Sprite's Keeper

Increments of Five, Part II

"Sprite, what are you thankful for?"
"You, Daddy, my grandparents, my cousins, my friends, pirates, and Captain Jack Sparrow."
"Captain Jack Sparrow?"
"He sailed with the Pilgrims."

(Part I here.)

"Gone was the fever, gone was the fright, it all disappeared o'er the course of one night."

Friday dawned clear and sunny, mirroring the chatty little girl who lost no time in reminding us that her birthday was almost here. And it was up to us to remind her that our Friday afternoon party plans had been axed.

John and I had both taken the day off to run errands and prepare for the cruise which would be bookended by a night's stay at Disney World, first on Saturday and then on Thursday, (Yeah, we were pretty impressed with ourselves for thinking of it too, imagining Sprite's face at the end of the cruise when we dropped the "Oh, how about ONE MORE NIGHT at Disney?" bomb on her. Score for parents of the year!) (Forewarning..) only the plans had changed since Sprite was now on the 24 hour list at school which meant running errands with an almost five year old interrogating everyone from the pharmacist to the cashier at every store with questions like "Excuse me, did you know I'm a little five?" or "Guess what my pony's name is!"

Not everyone won that game. (But credit to the bakery clerk at Publix for coming up with "Sparklehorn Spankypants". Not correct, but awesome answer without delay? Bump that woman up to management.)

Every stop on our way through town included a status check on her health. "I feel better! My tummy is okay! No headache, I think we can go to school for my birthday party please!" (We're still working on verbally punctuating our questions with exclamation points.) Every stop on our way through town included an answer of "Sorry, kid. It's not happening."

Now, an idea did whiz through my thoughts around lunch time when I remembered that she still had dance class scheduled for that evening. Another mother, about a month or so earlier, had brought cupakes to class for her daughter, something the other students had loved, and something I privately loathed since it's a weekly battle between Sprite and me every Friday evening when the teacher hands out candy at the end of class and putting on our street shoes is accompanied with:

"Look what I got!"
"Please wait until after dinner."
"But I want it NOW-HOW-HOW-HOOOOOOW!"
(Crying face, stomping feet, grand jete, one more foot stop, then crumple to the floor like a shot swan. End scene.)

They don't just teach dance in dance class.

So that cupcake had been an epic meltdown when I staunchly refused her even one finger swipe across the frosting until after she finished her meal. (No, this is not the forewarning I mentioned earlier, but it does hamper the parent of the year award. Meh, I'll deal. It was an honor just being nominated.)

Now, thinking of this prior issue, I decided to pay that mother back and earn some nasty looks myself from the other mothers who would have to deny their little ones sweet treats by bringing in some mini-cupcakes myself.

Thank goodness for nice dance teachers, Sprite was promised some singing, a birthday honor choo-choo, and special treatment, which the class delivered in grand style, accompanied by a thoughtful gift brought to class by her good friends Lilli and Elizabeth.

Birthday party saved!

I was still a little worried about her stomach issues, considering the doctor had diagnosed her on Thursday with a gastro bug, warning me that diarhhea would be soon behind. (Ba dum bum.) But food stayed down. Potty breaks yielded no issues. The kid stayed chipper, so John and I considered this to be a lucky turn of events and packed with gusto for our early Saturday morning departure.

And yes, I did pack a thermometer, fever reducer, and plenty of band-aids. (We were lucky, not stupid.)

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

I've mentioned before that we're not your average family when it comes to Disney World. We like to spend time there, meander through attractions, let our attention get stolen by the shows and parades. Sometimes, we don't even make it to the parks, which happened on Saturday. Getting a delayed start out the door, checking in at the hotel, and a late lunch meant ignoring Cinderella's castle and heading straight to Downtown Disney for some Saturday evening fun with our favorite Orlando family, the Katz's.

 We made it through dinner with nary a hiccup or upset stomach. Sprite bounded and played and acted out like normal. It looked as if we were in the clear for a cruise of epic porportions.

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

"Happy birthday, Sprite!"
"Am I all five now?"
"Yep."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Now I can't wait til my next birthday."
"You just reached five. Six is still a whole nother year away."
"Not six. Five and a half."
"...."
"That party will be SO COOL."

Part Next: Ship Shape... Or are we?

The fisheye lens is to a nondrinker what a... um, okay, I have a few Kahlua's under my belt, so this title only emphasizes my haziness.

