment's notice since his requires more effort, and storage space, but I admit it! John's equipment is a lot more fun to play with.

(If you think I'm oblivious to what I just wrote there, I've been smirking for two whole minutes over it. I wonder if John will notice...)

So, okay, here it is, in all it's (late) glory, our Disney World vacation photos, the nicest ones picked out of the thousands (yes, I said thousands) we took, here for your viewing pleasure. And captions to boot! If you could care less about the back story, then just scan through the pictures and have yourself a good day. If you have time to spare, enjoy. It's not like you have anything to do today anyway..)

Major disclosure: I have almost no idea what I'm talking about when it comes to photography. I just know what I like and asked a lot of questions while John was editing. Right over his shoulder. Repeatedly. Thinking back, that could have been annoying.

 

We took this picture near the "falls" at Wilderness Lodge. The afternoon sun had created a lot of shade for the pool area so while direct sunlight is missing, the colors really seem to pop. Also, the color blends were a complete accident. I had shrugged Sprite into her sweater since Sprite's honorary great-grandmother "Mama Elli" had knitted her the sweater but fretted that it wasn't the right length, so I wanted a picture of her in it for proof that all was well. Thanks to that picture, Sprite scored herself another Mama Elli original for Christmas in beautiful pastels.

  

This picture is practically untouched. I call it the "happy surprise", which happens once in a while when you take hundreds of pictures, and while scanning through them, you come upon one which is absolutely perfect, right focus, right light, right everything to give the photo personality and warmth. John only toned down the color a bit as the sun had faded the overall image just a little too much.

 

I love what Photoshop does for the skin. John took this picture while we were waiting on line to meet Donald Duck near the Mexico pavilion at Epcot. He softened my skin with a retouching tool, re-cropped it to take out the rest of the background, and added a halo effect to the mouse ears on my beret. (I know. I wasn't aware you could do that either. It kind of killed my admiration for a lot of professional pictures in which I thought the photographer had captured EVERYTHING just right.) And this has become his favorite picture of me. (Really. I'm already framed and on the wall.) I'm not telling you he retouched the picture to make myself look humble. I'm telling you to keep myself honest.

 

Ah, yes. The magical morning. It had been raining most of Sunday morning as we puddled our way over to The Grand Floridian Resort for breakfast with my folks. After our meal though, the clouds broke apart and the most beautiful sky presented itself. And with the shower the area had received, everything was fresh and clean, as if the rainstorm had been sponsored by Zest. So we took advantage of it, ignoring the "implied" instructions to stay off the grass (that would be why they built sidewalks, right?) and John and I sent the grandparents out onto the lawn to chase Sprite a bit. John added a slight vignette to this one just to round it out some.

 

Now, this one has a pronounced vignette, meant to spotlight the special bond between Sprite and my mom, who seems to think Sprite is a complete angel despite my protests (with charts and everything!) otherwise. Sprite had just run to her and in a swoosh, Baba grabbed her and brought her high for some love. And John captured it. I think this is my mom's favorite.

 

John didn't do much to this one after he took the picture on our sunset ferry ride to the Magic Kingdom. So he tells me. And I'll believe him considering he didn't bother to erase the circles under my eyes or clean up my eyebrows. But he loves this photo for the simple reason that it's a common look for me. On a good hair day. When I'm not breaking out. I'll shut up now.

 

There is so much I love about this photo. John had shown me both the original color and the black and white. At first, I preferred the color, but then, when he cropped it, (and did nothing else) I was immediately enthralled with the black and white since the action is so much more pronounced. Her shadow, her mouse ears, even her clothes become timeless. Plus, Minnie's bloomers are showing. A little tarnish on the old gold for added cheekiness.

 

John named this picture "In a world of her own", a tongue in cheek reference to Alice in Wonderland, one of Sprite's favorite movies. (The cartoon, not Johhny Depp. While I would actually encourage a healthy obsession with Johnny Depp, I don't think beheadings as depicted in the film are in her near future.) He took this photo in Epcot down one of the garden paths, while we were waiting for one (or both) of my parents to use the restroom. Once in editing, he simply boosted the colors of the flowers and added a vignette around the border. Lots of vignettes going around, there may be an epidemic..

