Sprite's Keeper

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

Spin Cycle: Want the perfect job? Inquire WITHIN.

Ooh, that title is so deep.

People kvetch about their work all the time. Hate what they do. Wish about what they want. Cultivate the green grass growing on the other side of the fence while their own real patch of lawn shrivels and dies from lack of care. I am not one of those people. I like what I do. I like who I am.

I really do have the dream jobs. Yes, I meant to make that word plural.

I am an interior designer, contractor, decorator, thrifter. Anything going on, building related, in our home is done by John and me. Mostly me as of late since John is so busy with his evening job. Want the room painted? I'm your girl. Pictures to be hung? Sure. Tile backsplash to plan out and install? I'm almost done with the research and nearly ready for the execution. Most of the time, there is no money in the budget to decorate, so I look to what we already have and displace items on a regular basis. Yes, my job has challenges and I love that. Want a weekend warrior? I'll show you my battle scars.

I am a planner. Lists, lists, lists, I love to check items off, even if it's in the grocery store. Sigh, happy little strike throughs to make my day fly by and make me feel productive.

I am a herder. I've always wanted to work on a ranch, even just for one day to get the experience of it. Then I realized, I work on a ranch every day. I herd kids and dogs on a daily basis, through meals, getting out the door, coming home, rounding up the toys that constantly escape the corral. It's a 24/7 job without the chaps. (Although the dust definitely makes its way in..)

I am a teacher. I would have loved to be a teacher. Molding young minds while surrounded by books, words, and numbers. Elementary mostly, definitely not Kindergarten. Alas, that never panned out for me. However, I did realize, especially with Sprite now reading simple stories by herself, working on her long vowels, short vowels, and seeing the thought processes behind everything click as she gets it, I am a teacher. Every evening before bed, sometimes on the way home from school. Easy A.

I am a writer. Thank you, blogosphere, for letting me call my own shots and make my own schedule. It keeps me sane.

I am an actress. I would love to say I kicked ass on the boards back in high school, but the competition between the Thespians was tough and my major roles were few and far between. Sure, I worked professionally, if you want to call it that, for the likes of Disney and Universal, spieling away in front of thousands a day, each time adding my own unique flair to the character. I missed those days until I found out that my  daughter has her own dramatic flair. Just weeks ago, she stopped in the middle of the front office at her preschool, on our way out the door. I passed by her, saying goodbye to the director when Sprite howled in pain. Turning around, I looked down as she clamped her right arm to her side and scrunched her face at me.

"You hurt me!"

I was shocked to hear her say that considering that "I never touched you!"

Her eyebrows burrowed further, adding to the tortured gleam. "You almost did."

Brava.

Brat.

People tell me I should consider enrolling her into acting lessons, but the only good I could hope to see coming out of that would be an outlet for the personality to go as camp as she wants, a few hours a week.

I am a professional. Every Monday through Friday, I get to leave it all behind for 9 hours and focus on something completely different, while in the company of other like-minded people. My lunch is not interrupted by "more ketchup" or "Sprite, use your fork" or "rice is not meant to be eaten by fingers!" or "No, we do NOT have chop sticks! Use your fork!". I can run to the store on a quick break without holding someone's hand or denying someone the Hello Kitty doll they conveniently placed by the cash register with the word "SALE" right in front of it. (Yes, my child knows how to read the word SALE. Long vowels, remember?) And I enjoy what I do for the most part.

I am a mother/housewife. I take pride in the clean laundry, the mopped floors, semi-clean child, "Sprite, get your fingers out of the ketchup!", my home. Sometimes, I do wish I had more time to accomplish my tasks, which would take blocks out of the other jobs in my life, but I'm not about to complain to the upper management.

Sure, I've had those dreams of being one or the other full time. But considering where I stand and what I love to do, I get to dabble in everything.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

For more dream jobs, send your resume to the talented Gretchen at Second Blooming! The job will be filled tomorrow, so inquire now!

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.

Spin Cycle: Dream A Little Dream Of Me (Or Dad) (Or Fill In The Blank)

 

Every morning when I wake Sprite up, I ask her what her dreams were.

Every morning, she tells me a variation of the same thing: "I was in Disney World with you and Daddy and Blue and Harry." "I was in Disney World with Daddy and he was making me go on the water slide (Splash Mountain) and I screamed very loud, like a hundred loud." "I was in Disney World with Abigail and we were looking for Daddy and Mr. Josh."

