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..

Eye Spy

"Mommy, you want to play I Spy?"

Ugh, no. Really, with all the power in my pinky finger, hell to the no.

But we're stuck in traffic. We've already discussed her school day. I now know that Trey is in trouble. AGAIN. And I remind her once more not to play with Megan because Megan is evil will usually get Sprite into trouble. And she's already said hello to Daisy and Maisy, two of the fifty cows that continually graze in the field right beside the congestion.

Please don't ask me how she knows which one is Daisy and which one is Maisy. (Although once in a while, another cow named Justin Beiber will be called to. As long as that's where the familiarity stays, I'm good with it.) They're interchangable.

Is there anything else I can think of to put off this hated game until we reach home and it's too late to play?

"How about we sing songs?"

"No."

"I'll even let you sing 'Love you like a Love Song'." I'm really desperate. Traffic is still not moving.

"No. We'll play I Spy."

Nononononono..... "Okay, whenever you're ready." Damn it.

"I spy with my little eye, something....."

With the red lights in front of me confirming the standstill, I look to the rearview mirror to watch her eyes progress around the interior of the van, to the floor which has been recently cleaned and is now devoid of the orange crumbs left from an errant stepped on bunny snack, the same orange crumbs which had stumped me a week earlier for TEN MINUTES, which in rush hour, easily translates to hours, years if you have more than one child playing. She now looks to the center console, but clearly rejects the brown lid of my reusable coffee cup since she tormented me with that one yesterday. Then her eyes flick outside to the scenery then back to the interior, and she smiles. She's found her object.

Am I cheating?

Do I care?

"....brown."

"My coffee cup lid."

"No."

Red lights still glowing. I scan the front seat. "The strap on my purse."

"No."

"My hair."

"No."

"YOUR hair."

"No."

"Your eyes?"

"No."

Oh, this could take forever. I quickly peruse the front seat, the back seat behind me. Nothing else is brown. "Is it inside the car?"

"No."

Okay, then outside. "That car, the telephone pole. That construction worker's boots."

"No. no, no."

This game gives me a headache EVERY TIME. And I remember how this game probably gave my mother headaches since I would pick the hardest objects every single time, trying to trip her up on things like the slender tan piping gracing the purse of the lady 3 people up in line at the store.

This is payback in every sense of the word.

"I give up, Sprite. What's brown?"

"Maisy!"

Of course. The always color changing when appropriate to the moment cow.

The light turns green. For heaven's sake, people, use your gas pedals and MOVE!

"Oh, that was tricky. Okay, I guess it's my turn now."

"No, it's still my turn."

"That's not the way you play."

"Yes, but Mommy, you really need help learning the game. And I will teach you, because I know everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes, because I'm a big girl."

I bite my tongue because biting the steering wheel will surely end in me losing a tooth.

When you post your Christmas present opening photos on Facebook, I am totally judging your home.

You do it too.

I love this time of the year when the Internet is abuzz with "97 new photos" added to someones profile, along with the tantalizing teases of a three picture collage, a self promo to go ahead and click the link. "Check out Alison's new bracelet she got from Santa! And try to figure out if the paper carnage is due to recent unwrapping or someone forgetting to crop the photos to exclude the stacks of bills on the already overcrowded dining room table behind them!"

Sure, I love to see the pictures of the tree, the decorating, and the franzy of fresh faces opening their gifts, BUT...

I also look for the overbooked shelves, with titles half-hazardly strewn about, jockeying for space with a full DVD collection of Star Trek, Original, Enterprise, AND Deep Space 9. (If I got any of those titles wrong, I apologize. And don't care to learn my lesson because really?) I look for the tray tables stowed in the tight space between the couch and the wall.

Yeah, I can see it. Although, there are those, and I do write this in an almost transparent attempt to make you (and them) see the error of their ways, who make some semblance of an effort to clean up prior to the plastic packaging overload, and I see some beautiful trees, glittering with the character and brilliance only years of painstaking ornament buying, making, and saving can do, almost dwarfed by the smartly wrapped presents, big ticket items included, not a dust ball to be seen around it.

