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."

The Wanking Room

"I can do it at home, right? Then just bring it in?"

"No. It's best to take care of it there."

"But the directions say I have forty-five minutes to get it there. I can make it in time."

"John. Just do it there."

"Let me do it my way."

"UGH! Don't make me remind you about rush hour and trying to beat the clock...Huh, get it? Beat?"

"Not a good time, Jen."

"Really, I'm going to have nightmares of your car filled with screams as they die one by one on their way to the clinic."

"FINE! I'll take care of it."

Infertility does have its funny points..

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

We had promised ourselves back in the summer months that if no pregnancy occurred by the time we came back from our cruise in November, we would buckle down and submit ourselves for the extensive testing to figure out why, this being almost three years after starting the auditions for a new family member, we still hadn't cast the role. (And I was so convinced that the days of sun and fun and Sprite in the Kids Club would result in our own little souvineir without the crappy logo covering 50% of him or her. Never mind that the honorary middle name "Dream" would totally give it away.)

Well, two weeks after we had put away our suitcases and realized the pixie dust hadn't fixed our issues, the time came for me to call my doctor, a new doctor, one who would look more into why we weren't conceiving rather than hand me some Clomid and wish me luck with the quintuplets.

Meeting this new doctor was awkward as it came right in the middle of an annual appointment, so while she was "getting to know me", I was laying it all on the line. (Considering that I was laying on her table with a paper gown being the only virtue of my modesty, I was going for ultimate transparency.) (I was wearing my own socks too, since I figured letting her in on my secret of semi-annual pedicures would have been overkill.) At the end of the exam, we sat down and she drew up plans for me to have some bloodwork done, undergo a test in which my level of tolerance would be sorely tested, and a bonus test (buy three, get one?) for John to test his, um, endurance.

We also set boundaries: we were going to actively pursue a successful pregnancy for this year, and we were willing to go as far as Clomid (the doses, I've learned, can be changed to lessen the chance of multiples) and working towards fixing what was possibly broken, but we were not willing to cross the threshold of invetro.

(People are people, and everyone's beliefs differ on the subject, but John and I both feel that if there's nothing wrong, and a second child never comes, God is obviously telling us it's not going to happen.)

This was back in December. I dutifully went about my first two blood tests, both to be taken in the early stages of my cycle.

John begrudgingly signed on for a December 30th appointment so he could, you know, ring in the New Year.

Now, since we both had the day off, we arranged to meet each other afterward so he could drop his car off for some maintenance and catch a ride.

I pulled up to the dealership and he quickly hopped into the passenger side.

"How did it go?" I asked, pulling away from the Service Department.

"The Wanking Room?"

"The WHAT?"

"Hey, it's written right there on their website. The clinic calls it the Wanking Room. Wanna know why?" he drawled, giving me a leery grin.

"I know WHY, I'm just surprised they advertise it. So?"

"I'm done."

"Okay..."

He didn't grab my hint and run with it.

"Tell me what happened!"

"It's embarassing. You're sitting there with other men in the waiting room and you all know what the other is going to do. When they called my name, I could feel them staring at me."

"Go on."

"The nurse was HOT. I think they hired her just to get things started."

"Nice. Thanks."

"I'm kidding. No hotness at all. Very business like. Just handed me my cup, showed me to the room, pointed to the directions and closed the door behind her on the way out. Very quickly."

"Directions? The Wanking Room has directions?"

"You know, the prep, the aftermath, what to do when you're done."

"Awesome."

"Hey, I'm doing this for you, all right?"

"Okay, tell me about the room."

"Small. Almost like a closet. The TV was mounted on the wall, and there was an armchair."

Watching the road, I gasped in response. "Did you sit in the armchair?"

"God, no! I just took one look at the floor and thought they didn't get around to cleaning THAT much, I wasn't about to take my chances in the chair."

"Good man."

"Oh, and the walls were paper thin. Those nurses must be able to hear everything."