I think John is trying to get me drunk.

I KNOW John is trying to get me drunk.

This entire vacation has been peppered with "Want a drink with that?" No, not water, which is my usual answer. He's pushing the spirits. He has this theory about Drunk Jenny. Drunk Jenny on vacation is a lot more fun than regular Jenny on vacation. Regular Jenny comes with a side of schedules and a special supersized dessert of "Everything must be organized!" (You should have seen our cabin.) (Even our hostess was impressed with the daily evidence of our stay and I even apologized for THAT.) Drunk Jenny comes with no sides, just a "Whatever the hell you want to do, I'm game" devil may care attitude that seems to be more fun than "Where's Sprite?" "Sprite! Get off that chair!" "John, get off that chair!" he usually gets plied with.

Sure, once I'm under the influence, things are good and merry as long as he watches the imbibery. Too much and I'm no good to him. Too little and it's just as if Regular Jenny came to the party alone and didn't bring the dip.

But getting me under the influence? That's a trick in itself. I'm not one to drink as it stands, and once this weekend is over, two hours and counting until Monday claims its next victim, I'll be back on the wagon and declining all alcoholic fancies that should come my way, but for some reason, the second we stepped aboard the ship, there was a glass of champagne in my hand and I was sipping at random.

Did you know it's okay to bring your own alcohol aboard a cruise ship? (Check your cruise line's rules. It may be different for everyone.) We smuggled (quite openly) several small travel containers of Kahlua, rum, vodka, tequila, amaretto, and whatever else caught John's eye during a last minute stop at a liquor store the night before we boarded. One thing I don't quite understand is a cruise liner's kind of lax strictness on this rule. One would think they would discourage it quite sternly considering this takes away from their own sale of overpriced mixed cocktails (I had to write cocktails several different ways because the spelling didn't look right to me. This is what drinking does to me. It makes me forget the English language.)

John had bought me a smoothie on the pool deck and we yanked out a small bottle of rum (I giggled like an idiot while trying to be discreet about it, but John smirked and just emptied the container right there in the adult pool area where cast members and other guests could see us. That's right. When I think I'm breaking the rules, I giggle like a moron. If you're ever with me and I start snickering with no apparent reason, check my pockets.) and made my smoothie a little more smooth. He basically took a $3.99 drink and turned it into an $8.99 drink. And it was delicious.

This entire tangent has been sponsored by Bailey's.

But anyway, the trick to making me drink is to trick my taste buds into thinking I'm not drinking any liquor at all. Then the only way I'll be able to tell is when it's too late to discreetly pour the usually horrid airiness of the spirits down whichever drain is closest. (Some plants have taken a beating for me in the past when a sink wasn't readily available. And thrived as a result. Who knew?) So John knows to keep my appertif's light and shaken, not stirred. (Seriously, is there a difference?)

So, when he learned that I can drink champagne without making the face of death that usually follows a sip of wine, he ordered a few glasses of it for our anniversary dinner. The milk that Sprite didn't finish from dinner was brought back to our room where he sneakily added an ounce or two of Kahlua and gave me what likened to a White Russian (or just the best tasting chocolate milk EVER) to accompany us to that evening's show.  

Sigh. There's still quite a few bottles of the stuff left over from what we DIDN'T drink during our vacation, but they'll keep until New Year's, the only other holiday I usually let my hair down and let my BAL up.

(I just read what I wrote and it seems this post needs a sponsor.)

(Don't drink and write, folks. You won't respect yourself in the morning.)

(Pictures and more stories to come once John edits them and sends back the damn rented fisheye lens. Seriously, who likes looking at those pictures where you feel like you need to be inebriated to enjoy them?)

(And now the title makes sense. I knew I would come around..)

Five and dime.

I am so excited.

No, really! Never mind the lack of proper punctuation to truly convey the level of exitement I feel. Let's just say that I am so excited, I'm almost zen about it.

On Sunday, Sprite turns five, but that's not what I'm SOOOO excited about. Oh, sure, I'm proud of her for making it to the fifth birthday, the last few months were a bit sketchy since the attitude got a promotion and the gratitude got a demotion if we're being honest, so yes, let's color me partially excited over that.

On Wednesday, John and I will have completed ten years of Marriage 101. (Now we get to take our graduate courses!) And that lifts my skirts too, but still not enough to hit that "OHM" level of tranquility I feel when thinking about this upcoming week.