Those same people then tend to forget that the pictures aren't ALL going to be taken right in front of the tree as the kids will most likely migrate to the couch or farther, away from the wrapping evidence of earlier presents uncovered, and those subsequent pictures will include Grandma's not quite covered legs due to a robe malfunction or a sneak shot of Buster's beagle butt or even those bins of crap that should have been in a garage sale eight months ago stacked to the ceiling and photo bombing Junior's excited unwrapping of his light saber. In green. To match the red one he got last Christmas.

And then, it gets worse. One particular photo essay was so awful, I cringed, yet had to keep clicking just to remind myself that my home is NOT as bad as it gets. The photos were innocent enough, people showing off their new toys and games, but how could the poster not see the extremely soiled carpet just under their feet? Or the proud picture of the cat sitting on the dining room table, just inches away from Christmas dinner, the entire set up right in front of obviously shoved knick knacks, DVD's, and maybe even another cat, pushed to the wall to make way for company? Or even the really inappropriate clothes they're wearing? (And in some cases, maybe that should read *not enough clothes*.)

How could they not see it when I CAN???

Maybe I'm being harsh.

Okay, I'm definitely being harsh, but this should be considered an open letter to anyone posting pictures or video onto Facebook to show the general public. Just because your daughter /son /wife /husband /pet /car is the cutest thing on God's green earth, this doesn't mean the viewer isn't going to observe the surroundings in the same photo and critique the hell out of it.

Just "proofsee" the picture before you post it. (Yes, I made that up. You're welcome.)

I'll even throw myself under the bus here.

I posted the following photos on the first night of Hanukkah:

This is a menorah I received back in 2000 from my parents. You can see the present Sprite was trying to give me in the background, as well as a clothes hanger, and some artwork, not bad for a dining room table.

Here's the same menorah, now tweaked with Sprite's first present of Hanukkah. Notice how the gift and hanger are gone, yet replaced with a burnt out light bulb. (John was in the middle of changing it out when I snapped this.) Yes, there's things on my dining room table, but obviously temporary. And no stains on the cloth. (That can be important. Especially when there's company.)

Now, if I post another picture next year and you see the same bulb sitting there, then you can point the finger..
 

An afternoon quickie..

"This is Jennifer."

"Hey!"

"Oh, hi. What's up?"

"Were you on your other phone?"

"Yes, but it was dragging so I used you as an excuse. Thanks for getting me off."

"...."

"The phone!"

"Ha-"

"Shut up."

"-ha ha!"

"Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup!"

"Too late. You're welcome."

It's a Kindergarten world.

It didn't even hit me until I was showering.

"Hey, John, I think I understand now what happened between Sprite and Kayla."

"Really?" (Yes, he was in the bathroom while I was showering. We're married, It's okay. With a kid, the ONLY time we get to talk is when we're showering or sleeping. And I'm not about to trade my sleep, so there you go. The secret to a long marriage is steam and self-confidence.)

"Yeah, with the entire worm-mud cake incident."

"And what about-"

Wait, let me fill you in on the back story.

Two weeks ago, I picked Sprite up from school and nothing was out of the ordinary. I exchanged pleasantries with the teachers, retrieved her homework, and hugged my daughter hello. On the way home, I asked the usual questions, she answered as usual. No worries.

Around 9:30 that night, I received a text message from Kayla's mom. The gist of the message was "sorry to let you know so late, but I wanted to make sure Sprite's okay. I had a long talk with Kayla and she's going to write Sprite an apology letter."

What? I thought back to the evening and any red flags. Nothing popped up. So I texted back, "She never said anything about it. I'm sure it's okay."

A few more messages of calm back and forth and I ventured into Sprite's room. The kid was still awake. (In our house, a sleepy but still hanging on child at 9:45 PM is not out of the ordinary.)

Sitting on her bed, I asked, "Hey, what happened with Kayla today?"

Her mouth crumpled immediately. "She said she was going to make me a worm-mud cake."