"Ha, they're probably sitting out there in the common area, listening for which movie you pick, taking bets on the titles. 'Hey, he chose Ass Me When. I thought he would be a Busted man."

"I wouldn't be surprised. But what did surprise me was their selection of movies."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. It was an Apple TV, and everything was in categories, really easy to find what you're looking for. A LOT of movies."

"I think I want to work there just for the sheer humor of it all."

"The worst part is when you're finished. You have to press a button which emits a loud bell in the office."

"So they know you're done."

"Yup."

"And they know exactly what you did."

"Yup."

I remained silent, trying to picture the embarrasment of it all. "Thank you for taking one for the team, John."

"If you need me to do it again, I'll do it."

"Really?"

"I didn't get to finish the movie."

Like I said, even infertitility can be labeled a dramedy once in a while..

Eye Spy

"Mommy, you want to play I Spy?"

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

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

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

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

"How about we sing songs?"

"No."

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

"No. We'll play I Spy."

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

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

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

Am I cheating?

Do I care?

"....brown."

"My coffee cup lid."

"No."

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

"No."

"My hair."

"No."

"YOUR hair."

"No."

"Your eyes?"

"No."

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

"No."

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

"No. no, no."

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

This is payback in every sense of the word.

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

"Maisy!"

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

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

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

"No, it's still my turn."

"That's not the way you play."

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

"Everything?"

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

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

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

You do it too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I'm being harsh.

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

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

I'll even throw myself under the bus here.

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

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

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

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

Increments of Five, Part II

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

(Part I here.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They don't just teach dance in dance class.

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

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

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

Birthday party saved!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The four wheels or no wheels rule still applies, but the driver's record is clean.

AKA: It's Monday, I'm too tired to think, WAY too tired to write, and work actually expects me to do something other than watching the clock tick away.

Let it be noted: She is wearing Selena Gomez shoes. (Sold at Payless under the Wizards of Waverly Place line, but if the star's picture is gracing the sole, who's going to argue with a five year old?) If you should ever see her in these shoes, she will remind you of this and then demand that you compliment them and her for her obviously spot on fashion sense.

I'm waiting for Disney (or Payless, I'm not discriminating) to start sending me advertising royalties.

(I wonder if they sell that Harley helmet in an adult size.The animals just make it WORK.)

Getting some take out from the Sushi Bar

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

Moving on.

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

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

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

It was absolutely delicious.

Moving on.

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

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

On with the review!

 

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

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

20 minutes later, we had muffins.

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

"What do you think, Sprite?"

 

"Mmmph."

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

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

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

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

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

(Yes, that was blatant begging.)

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

I did muffins. That's what I did.

An afternoon quickie..

"This is Jennifer."

"Hey!"

"Oh, hi. What's up?"

"Were you on your other phone?"

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

"...."

"The phone!"

"Ha-"

"Shut up."

"-ha ha!"

"Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup!"

"Too late. You're welcome."

Like a Hidden Mickey, but more obscure..

We thoroughly enjoyed our annual Labor Day vacation in Disney World, but while basking in the relative anonymity of being tourists #43456-43458, John, Sprite, and I noticed some new attractions that have never been promoted before, although we don't know why they haven't for they made our vacation that much more memorable:

"To Be A Brat or Not To Be A Brat" (also the adult version of "To Be A Bitch/Asshole or Not To Be a Bitch/Asshole") - continuous show times, various locations throughout Walt Disney World- Sprite seemed to be the only one with the guide map to this attraction for whenever there was a family squabble going on within earshot of our little eavesdropper, she immediately joined the queue to watch the high-larity of these street performers, most of them very well trained for they didn't even notice their audience as they provided the back story of why they were yelling at each other and wishing on each other varying options of death. Some of these performers even made their act mobile as they tried to navigate/ fight each other over who actually knew where to find Mickey's Philharmonic. And the best part of the show? It was right behind them! Disney does it all, I tell you!

