My soul mate turned 36 last week, so that must mean it’s time for another colonoscopy! Happy birthday, honey!

I signed up Tom for his first colonoscopy at 33 because his maternal grandfather died at age 43 from colon cancer. They found a polyp that was pre-cancerous but advanced enough to warrant a repeat in three years. We are fortunate to have good health insurance, but after paying all four bills (hospital, anesthesia, doctor, and lab) it will probably be about $400 out-of-pocket.

The most striking thing this time around was the nurses’ attitudes before and after the exam. Before, they were a little surprised as to why such a young man had voluntarily gone through the fasting, bowel cleansing, and breezy-hospital-gown wearing. I smiled serenely through their curiosity just as I had cheerfully (and perhaps callously) ignored Tom’s whinging about the entire bottle of laxative he had to drink. I even cooked him a fabulous last meal, complete with home-grown rhubarb crumble 36 hours before the exam.

After the exam the nurses were a little hushed and serious-faced. Tom slowly woke up and was his usual slightly-goofier-than-normal-post-sedative self. He said several times that he’d love to take that drug every night at bed time. (Finally I told him propofol was what killed Michael Jackson and that sobered him up a bit.)

The doctor came in and said they’d found one polyp again, less advanced than last time, but still concerning, and then he said that if Tom hadn’t started coming in this early to get checked out he would’ve been looking at cancer in his forties. When the biopsy comes back they’ll decide whether he needs to come back in three years or five, but he can never, ever, ever (I swear he said it like five times, but probably it was only twice) go longer than the 3-5 years without an exam.

We stopped at In-n-Out Burger (could their fries taste any healthier? yuck) on the way home and then Tom had the rest of the day to nap and contemplate the meaning of life. Mostly he is glad he married me, he says.

“Why were you so adamant about me getting a colonoscopy the first time?” he asks. “Was it because your dad is a doctor?” “How did you know my grandfather died of colon cancer?”

I stare at him, unbelieving. “Your mom told me.”

“But I don’t know that sort of thing about your family” he says.

He does know, of course, or at least he’s heard it all before, from me and my family. We see them often, and we talk about that kind of thing. It’s just that Tom is a Mary and I am a Martha. Maybe lots of couples are like that, with the husband secure in leaving mundane details of daily/household life to the wife. I don’t usually mind; I have a good memory and I like taking care of my people. I like being in charge and responsible. The only problem is when I forget our roles (like forgetting to remind Tom to bring his driver’s license to the hospital — who doesn’t take their wallet with them?) and then we both suffer–me from frustration and him from the force of my wrath.

But back to the mushy stuff. Tom kept asking why it was so important to me that he get tested and I stopped. “Dude, you act like this is some favor I did for you, when really it’s in my best interest to keep you around. I love you.”

(Not to mention the kids. I am not raising them alone.)

“I think I was really meant to marry you,” he says, “because you’re a doctor’s daughter so you know about these things and you trust doctors, so you got me to get a colonscopy and you saved my life.”

I shake my head. You were supposed to marry me because you are my soul mate. The life-saving thing is just a bonus.

Hello, hand. I can see you there in my mind, I just can't move you.

I had to have a tooth extracted by the oral surgeon this morning. Tom would like to blame my fractured dental health on my Mountain Dew consumption, but I’m equally sure that pregnancy is the culprit, along with some subpar genetics. I don’t know if anything will make you feel more like a redneck who failed flossing than having to have a tooth extracted, but it was almost worth it for the laughing gas. At one point they asked if I wanted it turned down, if I was feeling too loopy? and I managed to hold back a giggle long enough to say I was fine. I may suck at brushing my teeth, but I’m not stupid.

Before the first session on Saturday (and leaking a little over the first speaker, because we were a bit fired up), my dad and I talked labor stuff. My dad said that doctors have always had reasons for the things they do, even if those reasons are not the best, and even if those reasons turn out to be unsupported, they do things because they think there’s some benefit to the baby and the mom. Which I’m willing to grant, though the more I learn, about both the history of childbirth and contemporary medical practice, the more I think that at least a non-malicious misogyny has pervaded much of the perspective of male-dominated (even today) obstetrics. (“You poor dears shouldn’t have to do something as hard as childbirth. You’re too delicate and dignified for all that pain and possible poop!”)

I have been talking to my sister-in-law about natural and home birth (she is planning a homebirth; I think I would if I lived 30 minutes closer to the hospital). She read about lotus birth the other day, and I had just read about some of the benefits of delayed cord cutting (that blood volume and iron levels are better in babies six months after birth if their cords were not immediately cut).

My dad said that when he was learning obstetrics thirty years ago (he delivered around 1000 babies as a family practice doctor), there was much debate over things like whether to do an episiotomy or not and whether to cut the cord immediately or to milk it towards the baby. I pointed out that both of those cord options were things that doctors do: neither of them is similar in perspective to a third option: allowing the cord to pulsate as it will. Both imply that there is something to be done, that a doctor, and his unique learning, are needed in order to fix something that is wrong.

The midwifery model of prenatal care and passive management in labor is a different perspective entirely, that childbirth is something that is going to happen, and that it will most likely happen without negative incidence, and that there is little need to be doing things to the process, that in fact the process will be hindered and harmed by a lot of doing.

Incidentally, (one of) the reason(s) for cutting the cord immediately was a fear of polycythemia, a condition of high blood volume, which occurs in .4-12% of infants, and in which delayed cord cutting has been thought by some to contribute, though trials show this is not the case.

(I still don’t know what I want to do about cord cutting. I’ll probably read some more, talk to my midwife, ask about the hospital policy — about this and other things like silver nitrate or erythromycin in the eyes (seeing as I do not have gonorrhea OR chlamydia) — and make a decision from there. I’ll probably end up somewhere in the middle, with cord cutting (no milking) in 1-3 minutes or so after birth, though from a natural/homebirth/historical perspective this is still really early, so maybe I will wait until after the placenta is born, especially since I experienced troublesome placental delivery with Susan.)

Today I read an article about palliative care and a young doctor who had to face her own death from cancer as she counseled others about their options for end-of-life care. It’s a sad story about how hard it is to face and accept one’s own death even when death is something one understands and respects, intellectually. But the part about palliative care struck me:

Over the last decade, palliative care has become standard practice in hospitals across the country. Born out of a backlash against the highly medicalized death that had become prevalent in American hospitals, it stresses the relief of pain; thinking realistically about goals; and recognizing that, after a certain point, aggressive treatment may prevent patients from enjoying what life they had left . . .

I’m not sure what all the parallels here are, or where the comparison would break down, but it’s intriguing that our end-of-life is recognized as needing a de-medicalization, just as most of our beginnings-of-life do. Palliative care emphasizes presenting a patient with all of the options, finding out their priorities, and then helping them die in the way that is least distressing (most appealing?) to them. It is not a way to prolong life at all costs with ever-more aggressive medical treatments, but a way of coming to terms with an inevitable process, though this seems more poignant (tragic) when the death is coming to someone who has not yet “lived a long, full life.”

