Sprite's Keeper

My days of ruling the sarcasm scoreboard are numbered.

Thunk. Thunk.

"Sprite, you're kicking me."

She glanced at me with a smile before looking back to her spaghetti.

Thunk. Thunk.

"Sprite, stop kicking me!"

"I not kicking you. It's my foot."

"Sprite, it's you."

She turned in her chair to face me full on. "No, Mommy. It's my foot. See?" She brought her left foot up to prop on the edge of the seat cushion, a no no at the dinner table. "Bad foot!" she admonished, pointed to it.

I played along, loving the conversation thus far. "Does your foot need to go to time out?"

"Time out, yes. Three minutes."

"Okay, send your foot to time out."

She slid off her seat and stepped over to the time out mat, pausing right before the bad foot was placed. "No," she said, and turned back to me. "Mommy, the bad foot wants to be good."

"Yes, but the bad foot needs to think about kicking people, and it should be in time out."

She bit her lip in actual concentration. I had her. I had beaten her at her game. There was no comeback for-

"This foot is sad," she commented, pointing to her right foot. "This foot wants the bad foot to be good. Be good, bad foot!" she shouted, stomping the offender down.

John watched this from his dishwashing position at the kitchen sink. "What are you two talking about?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, but she did manage to get herself out of trouble for kicking me."

"How did she do that?"

"I expected her to zig and she zagged."

Spidey Senses A-tingling

(Yeah. I did it again. I let two posts go live at the same time yesterday. After making that mistake just last Wednesday.  I must be really busy or really dizzy. John claims it's the latter. So here! A re-post of yesterday's mis-post! And tomorrow's a Spin Cycle post so you know that will be new! I'm going back to sleep now...)

"Daddy!"

My eyes caught the red lights of the monitor streaming up as her voice sounded again. "Daddy!"

It was almost ten. The later she fell asleep the worse she was in the morning. I decided to ignore it and hope she would settle down again.

"Spider! Daddy!"

Huh? I abandoned the laptop and left my room. Spider? I came close to her french doors and looked through the glass panes to see my little girl sitting up in bed and pointing toward my general direction.

"Spider!" she cried, her voice muffled by the closed doors. I looked down to her carpet, not noticing anything other than the toys we neglected to "put away" at bedtime.

"Spider!" Her voice urgent, she kept flinging her finger out. "Itsa buggie!"

I canvassed the area nearer to me and noticed a small movement. Well, crap. There it was. A huge spider. Big enough to fit the palm of my hand. Big enough to grow two sizes before I would stop thinking about it.

I did not open the door. "John!" I called. "Come to Sprite's room and bring a shoe!"

He exited his office. "What are you-" He stopped speaking as he took in my position. I was in "flight or fight" mode and I was ready to abandon ship. "What is it?"

"Big spider, by Sprite's hamper. In front of a book."

John looked to where I was pointing and removed his shoe. "Well, damn." (When John curses at an insect, you know it's big.) Walking over to the door, he shooed Blue and Harry, who were more interested in witnessing the commotion than eating, he opened it and let himself in quietly, so as not to alarm the arachnid who was right now waging a eight-legged battle on Sprite's Elmo.

"Kill it!" Sprite shouted, still esconsed in her sheets, safe from harm.

John dispatched the foe quickly, drawing applause from its alleged intended victim.

As he walked out with its remains scrunched in a tissue, he tossed back, "She's just like you, you know."

I shuddered once more for good measure. "At least she knows you'll take care of it."

I looked back over to Sprite who attempted to shake off her own creepy crawlies while smiling at me.

"Sprite, what do you do when you see a spider?"

"Call Daddy," she nodded.

Amen.

Good Boy

"Sprite, stop cornering Harry!"

I stepped behind her, her own back never turning, as she stared down at the snarling terrier. This would not end well.

Sprite has been Harry's nemesis for years now, taking on the title of foe right around the time she began crawling and he realized she was coming after HIM. Blue, our beagle, could care less about how heavy handed her love is, as long as she gets love, she'll take it in whatever form. Harry though? He's smart. And has a Napoleon complex, so his ego is pretty big too.

