Sprite's Keeper

Spin Cycle: Want the perfect job? Inquire WITHIN.

2012-01-26T11:06:20-05:00

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

2012-01-24T05:00:00-05:00

"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

2012-01-18T05:00:00-05:00

"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.