To mark our five year old daughter/ ten year old marriage, we are doing this:

And this:

And maybe even some of this:

(images courtesy of Google)

Now can you see why I'm so excited?

I have never been a guest on a cruise ship before. I've sailed almost a hundred cruises, but always as a little worker bee, seeing to it that the guests were happy, that the Karaoke machine was well stocked with ABBA songs, always making it look like I was having a blast and loving what I did, but honestly? Long work days (Cruise staff had it easy at 12 hours on, 12 hours off. You may want to thank your waiters and cabin attendants a little more profusely next time you cruise for 18 hour schedules are considered a cake walk to them.) and little room for the crew to blow off steam except in designated areas (Sure, the bow of the ship lends for some amazing star gazing since it's so dark, but when you can't see the deck below your feet, you do tend to worry that the water will soon be replacing the planks.) made for a lot of time re-reading the few books I brought, thinking I'd have no time to just be and every day would be full of swimming and sunning.

They weren't.

But I did get to meet thousands of guests, a whole roster of forgettable faces with the same unforgettable look of enjoyment on every one. They were having a great time.

I wanted that.

Now, thanks to the stars aligning, major money saving, and a wonderful dual anniversary to be shared between the three of us, we are going to enjoy complete and reckless abandonment of time. That's right. No watch, no cell phone, no BLOG, no cares for four whole nights as the kid, who has already threatened to spend all her time in the Kid's Club, we've negotiated down to afternoons, yes, I've had to pull her back a little so we could have SOME family time together, I mean, who else is going to watch over our deck chairs while John and I take our tenth turn on the AquaDuck?, gets to celebrate her birthday sailing the high seas and we get to celebrate our anniversary dining in complete opulence at Palo, thanks to some babysitting perks the Disney geniuses thought of beforehand, (Some of those Imagineers must be parents.), and even an anniversary couple's massage, gauranteed to get the kinks out or at least relax you to the point of no longer caring that you had kinks to begin with.

My Nook is full of new reading material. My sunscreen is waiting to be packed. I have fully memorized Mamma Mia and am ready to hit that Karaoke room. John and Sprite are jumping at the bit, as I am. In my own mellow way.

We're going to have a fabulous time. And why shouldn't we? We're a happy family. We genuinely love each other, even when we don't like each other.

Damn straight we're going to celebrate this:

Getting some take out from the Sushi Bar

3 posts in a row? Did I get my blogging mojo back? Do you even read this site anymore?

Moving on.

Jan posted a recipe yesterday for savory almond flour muffins on her site, and being the ardent follower I am, I HAD to make them that very evening and review them.

You see, in our new lifestyle, there's not a lot of bread going on. (I'm sure I'll go more into this on a later post.) Anytime I see something that looks even like a distant cousin of a baked good and promises to be "safe", I want it.

For instance, our local health food store makes organic carrot cake, which John had gotten me for my birthday. (The kid was insistent on me having cake for my birthday.) The first ingredient in it was garbanzo bean flour. Can I just say it was absolutely delicious?

It was absolutely delicious.

Moving on.

Jan posts tons of recipes on her site, most of them these days related to healthier eating, and by that I mean coconut oil, tallow, all kinds of meats, etc. That's right, folks. Her cooking brings us back to basics. (Butter, y'all. Maybe Ms. Paula Deen isn't really trying to kill us?) (Although Jan doesn't use butter herself since she banned cow's dairy from her diet.) (Sorry, Jan, but I'm a bitch without the cream in my coffee, I did wean myself off the sweeteners so there's that.)

Wow, I'm really working myself into multiple tangents here. (So THIS is why I can't post more than twice a week anymore..)

On with the review!

 

Excuse the photos. John wasn't home and I couldn't find the memory card for his "nice" camera, so I used my trusty point-n-shoot. If you want nice pictures that actually make you want to eat the screen, go visit Jan.

Now, I didn't take any pictures of the mixing process, which was so easy, I had to constantly double check myself to make sure nothing had been skipped.

20 minutes later, we had muffins.

They complimented our meal of brown rice pasta (gluten free) and grass fed ground beef with organic marinara sauce. Oh, and spinach. ("Something green on your plate!") (Oh, God. My transformation of becoming my mother is almost complete.)