"It's a Great Big Beautiful Parking Lot"- ongoing attraction/ walking tour, various parking lot locations throughout Walt Disney World. The best part of this attraction is that there is no wait time. You don't even know you're on the attraction until you realize your spouse changed parking spots the night before opting for a closer proximity to the room and forgot to tell you about it until after you've left the room and your cell phone armed only with a rolling suitcase topped by another heavy bag and balancing yet another piece of luggage on top of THAT and the memory of seeing your vehicle in another location when your child spotted it from the 9th floor window while waiting for your elevator the day before. The attraction is always moving, never stopping until you do while you try to keep everything from sliding off the totem pole and simultaneously raise your provided key fob high above your head, listening for the audio-animatronic character vehicle to respond with a chirp to your never ending finger presses. Once you transverse the entire parking lot, you may even get to take the tour again, this time thinking somehow your vehicle was stolen right from under Mickey's nose and building an inner side story of how you're going to maim your spouse even though it was a very innocent mistake and one they realized once you had already left your room and maybe called your number just to rest their eyes on a ringing phone right in front of them. When you do find your vehicle and deposit the items intended for it, you may then exit the attraction in a safe manner. And please stand clear of the doors. "Por favor mantengase alejado de las puertas." (Note: this attraction does require some physical exertion. Guests are expected to provide their own refreshments.)

"Spouse Impossible"- (we found this attraction at both Animal Kingdom and Epcot, but I think it changes daily, check your guide maps for listings and allow for time as showtimes are not exact) The object of this attraction is to split up between parks, one going to Epcot, the other taking the child (and the bus) to Animal Kingdom, and then meet at a specific location within one of the parks at a later time, pre-designated by both parties. (Children need parental supervision when on this attraction.) Oh, and during the course of your separation, one cell phone battery must die making any form of contact virtually impossible as you race to find each other in front of the Mexico pavilion by the appointed deadline. Spoiler alert: the attraction tries to trick you into thinking you can make it from one park to the other within thirty minutes or so, but the child (somehow in on it) manages to hold things up by complaining of tired feet. (While entertaining, this part of the attraction does tend to drag a bit.) Do yourself a favor and add another thirty minutes to your plan to skip the mundane stuff. Now, here is where the excitement factor is upped: when one of you makes it to the designated location, the other is nowhere to be found, and since one of you does not have a way to contact the other, you must rely on various resources to resolve the mystery of the missing spouse. Another spoiler: try a cast member. They're not supposed to help, but can provide you with clues on ways to make contact, solving the riddle. Just remember, this is only an attraction and should not be taken seriously, lest you become one of the "To Be A-" street performers by mistake, drawing your own audience.

Next time you journey over to a theme park, keep your eyes peeled for these hidden attractions, guaranteed to add more moments to the "In ten years, we'll sit back and laugh about this" memories!

(Disclaimer: Disney World is in no way affiliated with this blog or blog post and does not endorse any of these "attractions". While written in light of events that happened during our vacation, this post should in no way be taken as statements made on behalf of the Walt Disney Company. These are simply activities that happen EVERY TIME we're there.  We like Disney! We do! Which is why we add disclaimers so Disney doesn't sue us, thereby preventing us from spending more money there...)

Lose Myself

"What did you do at school today, Sprite?"

"I played with friends."

"Anything else?"

"No."

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

"Keep the hula hoop away from my van please."

She obediently scoots toward the edge of the driveway, closer to me and the dogs, farther from the vehicle as she tries once again to whip the hoop around, hoping that simply moving her arms will provide the circular momentum needed to keep it orbiting around her waist.

It falls.

Sprite looks back at me and smiles, her eyes alighting when she sees the other larger hoop whizzing in the air, propelled by my small arm movements.

"How do you do THAT?" she asks, awed by the quick revolutions.

