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I hate going to the dentist.
Something about people digging in my mouth with metal instruments and the chalky, medicinal taste of latex gloves. And the way the office smells. It’s vile and I dread all of it.
But what I dread even more than going to the dentist’s office, is losing my teeth.
I have a very strange, abnormal fear of losing my teeth. And I’m not sure where it came from. Perhaps the ’science fair’ at my junior high in Morgantown, West Virginia? Where they’d displayed posters of the teeth and gums of chewing tobacco users? (Or was it crystal meth?)
And no, I’ve never in my life used chewing tobacco or anything else. But for some reason, those pictures were permanently engraved upon my retinas and, ever since, when I go to the dentist I worry that I’m two weeks away from dentures and polident. Or that the dentist will bust out words like: ‘crowns’ and ‘root canals’ and ‘denture implants’.
I was at the dentist a couple of weeks ago, for the first time in eighteen months. Because we moved. And I had a baby. And I’ve things to do – like play a lot of Bejeweled Blitz and WordTwist on Facebook. And bake cookies four times a week.
First, the dental assistant insisted on taking x-ray after x-ray. And all I could think, when I wasn’t hyperventilating that they’d seen doom in my mouth, was ‘how much is this going to cost me?’
After the x-rays were taken, she loaded the images onto the flatscreen monitor twelve inches away from my face. So that I could SEE what they’d seen. I’m of the opinion that there’s nothing pretty about teeth and gums. Even in ‘flattering’ black and white.
My earnest dentist came in and introduced himself. Then he went through each set of images in painful detail. Clearly he did not see the look of panic on my face or the way I was clenching my hands while waiting to hear if he was going to deliver bad news. ‘These are really kind of gross,’ I finally managed to say. When it became clear that he wasn’t just going to say ‘well done’ and turn off the screen.
‘Really, you think so?’
Maybe when you spend all day looking at people’s teeth and pictures of their teeth, you don’t give a second thought to the shadowy skeletal images. But to me, it looks like my mouth is a ticking time bomb and I’ll be smacking my gums by Christmas time.
In the end, the news wasn’t so bad. He suggested I have two fillings replaced – of the old silver variety. And a few other little things. I aged five years during that sixty minute visit. They scheduled a cleaning appointment for me and I hightailed it out of there before they could summon me back for a full-set extraction.
Today was the scheduled cleaning. An appointment I wasn’t dreading too much, because, in my mind, the scary part – where I potentially lose my teeth – was over. I breezed in, expecting the usual spiel: ‘your teeth look great’. Or something like that.
Instead, the hygienist said: ‘when was the last time you had your teeth cleaned?’
A year and a half ago.
And she proceeded to ‘probe’ my teeth and gums, to assess their health. And she made copious, secretive notes on the little paper at her desk. She’d poke around in my mouth. Then roll away on the chair to her table. And write stuff down. Poke. Roll away. Write stuff. And I’ve no idea what she was writing down. Could she not see the fear on my face?
All I could think was: they missed something last time and she’s spotted it. Today is the day.
She tossed off various phrases like calculus and gingivitis and I don’t even know what else. And I was freaking out. And then she whipped out the camera and turned on the screen.
What’s grosser than looking at dental x-rays? Looking at footage from a ‘live’ camera inside your mouth. Dees-gus-ting.
I imagine those Skoal users of West Virginia would have seen the error of their ways if they’d been confronted with live images from the inside of their mouths. The jostling footage, the fleshy gums, the distorted looking teeth.
Make it stop! I wanted to shout. But I didn’t. I just kept clenching my poor little fingers, bracing myself for the news.
After the fluoride rinse, she handed me a warm towel. ‘Here’s a warm towel for you,’ she said as she placed it in my hands. I had no idea what I was supposed to DO with the towel. Was this related to H1N1? Another immigrant experience to suppress in my embarrassing moments file? So I wiped my hands and dabbed at my mouth. It seemed a reasonable thing to do with a warm towel. And I handed it back to her.
It reminded me of the professor’s recent experience at an undisclosed location. When a woman he didn’t know handed him a pack of gum. And he had no idea if she meant for him to TAKE a piece of gum. As in, ‘here, would you like some gum?’ Or if she thought it was his gum that he’d accidentally dropped on the floor. Which it wasn’t. So he took the pack of gum and stuck it in his pocket.