(I'm writing this post three hours after eating and I'm still full.)

 

Like my teeth marks? No braces. Look how even those dental grooves are.

Oh, yeah. It should be noted that Jan's recipe calls for unblanched almond flour and I only had the blanched kind, which probably affected the color. I had considered taking out the Ninja and trying to make myself some unblanched almond flour, but time was of the essence and I wasn't in the mood to waste perfectly good almonds should I do it wrong. (And Sprite hates the sound of the Ninja doing its thing. You know, for a "ninja", stealth is one of its weaknesses.)

They were better than cornbread. Seriously! Okay, don't just take my word for it. What did you think, John?

 

(I had to put the rest into the freezer before he could grab another. So, Jan, look for another word from me about how these thaw or reheat.) Yes, he loved them.

Hm, he's an easy sell. We need to go after someone harder, a tougher nut to crack, someone who must not be told that what she's about to consume actually has no processed flour in it.

 

"What do you think, Sprite?"

 

"Mmmph."

"Don't talk with your mouth full, kid."

Bottom line, the almond flour muffin was all she would eat for dinner. I even layered some cheddar on top of her pasta, she wouldn't touch it, but did ask for another muffin.

So there you go, three thumbs up, and something to look forward to for the weekend. (This recipe gave me eight good sized muffins although Jan's recipe calls for nine.)

Most of you who are still reading this site, all three of you, probably already frequent Jan's Sushi Bar, and if you don't, what are you waiting for? Get over there now before she releases her cookbook and becomes too busy and famous to post anything anymore!

(And maybe this review will net me an autograph for my copy..)

(Yes, that was blatant begging.)

Oh, by the way, Jan had no idea I'm doing this. She probably saw the title of this post and thought, "Oh, shit, what did that girl DO?"

I did muffins. That's what I did.

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."

Reclaiming Date Night

I was out on Saturday for a girl's night out, leaving John and Sprite to continue with their tradition of "Daddy/Daughter Date Night", even though Sprite is leery (understandably) of the phrase right now.

Since I was going to be out all night, and I was out ALL night, yeah, that would be best preserved (or pickled) for another post, I kept Sprite with me for the majority of the day since John had his own share of chores to take care of. So, I took her with me to the nail salon and let her experience her first manicure and pedicure since she was so interested in doing big girl things. (John heard about her wishes and immediately told me not to worry about the money, just do it, since he's concerned with her worries of all things dark and automotive these days, so he figured she needed a day of pampering to just have fun.) (Have I mentioned lately how much I love that man?)

 

The nail salon even had its own girl sized pedicure chair, complete with butterfly wings. Sprite felt honored to sit in it. I felt relieved when they only charged me fifteen bucks for both her hands and feet. But, oh, they took care of her. She had her first foot bath, ("Look, Mommy! The color's purple!") followed by her first sea salt scrub, and then the nail tech obliged her wish of "pink" and followed it up with little flowers on some of the nails and glitter.

While they were doing this, and the nail tech working on my feet was trying to start up his sandblaster for my own sorely neglected toes, I told her about her impending date with her father.

She wanted nothing to do with it. "I don't want to go to Date Night."

"Sweets, it's not going to happen like last time. Date Night doesn't mean you're going to have an accident. It was just that, an accident. Daddy will make sure nothing bad happens to you."

She looked down at her toes and smiled as the tech tickled the bottom of her feet with a loofah. "Remember when Daddy got in a accident and his chest was hurt? The doctor fixed him. And now he's better."

"Yes, he's-"

"And the blue car is fixed too."

"Yes, we have a new and better blue car."

She said nothing else, choosing instead to focus on the new experience of having her feet massaged. She didn't say much either as I got ready to leave for my own event, leaving John and Sprite to get ready for theirs.

I texted John later into the evening, asking how it all went. He told me to check Facebook as he had posted a play by play of their date:

 
"I'm out on a date with a special little lady. First, we start with some drinks.."

 
"She too was excited for tonight. Went out and even got her nails done. They look very nice.."

 
"...any good date holds his girl's hand..."

 
"Finish up the date with a nice movie, of course!"

I came home around 2 AM to find John in his office, waiting up for me, and Sprite, long asleep, with her sheets kicked off. Tucking her back in, she opened her eyes and gazed at me.

"I'm home," I whispered.

