It’s Remembrance Day here in Canada. Or, Veteran’s Day in the States. It’s about remembering people who fought in wars; who made tremendous sacrifices; for the greater good.

Unfortunately, that’s not exactly how we spent the day chez Johnson.

The morning began with reveille from our two year old. I noted he now screams ‘mommy’ or ‘daddy’ while bouncing vigorously in his crib. This might be because no one comes to his aid.

We’re too tired.

‘Is this my morning?’ the professor croaked. Meaning, I suppose, ‘his’ morning to ’sleep in’ – as in, not get up at 6.30am. I politely and lovingly reminded him that I’m the one who gets up in the night with the kids and he’s the one who gets up in the morning with them. After which he protested ‘but I’m a veteran’.

A veteran of ‘the Lord’s army’ he later clarified. Yes sir.

We managed to bumble along until nap-time in a remarkably civilized manner. Unfortunately the Gort doesn’t nap, or ‘rest’, for any amount of money. He instead likes to spend nap-times working on some art project and waking up any adult trying to nap to show them his progress. Repeatedly.

As the professor found out today when he was trying to take a nap downstairs. I’ve learned my lesson and no longer bother with such exercises in futility. I just drink another cup of coffee.

There was a palpable malaise in the Johnson home following nap-time. So I suggested a walk. Outside.

‘Raise your hand if you don’t want to go on a walk,’ my five-going-on-fifteen-year old replied before extending his arm into the air. With certainty.

Silence filled the room as the professor silently (visibly) debated the pros and cons of going on a walk with everyone or staying home alone with his son who hates naps.

We went on the walk. To sweeten the deal, I promised Starbucks beverages afterwards for any and all happy participants. While the walk itself wasn’t a raging success, it was without incident, so I made good on my Starbucks promise.

The blondies and I went inside the coffee shop while Jason stayed in the van with the baby. We ordered two hot chocolates and an eggnog latte (the mere smell of it makes me ill) and a caramel brulee latte (how is this different from a caramel macchiato).

I gave the boys their hot chocolate and, with a latte in each of my hands, we began the journey back to the van. Having been around the block a time or two, I worried one of the boys would drop their drinks. But after we’d successfully navigated the big step in front of Starbucks, I thought we were in the clear. Four seconds later the Hen dropped his cup on the pavement and his hot chocolate spilled. Everywhere.

His face turned red, his mouth opened wide – the outrage and heartbreak so acute he couldn’t even make a sound. I ran to the van to rid myself of the drinks so I could assist the boy wonder. By the time I returned the silence had given way to intense wailing. Strangers were stopping to look at the little kid who was crying and pointing to the ground.

Since there was a rather lengthy line of people waiting for drinks inside, I picked up the little ball of tears and promised I’d make him some hot chocolate at home. Which was zero comfort to him. And he wailed the whole way home.

As we turned onto our street, the professor muttered: ‘I should have raised my hand.’

Minutes later, the Hen was happy as a clam, sitting on the kitchen counter munching on a scone and drinking his homemade hot chocolate. I, however, was not a happy camper. The pizza dough I’d made right after lunch had not risen at all. Which meant dinner wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

Feeling the need for some no-crying time, I decided to let the kids watch a movie. ‘Who wants to watch a movie,’ I asked and they ran downstairs clamoring with excitement. As I started clearing off the dining table, I noticed one of the Gort’s nap-time art projects: twenty or thirty tiny red stickers affixed to the table top.

I summoned the young man back upstairs to pay his dues (i.e. get rid of the stickers). Which resulted in more wailing and gnashing of teeth and ridiculous sounding phrases like: ‘but it’s really hard to get the stickers off,’ and ‘I’m tired of cleaning stickers off the table.’

You think?

Remember this: only patronize Starbucks’ with a drive-thru, even if you have to drive lengthy distances to get to one.

Remember this: stickers are the devil. Do not, under any circumstances, give a child a gift of stickers. There’s a 99% chance they will end up in places you do not want them, like car windows and dining tables. I speak from experience, as a person with a wreath-like pattern of stickers on the back of my shirt.

Apparently the little guy wasn’t just being ’sweet’ and ‘affectionate’ this afternoon while I was changing his brother’s diaper. He was slapping stickers on my back.