The hygienist sent me on my way with a ‘complimentary’ toothbrush, floss and toothpaste. And a ’suggestion’ that I use a ‘rinse’. And an appointment for another cleaning in six months.
When I got home I was too scared to eat.
In order to round off what can best be described as ‘birth week’ on this blog, I thought I’d include an interview with a real, live labor coach. Seeing as I only really know one, my interviewee had to be the (slightly verbose) professor who kindly answered these questions.
‘Thank you for your interest in my labor coaching seminar. I am happy to answer your questions and should your readers be interested, to provide them with my new video on the subject “A Father’s Guide to Labor” in which I cover the various do’s and don’ts of your participation in the wonderful world of childbirth. (Hint: DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT EATING HER FOOD (even if she says she doesn’t want it).’
What has been indispensable in your role as labor coach?
I try and imagine passing a kidney stone, divide the pain by 2 and that gets me into the appropriate frame of mind for understanding what my lovely wife is feeling each time she squeezes the life out of my arm.
Our vast male readership (Shawn) would like an explanation from you about what shall be known as ‘the epidural incident of 2009′. Would you care to address the incident? Please note I will edit your response if needed.
Part of being a good coach is understanding your players and what they want now vs. what they will want tomorrow. Right now your team may just want the pain of man to man pressing defense to go away and just play zone. But tomorrow as they lick their wounds from the inevitable beating they took, they will wish they had stuck it out. (This isn’t a direct correlation of course but merely a metaphor for the vast male audience to get into the frame of mind for the real answer, just refer to the DVD chapter “Labor is NOT Like Sports (except when it is exactly like sports)” )
More to the point.
- The nurse for all her great qualities (pushiness, sweet accent, positive thinking, uhh shortness) wasn’t very good with the needles as the puncture wounds on your forearm will attest to. In my one run in with the Canadian health care system (see the kidney stone incident of 2008) I also noted a lack of skill in inserting needles into my arm which was particularly vexing given my general fear of needles. Yada, Yada, Yada, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing someone line up and try to hit you in the spine with a thick needle, while you were having painful contractions, sure people do it all the time, but I was worried
- There is the matter of what happens next. Bedpans and an audience are not really your thing.
- I can’t even get you to take an aspirin on most days and these years of seeing you build up an ethos of non intervention, just led me to interpret that what you really were saying was “Jason I know you aren’t going to let me have one, so I feel it’s safe to ask, get me an epidural. Your refusal will give me a good subject heading for my blog and will also make me feel ok about ripping all the skin off of your arm.”
On a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being the worst possible offense and 10 being the most egregious offense) how would you rate your most recent remark to me: ’so, when are you going to start jogging again’, six days after I bore you a third son?
In my defense I was unaware that in addition to our third child leaving your body, so had your ability to detect sarcasm, as in “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I see you are up and walking, when are you going to really be all better and go for a jog (and maybe make some sort of awesome cake with frosting and caramel to congratulate my excellence in husbandry”…..)
Any tips for smooth and successful umbilical cord cutting? Do you do special exercises ahead of time, or do you just go in and wing it?
It always seems so cool in the movies, like it might be a moment where the room goes quiet and you become one with your wife and child. In reality this of course makes no sense. First of all the baby has just exited a nice warm hot tub where he is constantly supplied with food, and entered a world that is cold, with bright lights and a tiny Indian nurse, a lanky doctor and some weird unshaven guy all staring at him and you are about to cut him off completely….. also it’s a bit like cutting through a bratwurst so these are my tips for properly observing the decorum and appropriate manliness/sensitivity of the moment.
- Do not refuse the request. The doctor/midwife will ask if you want to cut the cord. You may at the time be standing in something of a mess, the baby is possibly not as cute as you had hoped, maybe he’s covered in white sticky stuff… but you must suck it up an proceed.
- Now is not the time for jokes. You may be tempted to ask if you can use your lucky pocket knife, or maybe even chew the cord in two caveman style. No one will laugh at these jokes, not even in retrospect, so save them for the pub night with the guys in a couple months when you can safely leave the house.
- Cut it to the outside of the potato chip clamp they have affixed. Don’t worry the doctor will point to the exact spot multiple times like you are a moron or something.
- Hand the baby directly to the mother so they can both exhaustedly bask in one another’s glow. This is the actual moment when the room seems to go quiet and the baby starts to look cute and the gentle sounds of violins can be heard in the background.