Even the meaning of the word palliate would seem to apply to a midwifery model: to relieve or lessen without curing; mitigate; alleviate, since pregnancy and childbirth are usually the desired state/outcome, not things that need curing. And this highlights one significant parallel — how difficult it must be for doctors, who become doctors in order to actively help people (often at the sacrifice of their own time, sleep, earning power — I’m thinking especially of the non-sexy specialties like family practice), to admit/accept/embrace that at certain times, in certain instances, the best thing they can do is the least.

But now, two months later, I crave Dew’s lemon meringue-y chemical sweetness more than my lover’s arms. I wake up fantasizing about that first cold slip down the throat, the pop and hiss as you open a can or the still-slightly-illicit-thrill of making an unnecessary stop at the gas station, genuflecting at that holy miracle, the soda fountain machine, from which pours the heavenliest of nectars, unceasingly.

My tooth hurts, my voice is ravaged from swine flu (Dick says I should cut back to one pack a day. Of swine? I ask.) I have a few projects on deadline and I’m still sad about my weight (and my baby, though this would be what they call an unpropitious time to be pregnant.)

Mountain Dew is the ultimate comfort. The shangri of my la, the pot of gold, the beautiful oblivion from all cares and curses. Maybe if I promise to start running every morning I can afford just one taste of bliss each day. Or what if I stop yelling? Swearing? Complaining about the basketball-sweaty socks strewn about my bedroom? Surely there is some indulgence I can trade for the sin I covet.

(And before you suggest diet Mountain Dew, don’t. It’s spectacularly disgusting. And, anyway, it’s the caffeine too, as well as the sugar. I see myself as someone just crunchy enough to despise artificial stimulants while keeping well under the doesn’t-use-toilet-paper true-granola barrier.)

On the way home, the tickle in my throat turned, in one slow-motion curve of the freeway, to throbbing temples and a full-body ache. Spot and I were the last holdouts against this cold, not the swine flu (which is what we are telling ourselves anyway so that Dick can go in all good conscience to contaminate the good people of Austin).

In times of sickness, any mother (especially any temporarily-single-mother) knows the most important thing is provisions: drugs, vitamins, food, liquid, tissues, barf bucket, cleaning supplies, movies, books, maybe a large shotgun in dire cases. (For self-inflicted wounds, stop worrying about my kids.)

So I planned to stop at the library (no one was coughing or feverish at this point, and we’d be really fast), the Walmart, and Little Ceasar’s pizza. But after I stocked up on Anne Stuart gothic novels and several books recommended by my friend Susan, I had no heart for stopping anywhere else.

In terms of the provisional heirarchy, a good book (and the movie Big Business I think my girls will like as much as Marcy and I did) is simply more important than Pumpkin Spice eggnog (though wouldn’t that have been throat-soothing?) and $5 hot-and-ready pizza.

Anyway, we’ve got fixins’ for hot chocolate in the pantry, and for lunch?

Seagull Fountain Ramen Noodle Special:

2 packages chicken top ramen w/ seasoning packets

water

2 handfuls classic coleslaw mix (shredded carrot and cabbage, for roughage)

1/2-1 cup home-canned chicken (for protein)

1 tsp curry (for spice)

1 (or three) tblsp heavy cream (for love)

I think I should submit this to the New York Times High-Low segment, though that’s usually fashion, and even the Low end of whatever ensemble they’re pimping is way out of my range. Kinda like this Ramen Noodle concoction. Not just anyone has this stuff available year-round, you know.

That was when I decided to have another go at surgery for fixing my chronic, “non-traumatic” shoulder dislocation problem. My first surgery, in 1999, was a nice little present for my new husband. There we were, in our last year of college, married nine months, and there I was, loopy on percocet and immobilized in my writing arm for the six weeks leading up to graduation. I defended my undergraduate honor’s thesis before I had a chance to wash the iodine off.

My first surgery cost a lot more than we expected, even though we were well-insured. The school-affiliated orthopedic surgeon forgave my share (10%) of his fee. Our out-of-pocket was still a thousand dollars — quite a bit for a student working part-time on the fourth floor of the Harold B. Lee library.

My second surgery ten years later cost about the same, only this time I was conscientious about my physical therapy (figuring $25 copays twice a week for four months was worth a squeeze in the budget) and eighteen months later I go several days without even fearing a dislocation.

T. R. Reid has a new book out about health care, framed around his search for treatment for a “stiff shoulder”; he travels to nine countries and the U.S. to see what a doctor will recommend, on the current assumption that incentives and reimbursement of providers dictates care. The different reactions to his chronic problem (hopefully described more in depth in the book) are fascinating, and supposedly provide a a worthwhile baseline for comparing health care systems.

But I’m not buying it. Reid’s orthopedic surgeon in Colorado is “quick to recommend a shoulder replacement.” Few foreign doctors consider this a wise course of treatment, instead suggesting physical therapy, second opinions, steroid injections, etc, with the obvious conclusion being drawn that the American system is whacked because specialists are so eager to recommend the most invasive, expensive treatment.

And this is why I have a real problem with all the discussions of the American health care system (and many other political issues). Reid’s anecdotal evidence (praised in The New York Times as an “unusually well-controlled experiment”) doesn’t resemble my own experience in any way. What kind of journalism is it to call one man’s self-reported consultations as any kind of “experiment,” let alone a “controlled” one?

And how can I take policy suggestions seriously from someone who is, in direct contradiction to my own experience, so sensationally selective in his analysis?

I saw orthopedic surgeons in New York, Florida, and Utah about my shoulder. Each one said the same thing: that surgery was necessary, that physical therapy afterward was imperative, that I’d never play tennis again.

The orthopedic surgeon I saw in Cairo (reportedly the top guy in Egypt) said the same thing.

But what about the shoulder replacement? Surely one of those money-crazed American orthopedists suggested that? Actually, no. In fact, I begged my last surgeon for a total joint replacement after my grandma’s knee replacement allowed her to hike like a forty-year old again. And (maybe he hadn’t seen the fee schedule comparison recently?) he said it wasn’t a good idea, that joint replacements are last resorts, and that we could expect better outcomes with a new (much cheaper) laproscopic procedure.

And he was right.

So I’m left floundering when it comes to health care reform. Is more government regulation the answer, or less? If wonks and journalists describe a health care system (especially health care providers) I don’t even recognize, why would I trust their analysis of the causes, characteristics, and solutions to the problem? If they misrepresent the American system so egregiously, how can I learn from their (seemingly competent) assessment of how we already incorporate many parts of each country’s system?

If this is the best reporting our “free” press can provide, I think we’re screwed.

(Pre.S. 2 Mr. Bennet needs to come to terms with the fact that even celebrity mommy bloggers fart.)