Save being the main subject in the family photographs, the littlest member hasn’t gotten much press. For now, he’s sweet and cute; he sleeps and eats and smiles. And he’s remarkably accurate with getting his fist in his mouth. I could say he seems pretty relaxed and easygoing, but what choice does he have? In this house, he’s kind of third on the totem pole. Feedings, diaper changes and naps all revolve around kindergarten drop-offs and pick-ups and other scheduling commitments.

It reminds me of the one time we went dog-sledding in northern, excruciatingly cold Minnesota. In December. It was vastly different from the nearly romantic image I’d had in my mind: sitting in a dogsled, being whisked in and out of spectacular scenery…

Instead it was brutally cold and we were woefully underdressed. And the ride was incredibly bumpy and also….like that horse carriage ride on Seinfeld….the dogs poop while they’re running. So you’re sitting there, beyond frozen, and then a nasty whiff of excrement finds its way to your nasal passages. The musher, in fact, commanded them ’sh*t and run….sh*t and run!’ Which we’re still chuckling about, nine or so years later. But, when you’re trying to win the Iditarod, there’s no time for potty breaks.

And that’s sort of what life is like for the baby of the house. ‘Nap and run’…’eat and run’…’poop and run’.

A few weeks ago, I was feeding the little tyke when his brothers required some urgent disciplinary action. And then it was time to go to Kindergarten. And…..an hour and a half later, he was able to finish his lunch. Good thing he has some ‘fat reserves’ in those little rolls on his thighs.

Another ‘drawback’ of being the baby – he’s either being held by someone or sitting in his bouncy seat. Meaning…the kid has zero ‘tummy time’. A realization that just occurred to me the other day. ‘I think he’s lazy,’ I told my sister over the phone. ‘He doesn’t do anything…the other boys had both rolled over when they were his age.’ (Just from tummy to back, but still.)

That’s because the other boys spent time playing on the floor. But these days, if we put the baby on the floor there’s a good chance he’s going to be ‘accidentally’ trampled by one of his brothers. So, for safety’s sake, it’s better to keep him elevated.

Hopefully he’ll figure out how to roll over before he gets to Kindergarten.

The Johnson boys at around the 2-month mark

The professor abandoned us on Saturday. To go and gamble away our life savings for a good cause. That may be a slight exaggeration. It is not, however, an exaggeration to say he left me alone with three children on a Saturday night. Without any eggs or milk in the fridge. Which means I couldn’t even make myself a faux-latte at home. And I couldn’t bake. Anything. I wracked my brain trying to come up with some kind of option for dessert. But, when you have no chocolate chips and no fruit of any kind. And no eggs. You don’t have a lot in the way of sweet options. Besides eating a cupful of whipped cream. Or a bowl full of dry Golden Grahams.

Much as I yearned for something delicious, I had zero desire to take the boys to the grocery store after six o’clock at night. It just seemed like a recipe for disaster.

I concluded that some kind of outing would be necessary for my continued sanity, so I helped them get ready. Their outfits could not have been more spectacular. The Gort wore Buzz Lightyear pajama pants and a mismatched top with a ‘regular’ shirt underneath. Puffy vest. Snow boots. His newest baseball cap. And….earphones?

The Hen wore a ‘regular’ shirt with pajama pants featuring palm trees. And a puffy vest. And too-big tennis shoes.

I piled them into the van and headed….for the Starbucks drive-thru. On the way there the Gort shared his latest musical composition – a song he’d just made up about ghosts. Even though he dutifully sang it twice, I couldn’t really tell what was going on.

But the lyrics I managed to hear, I loved. ‘Wouldn’t it be chilly with no skin….on.’

Take that, Elton John.

After picking up a tall latte and slice of holiday gingerbread, we headed home. Just me and my three boys driving in our awesome minivan on a Saturday night. I’ve never been one for going out on the weekends, but this may have officially pushed me into middle-aged mom territory. If I wasn’t there already.

When we got home we spent some time outside ‘looking at shadows’. Which basically involved the older boys running up and down the path leading to our front door until I got cold and told them we had to go inside.

Then we watched Tom and Jerry on my bed.