The location stays the same, the only change being exactly where in Disney World she is, but her companions swap out on a daily basis, usually stemming from who she's been in contact with the day before, to her usual favorites like us or her best Orlando friend, Abby. (Abby's sister Madeline sometimes makes an appearance, but Abby's name is usually a repeat performance.)

Every morning, I repeat the same question, expecting the same answer, hoping for something different, since I know she's giving me a stock response. I know her dreams cannot revolve around Disney World 24/7, it's just not possible, but she sleeps so soundly, no noise, no sudden wake ups, I don't think I can recall more than one time where I've heard her succumb to a night terror, that I can't tell what invades her imagination when the conscious mind turns off.

My own dreams are known to be pretty elaborate, I will more often than not verbalize and John gets to be the lucky witness since he's such a light sleeper. Sometimes, I wake myself up, I can talk that loudly.

But Sprite? Still an enigma when it comes to her dreams, something I didn't think would happen at the age of 5 considering how articulate she is.

 

 

Wanna Spin? Go see Gretchen over at Second Blooming where The Spin Cycle has taken up residence! What more could you ask for?

Spin Cycle: Get your change of address forms ready...

Luggage: check.
Change of underwear: check.
Change of IP address: um, check with the geek..

All right, folks. 2012 is bringing a whole new year and a whole new home for the Spin Cycle! 

I KNOW!

After 3+ years of standing at the helm of this sometimes popular forum, it's moving west and taking on a new locale: Second Blooming!

Okay, now for the heartfelt stuff: The Spin Cycle has always been a labor of love for me, but keeping up with the Kardashians it has been taxing when even I couldn't come up with adequate material or Spins on topics I had actually chosen! So, when this opportunity presented itself, I knew it was right to give the Spin Cycle a fresh vibe, fresh blood, and a whole new outlook so you all could keep Spinning even though I've hardly been doing it justice on my end.

And here's where you get lucky..

Gretchen is wonderful, sincerely. She's got a personality that shines through with everything she writes, her legendary stories about her mother-in-law keep readers coming back for more, her life in Los Angeles just makes you want to live it yourself, and her seven year old son Jude, well? The two year age difference between him and Sprite won't matter much when they're in their twenties..

(Maybe I should have mentioned that to Gretchen when we ironed out the details that taking on The Spin Cycle would possibly mean taking on Sprite too.. Meh, I'll just tuck it into the fine print.)

Most importantly, you all deserve a forum in which the host is as excited as you are about Spinning, and unfortunately, that hasn't been my strong suit for a while now, especially since my family has begun a new journey that has been emotionally taxing so far, but so good. (More on that later.)

Gretchen will take great care of you. And now I get to Spin when I want to myself!!

So, go ahead, click on over, drop by to say "Hi!" to Gretchen if it's your first time there, stay awhile and look around her archives, She's happy to have you, and I'm happy she's in charge.

Okay, back to the schmokey stuff before I get all CAPS LOCK on ya. (That may not be an actual Yiddish word, but somewhere, some age ago, a Yiddish yenta said it and therefore it counts.)

Well, I guess there's only one way to end this post: 

See you next week on the Spin Cycle! Hosted by Second Blooming!

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..
 

Secret Santa Spin Cycle: This One Goes Out To The Blog(s) I Love.

Yes, this Secret Santa is for you.

You know who you are.

Or maybe you don't.

Are you aware of what your blog does? Are you aware that reading about your life, whether it's your job or children or husband or just anything you're mulling over has become an important part of my day?

I try to let you know in comments just how much I appreciate what you do, but when time slips by too quickly, I have to settle for the satisfaction of knowing I was there, even if only for a second, even if only a quick hello by way of Google Reader.

I'm keeping up, even if my own blog is growing neglected as Sprite increasingly demands my time and attentions, I'm still here.

I'm reading.

I'm proud of what you have accomplished. Even if your goal was thirty days of posting. I'm inspired by how far you've come, lifting yourself out of the mires of the unbloggable. I'm commiserating with you over the unobtainable. (At least for now.) I'm looking forward to the first photos of an anxiously awaited half-pint. I'm overjoyed by your family's recent arrival. (And absolutely love the name!)

I'm happy for your son's new beginning, and yours as well. I'm relishing the memories of getting to hug you for the first (and hopefully not the last) time. I'm continually encouraged to change my life and the way I live it based on your actions. I'm understanding the doldrums you face in staring at an un-updated blog.