The best thing about the summer has been now. Finally, after fighting our way through traffic, the construction, destruction, and inevitable clean up of dinner, we are now able to step outside for more than a few minutes to enjoy the warm air without still feeling the lingering heat of the day, the pink tinted sky, the calm of the neighborhood.

In a few days, it will be too humid again to truly appreciate, too hot to consider going back out there after just escaping into the air conditioned house, but right now it's perfect.

"Let's play school!"

My favorite part.

We lay our hoops down close to each other and sit within the rounds on the drive, shadowed by my huge minivan beast, and the sounds of Harry trying to bite into a large soccer ball, larger than he is, at least, from where it's wedged near my front tire.

"I'm the teacher and you're....also a teacher," Sprite instructs, happy with herself that she's able to give me a title, since thanks to preschool logic, adults are not allowed to pretend to be children. They're too big and therefore forbidden, just like boys are not allowed to be princesses and girls are not allowed to be superheroes.

Somewhere, in a few years, these roles will be reversed and reversed once more, but for now, the four year old's encyclopedia is written.

"Okay," I respond, just happy to be a part of her imagination, something that has been happening less and less while we were housebound in the evenings, Sprite preferring to play with her dolls and their size appropriate castles. "Where's the class?"

"The bunnies are the kids."

I smile, not sure if the bunnies are "present" yet. It's just us, two hoops, a nuerotic beagle tethered to her leash, and a hyper terrier who is now debating which round object is more enticing, the soccer ball, or my tire.

Pick the ball, Harry.

"Okay, class!" She claps her hands. "It's circle time! I'll go get the bunnies."

She hops up, steps around me and my protective hoop, and into the grass where she leans down and scoops up the air. Holding the loose atoms in her embrace, she returns to her circle of power once more, sitting down and depositing nothing in front of us.

"Ten bunnies. I'll count them." Her mouth moves silently as I can almost hear her count out to the magic ten. "Ten. All here!"

I don't see the bunnies. I play along anyway.

"What's first, Ms. Sprite?"

"No, Ms. Lisa. Say it with me, Miss. Lee. Sa."

The teacher is bossy. "Ms. Lisa."

"Good job! You get a sticker." She turns to address the rest of the students, now taking the form of one of her own classroom teachers, "Class, we're going to say the Pledge of Allegiance."

She bounces up again, places her left hand to the right side side of her chest and with her right hand, she holds the invisible flag. Years of adult non-commitance fade away, my own right hand sneaks up and takes place, my back straightens, almost feeling the rigid cold chair backs of my old elementary classroom, listening as she gently butchers the tradition and segues immediately into a rendition of "Grand Old Flag", complete with low pitched murmurs over the phrases she never quite understood when learning it and a patriotic march step before signaling the end with a salute and a hearty "Yessir!"

"Wonderful!" I crow, shrugging off my auto correct feature for now. We don't correct when we're playing, how else do we lose ourselves when reality has to be brought up?

 John's car pulls up along the grass, he obviously sees us as we're occupying his usual parking space.

Sprite looks up from admonishing a bunny who was not marching along (unfortunately, I must have been ignorant of this as well) and her face lights up. "Daddy!" She looks back down at the pavement in front of us. "Nap time! Go take a nap! Mommy, rub the bunnies' backs," she orders, before running off to greet her father.

John walks up with her and immediately takes a seat within the third hoop, squishing the sleeping bunnies. "What are you guys playing?"

"We're playing school. I'm Ms. Lisa, Mommy is..... Ms. Mommy. You be, um, be Mr. Daddy." She either doesn't notice or fails to remember that her father is sitting where she had placed her students. No matter, she turns to his right and addresses the "moved" rabbits.

"Okay, we now are going to work in our circles, everyone partner up," she orders, clapping her hands twice in Mary Poppins style practicality. "Ms. Mommy, you watch the class."

She immediately plops into John's lap for a cuddle, leaving me to control the possibly (?) out of control bunnies. And If I blur my eyes the tiniest bit, dull out the harsh edges of reality, I can just see them now.