Yesterday I took Sally and Susan to a mommy-blogger PR tour at Thanksgiving Point, and the full disclosure is that they spoiled us with yummy food, gorgeous flowers, awesome dinosaurs, and more delicious food, but if you’ve read this site for any length of time (and I like to think that you’ve been reading since before I started writing) you know that my love for Thanksgiving Point is deep and true, and not influenced by bribery or swag.

Of course, the downside of that is — what more can I say? I love Thanksgiving Point, and everyone should go. The End. (And in August they have the Two-Buck Tuesday so it’s a great time to check it out, though Sue is right, it is HOT, so go early or late and if you are sensitive to noise, I’d, uh, reconsider the Dinosaur Museum until all those awful kids are back in school.)

It was fun to be with just two of my people (my kids always seem easier one-on-one or when at least one of them is missing), but it was also great to talk with the other bloggers who happen to be mothers.

I hate when people say this, because if I don’t get invited to some event where people meet awesome people and then write about it on their blog, I feel like I’m in seventh grade all over again (because I’m a secure adult), but I met a few fascinating women yesterday and at the risk of sounding like a prepubescent name-dropper, I am going to gush about them for a minute. (And if they were gracious enough to chat me up, then obviously they would LOVE you.)

First, the PR lady for Thanksgiving Point turned out to be a friend from college (Courtney, remember Heather G. from the Ally? She is still so cute and funny). It was one of those awkward things where I remembered her more than she remembered me at first, but hey, I’m sure that had nothing to do with the 40 pounds I’ve gained and the way-flattering haircut. Right?

Then I met Sue, from Navel Gazing at its Finest, who has been one of my blogging heroes for lo these many years. She is … well, I just really like her, and I wish she’d blog more, and she’s a technical writer so I think she and Mr. Bennet should meet some time, and her kids are cute and normal. (I’m sure she’s relieved to hear that.)

I saw a bunch of the bloggers that I’ve been running into here and there: Evonne, Lauren, Joanie, April, Rachel, Allison’s husband (and her kids, including her oldest girl, who told my oldest girl several jokes that we have been hearing over and over ever since, thank you very much), and Kelcey.

Those ladies are all more professional than me, but one thing I have learned about blogging recently is that, while it is beyond wonderful to have readers who live in other hemispheres (and states), it is very valuable to make connections locally. And by “valuable” I don’t mean I’m planning to use them or “network” with them or whatnot, but just that if you are a new or intermediate blogger and want to {insert smarmy business phrase meaning “take it to the next level}, you could do a lot worse than to meet in person with the other bloggers in your area who have similar-ish blogs.

How do you get invited to these things or find out who the other bloggers are? I have a couple suggestions, but first, let me tell you about meeting Lisa yesterday.

Lisa is a smart, pretty, extroverted lady with a 2 1/2 week old baby and a little girl about Susan’s age there. She and I talked a bit throughout the day, over the rose bushes and while the kids rode the ponies (or maybe it was the erosion table and the butterfly garden, but in any case we talked). She told me about herself, including that this was her first-ever blogging event and that she doesn’t Twitter or read many other blogs. (She also graduated from BYU the same year I did and has three daughters, which is very enlightened.)

So I felt like quite the blogging-event veteran. At dinner she asked how I had met so many of the women and how I’d gotten into the loop of getting invited to some of these things, and I spent ten minutes of her life that she’ll never get back tracing my blogging-in-real-life roots to the first time I met Laura Moncur at a geek dinner almost two years ago.

(It is a pretty fancy story.)

She looked suitably impressed, and then I asked her how she’d gotten on the list for Thanksgiving Point, and she said that she goes on Good Things Utah every six weeks and I thought she meant she goes online and checks out what they’re up to or something. And then she had to explain that she actually goes on the TV show every six weeks to share her science/math/music/art/reading activities for parents to do with their kids.

Then I made Mr. Bennet take another picture of us. Just in case. I mean, I fully expect to dine with Hugh Laurie and Ingrid Michaelson someday, but if not . . . I’ll always have Lisa Bergantz.

I only wish this was a staged photo

(If you have no idea where to find local bloggers of interest, get on Twitter, join the relevant Social Media Club chapter, search for blogs by place, and talk about your blog at every awkward check-out line opportunity — someone you meet is bound to know someone who knows some people.)

Then I talked to Cindi Braby and made funny (original) jokes about how similar her name is to Cindy Brady. (I also met Kalli, Camille, and wish I’d met everyone else, but hopefully next time!)

I can’t say enough about how gracious Thanksgiving Point was to us. I think I understand a little bit now why nutjob celebrities get that awful sense of entitlement. Because I’m feeling a little bit entitled too now. Why, when I asked Sally to set the table for breakfast and she jumped right up, I merely thought, “dang straight, girl.”

****

The Giveaway: Family four packs to each of Thanksgiving Points’ four venues (Gardens, Dinosaur Museum, Farm Country, Children’s Garden). To enter, simply leave a comment telling me which venue you’d like tickets to. You can get extra entries by doing any of those social media things (twittering this:”Thanksgiving Point Giveaway at http://seagullfountain.com” or facebooking it or blogging about it or writing it in the sky — just leave an extra comment for each extra entry). Contest ends August 5th. (This is open to anyone, but you or friends/family have to be in Utah at some point to use the tickets.)

But as I watched the dancers, in odd (but modest!) angel-nun costumes, and the high school bell choirs, in odd marching band-liturgical robes, swarm the stage in front of the choir, behind the orchestra and the elaborate Victorian Christmas decorations, all I could think of was the long rehearsals. The rushed dinners, the set-building and instrument tuning, the costume-sewing and voice exercises, the light checks and sound checks, and the driving and planning and parking and waiting and the taking-it-again-from-the-top.

Despite all the spectacle and the moments of great theater, it just wasn’t spectacular enough to transport me to that place where you forget everything going on behind the scenes.

Or maybe I’m getting old, and tired. When I read a good post lately, I think of the blogger hacking away at her computer, trying to tune out the kids or the husband or the shrieking mounds of laundry. As I eat a delicious meal, I think of the pots and pans stacked in the sink, and the garlic chopping and potato dicing.

At the Mo-Tab, I got goose bumps during the a capella sections of Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring, and we laughed delightedly at The Friendly Beasts. But several of the songs were a bit blah, despite the star-worthy voice and presence of Brian Stokes Mitchell and the moving dramatic reading of Christmas with the Longfellows by Edward Herrmann.

(Edward Herrmann was great, by the way; knowing that he played Goldie Hawn’s loser husband in Overboard only added to his performance.)

We were late picking up our kids. The show was longer than I expected, the underground parking garage was stuffed with concert-goers, and the roads were icy. We grabbed a snack at Carl’s Jr, and I had Dick put on coconut verbena lotion afterwards so our friends wouldn’t smell the hamburgers and fries on us and know that we hadn’t hurried home quite as fast as we could have.

