Medical Advice

 

Last week Mark was sick.  Day one of the illness, I made him do his schoolwork until I was so disgusted by his coughing all over me that I called it quits...and went to wash my hands.

Day two of the illness I let him sit in our red chair (under a red blanket) all day.  He played Lego Star Wars on the Wii.

All day.

He had a fever and more coughing and coughing and I just let him exercise his thumb muscles and drink juice to his heart's content.

After dinner I told him it was time to turn off the Wii.  When he protested, I said, "That's all you've done ALL day."

"It is not."  He was indignant.  "I ate a Fiber One bar."

Oh. Well, then.

Later I was lying beside him in bed, smoothing his rumpled hair and trying to turn my head well away when he coughed.  I told him that I hoped he felt better.

He said, "Oh, I will.  I ate a Fiber One bar and I hadn't had one for like two days."

(I had previously been unaware of the curative properties of Fiber One bars.)

The next morning, Adam asked Mark how he was doing.  He said, "I think I'll be better today.  I had a sleep in.  If I have a few more sleep ins, I think I'll be all better."

I need to remember Mark's advice.

Because I think he shared his cold with me.

I didn't quite turn my head from his coughing fast enough.

On My Honor I Will Do My Best To Do My Duty

There are two types of mothers of scouts in the world.  The Supportive Seasoned Moms (S.S.M.s) and the Cranky Reluctant Moms (C.R.M.s).

Guess which one I am?

The great equalizer is that we all have to sew the patches on.  I've had S.S.M.s tell me that all I needed to do was use my sewing machine.

SO easy!

I've had S.S.M.s tell me that all I needed to do was buy the iron on material to iron on the patches.

SO easy!

It must be the karma, angry with me for my C.R.M. status.  Neither method works for me.  I've broken sewing machine needles and the iron on stuff didn't work.  One fell swoop from my boy and the patches dropped right off.

So I've resigned myself to the old fashioned needle and thread.  The spirit sapping and tedious driving of an unwilling needle through thick patches that are made of the most impenetrable materials known to man.  The poking of my tender fingers.  The stiffness in my bent neck.

I don't want you to feel too sorry for me, I did find a sunny spot to work this afternoon and I listened to podcasts of This American Life from NPR while I toiled.  It wasn't complete torture.

But while I sat, I considered that it was only just that the mothers received a pin when their scouts achieved a new rank.  It's a reward for all of the sewing.

On further consideration, I came to the conclusion that the pins are in no way worth the effort.

They're really sort of ugly. (Bad, bad C.R.M.!)

I do know what is worth it though.  Or I should say who.

This boy.

The one who is either eating a bowl of cereal or thinking about eating a bowl of cereal at any given time.

My scout.

OK, You Were Right

Last night there was a baptism at our church.  I was happily and comfortably seated next to Braeden when the ward mission leader asked me if I play the piano.  I do play the piano but as a Jane Austen character would say, I play the piano very ill indeed.

"Is there anyone else?" I asked.

(Well, obviously there wasn't if they were asking me.)

I said, "I'll do it but if ANYONE else comes that can play, have them do it."

I sat down at the piano and played a tentative prelude while the Relief Society room filled up.  My eyes darted up from the piano every time someone entered the room.  There are plenty of women (and men) in our ward that can play the piano infinitely better than I can.

But none of them were there.

I had never accompanied singing before (except for a few times at home but that's Different).  During the opening song my hands were shaking and I was praying that I didn't wreck the baptism with awful music.  I made it through the song but I couldn't tell you how it sounded.

Between my pounding heart and my mother's voice in my ear telling me "you'll be sorry if you don't practice," I couldn't hear the music.

Towards the end of the opening song, Janet and Eric's boys walked in.  David!  He can play the socks off the piano!  David would rescue me from the closing song!

They sat down.

On the other side of the room.

I sent telepathic messages to David through the entire meeting.  I would have nudged him on the shoulder but that would have meant climbing over the laps of about 30 people.

And that action had a certain "no" about it.

So, soul quaking, I made it through the closing song as well.

My mom was right.  I regret not practicing.  (But did you have to keep reminding me over and over in my ear while I was trying to play?)

I did learn a lesson though:  telepathy doesn't work.

Now I think I'll go practice the piano.

Modus Operandi

Mark likes to communicate with me like this:

he struggles knowing when to use "c" or "k"

First grade is exciting.  What is better than making words your own?

A Post Without Teeth

Except I have to apologize for slandering sweet Desi.

And I have to thank all of you for your kind words and encouragement towards me going to the dentist.

I put on my list for today "dentist".  That means try to find one.  It won't necessarily happen just because it's on the list.  But as my children will tell you, it has a prayer of happening if it's on the list.  They get a measure of comfort when the things they want from me are on the list.

Here's what I want to write about today though:

THE IRONY:

The principal at the local school asked my homeschooled niece to come to school next week for three days.  The school knows that they need her test scores to improve their own...to ensure further funding. 

Clarissa, you're a poster child for homeschooling.

But not every homeschooled child looks as charming in a headband as you do.

I'm just saying.

THE CRUEL FATE:

Last night, minutes before my friends came to my house for book club, Emma dropped--and broke--a bottle of (bright red) nail polish on the (generic light beige) carpet in our bedroom. 

If this ever happens to you, let me know and I'll give you a head start in cleaning it up.

I now know what doesn't work.

THE CONSOLATION:

Adam said, "Well, you did want new carpet."