His eyes locked on her, Harry continued growling as I grabbed Sprite's arm and pulled the laughing child out of his personal space and turned her to face me. "Sprite, you know he doesn't like that."

Sprite's eyes danced with mirth, her plan of attack still not aborted. "Harry needs a hug!" She then pulled away from me to face her opponent once more.

Harry showed his teeth now, not happy with her refusal to back down.

I needed to do something or he would have a coronary with the stress of it all. But what? Strong-arm her out of the kitchen?

"Harry, bad boy!"

Sprite whirled around to look at me. I didn't meet her eyes as I put on my best mean face and berated the dog for basically sitting there. "Harry, that was very naughty! Go to time out!"

Harry hung his head and moved out of the kitchen, heading for the entry rug where Sprite usually spends her solitary confinement. He then sat gingerly, looking back up at me.

The damn dog had gone to time out!

At a loss for what to do next, I just pointed at him. "Three minutes."

Sprite, not wanting to associate with the canine criminal since that would mean getting intimate with the time out mat, moved on to wrangling Blue as Harry stayed within the "prison walls" and yawned, finally safe.

"You're welcome," I remarked, walking back into the kitchen to start dinner, pausing quickly by my purse to grab the camera and document the moment for prosperity's sake, and the fact that John would surely not believe it when I told him.

Good boy, Harry.
 

It's Not Supposed To Make Sense

(I found this in the archives while going through my yearly cleanse of posts. I wrote this back in April when Sprite's vocabulary clearly wasn't so advanced. If she were to ask for anything now, she'll not only announce the brand, she'll dictate the colors of the packaging, and offer to climb the shelves herself to save you the trip to the kitchen.)

(Second note: I accidentally published this yesterday and it was immediately buried by the Frost post. So I am giving it a chance to breathe in its own spotlight and give me a day off from posting. Seems that tomorrow's opinion piece is making me WORK for it. Sigh. Stupid conscience...)

("Breathe in it's own spotlight"? Am I seriously that egotistical? Damn. Next thing you know, I'll start running ads..)

(..... Never mind.)

"Two!"

"What do you want, Sprite?"

"Two!"

"What are you pointing at?"

"Uhhhh!"

"What, crackers?"

"Clacklers?"

"Okay, here's crackers."

"Two!"

"Fine, two crackers."

"Two!"

"What else are you pointing at?"

"TWO!"

"No, you've got crackers. You're done."

"Toooohoooohoooo!!!!"

"Jen, what the hell does she want?"

I look over my shoulder into the kitchen. Sprite is on the floor in full-out tantrum, her head making contact with the wood planks, her arms splayed out to the sides making the cracker in each paw ripe for picking.... and Blue siezes the opportunity to snatch a treat out of Sprite's left hand while Harry zones in for the kill on the other one.

Sprite looks down at her now empty hands and starts a fresh wave of woe. "Two!"

John looks back at me with a "See what just happened?!" wave of his arm.

"Apparently, she wants two."

"Of what?"

"Of whatever you didn't give her."

His answering look made perfect sense.
 

By The Letter

The three year old room holds a lot of new challenges for me Sprite, one of those being a continuing assignment for the letter of the week. On Thursdays, the children are instructed to bring in an item that begins with the letter they're showcasing.

I've been playing along each time, last week providing an envelope for "E" presentation, but looking at this week's class  newsletter, they couldn't stress enough the need to be creative. (From the look of last week's list of contenders, all the other parents rifled through their stationary sets as well.) (Sprite's name being halfway down the list also clued me in that the surprise of "Envelope!" had worn off by the time she took her turn.)

Be creative, huh?

I love a challenge.

Today's letter is "Pp" and while I had packed her item already, I had a hit of inspiration when noticing what John had dressed her in, grabbing a pen and paper.

Please,
The pretty Sprite is perpetually "p" today as she sports a pink shirt, purple shoes, and a ponytail. Depending on her mood, her "p" ensemble may or may not be accompanied by a pout.
If this does not point out "p" enough, then there's a pencil in her pouch and she won't let go of her puppy. There's also an 80% possibility she will tell you she's a princess.
Proudly,
Sprite's parents
PS- She also had a pancake for breakfast!