"A worm-mud cake?"

"And she told me I couldn't go to her birthday party." She sat up, looking dejected.

I reached out and took her in my arms, confused about the emotion involved. I mean, four year olds pull this kind of shit on each other all the time. Yes, Kayla is someone Sprite has been hanging out with since they were infants, Sprite even calls her a best friend, but nasty one minute, nice the next, right?

"And then Kayla and Sammy chased me saying I would have to eat worm-mud cake."

I soothed her hair. "Honey, I got a message from Kayla's mommy. Kayla is extremely sorry about what she said and I'm sure things will be fine tomorrow."

And they were. Sprite came home with a lovely hand drawn note of apology from Kayla and a story of a wonderful day at school.

Problem solved, right?

Well, apparently, kiddie problems are like tv shows, they only reference "Last time on.." when they're ready to pick the story back up which could be two or three episodes later while another back burner plot heats.

"Kayla's not my friend anymore."

I looked up into the rearview mirror, seeing her arms locked around her waist in anger. "What happened?"

"She said I can't go to her birthday party."

"Kayla's birthday isn't until October, Sprite. It's still a while away. Things may change."

"She said I'm not invited and I can't play with her anymore."

Now, being as Sprite has been around Kayla for years, this means I have too. This did not sound like the Kayla I knew. So I took the median route out since I had no idea where to go with it. "So maybe you shouldn't hang out with Kayla anymore."

"She's not nice to me."

"No, it doesn't sound like she's being nice at all."

Now I was more perturbed because the problem didn't have a solution yet. The apology note and promise of love had fallen flat in the world of VPK.

I sought out her teachers the next day. Not because I wanted to rat out Kayla. I just wanted to be sure that if Sprite was having problems, she was not just taking it sitting down.

"Oh, no. She did say something about it to us and by the end of the day, they were playing again, well, you know kids."

"Sure! I just don't want any ongoing issues." Actually, I wanted to know if she was standing her ground. I understand that life will hand you some blows once in a while, but in a smallish summer wind like this, she shouldn't be falling down so easily.

Knowing she was aware of her life lines, I felt better about it and brushed it off again.

A week passed, one day she and Kayla were thick as thieves, the next they weren't. Definitely not normal, but now it was just pissing me off that my kid was getting her feelings stomped on by someone else, someone else she trusted and loved.

Finally, on Friday of this last week, she got into the car, ready for dance class.

"Did everything go okay with Kayla today?"

"She wasn't in school. Her mom is getting married tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah! Did you wish Ms. Nicole well?"

"What?"

"Oh, never mind. It's just somethine we say when- you know, it's not important."

"Mommy, I want to go to the wedding."

"Honey, we can't go. We weren't invited."

"But I want to go to a wedding."

"Well, your daddy and I will renew our vows in a few years, and you can be in THAT wedding. You can be my maid of honor, wear a pretty dress and everything." No, really. John and I have been talking about renewing our vows and of course, my daughter will be the maid of honor. If she throws me a nice bridal shower..

"Okay."

We put Kayla, weddings, and school out of our minds and continued with our Friday routine.

I didn't get it until I was lathering up. Kayla had been taunting Sprite about her mother's wedding and the fact that Sprite wasn't invited. The worm-mud cake was wedding cake. The taunts were cruel, which was why Kayla's mom thought a formal apology was necessary. (Otherwise, I thought she was putting too much effort into little childish games.)

I guess I just hadn't been aware of just how direct the taunts were.

"And what about the worm-mud cake incident?"

"It just makes sense now. It was all about Nicole's wedding."

"Jen, I knew that in the beginning."

"You did?"

"I spoke with Nicole at school. Sprite didn't tell the teachers what happened. She told Nicole."

"She ratted Kayla out to her own mom?"

"Yes."

Huh. Sprite had figured out that telling a teacher wouldn't merit punishment for her tormentor since they tend to water down the juice until it seems a punch started out as a well intentioned hug, so she went straight to the top level of management.