It was all so exhausting. The dressing-up, the babysitter-arranging (including reciprocation), the smiling at our seatmates, the standing for Handel’s Hallelujah chorus, the sucking of seventeen cough drops and the fretting over driving in a blizzard and the pressing question of exactly who chose those bizarre habits for the angel-nun dancers.

We wondered if the evening was worth our effort. I wondered if it was worth the efforts of the hundreds of performers. How many moments must be sublime for a performance to be worth it? How many images in a post or bites in a meal?

Usually I find that if I’ve forgotten for even a second the toys scattered on the floor and the errands to be run, then a story or an idea or a prayer has been worth the time.

As her teacher Mr. Carpenter reminds Emily in L.M.Montgomery’s Emily of New Moon, the Lord would have spared Sodom and Gommorah if ten righteous people had been found there. That’s after he’s looked through her reams of poetry and found only a dozen lines worth keeping.

There are so many hands to be washed and lessons to be taught. So many dinners to be cooked and books to be read.

Will it be worth it to work at creating my own art?

I don’t know.

But it was worth it for Longfellow, who wrote I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day a couple years after losing his wife in a fire that burned him badly trying to save her. His son had been crippled in the continuing Civil War. He said “How inexpressibly sad are all the holidays” the year after Fanny’s death. And the year after that he wrote this:

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

My dad is usually my first stop for medical advice (okay, after the internet), and he said that, coincidentally, he was scheduling a colonoscopy for my mom because she just turned 50, which is the age screenings should begin for those with average risk.

If you have a grandparent, parent, sibling, or child with colon cancer, you’ll want to have your first colonoscopy (or other screening) done 10 years before they were diagnosed. Which for Dick meant yesterday.

As others will attest, the preparation for a colonsocopy is much worse than the actual exam. It involves 24-plus hours of a clear liquid diet and nasty-tasting bowel cleansing medicine. But I’m afraid I wasn’t very sympathetic. I have borne Dick three children, after all, and frankly, bodily dignity is not worth forgoing children or a long, healthy life.

For the actual exam, Dick was knocked completely out. Some people don’t actually fall asleep, but if you are at all sleep-deprived or situationally narcoleptic (like Dick), you’ll be out before they have the camera turned on. In the recovery room, Dick was incredibly cheerful and loopy. I mean, more so than usual.

Dick now owes me his life, because they found a polyp in his lower colon. Probably not cancerous, not yet, but they removed it and will do a biopsy. Fewer than 20% of forty-year olds have polyps, and the doctor and nurses all congratulated Dick on having such a loving wife.

While Dick was at the hospital, I cleaned furiously, because:

1. I felt guilty for being mad about something he’d said even after he apologized quite nicely.

2. The house was a serious wreck and no one should have to come home to dishes in the sink after getting their keister probed.

3. I had to take my mind off the fact that if the doctor accidentally perforated his colon and had to perform emergengy surgery and if Dick died from a freak scalpel accident, the last post of mine he ever read would be one where I neglected to mention that, though I would not die for him (unless our children were already dead), if something ever happened to him, I would not be happy to still be alive.

If you or someone you love is at risk for colon cancer (and everyone over 50 is), please schedule a screening or talk to your doctor today. (Liz! This means you! Hie thee to the colonoscopist!).

I promised a Back-to-School Edition of Things That Must Go today (I know, you probably didn’t even notice, or miss it, or care, but just pretend, okay?). And now I’m all posted out. Saturdays weren’t doing much for me anyway, so I think I’ll try posting Things That Must Go on Sunday nights. I have some great (bad) ones stored up, and I hope you do too!

These things include listening to classical music, buying a new hardbound book (the kind with the thick, carefully-but-unevenly-cut pages), and sharing a Happy Meal with my kids as we grocery shop. Like a pedicure for the soul, these things make me feel pampered and indulged.

Another thing that makes me feel spectacularly spoiled, especially after having lived in Egypt, is taking my kids to the pediatric dentist. That all this equipment and education and attention is lavished on the teeth of my little ones overwhelms me.

Sally has been going regularly to the dentist since she was four. The ADA is recommending kids go as early as two-years old, but I think they just want to make more money. As long as everything looks good to the pediatrician, and you are a conscientious mom, serving the flouridated tap water and ensuring brushing and flossing on a monthly basis (kidding — at least weekly!), I think four is a good age to visit the dentist for the first time.

We started this summer off right — with a 6-month 9-month cleaning and checkup for Sally, and a first-ever visit for Susan. I made a couple of mistakes, and did a few things right, and naturally, as I sat in the waiting room, I thought, This would be a great Works-for-Me Wednesday topic, plus, hopefully I’ll remember to re-read it when it’s time for Spot’s first visit.

Tips For Making a First Dental Visit a Success

1) Start the Brainwashing Early. If you can train your three-year old to cry “Mommy, I’m not safe!” when you forget to buckle her seatbelt, you can convince her that going to the dentist is better than Disneyland, and that it will help her to be “just like Sally.”

2) Write Down the Appointment. On a calendar in case your computer breaks, and on the computer in case your calendar gets drowned in the kitchen sink. If you somehow manage to forget entirely the day, time, or in fact the name or phone number of the dentist, start calling possible dentists early on the first day of Summer. You might get lucky and call the right one exactly one hour before the appointment.

3) Practice Some Useful Phrases. For example: “I like to brush my teeth in the morning, but Mommy helps me at night.” “Daddy lets me use his flossers if I’m a good girl.” “We never eat suckers or fruit snack or sugar of any kind at home, Mr. Dentist.”

4) Do Not Let Your Daughter Wear A Dress That Comes To Her Knees. When she lies on the dentist chair, it will ride up and show her panties no matter what you do. I guess there are worse things in life, but I spend way too much of my time fretting over panties showing.

5) Brush Your Kids’ Teeth Right Before the Appointment. Right.

Actually, considering how cavalier I am about teeth hygiene, it’s a miracle the kids are still cavity-free. Right before I got married (when I was still on my parent’s insurance), I had 16 cavities. Had to go back twice to get each side of my mouth done. I’m still a flossing-slacker. Dick must have some good teeth genes.

I love a good pediatric dentist. The best part is having the dentist tell your kids they need to brush and floss. Somehow it sounds a lot more serious coming from someone who wields instruments of oral torture. But there are a few other things to look for in a pediatric dental practice:

Things to Look for in a Pediatric Dental Practice

1) TV Screens on the Ceiling, with a good selection of movies.

2) Goody bags to take home. Probably not with actual candy in them.

3) Fun prizes to take home. Not to be confused with the oral hygiene goody bag, which should include a toothbrush of their choice and toothpaste/floss samples. The fun prize should be something they can choose out of a good Dollar Store range of toys. Susan chose Trick Gum, and after we finally convinced her it wasn’t real gum, she loved ‘getting’ Mom with the cockroach that snapped out each time.

4) A Bathroom Close to the Exam Rooms. Something about all that swishing and drilling makes kids have to pee. Trust me.