"Mommy, can I have a date with Daddy tomorrow?" she yawned.

Date Night is saved.

Impact

Susan and I brought our tickets for the Harry Potter finale to the front of the line, starting our hour long wait for the next showing of the movie we had been talking about for months.

"John's calling." Susan took the call. Most likely, as it always happens, my cell was turned down too low so John turned to my companion to get in touch with me. "Wait, what? John? I can't understand what you're-" She checked the display. The call had dropped. "I have no idea what he said."

Pulling out my own cell, I dialed his number. "He's probably telling us he's in the area or something." Sprite and John were on their date night, their tradition whenever I had friends in town or had a girls' night. The line picked up. "John? Where are you?"

The line was alive with noise, John's voice raising up a decibel more to be heard. "We're at the McDonald's entrance in front of the town center. We had an accident. The van is totaled. I need your help."

My stomach dropped. "We're on our way."

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

Running across a crowded parking lot to Susan's car, manuevering through heavy mall traffic to get to the scene, not even a half mile away, seeing the strobing red and blue halos light up the sky behind the McDonald's. Knowing that John and Sprite were at the center of it.

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

"Hi, baby, are you okay?" My voice took on a falsetto as I tried to control my own emotions, not wanting to stress her out further, but desperate to hold all of her, verify each movement with a mental checklist.

"Mommy, look at my dolphin! His name is Mater." She shoved the stuffed pillow pet under my nose. "We got in a accident."

"I know," I murmured, reaching out to hug John to me. "Are you okay?" I directed my next question at him.

"My chest hurts from the airbag," he answered. "Jen, I didn't have a chance."

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

Walking to the front of the van to take in the severity of the impact, feeling Sprite stiffen in my arms as she howls a cry of shock at seeing her beloved blue car in ruins. Cursing my own stupidity at enforcing the exposure and turning her over to my best friend so I can help John with the paramedics.

  

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

"That's a sexy look on you."

John looked up into my eyes, obviously uncomfortable from the back board, but the answering smirk told me he appreciated my attempt to alleviate the heavy urgency of the situation. "Thanks. I'll try to remember that."

The officer walked over to us. "What does your shirt say?" he asked John.

"Meh." We both tried to explain the slogan plastered across a Facebook blue background.

The officer smiled. "For a second there, I thought it said 'meth'."

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

Collecting details from witnesses, dragging Sprite's carseat and any valuable insurance paperwork out of the van, still caught in the glow of emergency lights, sneaking glances of my husband, still prone in the street, being hovered over by men he had never met before.

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

"Why are they putting a seatbelt on Daddy?"

I paused in my answer, not sure how exact I should be. Life lessons under pressure are not my forte. "They're putting him in a bed to take him to the hospital and be checked out. The seatbelts just keep him on the bed, that's all. Daddy's fine."

"Can I go with him?"

"Sorry, sweets, there's only room for Daddy. We moved your car seat to Aunt Susan's car. We'll follow them to the hospital so we can bring Daddy home."

"What about the blue car?"

I sighed. John was right. The blue car was totaled. "We'll have to find another blue car."

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

Driving through the night, updating concerned parents, arriving at the hospital only to be told the other county hospital has him, even though that hospital is a farther drive. Loading an exhausted child back into the car, her pleas to go home a reminder of the weirdness of the situation. Leaning on one of my closest allies through it all as I navigate the directions to the next stop of the evening.

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

My cell rang with an unfamiliar number.

"This is Lieutenant Kinicky." (Spelling has been changed.)

"Yes, sir."

"I've met your husband at the hospital and provided him with the other driver's information. The other guy is getting charged with 'failure to yield right of way'.... Are you on your way?"

"Yes, we thought it was another hospital. Healthpark says hello, by the way."

"Are you sure you're okay to drive? You haven't been drinking?"

"No, sir. My best friend is driving and I'm not drunk."

"Okay, then. I'm leaving the hospital now. And tell your husband to lay off the meth."

A voice raises in the background.

"I DON'T DO METH!"

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

Reaching the right hospital, leaving Susan and Sprite in the car so I can find out where exactly John is. Standing in line for the triage nurse. Watching as a young man walks out of the back rooms and into the waiting area.

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

"Is she okay? We heard the machines are breathing for her," the woman in front of me addressed him.

His eyes looked vacant. "It's worse than that."