And I felt better. (Oh, come on. You would too if you knew the bully got their just desserts.)

I still love Kayla. And I'm sure now that all the wedding stuff is over, she'll return to her sweet old self who's waiting for Sprite to come to school in the morning.

I just hope that she'll hold her own when the stronger social winds come bearing down.

****Updated to add: I didn't think it important to the issue earlier but many are considering Kayla's reaction to her mom getting married and changing the family dynamic. Actually, Kayla's mom married Kayla's dad. They just made things official. (Seriously, such a sweet family.) But, in the holistic approach, planning any big event which involves the whole family can throw everything into upheaval, even when the event is something positive. I got Sprite dressed for school this morning, reminding her to be nice to Kayla and chances would be good that everything would be back on an even keel.

I can only be relieved that the worst words that can hurt right now are "ugly" and "you're not my friend". It's more of an affront to Sprite since the person saying them is someone who's been an alli for so long in her life. I'm not looking forward to the later years when the words take on a more personal meaning..

Derailed

"Okay, Mommy, you color the hair and I'll color the shirt."

Picking up the red colored pencil she had pointed to, I obediently pressed the tip to within the area designated as Ariel's hair.

"No, wait!" Sprite snatched the pencil from me. "I'll do it. You do the shirt."

Ignoring the tiny impulse to lecture about her tendency to take things: pencils, crayons, remotes, my time, I instead turned my attention to the blue pencil and began to trace the shirt.

"No, Mommy. It's wrong. You're doing it wrong."

"It's not wrong. It's a shirt. I'm coloring the shirt blue. Didn't you want me to?"

She smirked, shaking her head. "Fuhgettabowdit," she drawled, using her left arm to gather the rest of the colors to within the safety of her embrace.

Forget WHAT?

"Who taught you that?"

Her eyes became pure innocence as she looked up at me. "Taught me what?"

"That."

"What?"

"Forget about it."

"Okay."

"No. Who taught you-"

"Can I have a snack?"

"What? Wait, I want to-"

"Do we have strawberries?"

"Sprite, I want to- no. We don't have strawberries."

"Can I have a banana?"

"Um.... yes. We have bananas."

"Thank you so much, Mommy!" Batting her eyelashes and flashing some teeth, she picked up her pencil once more to return to dyeing the Mermaid's hair as I, completely lost on my train of thought, didn't even realize I derailed until after I fetched her a banana.

I think I need to scratch a notch into her side of the score card.

Forsaking Y

I should be blaming Hobby Lobby since they dared to open a store in Fort Myers, then they dared to display all sorts of absolutely useless yet appealing treasures for the home, then DARED to yank up the price only to slash the $$ in half by mounting huge "50% OFF!" sales at eye level to show how friendly yet profitable they are. (I think there's a law somewhere in retail saying all sales signs must be posted between five and a half and six feet from the floor in order to draw the most attention. Some even go above and beyond by covering the actual price with the red cardstock so you can see how much you'd really be saving. That's when they know they have you. You touched it. Whip out that card now. That oversized plate with the 3 butlers all carrying some form of pasta surrounded by the words "Live, Laugh, Love" is now yours.)

I should.

But no, I blame me.

Ever since we painted the great roooom, (No typo, this space covers the living room, dining room, catch-all of life's accessories, and the small alcove we should call a kitchen, but lately it feels even smaller since Sprite and the dogs like to convalesce on the floor while I'm at the stove, and ONLY while I'm at the stove, so I call it "kitch".) John has been happy with it. Sure, add a picture here or there, just so the walls aren't so green, but he didn't see any great need to do more.

Those same walls called to me, asking for company, an art piece, a picture, "something, damnit! Just because we're drywall doesn't mean we're warm!"  (In your home, you talk to the walls. In my home, they talk back. And curse. Expect any different?)

Lately, I've been fascinated by the blog Young House Love in which the DIY-ers transform everything themselves, and have a real knack for it too. I noticed their gallery wall in which their monogram letter was displayed and loved it, thinking I would like to see a "C" on our walls. (See a "C". Seahcy.... I shall name my next child Seahcy. Boy, of course.) (Not pregnant, thanks for asking.) (God, that's getting old.)