I'm tickled by your daughter's reaction to the world around her. I'm drinking your wine tonight. (And opening the other bottle next weekend.) I'm awed by your craftiness. And yours too!

I'm excited for the new job that your husband likes. I'm always humored by your stories of Mommy. I'm tempted to ditch my Kosher tendencies for a bit of Chorizo. I'm always up for a hike through your neck of the woods. And every time I see a set of Legos, I'm reminded of how much good they can really do.

I'm enchanted by your children's talent. I'm jealous (in a good way) of the time you get with your kids. I'm not surprised at the antics your family gets into. I'm hinting that you should update your blog more, but I'm also willing to settle for the times I get to see you. The same goes for you, but I'm also looking forward to our playdate tonight. (See you at dance class!)

I'm shocked at how much I can laugh (and cry) when reading your words about adversity. I'm in agreement with you on your observations. I'm happy you're back in the blogging world, even if on a semi-regular basis. I'm willing to read a post of yours any day, even the half-finished ones. I'm delighted for your new(ish) job that you actually LIKE. And I'm putting in an extra special prayer that a new job finds its way to you.

You found your way into my heart and for you, I'm always here.

Happy holidays to all my favorite bloggers, I send my Christmas wish out to the blogosphere that your season be merry and bright, and know that I'm thinking of you tonight.

(Not in a stalkerish way, of course.)

Love,

Sprite's Keeper

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

And here they are! The Secret Santa Spinners who care to share their love of blogs with you!

Alaina over at View From Down Here with her thoughts on Marriage Confessions

Peg over at Square Peg in A Round Hole with her thoughts on Vent....

CaJoh over at Ca-Joh with his thoughts on Archives of Our Lives

Gretchen over at Second Blooming with her thoughts on a moon, worn as if it had been a shell

Vandy over at The Testosterone Three and Me with her thoughts on Second Blooming

Pseudo over at Pseudo's Spot with her thoughts on Synchronicity and Distraction and Bad Words -Updated Friday! Fresh Santa Spin!

Make sure to visit with them and their favorites and spread some holiday cheer!

 

Semi-new Post! Only read once!

That's right. I'm re-posting! But it has meaning, considering Sprite's school had a visit from Santa Claus this week and it reminded me of what I had written three years ago on this very site. (Cyber cite. I believe the physical location where I penned this piece was not in John's chair, the same chair I stole the week I painted our room and then somehow convinced him that the treadmill would fare much better on his side of the room and then promptly laid claim to his IKEA purchase.) (He totally bought it.) (The chair AND my story.)

And now I am no longer allowed to use parentheses for the rest of the week.

Damn it.

Anyway, here you go, a post I wrote on December 16, 2008.

Exactly three years ago today.

I swear I didn't plan it..

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

Re-gifting

"I just wanted to remind you that the kids will be taking pictures with Santa on Wednesday. I noticed that Sprite's Santa gift wasn't in the pile."

I looked up from where I was crouched and receiving my greeting hug from Sprite into the smiling eyes of the teacher. I got the message. She was gently letting me know what I had been trying so hard to ignore.

The parents had received a flier announcing Santa's arrival for this week. Within the demands for $5.00 for a picture of my darling (Jewish) daughter trading comments with the Claus himself was another request for each child to be provided with one wrapped gift for Santa to present as if he actually bought the damn thing.

As much as I am playing along with giving Sprite her first Christmas and talking Santa up, I balked at having to provide both money for a picture that was going to play out like a crap shoot (I can cross fingers for a smiling pose, but would have to make do and pay for a screamer if that's what came down the pike.) and for a gift. While the gift request had included the suggestion to keep the price under five bucks, I had to think realistically. What could I possibly find as a viable toy for under five dollars? Especially when I think the kid has too much crap already?

So, I had decided to forget the whole thing and hope they just take the hint that we weren't interested in taking part and find a way to keep Sprite out of the process.

Then the teacher told me the kids would all be doing this together and opening their gifts as a class. Hint, hint. You don't want Sprite to be left out, do you?

And I remembered.

I remembered being the one kid in the class, the odd man out, quietly singled out due to my religion and the fact that I didn't believe in Santa Claus, not asked to participate so as not to call attention to my faith when invariably, it always did.

I remembered the teachers who tried to involve me by giving me different projects to do during art time. "Jenny, why don't you make a menorah while the others are making Santa's beard?" I could have so made a rocking beard for the fat man, but counted out candles instead, four on each side with the shamash candle in the middle. No green or red construction paper on my desk.