5) Like, um Credentials, or something (you can check the ADA). Oh, and hygienists and dentists who actually know how to talk to kids.

In case it’s going to be awhile before you get to the dentist (and to jog my own memory), here are a few tips the dentist gave us:

Mean Rules That Help Your Teeth

1) Limit the Juice and Chocolate Milk. I ask you: Limit the MILK? Apparently chocolate milk has lots of sugar (NO!) and ruins regular milk for kids. But I asked, and the occasional treat chocolate milk is okay. It’s just bad if you buy it for your refrigerator. Because your refrigerator has feelings, too.

2) Until kids are eight or nine, Mom or Dad should take a turn at the evening brushing/flossing. Kids can handle the morning one on their own.

3) Nah, that’s all I got. How about you?

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This weekend’s Things That Must Go Giveaway is for a $50 gift certificate to a cool online store.

I think she’s too skinny now but maybe I am just jealous, only not of the misery part. Next to her, I am the jolly fat lady. This lardy feeling is compounded by my recent surgery. You might be surprised to learn that when you have shoulder surgery your legs stop working too, and you can no longer go running. Odd, but then medical science doesn’t know EVERYTHING.

Also surprising is that in order to lose weight you have to eat less and exercise more. I KNOW. But it’s true: I once won a weight-loss challenge by switching to Coke Zero and sugar-free hot chocolate. So I’ve decided to resume running because it’s more likely that my legs will start working again than that I’ll go back to a sugar-free existence.

Luckily, Andrea’s bucolic town has a 5k Run Through the Lavender this month. Once I pay the entrance fee, I’ll be motivated to start training, since the race is two weeks from Saturday and it wouldn’t do to collapse under a lavendar bush. (If you’re in Utah and want to run, send me an email!)

I don’t even like the smell of lavender, but it sure is pretty.

Exercise more: check. Eat less: hmm.

I love French fries, but maybe they’re not the best nutritional choice. Or are they? Potatoes are high in potassium, which your heart needs almost as much as it needs to not be stomped on. In fact, a well-rounded diet might consist of ice cream for your bones, fish sticks for your brain, and French fries for your heart.

Some French fries are even more beneficial, having beta carotene for your eyes. We recently discovered sweet potato fries at Rumbi Grill. At home, I’ve tried chopping sweet potatoes like regular fries and then either skillet-frying or tossing in oil and baking. These methods work pretty well, but the resulting fry isn’t as crisp as the unifrom crinkle-cut. Then I found (and modified) a Sweet Potato Wedge recipe:

Dick says these are even better than Rumbi’s. They’re not very crispy, but they do absorb much less oil. Don’t forget the fry sauce!

I’m entering these puppies in Randi’s Recipe Box Swap and The Natural Mommy’s Recipe Swap. I would enter my sister in a divorce carnival, but I don’t know of any. I will tell her that “A Day Without French Fries” comes from Nora Roberts, who writes formulaic yet satisfying (and racy) romance. In the romance novel world, divorce is but a stumbling block on the road to meeting a virile-yet-sensitive, sensitive-yet-macho, macho-yet-cute-with-kids Prince Charming who will love you for who you are and also give you incredible connubial bliss. Amen.

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Most of the time I feel really grateful for the money Dick brings home. He also doesn’t complain about his job like he did when he was teaching, which is good because then I don’t feel like telling him to shut up at dinner because AT LEAST YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO LOOK FOR KID SHOES TODAY. SEVEN TIMES.

But house-hunting, even in a housing “slump,” is stealthily depressing. It’s like how I usually feel pretty good about my body, just glad I have shoulders and knees and elbows, but then I try on clothes, or get my picture taken with anomalously skinny people, and suddenly I am plunged into a real slump.

Here’s a great cure for the money-grubbies: Global Rich List (via FMH). Someone asked me tonight how the BlogHer Ads thing is working for me, and I was embarrassed to say that I still have not remembered my password, so, beyond meeting some great other bloggers (like Marianne and Beth) in my “circle,” I don’t really know how it’s going. I’m sure millions of dollars are waiting for me to claim.

I started with BlogHer after talking to a bloggy friend of mine who joked about how she would be retiring soon on her $28/month ad income. So I thought it would be instructive to see how an income of $336 a year (28 x 12) stacks up:

Since I know my bloggy friend has a couple other sources of income, it’s probably only of interest to me that if one were to make just 336 dollars per year from one’s blog, one would be richer than quite a few people in the world. One would also be annoying for saying “one” all the time.

For those who don’t measure everything in terms of blogs(!?!), Wikipedia says that the median household income in the U.S. is $46,326, which stacks up like so:

I just have two words to say about that: Ho-ly Cow.

If only there were a website that could make me feel this positive about my body. It would tell me that, compared to most mammals, like whales and elephants, say, I really look like this:

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—-

I have fought the Finance Frump before, and probably will again, but I hope this helps in the war against all manner of frumpiness!

Today I must confess to another sin of pre-judgement. I was wrong when I said The Book of Mom Bites. The End. Now that I have read all 261 pages, I can in confidence tell you that what I should have said was:

The Book of Mom Bites the Big Tuna. The End.

First, though, I’ll list the things I like about this book. Because I can only imagine how awesomely scary it must be to send forth one’s book to an uncaring world, like casting pearls before swine, or sending your firstborn to kindergarten. Will her teacher recognize that she is WELL above-average the first day?

What I like about The Book of Mom

I like that life/friendship/marriage/motherhood/people are portrayed as having so many ups and downs that it’s nearly impossible to determine whether they’re “good” or “bad.” But it’s hard to appreciate this when the characters and their relationships change too conveniently based on what kind of foil the narrator needs at any particular moment. (NM = Narrator Mom, BF = Best Friend):

NM Depressed = BF Perfect Example of All Good Things.
NM Enlightened = BF In Need of Reciprocal Wisdom.
NM Open to Husband = Husband Complete Jerk.
NM Resenting Husband = Husband Unexpectedly Sends Her to a Spa.

I like that tough topics are addressed: alcoholism, near-adultery, cancer, incest, borderline child abuse, unhappy marriages, and unfulfilled motherhood. But it’s hard to embrace this aspect because too often the revelation of a character’s issues (e.g.: BF witnessed father’s rape of sister, p 241) are transparent deux ex machina (ducks machines) tacked on ex post facto (after they would do any good plot-wise) that presumably explain otherwise incomprehensible behavior.

I like that these issues aren’t resolved satisfactorily. That resembles real life, right? But this is fiction, and some sort of resolution would be nice. If you don’t mind manufactured conflicts, surely manufactured solutions wouldn’t sully your writing aesthetic too much.

I like that friendship is so important to NM. I also sometimes wonder what on earth I’d do without my best friend. But NM’s friendships are a bit codependent, and I can’t help thinking that if she could be only one-tenth as understanding of and interested in her husband as she is her BF, she would have the best marriage on the planet. At one point (p 113), BF says “Honey, where have you been? We are married,” and I think that’s just wrong.