While traipsing through the cavernous store with my friend Cynthia after it opened, I spotted some gold brushed letters, perfect for the mossy-sage green walls in my home. I declined to purchase it, thinking I shouldn't waste the money, but remembered it for the next few weeks until I finally talked myself into going back for my little want and using five dollars out of the grocery budget.

While browsing through the selection and making sure I got the "C" with the most even gold tone, (Oh, you do it too. You also finger through the packages to find the one least likely to have been used as a hockey puck during shipping downtime. Don't pretend otherwise. This blog is about TRUTH! And children, which seem to not go well together unless the timing is ironic..) my eyes happened to move down and spy some smaller, also uppercase, letters and an idea came to me.

Why put a C on the walls when it would just mean Cohen? Why not add a little humor, a joke, a twiddle if you're so Victorian inclined? I grabbed a small "Y" and a small "A", also on sale at 50% off! SCORE!, and ran to the register to pay for my snickers before I lost the mojo.

 I came back to work and told Cynthia about my plan. She smiled appropriately, but I knew she thought I was five shades of insane for finding so much joy in it. (There's six shades that I know of, there may be more, but only the truly insane can see them and I'm not quite there.) (Yet.)

Okay, just to make sure we're all on the same page, 1079 if you're following numerically, my vision was to place the "C" near our front door, which is right now only decorated with, well, the door. Then I would add the "Y" and the "A" next to it, so departing guests would notice the "C YA" as a way to not only gesture to the informal nature of our personalities, (Yeah, if personalities were clothes, we would probably be nudists.) but to also really drive that "goodbye" home. There's also the side benefit of CYA being the acronym of "cover your ass", which is like a mother's parting kiss(off) as her child exits, "Have fun and don't get arrested!" or the more impersonal "If shit happens, I don't know you."

Now to convince John....

Who knew he would be easily convinced?

He loved the idea! (Whoa. Total epiphany. Is there a correlation between "idea" and "Ikea"? What does Ikea even mean? Does it mean idea? Because the two really go schurliker in schurliker, don't they? New slogan! "Idea? Ikea!" TRADEMARK PENDING!)

The only issue we had was where to place it, above the door almost like a sideways horseshoe? (Yeah, I mentioned that possible trippy placement to him and he quickly vetoed the idea. Our house is a democracy. With a little tyranny, but at least she has a name and isn't old enough to vote.) Or beside the door since the off white lightswitch coverplate looked so bare by itself?

We finally confirmed beside the door (the vote ended in John saying, "Whatever makes you happy, can we stop talking about it?" Most votes do..) and then had to decide whether to place the "YA" inside the C or to the right of it as more of an obvious phrase. John liked it in. I liked it out. That vote ended in John's win since I ultimately agreed that obvious was not what we were going for.

Then it hit me. Hang the "Y" and the "A" inside the C, but make it look like they were balanced almost half hazardly on the bottom curve, like an afterthought, which would speak of our spontaneous nature. (Given that I'm only 2/3 through the story and over one thousand words in, a lot of thought goes into spontaneous..)

I nailed the "A" in and placed the "Y" to the left of it before asking John if it should be more crooked or not, thinking the "Y" would stay there momentarily while we made our hour long decision.

Now the title makes sense, right?

Of course, as all things happen, the "Y" tipped out in slow motion, while my reflexes were stuck in shocked neutral, and made the four foot dive down to the wooden planks. (Usually that's the starting point before you hit the sea, we just do things backwards around here... Oh, please tell me for the love of comments that someone got that joke.)

Of course, as all things happen, the "Y" then broke into three golden chunks, which of course could not be brought back together, but is now doing double duty as the easiest puzzle Sprite has ever had to solve. "Look, Mommy! The letter Y!" Every. Five. Seconds.