Would you like to comment on the anchovy incident of 2004?
Nope, that one was totally my bad. I panicked.
One of the boys comes to you and says, ‘Dad I want to be an urban planner.’ Your response?
Four immediate retorts come to mind all of which are unprintable and involve references to the Banana Republic, figure skating and fascist dictators…But based on the piles of rocks, blocks and sticks I seem to trip over in every room and nook and cranny of the yard and the drawings of burning buildings, crooked streets and stacked housing with scribble surfaces they seem to favor at this point, they would make great urban planners… Certainly better than Corb anyway.
Another boy says he’s going to have a recurring role in ‘Days of our Lives’…your response?
“Can you buy me a Porsche?”
Would you rather have twin girls or send me to Canyon Ranch Spa for a long weekend by myself?
That one’s easy. A weekend of mancation mayhem, beats a lifetime of miniskirt/sweats with bizarre words like “ouchie” written on them, acne covered boyfriends with Camaros, shopping for dresses and movies about fairies and princesses any day. Are you asking this as a real question? If so then I may instead call your bluff….
Would you rather be married to Sarah Palin or Ann Coulter?
Is rupturing my ear drums and option?
What about Ann Coulter or Hilary Clinton?
What about gouging out my eyes?
What’s the best thing about being married to me?
That would be like choosing a favorite child. It’s all so good I could never choose.
The worst? Oh, sorry it looks like we’re out of time…
Well thank you very much and don’t forget for only $19.99 all this wisdom and more can be yours…
Well it had to happen at least once, I guess. Seeing as I’ve now had three children and all.
Picture this.
I’m picking up my oldest from Kindergarten. The Hen and his 5 day old baby brother B3 are sleeping at home under the napping watchful eye of their father. I’m alone.
I run into an acquaintance. And by ‘acquaintance’ I mean someone with whom I’ve actually had two or three lengthy conversations.
‘Oh, hi,’ she greeted me and established how we know each other.
‘You’re expecting – congratulations,’ she says, as she pats my stomach.
Did she really just commit the most dreaded of faux pas?
‘Actually, I just had a baby,’ I manage to utter while trying to maintain my composure.
I’ll give the girl some credit – I didn’t have a newborn with me – but come on, isn’t there some cardinal rule about how you never, ever congratulate someone on being pregnant unless they’re basically wearing a t-shirt that says: ‘I’m pregnant’? And if you’re going to congratulate someone (mistakenly) on being knocked up, it’s definitely best not to pat their (fat) stomach while doing so.
‘Oh, you did,’ as she realized her mistake.
Yeah, five days ago.
‘You look great,’ she attempted by way of remedying the un-remedy-able.
Clearly.
‘What did you have,’ she politely inquired.
‘A boy.’
‘And what’s his name?’
I told her B3’s name.
Just then we were rescued by our respective children emerging excitedly from the school. The Gort arrived and the woman greeted him enthusiastically by his new baby brother’s name. Luckily he didn’t hear her, because I didn’t want to also tell her she was calling my child by the wrong name. (We’ll save that conversation for tomorrow.)
I’m guessing if she’s like most people she feels at least slightly awkward or embarassed about the whole thing.
That makes two of us.
That the professor chose to ask me today ’so, when are you going to start jogging again’ was just icing on the cake.
Due to a dearth of closet space in our new home, we’ve had to reconfigure some things. Mainly our clothes storage.
The boys have lucked out, their closet is sufficiently large and their clothes are all contained in their bedroom. The Mr. and Mrs. haven’t been so lucky. I have half of my clothes in our room, stuffed into a couple of dressers, and the other half in the basement. Just waiting for the day when I am able to wear them again, that is.
Mr. Johnson has most of his clothes stuffed into a dresser and closet in his office. Downstairs.
It’s a fine arrangement with occasional pitfalls.
Like when the professor decides to take a shower in the upstairs bathroom but forgets to take along a clean shirt. He either has to walk ‘all the way’ downstairs, post-shower, to get a shirt from his office, or he has to go shirt-less.
Or he could grab one of his wife’s tank tops from the bedroom.
‘Don’t you dare,’ I cautioned as he grabbed my pale gray Old Navy tank top, clearly intending to wear it. ‘Why not,’ he asked, surprised by my selfishness.