I could go on, about the fact that this book is fiction when it isn’t and full of New Age-y profundities that aren’t (p 237) and man-bashing (p 224-5) and dialogue so contrived and stilted (p 154) that at one point (p 226) BF asks NM: “Are you reading a script?” And all I can think, is, FINALLY, someone says something you might hear in real life.

Or I could point out how icky it is that in this work of “fiction,” NM finds the meaning of life in a workbook called A Course in Miracles, which happens to be the actual basis for seminars the author teaches in real life. Coming soon to a town near you: Taylor G. Wilshire (author) Teaches A Course in Miracles, Which Tate (“fictional” NM) Says Saved Her Life.

But I’ll just skip to the ickier and ickiest parts that make me want to pull out every strand of hair on my head. While jumping up and down on the ashes of this book.

Ickier Part of The Book of Mom

I think we can agree that the whole point of this book is figuring out how to embrace and enjoy (or at least survive) Mom-hood.

Right when NM reaches the bottom of her incredibly whiny downward spiral, she realizes that she and BF should create something together, “like a book that empowers children.” (I could point out here that TGW (author) is also coming out with a series of children’s books, but I’ll restrain myself). BF says the book should have a “parenting edge, like ‘Get off your cell phones, Blackberry, and email and be present for your children. . . . kids can’t wait, and we don’t get that time back with them. It’s lost.’” And NM says, “So your message is that parents should be connected and one with their children, living fully in the moment” (p 92).

The children’s book is written by NM and illustrated by BF. It is a success, and NM has to fly out-of-town for a signing on the same day that her oldest son has a special performance at school. He doesn’t understand why mommy won’t be there for him. NM explains:

I will be there; not in body but in spirit. . . my spirit is who I really am — it will be wrapped around tightly hugging you, embracing you. My words will be in your head telling you how much I love you. . . . If you get sad or scared, remember my heartbeat is tugging your heart. . . . I will be there every minute that you are there; I will not miss one beat, because my love will be all around you. . . . I’ll be the invisible power that walks in front of you and behind you. (p 175-6)

BUT I WILL NOT ACTUALLY BE THERE BECAUSE I WILL BE IN ANOTHER TOWN PROMOTING A BOOK ABOUT HOW TO PARENT CONSCIOUSLY BY BEING PRESENT FOR YOUR CHILDREN AND LIVING FULLY IN THE MOMENT.

Ickiest Part of The Book of Mom

Maybe we can agree that the other whole point of this book is that motherhood is a challenging, important thing, that, if approached with wisdom and love and balance, will be fulfilling. Also, armed with this new self-knowledge, a woman will feel that what she does as a wife and mother is of incomparable, intrinsic value.

NM’s strained marriage plays a big role in The Book of Mom, and, since the roles of mom and wife are often inseparably entwined, this should be a strength of the book. The biggest breakthrough in NM’s marriage comes when she is finally able to get her husband to see her as an equal partner after her new writing career takes off and she is a “working woman now. A working woman who got paid, that is — with money and respect.”

BECAUSE IF YOU ARE NOT GETTING MONEY FOR WHAT YOU DO, YOU DO NOT DESERVE RESPECT, EVEN FROM THE MAN WITH WHOM YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO BUILD A LIFE AND FAMILY WITH.

Of course there is nothing wrong with being a work-at-home mom or a working mom or a mom from Mars, but, please, do not tell me that those are the only options for a woman who expects equal partnership with her husband, or, heaven forbid, happiness. Do not advertise your book as a paean to finding sanity in being a stay-at-home mom and then slyly conclude that the only way you see it working is just that — for the mother to start really working. Have the guts and the wisdom and the insight, damn it, to share how you found being a MOTHER to be a viable role for women.

Or write a different book called The Book of Mom Who Earns Money. Just please don’t ask me to recommend it.

But now I get it: I’ve been depressed the past couple weeks. It’s a situational depression that will go away soon, rather than clinical depression requiring medication or therapy, but, if I felt like this all the time, I would be checking myself into the nearest psych ward.

And when I’ve thought about sticking my head in the oven this past week, it wasn’t in a “the kids are driving me crazy” sort of way, but rather, for the first time, a “maybe the kids would be okay without me” sort of way. I don’t mean to be melodramatic; as I said, I know this will pass, it just hasn’t, quite, yet.

A lot of exciting or friendly things have happened recently, and each one cheered me up for about ten minutes. Each time I thought about them was good for another ten minutes of cheering up, so I thought I’d share them here. If you have any good advice on fighting post-surgical or otherwise-situational depression, somewhere between eating chocolate (not drastic enough) and hospitalization (too drastic), please let me know.

Here’s how I’m fighting the frump of mind:

A Mom to take advantage of:

My mom came yesterday to take Spot (18 mo) and Susan (3 1/2) for a few five days. I felt guilty when she offered. Of course I would love to have a break from them; although I can take care of them, it is really hard right now. But how hard does it have to be before it becomes right that someone else should have to take care of my children? I still don’t know, but when I found myself sitting on the floor, Spot in my lap still unsure why nursing is no longer on the program and Susan decorating her face with marker “freckles” AND when those two normally normal things suddenly seemed unbearable, I guess that was hard enough.

Mom told me to “take advantage of this time.” Did she mean by blogging? Well, at my doctor’s appointment yesterday I was told to take off the sling only for “desk work.” Sounds like blogging to me!

Presents

Speaking of blogging, a good friend of mine from high school had this sign made for me after she read my Love you when you’re clean and sweet-smelling post. I recently visited Andrea and saw her new baby Easton. I’m happy to report that he was both clean and sweet-smelling. She should keep him.

I’d hang it in the girls’ room, but I’m afraid they’d jump on the bed and knock it off the wall. Because they’re ladies like that. Maybe the dining room.

Speaking of blogging again, I just got some cute hairbows in the mail from Gourmet Mom-on-the-Go. You can think bloggy giveaways are silly and shameless self-promotion, until you actually win something yourself, and then, just as Toni says, even if you haven’t actually won the lottery, it’s a great pick-me-up!

My girls found the bows and have been wearing them ever since, which is why I could only find one of each pair for this picture.

I also got this book in the mail from my good friend Tara as part of a get-well-soon package. Funny, practical, and so nice to know that someone is wanting to save us from all-McDonalds-all-the-time.

It included floam for the kids and even a check to pay me back money I had forgotten she owed me. That’s true friendship right there (both my forgetting and her remembering).

Finding a Dream Place to Live

We’ve been drooling over Utah’s version of Pleasantville for months now, even though we really can’t afford a cardboard box on an outlying street under a bridge. A couple nights ago we found a tiny townhome in the BEST location ever. Made an offer today.

Our dream cardboard box looks nothing like this, but we could walk by here every day, if we wanted.