 

And of course, as all things happen, walking into Hobby Lobby on Monday did not yield me my replacement piece as they were currently out of stock, and trying to convince the associate that they really did sell that particular letter, "I know you sell it because I broke it", now has me saddled with a raincheck and a promise to call when the stock comes in. They never call...

So, this is where we stand right now. We have a C and an "A" hung up on our wall, with no "Y" to complete the art statement. And since you need a "Y" to assign the joke to YOU, right now, you could say the joke's only on us.

RTT: It's been a while for me..

I think Stacy is still leading the revolt against ending Random Tuesday Thoughts. Or Keely has picked up the gauntlet again?

Let me cover my tracks and tell you to click on both sites and say hi. This way, you DO make it to the right place (eventually) and I can fact check one less thing today.

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

I think Harry has a tick in his fur. Rather, in his skin, since we shaved him near bald this last weekend to stop him from becoming a plant seeing as every weed out there likes to attach their crap seeds to his long hair, so there's really no fur left. In fact, when all the hair came off, we realized how gray he was getting, punctuating the fact (repeatedly) with "Dude, you're getting old!"

Today he turns nine, which works out to, um, add seven... carry the one... really lucky in dog years considering the amount of times he's peed under our dining room table just to be a schmuck.

So, I keep reminding myself every couple of minutes to tell John about the tick since I refuse to do anything about it myself. It's more of a squeamish thing, I think, or it's a, um, nope, definitely a squeamish thing. John is working late tonight (Monday) and I'm trying to stay coherent since the drowsiness is really starting to kick in.

Harry must be noticing my phobia for, even though he's known for being a loner, a rebel, he's extra cuddly tonight, wanting to hop into my lap for some love just to be pushed off amid screams of "Unclean!" (Subtle, no?)

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

Lately, I am addicted to House Hunters on HGTV. Not the International one, those shows seem to center on people looking for a vacation home in Belize somewhere in the million plus range. "Only five bathrooms? How will my husband and I survive??"

Of course, on most of the episodes I see, I can't help but notice that there's one home out of the three possible that is within budget, nails everything on the wants list, is within walking distance of someone's work, and is move in ready. The prospective buyer gushes about the place only to turn around and pick the one that's over the high end of their budget, had nothing they wanted, and has a crack in the foundation and water in the basement. And then, after they pick it, they praise it up and down about how it's exactly what they were looking for and the water in the basement is a good thing for they now have an indoor pool.

I have actually pressed the rewind button on my Tivo just to make sure they're lying.

They are.

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Taken from a Facebook status:

John: You can't make me laugh.
Me: Yes I can.
John: Just try it.
Me: ....... Sasquatch.
I win.

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Another Facebook status: (Have I mentioned how tired I am tonight?)

"Can I be the kid?"
"Mommy, you can't be the kid."
"Why not?"
"You're a dolt."

She only has a few more years to get away with this, so I'm letting her have it.

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Okay, one more Facebook status: (Seriously, these little joke apertif's make up most of my Facebook content. I am not known for my insightful commentary..)

Sprite: Where are we going today?
Me: We may go to IKEA.
Sprite: What's IKEA?
Me: A store.
Sprite: It's not a store. It's a playground.
Me: For Mommy it is.

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OOH! I just saw this one! Personally, I think it didn't get enough notice for the hidden meaning within the joke, I guess a lot of people were just too in shock over the news to notice it:

ABC canceled All My Children and One Life To Live. There's going to be a lot of pensive staring out of windows tonight..

Please tell me you found that funny. I laughed myself silly over it for ten minutes after I posted it.

Alright, this should be enough for my first foray back into the land of RTT. And I think I have jetlag for some reason even though I went nowhere near a plane this weekend.

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Oh, and John? If you haven't heard yet, Harry may have a tick in his skin. Can you check? Preferably when I'm nowhere near? Thanks.

*shudder*

Al Dente Revisited (technically, it's the first time, so the revisiting is completely hypothetical and only because I couldn't think of a snazzier title and remembered the one time I used this title and figured I should use it again.)