‘Because you’ll stretch it out,’ I declared.
My remark was followed by a moment right out of a Lucille Ball show, as both of us contorted our faces to express our immense outrage over the implications contained in my remark and his actions. Really, I’m not sure which one of us had a look of greater outrage: I, or the professor.
He, clearly thinking, ‘how could you - 38 week pregnant woman – possibly think I would stretch out your tank top?’
And I, thinking, ‘how could you possibly infer that I am larger than you?’
‘If you put that on, I will blog about it,’ I warned him, using the only ammunition at my disposal.
He pulled it over his head in triumphant defiance.
And I immediately pulled my computer to my lap and started typing defiantly.
I shan’t reveal who wears it best.
I’m surely not the only person who has been asked the question: ‘what has been your most embarassing moment?’ I never have an answer to this question. Not because I’ve not embarassed myself. But because I embarass myself all the time. And, thankfully, forget about it soon afterwards.
Even as I sit here trying to conjure up a memory of an embarassing moment, I am drawing a blank. I will say my habit of mumbling/speaking quietly has saved me from many awkward moments – like calling people by the wrong name, or saying stupid things in response to others’ questions. I’ve found it’s best to have people say ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said’ than to know what you said, sometimes. I do recall being at a publicity event for Sir Elton John where I was standing around eating hors d’oeuvres. As often happens to me, something edible flew off my tiny plate and landed smack on the floor. At which point one of the uber wealthy would-be donors stepped in it with his shoes that probably cost more than my car. And gave such a look of disgust that I briefly contemplated running out of the room.
But I hadn’t yet finished all the snacks on my plate.
Fast forward to this weekend. In order to help out a friend and my own pocketbook simultaneously, I signed up for a few hours of working as catering staff. Also, I thought it might be nice to utter the phrase ‘I’m going to work’ for the first time in 11 months.
Bear in mind I’m 32 weeks pregnant; perhaps not the most conventional look for a member of a catering team. But my friend was desperate and I was willing, so I donned black pants and a black shirt, put on my apron and tried to look five months pregnant instead of eight.
Now I’m not particularly – at all – experienced in the art of serving at catered events, but I’ve been around the block a few times. I’ve seen people carry trays of drinks and food; offering them to guests. Fairly straightforward. Though I’ll say from my now limited experience the ACT of carrying around a small black tray laden with drinks or food is rather nerve-wracking. Especially given my history of clumsiness with food at fancy events.
As people began to arrive, I grabbed my first tray of champagne, took a breath and headed out the door, clutching the rubber tray firmly with both hands. Having successfully unloaded four flutes of bubbly, I breathed a sigh of relief and headed back inside to get more.
Grabbed tray. Breathed. Walked outside.
I didn’t want to walk through the crowd – it seemed like there would be a higher likelihood of someone bumping into me and causing disaster – so I decided to take the long way. Which involved walking around the curvature of the patio to where people were gathered. Safely out of harm’s way, I thought. Perhaps I’d gotten distracted by the gorgeous view of the Rocky Mountains, because the next thing I knew, I realized the patio was not, as I had assumed, flat. There was a STEP down and I was about to miss it, judging from the way my right foot was stepping onto air instead of solid surface.
I concentrated on landing in an upright position, because either way drinks were going to be spilled and flutes would be broken. My only hope was to save myself. As I nailed my landing like Mary Lou Retton, the tray teetered and champagne glasses tipped. Two fell off the tray, crashing onto the stone patio, as champagne spilled all over me. Fortunately the host was kind enough, and my friend assured me it happened to everyone at least once. I felt like I had a scarlet K (klutz) on my uniform as I ran inside to get a towel and a dustpan, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
I’m hoping my amnesia kicks in soon.
It hasn’t yet.
I can’t say I’ve pinpointed a vast amount of cultural differences slash language barriers between Americans and Canadians thus far. Granted, I’ve only been here nine months; maybe the big things will be revealed at the one year mark.
But I encountered my first ‘misunderstanding’ yesterday.
A friend had sent me an email inviting us over for ‘dessert and apples’ at a later date. As I read through the email I was perplexed. Dessert and apples seemed like a really odd combination to me. Is it a Canadian ‘thing’: to invite someone over for dessert and include some apples in case some of the guests are particularly health conscious?
