Sprite's Keeper

Speak No Evil

Her mouth quirked upward and her hands shot to position to cover the smile before I could see it.

Apple. Tree. Dejavous.

My anger faltered, because my knee-jerk reaction is to smile in response when my personality's twin brings me a sunny-side up, but she knows this by now. She knows I'll crack and the lesson will be left unlearned.

No. I bucked up and remembered the cause.

"You need to brush your teeth NOW." Of course, this was the fifth now in the fifth minute, but the only one counting is the one who has to repeat it.

"No."

My eyes swung back to hers.

She had been waiting for me to do this, for the felonious smile didn't even have a chance to see the light of day, her hands stayed in position.

"I told you to brush your teeth." My voice was quieter this time, more intense.

"NO." Her voice was quieter too, muffled by her logic that if I couldn't see the smile, it ain't happening.

I reached behind her and swatted her on the butt. Not hard. Never hard. (Let's not get into the entire "Hitting or not hitting" debate. I'm just telling it like it is.) (Or was.)

She danced away and brought her hands down to sing out, "That didn't hurt!"

Welcome to my evening routine.

 Not the bum swatting part. We're more of a words oriented discipline style in this family, but the defiance, the laziness, the unwillingness to get up off her duff and do the most minute task, be it washing her face, brushing her teeth, dressing up or down, the sheer brazenness accompanying her rejection of the rules, this has become an established commercial break in an otherwise formerly enjoyable program.

As John's work hours extend beyond seven or even eight depending on his tasks, dinner, bath, and bedtime reading typically fall to me, and I do look forward to our time together, just Sprite and me.

Or, I did.

I've tried many techniques all promoted by leading parenting magazines, Super Moms, and the nosy busy bodies who think my disciplining Sprite in a public setting needs some tweaking.

"Quietly assert your authority."

And then watch, almost helplessly as she loudly asserts her newly found, still in its packaging, independence.

"Repeat yourself only once. Then quietly take action."

I'm still very convinced that Dora the Explorer is behind all this repetition necessity with every child in America. I'm almost sure the next time I do repeat myself, she'll come back at me with "SAY IT LOUDER POR FAVOR!" Also, quietly taking action? How do you quietly take action when trying to get them to brush their teeth? Not only do they turn to dead weight, but trying to wield the toothbrush without gagging them accidentally is a task I'm not about to take on.

"Take away something important."

She's lost out on story time three times in the past week. And I'm losing out too, because this makes bedtime tense and strained as she is crying out of anger in losing something she and I both love, and I'm pulling my hair out in a bid to stay standing in the turbulent ocean of parental righteousness. The buoy of giving in is so close and I'm feeling seasick.

"Tell your child you don't like what they're doing."

Can I tell the author I don't like what they're writing? Welcome to the society of "every child is super special, everyone's a winner in their own way, and the word 'no' does not exist in our Utopian world, here's your Kool-Aid". Kids these days are so used to hearing the negatives being tossed gently, underhand, of course, it's like a slap on the wind passing over the hand because you're berating the actions, not the perpetrators.

"Tell her how you're feeling."

She's not even listening. So bite me. Oh, wait, the static rebounding from the clomping of your imperial high horse probably means you're not listening either.

Last night, I crossed a threshold I never thought I would, hadn't even considered. I told her I didn't like her. Point blank. In your face.

Fuming over her giggles and ignorance, I sat down on her bed. "Can I be honest with you?"

She peaked out at me from underneath the fall of hair, her hand still perched over her mouth. "Yes."

"Right now, you are NOT a nice girl. You're not being a nice daughter, and you are not respecting me."

She laughed a little more, partly from embarrassment, partly because my words were just washing right over her.

"I love you very much, but right now? The way you're acting? I don't like you."

The smile dropped immediately. Her mouth turned upside down as the hand disappeared and her eyes filled with shocked tears. "That's not nice!" she cried.

I maintained my stoic face, not bending to her emotion. "That's how I feel."

"You're not SUPPOSED to not like me!"

My brows arched in response. "I am completely allowed to not like you sometimes."

"No you're not."

I had her attention. "Sprite, when I send you to time out, do you like me?"

"...No."

"You still love me though, right?"

"...Yes."

"Like and love are two completely different things. I'll never stop loving you, but I don't have to like you all the time."

Her sobs calmed a bit, she ducked her head shyly as I opened my arms to her. Falling into my embrace, our Cosby moment crescendo-ed and I whispered another love promise into her hair, her feathery answer cementing our bond. A flower blossomed in the dew of the departed storm as she promised to listen better next time.

Then John came into the room.

Sprite saw her opportunity as she pulled away from me. "Daddy, Mommy said not nice things to me!"

John looked from me to her and back again. "What did she say?"

Sprite glanced at me, the smile hinted back. "I dunno."