I really need to stop explaining myself so much. It would make for quicker blogging..

(The first Al Dente is here.)

Ah, the dentist, one of the few first time milestones that kids have a developed memory for. The wonder, the instruments, why the hell is this lady trying to stick her rubber tasting fingers into my mouth?

Loads of fun, no?

Since Sprite turned four, I've been meaning to make the appointment. Granted, I probably should have made it when she was two, but I just didn't see the need for the dentist to tell me what I already knew: "She's got teeth. And she bites. Two for two, that'll be a fifty dollar co-pay, please."

 I know, I know. Lazy Mommy. (Hey, just in time for Mother's Day!) Anyway, when I finally made the appointment, after hearing my friend Rachel's glowing recommendation for her childrens' dentist, John and I began the task of actually psyching her up for said appointment.

"Guess what, Sprite? You get to go to the dentist!" (insert squee here)

Now, see how that last exclamation was worded? Not "you're going to the dentist" or "you have to go to the dentist" or "you must go to the dentist", no, no. I know how to play it up. Sell the time share points. "You, yes, you! Are the lucky winnder, selected and qualified to take part in the bi-annual ritual of being encouraged to drool while a stranger puts nasty tasting metal in your mouth and explores in there, all while forcing you to answer questions in Garble-tongue! Just sign here and submit your voided check and we should be on our way to a lifetime of black-out dates!"

Maybe it was because I didn't offer a free lunch or three night stay in the Bahamas to go along with the spiel, for she looked up with her eyes half closed and asked, "Can I have a cookie?"

Meh. We plodded ahead with the previews anyway. "Going to the dentist is fun! You get to sit in a big chair and pick out the flavor toothpaste so they can brush your teeth for you! That's right, Mommy and Daddy are going to sit back and let the big 'Say Cheese' do it for us! And then you get a sticker and we get to sell it to you again in six months-won't-that-be-fun!"

Still not working.

Once we hit the week mark, we became aggressive. Sprite has been fanatical about the Berenstain Bears lately. Every night, she's come to demand a book from the collection my sister so lovingly handed over, and while we have a good six or seven, we zoomed through the stash quickly and have been picking up new ones based on good behavior, usually as of the last ten minutes or so. (Of course, a nighttime accident happened, thanks to my forgetfulness to clear the immediate area of possible targeted dolls and books once she fell asleep, and a brand new book about Too Much TV went the way of the trash the very night we bought it. How's that for irony?) John, with a rare evening off, used his Tablet to buy the Berenstain Bears Visit the Dentist.

This got her attention.

"Sister Bear went to the dentist! And her tooth came out and the tooth fairy took it and Sister got money. Do I gets money when my tooths come out? And she got a sticker and a balloon and can I go to the dentist to-DAY?" (Insert squee here)

All of a sudden, I was on the other end of the excitement. No longer was I hyping up the unavoidable. Now I was disappointing her because, dammit, Monday wasn't Thursday. (Trust me kid. If I could turn Monday into Thursday, I would be very rich and we'd pay someone to go to the dentist for you.)

Questions about when we were going to the dentist were followed by questions of when she would actually lose her first tooth. Suddenly, teeth that were secure in their spots yesterday, I could swear, were mysteriously loose.. "Thee, Mommy? This tooth feelth looth!" Her tongue, a la one of the illustrations in her beloved Berenstain Bears scenes, demonstrated what looked like a noodle hitting a stone wall. That sucker was standing strong no matter how hard she pushed.

"Honey, your teeth will come out when they're ready. Be patient. It will happen. And when it does, the tooth fairy will do something nice for you." (Seeing as first teeth are now worth twenty dollars, the tooth fairy is making no monetary promises.)

Then loose teeth became other body parts. "Mommy, my arm feels loose. Will I get a new arm when this one comes out?"

Oh, Lordy, help me bite my tongue before it spews forth with snarky laughter. "Um, no, sweets. You only get two arms and two legs. The only things that come out are teeth. Everything else grows with you."