‘Is that the FDI Morning?’ The Gort inquired when the Warner Bros. logo popped up on the screen. ‘You mean FBI Warning?’ I clarified, even though it wasn’t that. ‘Yeah, I mean the FDI Morning.’

I don’t really know which is better – the animated cat and mouse antics, or watching the boys laugh hysterically about the antics. Even if I had to be parental and periodically remind them that putting matches in a cat’s claws and lighting them, is a really bad idea. Ditto for playing with dynamite.

The professor came home poorer than when he’d left.

When I woke up on Friday morning, it appeared to be a beautiful day outside. The color of the light, the brightness of the sun, the absence of snow on the ground – all led me to conclude it might be a good day to get outside.

Since the professor didn’t have class until the afternoon, I suggested a family outing to the (stinky) zoo.

Sometimes I’ll have one bright idea which will quickly lead to another bright idea. If we were going to the zoo….perhaps we could even take a family picture and get an early start on the annual holiday card conundrum/procrastination/saga?

I carefully selected clothes for the boys because the Gort’s ‘Superman’ shirt paired with snow boots and a too-small baseball cap wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. The Hen is still, mostly, of the age where he will wear whatever I put on him. Occasionally he’ll shake his head vigorously and tell me ‘NO’ when I select a shirt for him, all while grabbing one of his brother’s three-sizes-too-big superhero shirts. (As if!) But he can usually be convinced to put the shirt back and don the appropriately-sized item in my hand.

The Gort, however, generally refuses to wear whatever I bring to him. No matter how much thought I put into it, or how hard I try to avoid the particularly ‘itchy’ items. He is unyielding in his refusal and no amount of reasoning or convincing will change his mind.

But, we still have Halloween candy lying around the house and I’m not opposed to offering a bribe in exchange for a (potentially) decent family picture.

Naturally the professor questioned the wisdom of bribing a child to wear an ordinary long-sleeved shirt; certain the kid would want candy every time he got dressed from then on. A suspicion that proved correct when the Gort came up to me this morning and said: ‘hey mom, can I get candy if I wear a long-sleeved shirt?’

But desperate times call for desperate measures. And Halloween candy doesn’t last forever.

An hour later when we were all gathered at the front door, ready to go, I beamed with pride as I glanced at my ‘five and under’ contingent. The level of cuteness was almost unbearable. The older boys were wearing stripy shirts with puffy vests. And the baby wore a prissy, baby-blue outfit – one that is suitable for photographs…and nothing else.

And then we opened the front door. My first inkling that I’d been wrong about the weather: rain drops on the screen door. My second inkling: the wind. When the boys stepped outside they were literally moved by the icy wind which was gusting at a rather unpleasant speed.

No zoo. No family picture.

Instead we went to the farmer’s market where we sat on a hard wooden bench and watched the boys jump in the bouncy castle. Which is even less preferable than taking them to the park. It is a frankly dull and slightly nerve-wracking affair – trying to keep track of one’s children inside a giant inflated castle. I spend a lot of time beseeching my spawn – telepathically – not to be ‘those’ kids who bounce into other children and knock them over. Which results in pointed looks of judgment from their parents, as if to say: ‘what kind of animals are you raising?’

We whiled away a respectable amount of time and drove home for lunch and kindergarten drop-off. And picture-taking with the two youngest boys. Because I couldn’t let their coordinating cuteness go to waste.

When I got in the car to pick up the Gort, it was 2.47pm. The time I’m supposed to be at school….picking him up. And this time I didn’t have a good excuse. ‘Sorry I’m late sweetheart…I was downloading pictures of your brothers onto the computer?!’

As I drove towards the school, fellow moms were driving the opposite way. With their children in their cars.

I ran into the school building where my poor child was waiting for me in the office; seemingly unaffected by my tardiness. I was grateful for his non-reaction, even as he scolded me for running in the school building. ‘We’re not allowed to run in the school!’

Sorry.

Because I felt like a louse for being late, and because I wanted a yummy snack, and because I had six pears in the fruit bowl, we went home and made pear crisp. With real whipped cream.

Which we ate on the kitchen floor.

I had to cut them off after ’seconds’ so the professor would have something to nibble on when he got home.