Forgive us our trespasses

I got really upset last week. My sister Mary had posted some of my recipes under her name on a new family recipe site she’s created to make sharing our favorite, modified recipes with each other easier. I got on my high “copyright,” “plagiarism,” “hard-work-taking-those-pictures and revising-and-writing-up-those-recipes” horse and made her feel bad. And THEN, yesterday? I wrote a post in which I showed some blog buttons that I have made. And my friend Tara said, Wait, I made that button. I heard (unspoken) words like “hypocrite” and “scraper” and “not-good-blogger-etiquette-r.”

Who hates that feeling (however deserved) of knowing that they have done something wrong? Do you get that awful, headachy, sick feeling? In Mary’s case, she did what she did because she thought she was helping me (remember, ole’ one arm over here) and that I wouldn’t care. I did. In my case, I thought there was a clear distinction between graphic and button — and had meant that I’d taken a graphic and created the html code to turn it into a hyperlink. I wasn’t clear enough.

My sister made amends, I made amends. One of the great things about blogging is that posts can be edited, or even taken down, if necessary. But even after Mary groveled sufficiently for the hardest of hearts, I still felt just a bit of nice self-righteous superiority. Hello! I would never do something like that. And then I did, and even though I fixed the problem and said I was sorry, I couldn’t blame Tara if she’s still just a bit miffed. Although I would never hold a grudge.

Luckily, Tara is superior to me in every way, so I’m sure it won’t take a mistake (which we’d be a long time waiting for) on her part for her to realize how easy they are to make.

Amen.

THEN I had three kids, and stretch marks from my breasts to my calves, and a creepy mommy-pouch, which might work quite nicely if we were marsupials. Only another mother can truly appreciate how disheartening it is to look like an old bag (literally) at thirty. At least, I thought only another mother could, but it turns out that cosmetic surgeons are both deeply empathetic, and eager to fix the problem. As the great Dr. Stoker says in the Times article,

The severe physical trauma of pregnancy, childbirth and breast-feeding can have profound negative effects that cause women to lose their hourglass figures . . .

Twenty years ago, a woman did not think she could do something about it and she covered up with discreet clothing . . . But now women don’t have to go on feeling self-conscious or resentful about their appearance.

Ah! Ah! That’s me. Severe physical trauma, lost figure, self-conscious and resentful. All I need is a breast-lift (implants optional), tummy tuck and some discreet full-body liposuction, or, in other words, The Mommy Makeover, and I could be better than new.

I could go from this:

To this:

Who wouldn’t want to go back to their 11-year-old self, strange costumes and big hair and all? And for only $15k – $30k? I don’t have anything better to do with that kind of money. It’s not like children are starving in Africa. Or, if there were, it’s not like American Idol and tons of celebrities aren’t doing EVERYTHING they can to solve that problem.

I’m tired of Fighting the Frump with baby steps. Exercise and drinking water and avoiding unflattering clothes and taking a ding-dang shower and having a positive outlook: great ideas, but do they get rid of my marsupial pouch? Are they as easy and convenient as one-time surgery? Will they make me look like Katie Holmes? I don’t think so.

After months of deliberation, I went under the knife last week. I wasn’t prepared for the pain. Or the brain fog. Or the constipation. Turns out it’s serious business, that general anesthesia. As they strapped me to the table (I had to be sitting upright for the surgeon to have access) and put the oxygen on me, I had second thoughts. What if something happened and I never woke up? Would my kids be glad I looked AWESOME in my coffin?

Was it worth weaning Spot? I know it’s not too early to wean her; she’s 18 months and happy as a clam on 2% milk, but when she climbed on my bed and tugged on my shirt a couple days before the surgery, I cried. Sometimes I think she’ll be my last baby, but those are usually the days when I’m not even remotely sad about no longer breastfeeding — no longer being the human pacifier, the body that has grown saggy and baggy and old with the business of bringing three babies into the world.

Then I woke up and Dick was there, and I felt so sad. I thought my heart would break. Is sadness a side effect of anesthesia? Shouldn’t I be feeling sassy and fresh?

Dick held my hand (tighter!) and asked why the doctor had written Y-E-R on my right arm? And I realized there had been a big mistake. Instead of a boob job and tummy tuck and full-body liposuction, I’d gotten surgery on my shoulder, which had been marked YES. I just hope my surgeon’s hand is steadier on a scalpel than on a marker.

Because I can’t imagine going under the knife for anything less than a seriously better body.

Probably that is just the percocet talking. The percocet would probably also be happy to tell you that I have finally pooped for the first time since last Thursday. There is nothing like being grateful for normal bowel functions.

After my surgery on Friday, where the orthopedist discovered that I had neither cartilage nor ligaments to repair (who wants a fake shoulder? Ooh, ooh, Me!), I had just a few requests: lemon meringue pie, Krispy Kreme donuts with white frosting filling, Coke fountain drinks and hot chocolate. I read once that alcohol changes to sugar, which is why it’s bad for your diet? I hope mixing painkillers with apocalyptic amounts of sugar isn’t as dangerous as mixing drugs with beer.

Of course, a clear head can be kept. Just say no! The pain builds, like when Spot gets hurt and she catches her breath, and the longer it takes for the crying to start, the worse you know it’s going to be. You hold your breath with the baby, hu-ah, hu-ah, hu-ah, then the piercing, penetrating screeching. Whole body tensed against the pain, waiting, focused. Then, oh yes, there it is, almost a relief to not be anticipating it any longer. No need to hold your breath any longer.

But why did you want to keep a clear head again?

—

Swing by 3 AM Designs to check out Toni’s post, complete with Miss Piggy youtube scenes. There is no pain, physical or emotional, that a Muppet scene on youtube cannot make a little bit better.

I loved Dooce’s testimonial to the benefits of Getting the Help You Need. Absolutely required reading for anyone who has ever felt remotely out of control. (And who hasn’t?)

We had a friend in Cairo whose father had severe headaches for 12 years after losing an eye and getting a glass prosthetic. When he finally went to see a doctor, they found that his glass eyeball was a size too large. Easily fixed the problem, and bingo, no more headaches. Only think of the 12 YEARS of pain he suffered through.

Though I often feel sad enough or unmotivated enough or anxious enough to take a long “nap” in the middle of the day, which is usually just me with my eyes closed under a heavy blanket, fantasizing what I would do with a million dollars (it’s relaxing), I think my body is regulating my serotonin or whatever pretty well. But if it were not, I would be on the phone to my doctor this minute.

Especially if I were experiencing any other stress in my life, like moving or having kids or not being able to have kids or having a husband or not being able to live with my husband or changing jobs or changing life phases, etc.

So, I am pleased to tell you that I have finally decided to take my own advice. Recent events have shown, again, that marriage is fragile. Dick and I are coming up on the 10-year mark, and for our anniversary, I would like to go to counseling. The In Real Life kind, not just the talk about our sex life on the internet and get really good advice from fellow marrieds kind, though that sparked a lot of good interaction between us.