He walked past, the other four following him to the double doors and collapsing against each other in cries of despair.

My eyes wide, I turned back to the triage window and spotted the nurse watching me with a bored expression.

"Next?"

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

"Can you tell me the nature of the accident?" the desk representative clacked his way across the keyboard, inputting our insurance information into the system.

"Um, my husband was Southbound on Ben C. Griffin and another vehicle blew a stop sign into his lane causing him to impact the other car."

"Did airbags deploy?"

"Yes."

"Any other- hey!"

I turned my head to follow his gaze and viewed a man's body facedown on the floor. Security, closest to the man, didn't move as the same bearer of bad news from earlier walked over and helped him up, rousing him from his faint. They walked towards the outside area.

Looking back at the rep, I noticed his sardonic smile. "Happens all the time," he remarked, then caught himself back up to speed. "Do you have an attorney?"

"An attorney?"

"Yes, for this accident."

The same accident that had just happened two hours ago?

"Um, no."

"Well, let me give you the number of a great one. Helped me out a lot." He snatched the digits from thin air and pushed the paper to my side of the desk.

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

Being led to John's "room". Walking past half-opened curtains of other tales gone wrong. Hearing laughter to my left, observing police officers guarding a room to my right. Watching me as much as I'm watching them. Finally seeing John's face and hearing the doctor tell him to expect a few days of soreness, but otherwise fine. Being reminded over and over just how lucky John and Sprite were to walk away from the wreck.

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

"Sorry we ruined Harry Potter for you," he murmured, walking out with me to meet up with Susan and our sleeping daughter.

I grasped his hand tightly, holding myself back from giving a snarky answer, saving my anger for the next morning when the impact of tonight would hit us once more.

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

John and Sprite are both okay. Despite some complaints of a hurting back which was immediately checked out by her pediatrician, and some regressive fears such as driving in the dark still rearing its head, we're finding our way back to normal. And Sprite has a new blue car that she loves, even if this one doesn't have DVD.

Shorti-locks

I should have known that the day I posted about Sprite's long hair and my love/hate/we can be Facebook friends but don't expect me to invite you over relationship, this would happen.

John had joined Sprite for her school's annual Father's Day event, conveniently held at 4PM so parents would get the not so subtle hint to take their kiddies with them when the party ended at 4:30. (Every time they do this, I tell my boss beforehand not to expect me back unless he would like to hire a preschooler part-time. So far, he has not taken me up on this.)

As John is extremely busy at work, I spent a majority of my day calling and texting him to "Remember, the party is at 4!" "Don't forget about Sprite's Father's Day thing!" "Hey, Father! Yes, you! Allow for travel time! Don't be late!" and "Can you pick up milk?"

(He never got the milk.)

John sent me a picture update from the actual party to let me know he was there and I noticed that Sprite's bangs were covering her eyes. Texting him back, I related this and he sent me another picture with his own hand holding up those errant tresses.

"Much better!" I wrote back.

At 4:30, as I was on my way out of the office to drive over and pick up Sprite, he called. "Don't come to the preschool. I'm signing her out. We just need to stop somewhere and then we'll be on our way home."

"Just let me know when you're actually on the way and I'll start dinner," I replied.

He didn't do that either.

Instead, he posted a series of pictures on Facebook about that mystery errand, thinking I would see it, forgetting that until I'm ready for bed and coming down off my day, I don't frequent Facebook.

 

I know.

 

I KNOW!

 

Sigh.

About an hour after our conversation, I heard the garage door open, signalling their arrival. In our darkened bedroom, I was picking up the last of the midweek laundry when Sprite rushed in.

"Mommy, see my lollipop?" She waved the candy in front of her.

My smile immediately fell as I took in the short tresses. "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR?" I screeched, dropping the laundry basket.

She faltered and turned, running out of the room. I followed suit and found her standing behind John in the kitchen, trying to hide from her mother turned maniac.

I know I overreacted. I know this. I regret this as well, but I learned a lesson that day in parenthood, that John is not aware of the Law of the Locks. The Law of the Locks is simple. No children in the household shall have their hair cut unless the mother is present or at least AWARE of the impending date with scissors. This law also extends to dogs. The father has full right to cut his own hair any way he wants, but the mother does have a say in the decision and can (and will) exercise her power to veto that "do" in the future should it turn out horribly.