While I was in the shower this morning (a necessity since I skipped yesterday’s), I heard my oldest say something to the effect of: ‘Henners has the laundry stuff,’ in a tattletale singsongy kind of voice.

By ‘laundry stuff’, I assumed he meant…..the bottle of Tide liquid detergent. Which I store in the laundry basket. Because there’s really not another easily accessed place to store it.

I’d scarcely processed the remark; had just begun to utter the commands of the momentarily immobile parent: ‘take it away from him’ or ‘tell him not to touch it’ when the next news bulletin was delivered.

‘Henners has dumped the laundry stuff on the floor.’

And with that bulletin my three minute shower was over.

I stepped into the hallway just in time to see the Tide bottle lying on its side. With the lid off. Clear liquid (I use Tide ‘free’) crawling all over the wood floor. My only recourse: to use my towel in an effort to stop the liquid from traveling to another city.

When your morning starts off like that, it’s hard to regroup; to retain any sense of optimism about how the day is going to go.

I’d managed to get the big boys to the front door on time for our 9.30 departure, both wearing socks and shoes and coats. When we discovered the Hen had lost his ‘da’. His pacifier. The only pacifier he will put in his mouth. The pacifier he insists on taking with him everywhere he goes.

Upstairs, downstairs, bedrooms and bathrooms were searched in an effort to find the pacifier. With no luck.Ten minutes of searching yielded nothing, and at that point I was considerably late. So we had to depart with his ‘ba’ (the infamous ubiquitous white pillowcase) but not his ‘da’. I braced myself for the inevitable tantrum in the car when he realized one of his ‘comforts’ was gone.

We arrived at our destination and I got everyone settled. The tension in my body started to fade as I held the baby on my lap. The only person who had not caused me any trouble. Yet.

His eyes closed, and his face turned a dull red from the strain. Sure enough, the exertion paid off with several loud noises two and three minutes apart. After five or so squirts I decided it was time to investigate.

I was prepared for his soiled clothing. I wasn’t prepared for mine. The kid had literally pooped on me. Through his clothes. It’s the quirky thing about parenthood, I suppose, that someone can defecate upon you and you’ll still talk to them.

Especially if they’re cute and smiley. With a half dimple hidden in their left cheek.

Being a savvy, third-time mom, I had an extra outfit for him. I did not have any extra pants for myself. Charmed, I’m sure.

Fast forward another twenty minutes or so to where my boys were running around in circles with some friends. I’d turned my back to gather my belongings in preparation for exit when I heard giggles and the word ‘banana’.

Sure enough. Someone had found two bananas and had thrown them on the floor and stomped on them. Mushed banana on carpet? Fan-freaking-tastic. ‘Who did this?’ I asked the group of five boys. Fingers pointed in five different directions. I had to assume, since two-fifths of the group belonged to me, at least one Johnson boychild was involved in the banana massacre.

Many pieces of paper towel later I’d removed the biggest chunks of banana from the carpet and the boys’ shoes. And, for the second time, tried to gather my belongings and children for exit. A process that took thirty minutes….from start to finish.

Naturally we got in the car and the Hen, upon realizing he had no ‘da’, started wailing. Right as the baby, who hadn’t been able to take an uninterrupted nap, started wailing from hunger and fatigue. Right as the Gort said: ‘when are we going to have lunch? Are we going to have lunch now?’ Over and over.

It’s days like these that I wonder about people who spout airy platitudes (about children and parenthood) like: ‘don’t blink…it goes so fast’, ’soak it all in’, ‘it’s the greatest thing ever.’ Etcetera.

Did they somehow end up with the world’s only perfect children?

Have they just forgotten the days when they wanted to send their children to boarding schools…in other countries? The days when it seemed like the only words they uttered were: ‘no’, ‘timeout’, ‘go to your room ‘and ‘no candy, presents, toys or television for you until you turn eighteen.’ The days when their kids took hot pink tissue paper, shredded it into nano-particles and dumped it all over the house. All while laughing hysterically. Right before guests were due to arrive

I read a snippet of an interview with a celebrity-who-shall-not-be-named who said , about motherhood, ‘there’s nothing I don’t love, even the sleepless nights believe it or not!’

I’ll file that one in my ‘gems’ folder.