It wasn’t the first time this had happened. We ‘d received a similar invitation last month, which has inclined me to believe ‘dessert and apples’ might be a Canadian thing. Another friend had sent me an email asking if we’d like to come to their house for the aforementioned delicacies. I gladly accepted her invitation, though I was puzzled about the apples bit. Then again, she hails from Michigan which is sort of ‘apple country’…right? Since we had a ton of apples in the house at the time, I almost asked if I should bring some over. But I didn’t, figuring maybe she’d gone to an orchard and recently picked apples off a tree. Extra delicious apples. Or something.
We went to their house and had a fabulous time chatting and eating the tasty hors d’oeuvres and dessert she’d prepared. But no apples were served – a detail that didn’t even occur to me until several days later. It seemed strange to invite someone over for something particular (apples) and not serve them, at all.
As I reread the most recent email invitation to record the proposed date, I saw I’d misread it slightly. She’d invited us for ‘dessert and appies’.
Appetizers?! I presume, judging from the spread of snacks our Michigan friend had put before us.
Jason walked through the door a few minutes after 5. On a class-free day no less (not that I’m bitter). Worn out from lack of sleep and trying to keep two boys entertained without resorting to putting them in front of a movie, I bolted upstairs for a few moments of quiet. My head hadn’t even hit the pillow when I heard raised voices in the kitchen. Followed by a sobbing child climbing the stairs crying ‘Mommy’.
I figured he’d gotten in trouble for hurting his baby brother and had been sent upstairs. I was wrong.
He walked in my room wearing pants, but no shirt. I was perplexed – he’d been wearing a shirt just moments before. And his hair was wet. I tried to understand what he was telling me through his tears ‘……dump water on my head.…’
I asked for clarification, but a small whiff told me all I needed to know: the kid smelled like a pickle factory. From the smell I inferred he must have said ‘….dump pickle water on my head.‘ To make matters worse the kid’s hair was stiffer than a board.
Well maybe there are mothers who can keep a straight face when their stiff-haired shirtless children come to them smelling of pickle juice and sobbing like the world is about to end. But I’m not one of them. I didn’t even try to hide it – I burst out laughing.
In between snorts I had to coerce the kid to get in the tub. Nothing but shampoo could rid him of his pickle hair.
‘What happened?’ I asked when he’d stopped crying.
‘I shook the pickle jar and the juice came out.’
‘Was the lid off,’ I inquired.
‘Yeah,’ came the tearful reply.
At which point Daddy Daycare came up the stairs snickering something fierce. Seems our oldest had grabbed the pickle jar off the counter, unaware the lid had been removed and dumped pickle juice all over himself and the floor.
Now who’s going to mop the floor???
If you’re the kind of person who worries, now would be a great time to worry. A tanking world economy, sinking Canadian dollar, two house payments and a home that may never sell… those are some things one could worry about.
But, of course, worry never fixes anything. It just makes your hair gray. And your face sour. And it makes you not a lot of fun to be around.
I bet no one thinks Will Ferrell isn’t a lot of fun to be around. If they do, they haven’t seen him in this skit. Don’t let the PG-13 language keep you from watching all the way to the end. Otherwise you’ll miss out on a laugh. (Oh, I can just picture Nina wiping away the tears after watching this one.)
And who couldn’t use a laugh these days?
We were driving by the scene of an accident, on the way to pick up the nutty professor. There was a firetruck in the opposite lane; and 4 or 5 cars lined up on the side of the highway, ostensibly involved in the collision. Firemen were hurriedly cleaning up the scene of the crash since it was rush hour.
G asked questions. The boy loves nothing more than a question! What are the men doing in the street? Cleaning up the bits of glass from the crash.
‘It’s probably a job for Superman,’ he muttered.
Yes, Jason has gotten him hooked on a ‘vintage’ Superman cartoon DVD – one of those dollar specials from the Target 1 spot section. From several holiday seasons ago. We’ve spent the last two days listening to G hum the theme song continuously, for hours on end. The worst part is, we’re humming it too. And we hate it.
Oh, but to hear him recite the opening lines of each episode.
‘Justice’ sounds almost comical when uttered by a four year old.
Ta-da-daaa…ta-da-daaa..ta dada…ta dada…ta dadaaaaa
Our firstborn randomly decided to sleep in a sleeping bag on Friday night. On his bed. During the early hours of Saturday, as is now a nightly ritual, he stumbled into our room – dragging the bag behind him. Eager to retain my part of the queen-sized bed, I spread the bag out on the floor beside the bed and bid him goodnight. Minutes – or hours – later, I felt a nudge in my side and heard a little voice say: ’scoot over.’