 

I don't know why I didn't include this picture in Sprite's birthday rehash since it's clearly a favorite. All I know is that I took the shot and then John turned it into something better. I think he darkened the colors a little and added a small vignette for the borders and it now speaks so much of the little boy who only shows his goofy side to those who know him and the fun we had. Thank goodness we're good friends with his parents or they would surely question why this is framed in our home.

 

This picture came very close to being a throw-away. While going through the preliminary round, John didn't think the focus was very good and trashed it. I immediately stopped him (and instated the three second rule to let me concur before his finger does the knee-jerk toggle over the delete key) and asked him to play with the settings on it since I really liked Sprite's expression in it. So he whitened the edges and the result made me happy.

 

Don't let the picture fool you. It was very cold outside when this was taken at Wilderness Lodge. This picture is actually a re-crop (and warmth added to make it seem like the summer) of another picture in which Sprite was in my arms and doing something weird with her face (the same face which accounts for 500,000 other unused photos) and John decided to crop her completely out. I know, it's mean, but she's still in the will..

 

And of course, John's parting shot of her princess transformation, whitened around the edges to give it a touch of purity, the colorful Mickey barrette a stamp of approval on our vacation.

These aren't the only photos we took, but with all the pictures and captions I've thrown at you, you probably need a break. Go on. Stretch your legs. Grab a drink. Take a nap if you're so inclined. And I promise these are the last ones.

Huh, I just noticed that there aren't any pictures of Sprite with the characters. It turns out I do have one more to share with you.

On another day..

They probably thought we'd forget.

 

(taken at Disney's Grand Floridian Resort)

What year do you have to hit before people stop getting you gifts on your birthday? For the holidays? For an anniversary?

As an adult, I've hit my stride long ago with birthdays, meriting only a phone call from my friends (who remember), a giftcard from my folks and in-laws, and a token from John, if he can eek out a hint of something I'd like other than my usual request, "nothing, thank you."

They don't hand out receipts for nothing, do they?

As for the holidays, I am more than happy to participate in the "oh, it's for the kids anyway" rule and focus solely on those whom are waiting for Jolly Ole' St. Nick to arrive, thereby decreasing the incoming gifts to one or two, again from the parents.

Anniversaries? Meh. Those are private affairs, undeserving of more than a Facebook shout out, should the honoree actually use their status to declare for one and all, "Yes! I am still in a relationship! I still <3 the person I am married to! Celebrate me! Celebrate US, but on MY page. (LOL)."

Anniversaries are trumpeted more when the marriage is new anyway. Once the patina starts to hit around the fifth year, well wishes are usually limited to the immediate family and, and again, those Facebook friends who will graciously take half a second to "like" your announcement.

Of course, your kids are not immune to this rule. They must celebrate you every year. Because their existence can only be traced back to you. (Certain limitations and exemptions apply on the Maury Povich show.)

Back when I was a wee little keeper, didn't have a Sprite to my name, my sister and I used to try to come up with ideas to honor our parents on their anniversary. These thoughts usually ran from the obligatory mug, the handmade cards, and attempts at baking a cake, (like the time Lee tried to make them a pineapple upside down cake, but in the process of de-panning, turned it more into a pineapple inside-out cake) (we ate it anyway) (dude, I've been waiting YEARS for the opportunity to work that memory into a post..) to the more often than not less thought out gifts purchased at Things Remembered. "Hey, it's engraved therefore personal! They HAVE to keep it! Score one for us!"

One year, on their 16th anniversary, we actually came up with a plan that wasn't half bad, we would buy a photo album (yes, I know it's not unique, but run with my tangent a second here, okay?) and fill it with our choice of photos, providing a caption beneath each of them, sort of their history as seen through our eyes. One problem though. My dad was a stickler for his pictures. They were kept under pretty tight guard in their bedroom closet, you know, the closet you have no business being in unless personally escorted by an adult, and no matter how many times you try to convince them the dog you dragged along with you is technically an adult in canine years, you're sent straight to your room to sit and think about what you've done, even if it was nothing. Yeah, that closet. And they always knew when you were even thinking about the closet. Kind of the same way my dad always knew when one of us kids was getting too close to the record player.