In my previous job, I spent quite a bit of time visiting various elementary schools. As I walked around said schools I couldn’t help but notice that some of the kids looked fairly….shabby. Many looked like they’d basically come to school wearing their pajamas. ‘Why don’t their parents dress them a little better?’ I’d wonder to myself. Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I think kids should look ‘presentable’ when they go to school. Maybe it’s because I began my school career wearing an unflattering maroon uniform.

But now that I have a kid in school, I understand why those aforementioned kids looked less than stellar. Because they’d dressed themselves and their parents were tired of fighting about clothes, so they let it go.

The Gort went to Kindergarten yesterday. ‘He looks like someone living under a bridge,’ the professor quipped as we headed out the door.

Which, he kind of did. His ensemble du jour consisted of baggy, too-short fleece pants, a white t-shirt several sizes too big and black snow boots that, upon first glance, looked like ill-fitting ankle boots.

I like to think I support my kid’s creative expressions. After all, I’m the person who let him wear a life jacket to a university function last winter. But there comes a point when ‘creative’ turns into ’sloppy’ or ‘just plain terrible.’

And that’s where we were yesterday, in the ‘just plain terrible’ category.

For starters, the white t-shirt he was wearing….it was a shirt we received as a door prize at an annual University picnic a couple of years ago. It’s emblazoned with a red and white checkered rectangle with ‘Ball State Family Picnic’ printed in the center. And it’s intended for someone much larger than our Kindergartener. Frankly, it’s an ugly t-shirt. One that, if it were mine, I might wear while painting something or using a phenomenally toxic cleaner. That way if I spilled anything on it or ruined it, I wouldn’t care.

But the Gort claims to really like this t-shirt. So until I remember to bury it in his closet, the shirt will continue to make an (unfortunate) appearance.

I’ve tried to preempt the self-selection debacle by presenting him with an outfit to wear; figuring if I remove him from the [clothes selection] equation, he’d end up with a reasonable outfit. But of course it’s not that simple.

The kid has, let’s say, ten long-sleeved cotton t-shirts in different colors. Yet he refuses to wear most of them, claiming they’re ‘too itchy’. It’s a lame excuse that drives me nuts. If the shirts were wool or polyester, I’d buy the itchy argument. If he rejected all of the shirts, I’d buy it too. But the shirts are cotton and tag-less. And he ‘only’ refuses to wear seven of them.

The same goes for pants. One day… jeans are deemed too itchy, the next they’re not. Which means his ‘winter wardrobe’ consists of about three shirts and two pairs of pants.

Last week, disillusioned with his warmer clothes, he dipped into the summer wardrobe and left the house wearing an orange polo short-sleeve t-shirt and navy blue pants with mustard yellow accents. It was a vile combination, not to mention weather inappropriate, and no amount of intercession convinced him otherwise.

This weekend, as I was folding the newly laundered clothes, I came across those blue and yellow pants.

They’ve been enrolled in the witness protection program and are currently living in an undisclosed location…in the dark recesses of the closet.

I don’t have lofty expectations where Halloween is concerned. I’ve never even worn an official costume in my life. All I want for the 31st of October is pumpkins glowing on my doorstep, kids happily dressed in their costumes, making the trick or treating rounds at a few houses and handing out candy to trick or treaters.

In our case, one out of four is bad.

Jason ‘helped’ the boys carve their pumpkins on the 10th of October. Which I thought was a reasonable amount of time before Halloween. Apparently, I made the rookie Calgarian mistake of assuming that last October’s weather would be similar to this October’s weather. As in, last October the weather was balmy, so this October, my pumpkins won’t rot within seconds if I place them on my porch twenty one days before Halloween.

Except last October there wasn’t any snow. And this October. It snowed at least three times. Which means that within forty eight hours of outdoor life, the pumpkins died.

For some reason I also think kids (should) enjoy wearing costumes. And might want to wear their costumes as much as possible. Happily.

Not the case at the Johnson home.

To the Gort’s credit, he’s not prone to changing his mind about what costume he wants to wear. And, unlike some moms, I haven’t had to purchase three costumes in order to get him to wear one. However, I was not prepared for a lame argument about footwear on Halloween. His dad suggested he wear boots with his ensemble. Because it doesn’t seem like a lot of firefighters wear tennis shoes on the job. But, come to think of it, most firefighters don’t wear red and yellow plastic coats made in China either. So in retrospect, we should have dropped the shoe-fight.