Taking her cue, I outed myself. "I told her she wasn't nice, she wasn't respecting me and right now, I don't like her."

John opened and closed his mouth in shock as he processed my words. Sprite, taking this silence as an opportunity, dissolved into a fresh set of loud tears and burrowed her head into her sheets.

"You said what?"

"We'll talk about it later."

Oh, we would definitely talk about it later..

He left the room, Sprite's head poking up and watching his retreat before the crying stopped completely and the hands came up once more to cover the smile that immediately popped in.

All show. For her dad. Which would land me in a thirty minute conversation about how I should probably choose better words for discipline's sake.

End point: I felt like absolute shit, even though I stood by what I had said. After I left her room, and explained myself to John, who finally understood where I was coming from, I slipped back into her room and cuddled a semi-conscious five year old, who had no idea that my verbal slap had rebounded and left the stinging mark in my own mind.

As a friend mentioned on Facebook when I posted my status about it, "Girls are HARD."

Oops.

I can't believe I didn't remember my own anniversary.

I am so bad at that.

On January 23rd, Sprite's Keeper celebrated its fourth year, albeit very quietly.

This site, one started out of desperation in an effort to find my voice again, which had been lost in a sea of motherhood, has been neglected more often than not lately, lost in its own sea of sorts.

I'm sure other bloggers will agree with me that it's much easier to forget about posting when life's to do list has so many other items in front of it, the guilt over not adding your voice to the others in the blogosphere a momentary blip on the radar, "oh yeah, oops."

A routine that had begun as a salvation is now a semi-regular hobby, but still a soothing cup of relief when I need to escape the day.

There are so many things going on right now, and I do want to catch you up on it, not just you, the readers and friends I have made through this portal, but also Sprite's Keeper as well, for when the writing does end, if it ever does, (please don't let it ever end) I will keep this site alive if only to pull every favorite post of mine, a living history of our life together as husband and wife, mother and father, daughter, family. This site is a two dimensional representation of us, and a damn good one at that, at least from 2008 on.

Thinking back to the morning when I clicked on to Typepad and wrote my first post, a topic so mundane and ordinary, about nothing in general, I can still remember how effortlessly the words flowed through, almost like a waterfall I couldn't find the pressure valve to. I smiled as I quickly turned one post into two then three. At one point, I had my posts lined up for two weeks out, I couldn't publish them as quickly as my brain spit them out.

Then life happened. Sprite grew, and as she grew, her demands changed. Now, evenings are flooded more with homework than with inspirational play. John's evening job also became more demanding. Time is now siphoned even more.

It's easier to turn Facebook into a microblogging catch all then take the time to write it out more eloquently, add pictures, edit, re-edit, and so on.

The house is in a constant state of change, as we find time and a little bit of money to invest into our home that we don't intend to ever sell. Our setbacks in adding to an already pretty nice family have also been cause for investment of time and money.

Life was so much simpler then, four years ago.

So, let me take a moment to celebrate Sprite's Keeper, apologize for completely spazzing out on something that still is so important to me, and promise to make it up to you on your fifth anniversary.

OUR fifth anniversary.

Cheers to this year,

Sprite's Keeper

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.

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?

Flopsy and Mopsy Approved

I spied her at the train table, kneeling slightly with her legs pressed together.

The kid had to go.

Quickening my pace, I rushed to her side. "Sprite, go to the bathroom!"

As if my words were the key that unlocked her frozen status, she turned and bolted for the close by door to stop an accident before it happened.

While she was in there, I walked over to her folder and withdrew her book and book report homework for the week, bypassing the computer class ads, (Dudes, do you not realize her father is a geek? Give her any more knowledge and she'll rewire your entire system. I'm doing you a favor by not paying you money to show her how to press the "F" key.) and scanning her daily sheet, not focusing on the "good's" but looking for the "needs improvement". (She gets her share.) (And it's not as if I just gloss over the "good's" either, but the behaviors being scrutinized in the report are expected.) (Why am I explaining this??)

Exiting the restroom, Sprite stepped up to the outer area sink to de-germify. "Mommy, did you see my book?"

Looking down at the smallish paperback in my hand, I noticed the title. "It's 'The Tale of-' "

" 'The Tale of Peter Rabbit'! I have that book! And the school has the book!"

"Well, it is very popular."

"Can you believe the school has the same book?"

Oh, just go with it. "No! How cool is that?"

She grabbed the already crinkled book and shoved it in front of her teacher's face, who was just finishing a conversation with another parent. "Ms. Danielle! I got Peter Rabbit!"

Her teacher smiled at her. "I know. You were very excited to find it."

"I've got the same book on my iPod!"

This drew a surprised chuckle from her teacher. "IPod, really!"