I swear, my dad's ears must have been manufactured by Dolby.

So, yeah, that anniversary took us several weeks to plan for, sneaking into their room during Christmas break when neither one was home, relying on our young, albeit selective memories to make sure nothing was out of place when done, as we picked through hundreds of meticulously maintained photos.

Sure, we ruined a few, I'd hate to see the state of that album now seeing as we used the wrong type of pen to write our captions directly onto the paper, attaching the pictures with masking tape to keep them in place under the plastic sheeting.

Scrapbookers are shuddering as I type this.

When that fateful day came to present our gift, we were uncertain if it would be well-received, given that we did basically damage the original pictures. (This was before scanners. Or duplicates. Or digital. In fact, I believe the only digital things in our house at the time were the microwave clock and the flashing 12:00 on the VCR..)

They loved it.

They loved the pictures we chose, the captions we wrote, the snark that I couldn't keep out of the descriptions even at the tender age of thirteen. Now, being a mom, and being gifted with handprints and scribbles from my own child, I understand that while it wasn't perfect, the time and energy we spent on this project made it gleam as such in their eyes.

I've been trying for years to trump that gift.

 

I think we did it by giving them their grandkids. Actually SMILING. AT THE SAME TIME!

Mom and Dad, you can thank us all later. (And tell us what size you want the prints to be.)

(And if this doesn't top the 16th anniversary gift, lie through your teeth.)

Happy 37th Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Love,

Lee, John, Jenny, Bryan, and Sprite

 

Out-of-towners

"John, we have to leave."

I had been searching the house for both him and Sprite, finding her in her cousin's play tent, refusing to come out since she knew it was time to go, finding him outside with his brothers, warming his beer by the fire pit.

I always hate this part of a party.

Because we live on the West coast of Florida and ALL of our family is on the East side, trips across state usually involve two or three different gatherings, trying to fit as much family into our plans as possible. See my parents, see his parents. Dinner plans with aunts and uncles. Breakfast with sisters or brothers. Every hour is typically accounted for, plans are set, time is limited. And of course, with such tight schedules comes the inevitable "just a little longer" which screws the next item on the agenda, which leaves us apologizing to the next relative for being so late.

Exactly what I was going to have to do tonight since it was my turn to be the bad guy and call it quits to our Christmas Eve merriment with John's family so we could join my side for their Christmas Eve/ birthday party soiree. We were supposed to leave by 6:30 latest so we could keep to our 7 "ish" quote with the next gathering.

It was almost seven as I finally accounted for man and child. I gathered our things, presents for Sprite hastily shoved at us as people realized we were leaving, and we inched our way to the door, followed by two other revelers who had to excuse themselves momentarily to move their cars so we could extract our own.

My brother-in-law hurried in from the backyard. "You're leaving now?"

I nodded, my smile sheepish. "Thanks for having us-"

"Go to the fire, one minute!" He passed me, rounding up others.

John and I looked at each other.

"We're really late," I warned.

"Just a minute," John reasoned, "then we'll leave."

Casting a glance at the clock, seven chimed right then, I walked to the backyard, joining the growing number of people, family members, friends, absolute strangers who had been called upon as well.

Finally, my brother-in-law and his wife spoke.

"We wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas and give our parents their Christmas presents. And feel free to read the card out loud." Jeff's face glowed in the firelight as he and Loni each handed an identical slim wrapped package to their respective folks.

My eyes immediately focused on my own in-laws out of habit, watching them struggle with the  festive paper amid the murmurs of "they probably got a cruise".

My father-in-law pulled a diaper from the wrapping and began to read the card. My thoughts immediately began with Alyssa is already potty-trained. Why would Jeff and Loni be giving them a diaper?Their daughter had been doing well sans diapers for almost a year now. It never occurred to me that-

"-Alyssa is going to be a big sister!"

(I usually catch on more quickly than that..)

The collective whoop of cheers came up as well as my hand to cover the "o" of my mouth, tears springing to my eyes, and a cousin I was standing next to placed her arm around me, pulling me close in an awkward side hug. "Sorry," she whispered, " I know you want one."