THE REALITY:

But not anytime soon!

THE TRUE CONSOLATION:
  
There are still a lot of treats left in my kitchen from last night.  Sometimes chocolate is the only rational route to take in the face of ruined carpet.

AND SINCE IT'S WEDNESDAY:

Why I love it:

Here's what's happening all up and down the streets of my neighborhood.

And if you think it looks great, you should walk through it all on a warm afternoon and get unsteady from the intoxication of the scent.

 

  

  

  

 

Spring has sprung.

Boing.

My Legacy

Some tortures are physical
And some are mental,
But the one that is both
Is dental.
~Ogden Nash

Yesterday my darling, though doubting, niece wondered (in her comment to my blog) if I had taken Emma to "the awful" dentist.

How could you question me Desi?

Is it because you're almost a teenager and that is part of the job description?

I wouldn't take Emma to the dentist who I don't trust (which is what makes him awful...he's otherwise a nice enough guy).

I took Emma to our pediatric dentist.

Going there is a little bit like entering the Twilight Zone and it's a little bit like going on the set of Teletubbies.

They don't utter the word "shots".  Heaven forbid.  They "sprinkle teeth with sleepy water".

Give. Me. A. Break.

They seem to want the children to like them.

It's not going to happen.  People don't like dentists.

They don't.

But we keep going back, because they're good.  I was talking to Braeden about the "sleepy water" being their name for shots.  Braeden's eyes widened. (He's had teeth pulled there too.  Braeden and Emma unfortunately have twin mouths.)  He said, "They give us shots?!"  Uh.  Yeah.

Also, they solved a tooth problem a few years ago that our other dentist puzzled over.  I trust them.  And that's worth a lot.

But.

They call Emma, "Sweetheart".

I don't know if it rankles Emma, my mother, or me more to be called sweetheart by someone that is certainly not our sweetheart.  The only thing worse is "Hon".

It doesn't have the desired sweetening effect on Emma in any case.  I think she's what you would call a difficult patient.  They always carefully sequester her in a separate room, away from small children that might be frightened.  She sets her jaw and tears fill her eyes and no amount of cajoling or "sweetheart" or "hon" helps.

It got to the point yesterday that the dentist was calling her "Sweetie" through clenched teeth.  There was no affection in that room.  From any of us.

But the teeth got pulled and Emma survived.  She was even shocked when she discovered that it was all over with.

She hadn't felt a thing.

That sleepy water...

So I passed on dental anxiety to my daughter.

It's too bad I can't keep more of my personality traits to myself.

Because I'm also not very patient or long suffering.

When I was in college, home for the summer, I got a sliver under my fingernail from a fence post.  Where I grew up, slivers are definitely an occupational hazard.

My dad, master sliver taker outer with his sharp pocket knife, wouldn't touch it.  He said, "You'll just have to leave it and let it work itself out."  I begged him for relief like I would one day beg for an epidural when Emma was on her way into this world but it didn't do any good.  Either time.

My dad said he didn't want to hurt me like he knew digging for that sliver would hurt me.

But I couldn't just wait it out.  I didn't have it in me.

One night, when everyone was in bed and the house was quiet I took a razor blade and shaved off my fingernail to get the sliver out.

I had to.

It worked and my fingernail is even back to normal again.  Finally.

Yesterday afternoon, too late to do anything about it, Braeden's wire came loose in his mouth.  Occasionally, when his teeth move enough, that happens.  It's no one's fault, we just have to go in and get a longer wire.

Except Braeden couldn't eat or even be very happy with a sharp wire jabbing him in the mouth.

He asked me to cut it.

I said no.  It just seemed like a bad idea.

He begged.

(Is this sounding familiar?)

I told him no.  No matter where the wire was cut, it would jab him in the mouth.  He said, "Not if you cut it right up here, by my front teeth."  I wavered, but said no.

Braeden headed for the garage for wire cutters.  "I'll do it myself."

(Is this sounding familiar?)

Visions of Braeden lopping his teeth out willy-nilly danced in my head.

"OK, OK," I relented.  "I'll do it."

I stuck the wire cutters inside his mouth.

I snipped the wire.

Right up front.

And POP.  There went one of his brackets.

I wanted to be mad at someone.  Braeden?  Mr. Impatient?  Why didn't he just listen when I told him no?  Why didn't we just leave well enough alone so we didn't need a much longer appointment tomorrow to get the bracket replaced when I already have a very busy day?

Why?

Because he's my son.

So we'll go to the orthodontist, my hat in my hand, "Sorry I popped off my son's bracket and cut his wire."

Why don't I have any good traits to pass on to my children?

(I don't think sarcasm and an insatiable sweet tooth count.)

Help

Dear Mama,

Are you reading this?

I haven't been to the dentist for 1 1/2 years. 

I feel terrible about this.

But I don't like going to the dentist.

I took Emma to the orthodontist awhile ago and was told she needs to get some baby teeth pulled that are fused to the bone.  I got her an appointment immediately and I'm taking her to the dentist today.

See, I am perfectly willing to take my children to the dentist.

So I need you to make me an appointment.

Then drive me there.

And promise me a treat and a lot of sympathy if it's awful.

Because it will be.

What do you say?  Do you want me to send you my dentist's phone number?

Oh, wait. I broke up with that dentist.

Because he's awful.

Will you find me a new one?

Thanks.

Love,

Your Cowardly Daughter