Finally Thursday dawned with an 8 AM call time. We were taken back to a kind of middle room for the round of questions and answers. Then the tech announced we would see a short video before commencing with the actual appointment. For a split second I thought I was going to be forced to sit through a "Your Body, Yourself" informational video complete with chalkline diagrams that are supposed to look like anatomy. Instead, we watched a thankfully short cartoon about Geena Giraffe and her trip to the dentist along with her (Subplot!) mission to defeat King Cavity. Sprite, a little put off by the basic animation, (Sprite, once you get to Kindergarten and any public school area, ALL the cartoons and pamphlets look like this. I'm sorry for subjecting you to DreamWorks and Disney for all those years without warning that not every animated plot comes complete with songs and spunky princesses but instead a barely disguised lesson.) looked wearily at the tech once she re-entered the room (Yeah, I wouldn't be forced to sit through that carturd again either..) and announced we would do the x-ray portion of our visit next.

Walking to the little room with a very big chair front and center, the tech proceeded to separate Sprite and me, telling my nervous child that "Mommy needs to stand outside the doorway so her belly doesn't get exposed" while hovering her right hand over my midsection.

Our eyes met, my eyebrow raised in the negative, and she quickly added an addendum to her speech "or her eyes or nose or hands.." while I immediately relegated my empire waist blouse to the back of my closet for the foreseeable future.

Sprite wasn't buying it for she immediately pulled her Ace out of her sleeve. "I hafta go potty."

I called her bluff and took her to the bathroom only to be told, "Just kidding!" and trudged back to the x-ray room where we learned we had lost our spot to two girls, 4 and 3, who were patiently having their x-rays taken.

"See, Sprite? It's not bad at all!" She leaned closer to me, trying to disappear into my purse.

The tech came over sensing Sprite's fear. "We don't have to get the pictures today. We'll just have the dentist look at her teeth."

Now here's where she aced the exam. Opening her mouth on cue for the dentist and letting her teeth be "tickled" with that awful scraper, she was annointed with a clean bill of health and thought nothing of it.

"That was the hardest part, Sprite. Now, can we go get the pictures done?" I asked, even though the tech had packed our file up and was ready to show us the door.

Sprite nodded, and negotiated for Pinkalicious, her morphing turtle-unicorn-pony doll, (Seriously, it's a unicorn to everyone else but her and her interpretation changes daily. In fact, yesterday, she decided that Harry was a girl and Blue was a boy. That was hours of fun of tripping over myself with gender assignments before bedtime magically moved up a half hour. Don't look at me like that. Once the kid can tell time, I promise I'll stop pulling rank.) to also have her x-rays done too.

The kid did it. Without complaint. Just sat and looked this way and that according to direction, and did it.

Damn straight I was proud. And no cavities to boot.

Now, we just get to remind her of her bravery and talk her through it again in six months. Oh, the joys of parenthood...

Just.Don't.Touch.It.

 

It's a headboard. Not quite finished yet, so I won't link the site I snitched the plans from, actually the site gives the plans away for free!, so I promise to give the linky love where it's due. When it's done..

This will be going to into our guest room as soon as I finish getting everything put together. Only the frame is intact and screwed together, so if you were to pick it up right now, the only thing louder than the sound of the loose planks hitting the floor would be the sharp intake of breath escaping my enraged face. Fun, right? Let's not find out..

And Sprite? Thinking the intricate design makes for a challenging game of hopscotch?

No.

JUST NO.

 

So, now you know why pictures are slow in coming, but finishing this project is slow in going. I can't wait until Saturday to finish this baby up, but John and I are now locked in a heated debate over colors.

I want to paint the headboard a yellowish gold to compliment the curtains. The wall is a buttery yellow, lickable if you're really hungry, so I thought a darker shade would contrast nicely. John thinks the headboard should be a merlot red, to matchy matchy the side tablecloths and the lamps atop them.

Hmmm. The decider may be whatever nice shade I can find in a spray paint. I'm not about to touch this puppy with a paint brush in any form..

Pictures of Sprite's room to come next week!