And the Hen; the kid who walked around in his ‘Ba-ma’ costume several times before Halloween? Wanted nothing to do with it on actual Halloween. In the end we convinced (forced) him to wear the outfit but not the cape. Seeing as he was wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt over it along with green rainboots, I really didn’t expect anyone to know what he was supposed to be. Thus, when a boy at one of the houses said: ‘is he supposed to be Batman?’ I wanted to give him a hug.

I don’t really see the point in stopping at a lot of houses for trick or treating. I mean, the more candy you get…the more candy you have to eat. And since I can’t seem to keep my fingers out of the kids’ stashes, it’s really more troublesome for me.

Last year was the Gort’s first year trick or treating. I nearly died laughing watching my ’shy’ child barge into people’s homes, eager to grab whatever candy was available. This year, his younger brother did the same. The kid who casts his eyes to the ground the minute a stranger even looks at him, boldly walked into homes like a bloodhound following a scent. He almost started watching television on the couch in our neighbors’ home. (The neighbors whose names we barely know).

Strangely, his boldness only extended to homes that weren’t decorated on the outside. If there were pumpkins or skeletons on the porch, he stood behind me, too scared to go to the door. An hour and twelve houses later, I was rather happy to oblige my oldest when he said: ‘okay, we can go home now.’

Our first stop on the trick or treating route had been at our neighbors’ condo. ‘Will we get a lot of trick or treaters?’ I asked her, because I’d only bought one enormous box of mini chocolate bars. ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘hardly any. Last year I bought chocolate and I ended up eating it all, so this year I bought sour candies.’

Sour candies. That would have been a smart idea.

And, sure enough. Not a single kid stopped by our house for trick or treating. At the end of the evening, the professor and I had made a substantial dent in the box. ‘You have to take these to work on Monday,’ I insisted. Whilst helping myself to another Crunchie and Caramilk bar.

So, to summarize the evening’s festivities:

0..the number of decent pictures I got of the kids in costume

3….the number of times I threatened to never go trick or treating again (before we’d even left the house)

1…the number of people who stepped in dog poop during trick or treating

125…the number of mini chocolate bars I bought for trick or treating

0….the number of mini chocolates I handed out to trick or treaters

50…the number of mini chocolates Jason and I consumed after trick or treating was over

2…the number of un-potty-trained people who peed on the floor after their post trick or treat baths

The professor was staying up late preparing for an exhibit on Wednesday, so I went to bed. Because the cherubs are making me tired these days, what with summoning me to their chambers at all hours of the night….to find their pacifiers and cover them with blankets.

Jason came upstairs just before 10 to bid me good night. He started talking about some architect. It morphed into a discussion about what it takes to become famous in the world of architecture. I believe shortness may have been one of the criteria. It was past ten at this point and my initial dream of being asleep by 9.30 was fading fast, as the professor showed no sign of terminating the conversation and returning to his work.

So I turned off the light on my nightstand, thinking he might get the hint.

‘Well,’ he rubbed his hands together, ‘I can see that you’re really interested in this discussion. So how about I go downstairs and make us some coffee and then we can stay up all night and talk.’

I burst out laughing and bid him good night.

It’s good to see that he’s retaining his sense of humor in his old age. Because he is old. Another year older today. Now he comes home from his weekly soccer games smelling of muscle ointment. ‘Did you lose again?’ I ask each time. Because his orange team is on an epic streak…of defeat.

And then he holds his arms aloft and proudly declares: ‘our record is untarnished…by victory.’

It pleases me that he doesn’t take himself too seriously.

But the older we get, the lamer the birthdays get, it seems. ‘Did you get anything exciting for your birthday?’ his mom asked him over the phone. ‘Well, I got to sleep in,’ he replied.

As if sleeping until nine is the mid-thirties’ version of a really thoughtful birthday present.

It’s true, I entertained the troops so that he could rest his head until 9am. I made scones too. The Gort grabbed one off the cooling rack and took it upstairs, pressing it into his father’s hand. ‘Here’s a scone for you.’ (And a very random green marker drawing…of a triangle with legs?)