The other parent smirked as I quickly stepped in to explain our daughter's indulgences. "Her dad's a computer tech. It's par for the course."

We walked out, giving our good nights, stopping to retrieve her rest friend from her backpack.

Later that evening, we settled down into bed with "The Tale of Peter Rabbit".

Reading to her, I stopped every time I found an easy word and had her sound it out. Since she did well with it, I then took the advice from some of the comments and handed her the book to read to me.

She took the closed book. "Mommy, what is this?"

"The Tale of Peter Rabbit."

"No," she countered, smoothing her hand over the entire cover in a circling motion. "What is THIS?"

I didn't know what she was getting at. Was she old enough for trick questions? "It's the title."

"No, this is called the front cover." She turned the book sideways and ran her finger along the binding ridge. "This is called the spine. And this-" she flipped the book around, "is called the back cover."

"Good to know," I smiled.

"The Tale of Peter Rabbit, illustrated by mmphmormopf."

Illustrated? I looked at the cover where she was still focused. The illustration was not listed there. "Sprite, what does illustrated mean?"

"I dunno."

Oh, right. The iPod. As read by the bodiless voice. "An illustration is the drawings you look at, the pictures."

"Okay."

She opened the cover and began to "read", reciting every word verbatim. Yes, she did know this story well. Running her finger down one of the cartoon bunny's backs, she emitted a little giggle. Then repeated with all the other bunnies until she came to Mrs. Rabbit, whom she assigned a humming song to.

"Sprite, what are you doing?"

"I like my iPod better. In my IPod, I can move the bunnies and make the vegetables move too. And they make noises."

Even in classic literature, there's an App for that.

 

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..

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.

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.

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.

 

Mi Chinita

The erroneous assumptions have started to peter out, but in the beginning, I found it baffling.

Almost four years ago, when Sprite was a chunky, roly eight month old, I would bring her to Story Time at Barnes and Noble where we would meet our friends with kids of similar ages. This tradition is still in practice today, Sprite and I being the only ones left of our once crowded group, and even then, we can only make it about once or twice a month.

One Saturday morning, I had her seated on my lap while Ms. Trish began her story. Another mother settled next to me with her two tots, getting them situated for the event. She looked over to Sprite, who was regarding her with interested eyes. (I think she was eyeing the puffs the woman had pulled out of her diaper bag, a treat Sprite had only recently been introduced to.)

"Oh, how precious you are!" she exclaimed in a stage whisper.

I turned my head to acknowledge the compliment, smiling as our eyes met.

"You have a little Jon and Kate Plus Eight!"

"I'm sorry?"

I could hear the hesitation enter her words as she continued on anyway. "Your husband is Asian?"

"No." I kept smiling at her, an eyebrow arching in confusion.

"Oh, is she adopted?"

I smiled even wider. "Nope."

Her hypothetical foot was shoved too far deep to ask more questions. "I am so sorry. Um, would she like some puffs?"

"That would be great, thanks."

Mind you, this happened before the huge scandal erupted that broke up the show and turned it into headline fodder, so being called a J&K+8 was, I guess?, considered a trendy thing.

It also wasn't the first time she's been mistaken for an Asian child.

Chinese, Japanese, Korean, "Asian", whatever would cover the Far Eastern looking eyes she had going for herself, she's been branded before and while she's growing out of it bit by bit, even I will stare at a picutre and think how DID she come by the almond shaped eyes? It doesn't help clear things up that her irises are an inky brown, like a dark chocolate, so close in color and proximity to the black pupil that you really can't tell where one ends and the other begins unless she's in direct contact with bright light.

We used to claim she followed John's side, but even his eyes, and his mother's eyes are too light to be connected to this abyss of ocher. (Thank you, Twilight for forever ruining that word for me.)

Ingrid, John's mom, has adopted little nicknames for all of her grandkids, and our daughter's nickname isn't Sprite like the rest of us call her, it's Mi Chinita, or roughly translated from Spanish, "My litte Chinese girl".

Some of my friends are Asian and don't find this offensive at all, one of them even asking if we do have any relations or ancestors from the region since Sprite favors the look (and favored the hair too until my recessive curly hair gene decided to stick its two cents in, anyone got any detangler?) and when Sprite told them she was going to be a Princess for Halloween, they immediately replied, "Are you going to be Mulan?"

(Yeah. I don't get it either. I mean Mulan isn't even a princess, right?)

Meh, whatever, here's some oldies and newer ones of the pictures that get her called out the most. Even if you can't see a connection, just enjoy the fact that she was cute then, she's cute now, and even if she has that Asian flair or not, it's still our Sprite that's standing there.

 

 

 

Okay, scratch that. Forget all six hundred or so words up there before the picture break. My kid looks like Valerie Bertinelli and THAT'S the story I'm sticking to.