What? They said to be creative.

Just add sprinkles.

"Want a cookie?"

"Cookie! Please!"

We rolled up to the bakery counter to collect our one freebie, a sweet that would keep Sprite distracted while I refreshed our fruit supply. (And maybe refresh our lottery tickets. You never know..)

Sprite could see right through the clear acrylic case the cookies were contained in and knew what she wanted before I even told her the selection.

"Sprinkles! Um! Um! Please, sprinkles!"

The clerk raised his eyebrows. "You like sprinkles?" He reached in with a square of wax paper to grab one as Sprite clapped her hands, applauding him for his moves.

She took the cookie and looked down at it. "Sprinkles," she breathed.

"What do you say?" I prompted. 

"Thank you!" She beamed at the clerk, immediately casting her spell of cute and he waved us off, chuckling. (I have GOT to learn how she does it.)

We breezed through the produce section, already done with the berries before I looked down to see why she was being so silent. She sat staring at the multi-colored cookie in her hands. Upon closer inspection, I could see that maybe two or three tiny bites had been taken. Strange for this kid, she usually announces her intention to imitate the Cookie Monster and goes to town.

"Sprite, what's wrong?"

"It's so pretty." Her octave changed on the "pretty". 

"Does it taste good?"

"Mm-hm." She took another nibble and brought the cookie back down. "Yellow, blue, green, red, pink-Mommy! There's pink! Do you see it?" Again, the key changed to give "pink" and "see" their own shining note. 

I watched her for a moment, caught up in a three year old's object of importance, and wished for the capability of shrugging off reality and embracing a fleeting fantasy.

A week later, close to Christmas, I recalled that moment and decided to bring it into my kitchen.

"Sprite, come help me decorate!"

 

"Okay, Sprite. Which color do you want to start with?"

"Christmas colors!"

"No problem. Here, let me show you how to do it. Just sprinkle like this, see?"

"Okay!"

"Sprite, no!"

 

"Honey, we don't pour it all out at once. We-"

"Uh oh."

"What? Did you-?"

 

"John, get the Dyson! Sprite, don't dump the red- oh, no."

 

"Sprinkles!"

"Yes, Sprite, sprinkles. I think we used all the sprinkles."

 

"Tell you what, Sprite. Let me and Daddy clean up a bit and then you can play Santa's little helper when we bring it to the neighbors."

"Okay!"

 

More like Santa's little Sprite. (At least the sprinkles were contained. How do we contain HER?)
 
 
 
 
 
 

Woody

(Heh heh. Just writing the title made me giggle. )

(Seriously, people. You are all headed to juvie and making me think I'm leading the pack.) (That would explain the target on my back..)

(No, I actually did not intend that rhyme. Sometimes, I sweat Suess. I should get that checked out.)

(This post will probably make John re-think his decision to leave me alone with his daughter since I'm clearly not mentally of age to take care of myself and a pre-schooler when the mention of a Toy Story character sends me into fits of laughter.)

(But he won't. Those tickets are non-refundable.)

(Maybe I should write this entire post in parentheses.)

(Don't dare me!)

From the moment Woody came out of the box until we came home from spending four days with family, he was either in Sprite's arms for a hug or hanging from her hands so he could "dance".

What can I say? He's got moves. Don't believe me?

I couldn't resist this one. I made cake balls for some of the gatherings and the photo opp was just too perfect..

(I know. I'm bad.)
 
(Okay, all you AM people, let me know if the video works. I can't see it from work and this will be on my mind all day if no one says anything and simply comments "Oh, how cute!" or "How funny!" when the video may be a segment of a nature documentary when the lion gets its prey. How obtuse would THAT be?)
 
 
 

You would probably need a permit to build a fireplace, right?

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Sprite?" I stopped the cart in order to select a package of blueberry waffles from the shelves. (Store brand. Damn Eggo shortage..)

"Santa is coming."

"Yes, yes he is," I responded, turning my attention to the frozen dinners down the corridor.

"He bring me presents!"