‘What do you want for your birthday dinner,’ I asked him. ‘Butternut squash ravioli, a good salad and creme brulee,’ he ordered. Apparently people in their mid-thirties have particular tastes.

So in lieu of a Porsche this year, you’re getting squash.

Happy Birthday professor hotness. I promise I’ll get you a (miniature) Porsche next year.

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.

It makes me laugh when I read interviews with celebrities on parenting. They say things like ‘we make sure we’re all sitting down for dinner at the end of the day. That’s our time together.’

Well, in my house that ‘time’ together would be about 5 minutes. And it’s not necessarily ‘fun’.

There’s the whole ‘what to have for dinner’ conundrum. Which is its own beast. Maybe if you’re a celebrity you have a chef who takes care of that little issue. I’ve been trying to do better where dinner is concerned. But it’s all dependent on whether the baby needs to be held or will entertain himself in the bouncy seat. Or take a nap. If he doesn’t…it’s toast and sliced apples all around.

Then the dinner plans hinge upon the bigger two: how well they can entertain themselves without drawing blood or rupturing (my) ear drums. Monday night this was particularly heinous, which is why I ended up with flank steak and charred broccoli stirfry. With two sides of tantrums.

I sent each kid to the ‘naughty step’ more times than I care to remember. Except for the baby, who got so tired of all the noise he took a nap on the couch.

For the first half of last night’s entertainment, the older Johnson boys could be found running around in a circle, each holding on to one end of a piece of string. It was rather amusing, initially, the two boys  running around in a high tech world with a low tech piece of string. Something you might expect from two young boys running around in poorest Africa. My first thought was ‘cute’ and then…’we should maybe get them a Wii. Or something.’ I can only imagine the Gort inviting a friend from school over for a playdate. And showing him the ins and outs of…string running.

‘You hold this end and I hold this end and now we run around in a circle. Isn’t it fun!’

Of course, ’string running’ is really just a thinly veiled opportunity for the oldest to run into the younger one from behind and push him to the ground. Purely accidental, I’m sure. But, of course, it results in a lot of tears. And a lot of ‘I don’t know why he’s crying’. Even though I kind of know by now how these games go.

When the string game had run its course, they moved on to costumes. A fellow Kindergarten mom brought me a couple of Halloween costumes yesterday, because I’d told her I still didn’t have a costume for the Hen. So she brought me a Batman and Superman outfit. Because her boys are going to be a skeleton and a psycho clown this year.

I’d made the mistake of looking at the costumes in front of the blondies so naturally they were clamoring to change into superhero gear.

The Hen became Batman (‘Ba-ma’). In a costume several sizes too big. It killed me – the way he insisted on wearing the cape, walking around while shaking his head like a circus elephant. Probably because the ‘eye holes’ came to his nose. Instead of his eyes.

The Gort donned the Superman outfit. Even though he’s going to be a firefighter on actual Halloween. It took about ten minutes to get them into the costumes. And they played around happily for about five minutes. And then fought like dogs for the next five.

As I was trying to capture their costumed cuteness, the meatballs (for the meatballs in red curry sauce) were cooked a little longer than necessary. What started out as a twenty minute meal, turned into an hour and a half of intermittent cooking and cleaning and serving.

‘I don’t like that.’ My oldest pronounced. Before he’d even taken a bite. ‘I’ll still try it,’ he compromised when I gave him the evil eye, ‘but I probably won’t like it.’

The professor walked through the door around 6. Right as we were sitting down to eat. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that all his classes go until 6 this semester? I don’t think so. I imagine he specifically talked to his department chair about taking any and all classes occurring over the dinner hour.

‘This is too spicy,’ the Gort announced. ‘How many more bites do I have to eat?’ The Hen ate his meatball but refused the rice. ‘I wan mo’ he declared with a plate full of rice still in front of him. When another meatball did not appear on his plate, he hopped out of his seat and climbed onto my lap. And ate all of my meatballs.

‘How was school today?’ the professor asked his son.

‘I don’t remember’ he replied.

About seven minutes after we started, both boys had left the table.

Family dinner: such a sacred and bonding ritual in our home.