Being that we don't have a son, I'm not sure how I would enforce the Law since boys and hair usually go short and neat, buzzed, bald, or long. With girls, a whole nother story. I was the one who always took care of Sprite's hair, I was the one who braided it, I was the one who kept it neat, I was the one who determined how long I would let it grow. I just wasn't prepared to let it GO. And I certainly didn't expect for John to take on the task himself when Sprite had been so adamently opposed to anything shorter than Rapunzel length. So my reaction was purely shock, and with proper notice, I would have faked my way into a good cry when the bathroom door was closed. (That didn't happen either.)

Long story short: (oh, come on, it works here) I apologized for my freak out, John apologized for breaking the Law, and has now sworn up and down that he will never so much as let anyone come near Sprite with pointy objects unless I am standing by. (The stylist went a little short with the length resulting in an awkward ponytail. I would have kept it a few inches longer.) Sprite is happy with her haircut, and I've shaved a good five minutes off my hair brushing time.

I'm even growing to love it. It doesn't curl as much as I feared it would and frizz is still not a part of her heady vocabulary. Besides, we can always let it grow out again.

 

Or maybe not.

 

Tangled

Many commenters on Friday's Spin Cycle touched on a topic that is an ongoing battle in our house.

 

The HAIR.

 
 

This is a common position assumed in our daily lives. Usually, it's Sprite and me. John has taken the helm (hair) in rare times when I am at work or my hands have been chopped off. (One or the other. Never at the same time.)

The hair is the reason Sprite alone is the posessor of five hairbrushes. One is kept in our bathroom, one is kept in our van, and the other three she thinks she's being slick with since I'll find them hanging from her life size Rapunzel doll's mane or crammed into her dresser, buried under winter sweaters. It's too bad she doesn't realize that just covering the bristles won't make the handle of the brush disappear. Stupid technicalities.

She complains all the time when I begin the process of combing 2+ feet of hair. "Ow, you're hurting me."

"We haven't started yet."

"Oh.. well, I'm practicing for when it does."

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

I had long hair myself once. Back in high school, my hair reached beneath my tailbone. I had to pull it out of the waistband of my jeans when getting dressed. Every night, I had to tie it in a ponytail then add more bands to my hair in descending order so even the tail itself wouldn't tangle as I slept. During my cross country days in 10th grade, I was forced to braid it then loop it so it wouldn't constantly whack against my back as I struggled to maintain last place in whatever race I was running. I learned early on that the best way to brush long hair is to gather it in your hand and use the other to brush out from there, thus sparing your roots from feeling the pull when you encounter the inevitable knot that always shows up or the occasional nesting bird.

I use this same technique on Sprite every time. But alas, she still complains, mostly because she knows her daddy will automatically assume I'm methodically ripping her hair out strand by strand and rush to her aid with detangler spray amidst my cries of fraud, "Trust me, I'm not hurting her!"

Now, the long hair is her idea. Even before Disney decided to shove its proverbial foot even farther into our home (and wallets) with the latest Princess movie, Sprite has been keen on long hair. She has gotten trims, although we mostly stick to bangs (home cuts). I've offered to cut her hair before, every time, she's declined.

Every time I wash her hair, (another long process since wetting her hair is a mirage. You think you got it wet, but you barely skimmed the surface. While the outer layer looks damp, just brush it aside and you'll see the second level is bone dry. Otters would KILL for her kind of water protection. Our BEAGLE is jealous. Dumping bucket after bucket of wet on her head is the only way to go. Let's not discuss rinsing the shampoo out. Conditioner, you say? Two in one, honey. I can only suffer through it once in a night.), I offer again to cut it.

Nope. Not gonna do it. Won't even entertain the offer. I've gone as far as to promote the rockin' style Rapunzel herself has when Flynn chops all of her hair off at the end of the movie, um, spoiler alert, uh uh.

So, we've reached a truce. As long as she wants the hair that goes down to there, and there, and over there, it has to be brushed every morning and every night. Usually, it ends up in a braid for the night since that is the surefire way to avoid tangles.

Sometimes, I even get adventurous with the little plastic ties.

 

That was before dance class a few weeks ago.

 

Her teacher's comment upon Sprite coming in for some tap time?

"Oh, Sprite! So THAT'S what you look like!"

You mean I could have been sending in some other kid all this time and she would have never known?

I would have still been paying tuition, so no win there..

 

 

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.