I glanced over to the rounds of hugging, a wide smile plastered across my face. I would not crumple here. I would not spoil their moment. I WANTED to celebrate along with them. "I'm okay," I responded, "thanks."

I only had to last a few more moments before we left anyway, then I could give in to whatever I was feeling, I wasn't even sure what I was feeling, I just knew I didn't trust myself for more than two minutes in such a public setting.

A hand came upon my arm and pulled me from my cousin's side into John's embrace. He had come from the other side of the fire to console me.

No, don't do this, I thought. Not now. I'm okay. I'm-

"Sorry, hon. We'll get checked out. This will happen for us. We'll have another."

My resolve shredded instantly. "Stop," I whispered into his ear, my voice already cracking, the tears spilling over, "please don't."

His hug grew tighter. "It's all right."

This surely wouldn't look right to others. Too many people in attendance knew about our struggles to have a second child, too many others who were also there did not know our story, and would wonder why a woman was breaking down dramatically in the face of wonderful news.

Trying to steal the show maybe?

I needed to get out of there. I needed to compose myself before we attracted too much attention. I was afraid to know just how much attention we had already drawn. 

I broke from John and walked away, not daring to swipe at my eyes until I was far enough, slipping inside the now empty house to find the bathroom.

"Jen, I'm sorry I said anything," my cousin's voice came through the closed door as I ripped toilet paper from the roll to dab at my wet cheeks.

Oh, hell. It was a scene right out of high school. Girl gets crowned Prom Queen, other girl who wanted the title then runs out of the room crying, her entourage right behind her in solidarity, to shout messages of love and support at a locked bathroom door. All that was missing was John Cusack and Molly Ringwald.

The image made me cry harder as I heard John tell her, "just leave her alone for a few minutes."

Breathing deeply, I gave myself a little time to will away the redness from my cheeks, the emotion from my eyes, splashed a little water on my face to further dilute the evidence.

I squared my shoulders, looking into the mirror for clues of sadness that would cause questions while trying to book it for the exit.

I looked tired. And somewhat overcome, but that could easily be blamed on tired. I was ready. I opened the door, set a smile upon my lips and rounded the corner to come face to face with John who was holding onto a squirming Sprite.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked, not mentioning what we both knew would be discussed in the privacy of our own vehicle.

Thank you.

Calling out well wishes and hopes for a wonderful New Year to those we passed, we made our way to the door.

We ran into Jeff as we neared the van and I paused to give him a hug goodbye. "I am so happy for you!" I exclaimed.

I meant it.

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.

Evolution of a Party

 
  

 

Not copping out, just extending my deadline..

It's midnight, Sunday morning, well before the rise of intelligence when we take to the highway for the Annual Celebrate Our Dads Roadshow.

I'm under the weather, full of popcorn, thanks, Jan, (And thanks, Publix for running that buy one get one on the kernel jars, score!), and ready to drop my shot of NyQuil like it's last call. (Lime chasers optional. But yummy!) And I have nothing to post for Father's Day.

Or do I? The Spin isn't due until Friday. And John's Father's Day is next Sunday when we celebrate him and only him. By taking the kid to see Toy Story 3. (Yeeaahh, I can see how he's getting the bum steer in this one, but if I just talk him into thinking it was his idea, we should be okay.)

Therefore, I will force upon you the Father's Day post I wrote last year, something that still holds true, especially to the little girl that stole my man's heart. (It's okay. I know where she lives. And I have 15 more years to get her back. I'll think of something, I'm sure.)

Before I start the re-run, which may or may not have a commercial, their check hasn't cleared yet, I just want to wish all the dads out there a very happy Father's Day.

Homecoming

He was home. His business trip was finally over.

I hung up with him as I turned into the airport's entrance.

"Okay, Sprite. Daddy's here. Wanna go get Daddy?"

I peeked at the rear view mirror and saw her staring dimly at the DVD player. It was late, too far past her bedtime, way too far past her logic's threshold. We were both running on fumes by now and  I had the feeling that I could have dangled the Princesses in front of her face and her reaction would have stayed the same.