I looked back at my daughter, her eyes glowing brightly, her smile broadening now that she had my attention.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes."

I kept pushing the cart. "And how will he give you the presents?"

"He come to my house."

"How will he get in?"

"The fire-pace."

I smiled. We don't have a fireplace. "And what is Santa bringing you?"

"A Buzz Lightyear toy, a Woody toy, and a Minnie Mouse toy."

I nodded, considering her words and dropped the subject while she became wrapped up in a game of pull the bread off the displays. ( Judging by the stocker's glare, I don't think that game will catch on..)

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

"John, have you been telling Sprite about Santa?"

"No."

"Then she must have gotten it from daycare."

"What do you mean?"

"She actually told me about Santa Claus and how he comes to our house and what he's bringing her."

"She said what she wants?"

"Oh, yeah. Toy Story and Minnie."

"Huh. Not a Princess on it.."

"You know, I didn't even think about that."

"But she's got the bike for Christmas. That's all she's supposed to get."

"Uh uh. We HAVE to get these for her."

"Jen-"

"The kid wants Santa. The kid will get Santa. I never got to play along with this when I was a kid. She's going to think the guy is made of magic."

"And Santa's going to think we're made of money."

"Next year, we'll get the list before the holidays. Now that we know she's onto him? We'll be onto her."

Don't worry, Sprite. Santa Claus may not be able to get in through our chimney, but if I have to nail down a landing strip to our roof, the fat man will make an appearance just for you.

(Just don't be surprised if you need to start drawing up your list for next year in August..)

24 Hour "Thug"

"Jen?"

"Mm-wha?"

"It's Sprite."

"Wha?"

"She threw up. Come on!"

My eyes stayed shut as I followed John to Sprite's room. It was too dark to be coherent.

The smell hit me first. She really was sick. I opened my eyes to see Sprite sitting up in bed, softly moaning her stomach's protests.

John and I moved immediately as a team, one changing and consoling our daughter, the other swapping out her sheets, taking away the sick and bringing in the clean smell of laundered cotton.

"She was fine at bedtime," he murmured, trying to keep her head clear of her dirty nightgown while getting it over her head.

"Yeah, but I heard some of the parents at daycare saying their kids had come down with a 24 hour stomach bug and it started just like this."

"I'd appreciate a warning next time though."

(John's words have been repeated time and again by hapless parents who can only react to a 24 hour bug. These micro-viruses spring themselves out when they're least expected, the only warning being moments prior when a young child's stomach gurgles and you get a courtesy "I don't feel so good". Sometimes, you don't even get that. At least with colds, you have a day or so to build up to the main event, plan ahead for what you need to do. These intestinal maladies? It's fight or flight and you have two seconds to get your head in the game or your furniture and floors will be down for the count. The kids may be suffering through the bug, but it takes the parents down as well when it disrupts routines and you become home base a/k/a security blanket for little Susie until she begins to feel normal again.)

"Should we give her anything?" I asked, her soiled linens grasped at an arm's length. (I'm not good with vomit, whether or not it's my own child's.)

"No, just swish her mouth out and have her come down a bit. Hopefully, this is just a one time upset." John took her to do just that and brought her back a little more calm and ready for sleep.

"Are we keeping her home tomorrow?" Thoughts of Sprite missing meeting Santa, who was making an appearance at her daycare, ran through my head. The poor kid had been looking forward to it. Would she still get the gift we had sent in ahead of time for Santa to take the credit for? Would we get our five bucks back for the picture that never happened?

"Hopefully, she'll be fine. If it happens again, we'll keep her home."

We tucked her in and retreated once more to our room, the clock reminding us that we had to be up in four hours.

As soon as I settled in though, I could hear the coughing and gagging on the monitor. She was sick again. "John, I hear her."

Again, we rushed to her room, this time John stripping her down for an impromptu bath as I raided her sheet supply once more. (Anyone in our family still want an idea for Sprite's Christmas gift? We need toddler sheets apparently..) We moved in fast rhythm, plopping her back into bed once more.

Forty-five minutes later, "Daaaaaddyyyyyyy!"