On Saturday G and I tackled a little sewing project I’ve been meaning to do for a while. We made a rather amorphous-looking stuffed ‘creature’. He picked out the design and dutifully sat by my side as I figured out (1) how to use the sewing machine and (2) how to ‘make’ a stuffed something without a pattern. (Who am I kidding, a pattern wouldn’t have made it any easier for me.)
The process was going fairly smoothly. Typically sewing projects bring out ‘crazy’ Nicola who has a bit of a potty-mouth. But since I had impressionable people by my side, I refrained.
What a pair we were. It was 1pm and he was sitting in his underwear and I was still sitting in my pajamas. He looked over at me, and fixated upon my knee caps. ‘Those hairs are getting kind of long,’ he pointed out. Well, yes, it had been ‘a while’ since they’d had an encounter with a razor blade. ‘I think you need to cut them,’ he suggested. As though the thought had not occurred to me.
Eventually, many hours later, we finished the critter. I added some eyes and a mouth to the front and pronounced it done. ‘We need to add the eye-brides’ he insisted. (Eyebrows?)
After the kids were in bed I started making a similar (considerably smaller) critter for the Hen. Whose attempts at hijacking his brother’s (now named Wall-E) had not been received favorably. As I cut out the fabric I reflected upon the day and how I’d been such a good little craftswoman. How I’d managed to complete an entire project with nary a bad mood or a curse word springing from my lips.
I started sewing. But the machine needle refused to make continuous stitches. It just got stuck when I pressed down on the pedal, like an insistent record needle. Annoyed, I re-thread the entire sewing machine, figuring I’d gotten it wrong. It’s happened before. I pushed down on the pedal again. Same thing. Now my irritation was at a level red. I re-thread the blasted machine again. And tried it for the third time. Ditto. And then crazy Nicola reared her ugly head. My blemish-free record was instantly tarnished.
Aside from being mad I was also at a loss as to what was wrong with the freaking machine. Then I had one of those flashbacks they usually have in detective shows, all fuzzy and dream-like: a vague recollection of a conversation in which G is standing by the sewing machine, admiring the various dials. Talking about the ‘letters’ on the front of the machine. I looked up and found the culprit. He’d turned the ‘tension’ dial to 0. Thank you very much.
Sunday morning came and when I woke up I had no idea where I was. That’s because I was sleeping on my son’s twin bed. While he lay spread out on my bed. I just couldn’t face another night of being sandwiched between him and his dad. After breakfast, we headed to church.
We were driving down the highway, looking for our exit. Our exit was straight ahead, but Jason decided to take the earlier exit because he’d misunderstood the sign. It’s happened before. A little disagreement ensued, in which he argued that he was right and I argued that I was right. Because I was.
G nosily piped up from the backseat. ‘Mom, you can’t talk like that….otherwise no one will be your friend.’ Oh! The inhumanity of it all. The blatant sexism. Jason could barely contain his snickering. In fact he didn’t.
After church it was a scramble to put some lunch on the table, so I went with the previous night’s salmon, sliced grapefruit and pita with hummus. A complete meal. G begged for a piece of grapefruit before we sat down for lunch, so I indulged him. ‘That grapefruit tastes DISGUSTING,’ he announced. Several times. And, sure enough (how is it that he is usually right), it tasted more bitter than normal – not sweetly grapefruity as it should. ‘Can you just make me some grapefruit juice, because I can’t really eat that grapefruit.’
Around 5pm I had the brilliant idea to buy two small ‘work’ tables for the kitchen so the boys can make art (or destroy things) when I cook. I figured those ‘Lack’ coffee tables from IKEA would be perfect(ly cheap). Jason adamantly refused to go, so I took my sidekick with me. I promised him an IKEA hot dog in exchange for his good behavior.
Which worked really well. Except he was in a bit of a browsing mood, sitting down in every single chair that looked interesting to him and stopping at every ‘unsupervised play area’ along the way. It took an hour to pick up two coffee tables and two hot dogs.
As I bit into my 50 cent hot dog, I really wanted to say ‘this hot dog tastes DISGUSTING’ because it did. But I refrained.
It’s just not mature.