Once we parked, the tired child immediately demanded a ride in my arms as we steered toward Baggage Claim.

I looked around, slowing my steps down, trying to peer through the throng of people  congregated around the only working carousel. "I wonder where Daddy is." Sprite's head stayed glued to my shoulder, not interested in my one-sided conversation.

Then she heard it. A whistle coming from about 100 feet ahead of us. She straightened and looked into my eyes. "Daddy?" Her voice sounded hopeful after a week of only seeing him through the computer camera.

The whistle sounded again. This time, I spotted him in the crowd.  Stopping, I put her down and pointed him out to her.

"Daddy!"

She had spotted him. Forgetting about the distance and the people she would have to navigate to get to him, she bolted.

He leaned down, his arms opening wide while I fumbled for my camera to try to capture the moment they made contact with each other. I didn't quite get what I wanted.

 

I watched them embrace and heard her scream with excitement and him exclaim over her dress and her hair, compliments he knew she wanted to hear, the musical voice he knew she loved. He pulled a Belle doll out of his carry-on bag to present to her, but the doll played second fiddle to him. She was much more interested in him.

I walked over to the two of them lost in their greeting, one spilling over with words she didn't quite understand to fill him in on everything he had missed in her week, and the other studying her closely for any signs of change that may have possibly happened while he was away.

Reaching them, I stole a kiss for myself, happy that my partner was back, my co-pilot in parenthood. We secured his luggage and walked out of the airport quickly, as if that would expedite our return to normal, at least the normal we knew.

A few moments later, I realized they had stopped. I turned around and caught them still chatting and soaking up each other's essence. This time, my camera captured exactly what I wanted to see.

 

Only he can make her smile like that. And only she can make him smile like that.

Happy Father's Day, John. Sprite and I love you very much.

And a happy Father's Day to everyone else out there too, especially if you can make your kids smile just by coming home.

He was home. His business trip was finally over.

I hung up with him as I turned into the airport's entrance.

"Okay, Sprite. Daddy's here. Wanna go get Daddy?"

I peeked at the rear view mirror and saw her staring dimly at the DVD player. It was late, too far past her bedtime, way too far past her logic's threshold. We were both running on fumes by now and  I had the feeling that I could have dangled the Princesses in front of her face and her reaction would have stayed the same.

Once we parked, the tired child immediately demanded a ride in my arms as we steered toward Baggage Claim.

I looked around, slowing my steps down, trying to peer through the throng of people  congregated around the only working carousel. "I wonder where Daddy is." Sprite's head stayed glued to my shoulder, not interested in my one-sided conversation.

Then she heard it. A whistle coming from about 100 feet ahead of us. She straightened and looked into my eyes. "Daddy?" Her voice sounded hopeful after a week of only seeing him through the computer camera.

The whistle sounded again. This time, I spotted him in the crowd.  Stopping, I put her down and pointed him out to her.

"Daddy!"

She had spotted him. Forgetting about the distance and the people she would have to navigate to get to him, she bolted.

He leaned down, his arms opening wide while I fumbled for my camera to try to capture the moment they made contact with each other. I didn't quite get what I wanted.

 

I watched them embrace and heard her scream with excitement and him exclaim over her dress and her hair, compliments he knew she wanted to hear, the musical voice he knew she loved. He pulled a Belle doll out of his carry-on bag to present to her, but the doll played second fiddle to him. She was much more interested in him.

I walked over to the two of them lost in their greeting, one spilling over with words she didn't quite understand to fill him in on everything he had missed in her week, and the other studying her closely for any signs of change that may have possibly happened while he was away.

Reaching them, I stole a kiss for myself, happy that my partner was back, my co-pilot in parenthood. We secured his luggage and walked out of the airport quickly, as if that would expedite our return to normal, at least the normal we knew.

A few moments later, I realized they had stopped. I turned around and caught them still chatting and soaking up each other's essence. This time, my camera captured exactly what I wanted to see.

 

Only he can make her smile like that. And only she can make him smile like that.

Happy Father's Day, John. Sprite and I love you very much.

And a happy Father's Day to everyone else out there too, especially if you can make your kids smile just by coming home.