I talked to Tara about this while we were in Arizona last week, and I admitted that there is one big drawback to the counseling plan. She said, the cost? And I hadn’t really considered that aspect. We can see a good therapist through our church for about 75 dollars a session, which is a lot of money, but not much more than your average couple would spend on a regular date (although not Dick and me; we go to the dollar theater and Mexican hole-in-the-wall type places, but we could save up).

No, the drawback I see is that I already know of a bunch of things I could do to make our marriage better (stop the mean voice, work on my appearance and outlook through exercise and, I don’t know, maybe some lipstick or something, support him in his work, church obligations, and hobbies, stick to our budget, etc). I don’t need a counselor, so it goes, to tell me how to have a better marriage. Why pay good money for what I already know (even if I don’t do)? But maybe that is the same argument other people use to avoid getting help they need.

So we’re gonna go. And while we’re saving up, we’re going to re-read/work John Gottman’s The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work that Grampa Dave gave us for our fifth anniversary. Here’s an online quiz you can take to gauge how well you know your partner. And there are a bunch of other great quizzes and questionnaires on Martin Seligman’s Authentic Happiness site. Dave gave us his book too, along with that Tale of Two Brains dvd. Think he wants to see our marriage succeed?

I think counseling and couple-help books will work for us, even if we are doing pretty well. Could always be better right?

Huh? (So many things wrong with that question; not least of which is assuming that my kids’ pediatrician is male.)

Actually, no, I didn’t ask the doctor. I decided on my own that it was okay.

He looked pretty disapproving but rang me up anyway. I wondered if he would feel better knowing that I still breastfeed Spot 2-3 times a day. But then he might feel worse if he saw Spot drinking out of my 55-cent Coke fountain drink. Or really worse if he knew what I was contemplating two short days later, in a crappy hotel just far enough from the Grand Canyon to be cheap. Where we had two queen beds for the five of us.

Dick got kick-you-in-the-head Susan. I got teeth-grinding, nose-picking, knee-you-in-the-face Sally, and Spot, who, when she wasn’t sitting on my head screeching, was doing her best to gnaw my nipple off. Remind me again why you like to co-sleep? And nurse until your kids are seventeen?

As I lay there I wished for a fifth of whiskey which I would have fed to Spot from a chipped, dirty jelly jar if only I knew how to procure whiskey and knew why anyone would only want a fifth of it. Wouldn’t a whole whiskey be a better value?

I think we can only be grateful to that cashier’s mother for breastfeeding him (which I assume because I too like to make snap infant-feeding-method judgments about complete strangers, though I usually try to be slightly more discreet) as he is obviously making good use of every bit of those two extra IQ points. Similar to how Dick likes to tell me just think how smart you’d be if you didn’t have Downs Syndrome.

Here’s a picture of poor, underfed, neglected Spot.

And here’s another one where you can see how that missing 2% of milkfat has led to a serious dearth in cute creases on her neck and arm. That is one starving child!

And the Grand Canyon? Merely a footnote to a great trip Tara has documented so well here and here. You can even read about what great guests we are. Do you want us to come stay with you too? We’d be happy to grace your guest bedroom. Anything to avoid more cheap hotels.

I thought we’d hit the nadir with that awful hostel in London during Spring Break 2000, but even strangers having sex in a single bed across the room (while we, the cheap marrieds, kept to our lonely berths) wasn’t as bad as sleeping in unfamiliar environs with three children.

Sally said she was sick of looking at the Grand Canyon after ten minutes. Susan liked it a lot too, as you can tell from her rapt expression here.

I guess I should be glad that Costco cashier didn’t see all the DVDs and fruit snacks we took on the trip. Our kids will be lucky to have any brain cells left after multiple viewings of Blue’s Clues Shape Searchers. But then maybe he would be glad to know we coached our kids well before the Easter egg hunt. Don’t let the boys take all the eggs. If they’re there first, fine, but If you’re reaching for it, you get it.

Or maybe he thinks Easter egg hunts are pagan and inappropriate. Aaack. What to do? Maybe I’ll have to go back to get his advice.

—

I submitted this to Tickle-Me Tuesday, because it actually was Tuesday when I wrote this, despite my computer’s intransigence, and also, it really tickled me.

Although I am kind of concerned that the (CNA?) (Registration person?) (Triage person?) spelled sutures suchers.

We go back on Friday to get them taken out. Still in the dark as to why they used non-dissolvable. I should have asked: should not let my spelling-snobbery get in the way of the pursuit of knowledge.

Susan fell off the back of the over-stuffed chair in our living room tonight and hit her forehead on the window sill. It bled. Then it stopped bleeding quite precipitously, and I was pretty sure it needed stitches.

Since Spot has been throwing up mysteriously (well, the process isn’t very mysterious, but the cause is), I elected to stay home and Dick got to make the ER run.

I am happy to say that it was Dick’s fault (he pulled the chair out from the wall at Sally’s request without looking at Susan’s precarious perch) and that there was nothing suspicious (in terms of DCFS — I have a semi-real fear of them) about this injury.

I’m only glad it was Dick’s fault (similar to the time Sally had nursemaid’s elbow in Cairo) because usually it (the screaming, the impatience, the irrational frustration) is my fault.

The triage person looked at the cut for half a second and agreed stitches were needed. Eight of them, it turned out, along with five shots of anesthestic after Dick turned down general anesthesia. Sally and I prayed at home (why didn’t we think of doing that before they left for the ER?) and she wrote a cute letter to Susan. By cute I mean she embellished the letters with flowers and polka dots.

Dear Susan, I love you so much. I hope you are okay. Did the stitches go well? Love, your sister Sally.

We also cleaned up the house and watched some more Remington Steele. The first because cleaning (or baking) seems to be the thing to do for injuries or illness, and the second because, why not?

Susan was bouncing of the walls when she got home a couple hours later: the sign of a successful hospital run. These are our first injury-related stitches, though not our first drug overdose (Tylenol) or concussion scare (Sally had a CT scan a couple years ago). We have to go back in a couple days for inspection, and in five for stitch removal.

I don’t know if use of the old-fashioned, non-dissolvable stitches is an indication of seriousness or cheapness? Maybe some medical-type can enlighten me?

The nurse assured Dick that the cut was very good scar-wise; if it scars at all, it’ll be along the line of her natural forehead creases. As if my first concern is scarring! But I guess after the trauma is over it is a pressing concern. Wouldn’t want anything to affect her chances of being totally unblemished as a teenager.

The bandaid was completely unnecessary, but Dick had been promising her a bandaid for two hours, so, by golly, she got her bandaid. And the “rainbow care-a-bear” the nurse let her choose didn’t hurt either.

Is it better or worse for them to get injured in such a mundane way? I can make rules like Don’t run out in the street, and Don’t put your fork in the light socket. But Don’t climb on the furniture just doesn’t get much respect.

Anyway, we did remember to pray after they got home. Thank you for taking good care of our kids. We need all the help we can get.