"She's staying home," John mentioned, tucking a thrice cleaned Sprite into our bed for some late night Mickey cartoons, and grabbing his wallet for a 3 AM run to Walmart, pedialyte the only thing on his list as I placed a call to my boss's voicemail, the infrequent but still guilt inducing requirement of a working mother .

Sprite seemed to be in a better mood and we fell asleep together, lulled by the soft sounds of the television.

The sunlight woke me up. I lay there for a second thinking I was late, then felt a small foot in my back. Oh. Yeah.

I snuggled her warm body, "Hi there. Feeling better?"

She smiled back, "Yes."

I hugged her once more. She hadn't complained since the last time we'd cleaned her up. Maybe this 24 hour bug was almost over. (Okay, I HOPED it was almost over. How long do 24 hour bugs get counted for? From the time they actually begin or the time you first notice they're there? I was praying we had experienced virus's grand finale.)

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes, I want a pancake."

John shrugged, overhearing. "You can try it, see if she keeps it down."

Going about the morning routine as if the last 8 hours had never happened, I fed her pedialyte and a waffle. Her spirits were fine. Her attitude was fine. It was going to be a rare free day of cartoons, drawing, and-

"Jen! Get over here!"

I ran to the kitchen where Sprite cried out in horror, her hands trying to comb her hair out of her messy face, her breakfast on the floor, and John standing in front of her, his work clothes baptized by her stomach's refusal to play by the rules.

It never happened again after that mishap. I gingerly rationed out the pedialyte for her throughout the morning, refusing to give her anything else while John finally got himself cleaned off and to work. Wanting to keep her in one spot and her system from being bounced around by the usual toddler antics, I played any Disney movie she wanted, allowing her a late lunch of crackers, always on the watch for the big bad bug to repeat itself.

By dinnertime, she was gunning for chicken nuggets and trying to mount Blue. "Ride like the wind, Bullseye!" she crowed. (Toy Story would be proud.) I finally let my guard down, sure she would be back in school the next day, just in time to join her classmates in performing their holiday show.

I'm hopeful that this 24 hour bug doesn't decide to come back for an encore during their "Jingle Bells" routine or the "Hey!" will be a lot more heartfelt and may involve finger pointing.

Because that's what you see on a bear hunt.

I peaked into the room, checking for Sprite's brown curls. Finding her, (and confirming she was wearing the same outfit she came in with, that's how I know it's been a good day) I smiled when she screamed my name in recognition.

Opening the door, I was immediately tackled by loving limbs.

 "Mommy!"

"Hi, love!" I responded and ducked in to peck her a kiss before she started telling me about her day.

"We went on a bear hunt!"

"You went where?"

The teacher walked over. "The kids went on a bear hunt and looked for paw prints."

I grinned down at Sprite, who was hopping in front of me, catching my attention. "That sounds like so much fun!"

"I made a footprint, Mommy!"

"You did?" Her maniacal energy was infectious, I noticed myself pulsing on my own feet to keep up with her furvor.

"I show you!" She pulled on my hands and led me to where a long rectangle of paper lay, the purple splotches still wet in their freshness. 

"Now, we can't touch the prints, Sprite," the teacher warned, knowing that she would be reaching to do exactly that," but we can show your Mommy your footprint."

Turning her attention to me, the teacher explained the exercise. "The kids went on a bear hunt in the hallway and throughout the hunt, they were asked what they saw."

Looking down at the various footprints, I could read different quotes. Some of the children saw elephants, some saw the obligatory bear since it was obviously the star of the show, going off of the visual cues from the dozens of colorful pictures lining the hallway. "Sprite, what did you see?"

The teacher let out a chuckle and pointed to Sprite's splotch. "Read it."

I leaned closer and laughed as it made sense. 

Right above her footprint, it read, "I saw Daisy Duck!"

"Sprite, you saw Daisy Duck?"

"Uh huh, and Mermaid? And Sleeping Doody? I see them too!" She ran to the door. "Come on, Mommy! We go to blue car! I watch Toy Story!"

And I complain when The Biggest Loser layers on the product placement. My own kid is a walking Disney ad.