I remembered feeling anxious every time December rolled around, not looking forward to the inclusion and exclusion of it all. I had many friends, no issue there, but the simple fact of not being able to share in what Santa was bringing, watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, and the music teacher having to include one Hanukkah song in the Christmas chorus recital to accommodate me was worse than ignoring the issue.

I remembered that vague feeling of not belonging. I remembered the way I felt like I stood out, even if it wasn't obvious to others. Why would I subject my daughter to it just because I didn't want to buy her another gift?

"I'll take care of it," I assured the teacher, wondering where I was going to find a gift.

When we arrived home, I spied a merchandise bag from our trip to Walt Disney World. While we had avoided big ticket items like $20.00 Minnie Mouse dolls, we had indulged her in a Mickey Mouse bracelet (clunky pink jewel tone mouse ears on a stretchy band) and a couple of Goofy and Pluto figurines she had liked and tried to steal in the Animal Kingdom. (Turns out those strollers have a longer reaching span than I figured or I could have saved a lot of money in the land of Mickey.) I picked up the stuffed Goofy and considered it.

I would be re-gifting to my own child with a toy I had already given her just a week prior. Could I do this? I thought of the options. She wouldn't tell anyone she already had it. I could easily get away with this fraudulent present, even if only for this year. Next year would be more difficult as her verbal repertoire will undoubtedly increase.

I knew I wouldn't budge on my earlier stance of refusing to purchase yet another novelty for my two year old who wouldn't care either way what was lying within the paper. She would be excited with the general mayhem of the flying sparkling paper and the chatter of other toddlers as they fought over each other's prizes and teachers tried desperately to restore order to a classroom already far gone in the merriment of not knowing what it was that was bringing about this feeling, but rising to the occasion nonetheless.

The toy wouldn't matter. The moment would. I would make sure I gave Sprite the moment of belonging, the moment of being one with the others, even if I was re-gifting a little Goofy doll.

I wrapped the little doll in bright red tissue paper and stuck it inside a small gift bag then tucked a five dollar bill into my wallet to hand over the next morning. My mind was made up. Goofy was going to make a second first impression on my daughter.

Re-gifting would be worth the moment. Five dollars would be worth the memory.

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

Fast forward to the present and I am a fully participating parent when it comes to Santa's visits. Of course, I can't re-gift ANYTHING since Sprite, at 5 and with a healthy vocabulary that stuns most people since she's not a fan of being quiet, will most likely spill the beans. This would be the same reason I usually buy her friends' birthday presents without her help or by the end of the next school day, a full week before the planned party, little Kylie knows exactly what she's getting.

So, I stuck to the five dollar rule and actually pulled one of her Hanukkah presents, already wrapped in blue paper adorned with Stars of David, letting Santa take the credit for another gesture. I knew she would enjoy the Barbie movie and John and I would get some naps out of it. (Seriously, just the thought of watching something that terrible makes me tired.)

And here she is, December, 2011:

And by the way, I saw some of the gifts the kids got from Santa this year and I can tell you for fact that some parents did NOT stick to the five dollar limit!

Have a great weekend and remember, one week before the Secret Santa Spins are due!

Secret Santa Spin Cycle: All I want for Christmas Is You! And A Pillow Pet.

Some day, someone will take my plea for a Pillow Pet seriously....

The Secret Santa Spins have started coming in! Grab yourself a cup of egg nog (hot chocolate for the kiddies) and settle by the fire for some lovely holiday reading!

Alaina over at View From Down Here with her thoughts on Marriage Confessions

Peg over at Square Peg in A Round Hole with her thoughts on Vent....

CaJoh over at Ca-Joh with his thoughts on Archives of Our Lives

Gretchen over at Second Blooming with her thoughts on a moon, worn as if it had been a shell

Vandy over at The Testosterone Three and Me with her thoughts on Second Blooming

Get those Spins in by the 23rd and if you haven't done so already, please email me (spriteskeeper[@]live.com) with your top list of 5 bloggers you wish to write about and get in on the gift that will keep giving! (As long as your site stays up. Offer void after that.)

Hey, and just to throw an extra Jingle Bell in there, if you want to write about more than one, just let me know! (But make sure they each get their own Spin. Sharing laws and what not..)

Pillow Pet. Pillow Pet. Pillow Pet. Pillow Pet. Purple Unicorn. Pillow Pet. Pillow Pet..