The Dentist

Ella was extremely disappointed on Wednesday that I was unable to accompany her to a field trip called "The Body Walk."   I have never been on this particular field trip, which is rumored by many children to contain actual body parts, and where you learn about the human body by walking through a giant maze that is supposed to be a digestive system.  Apparently, the rumors are true.  I found out by questioning Ella and her two best friends when they got back from the field trip.  They were very excited.  "There were lungs!  And a heart!  Did you know you have 23 feet of intestines???"  Eventually, you go down a slide to exit through what Ella described as "giant butt cheeks."  Now, I am not opposed to being pooped out of a giant slide, but I had a dentist appointment to attend.

I recently returned to the dentist after several years of having better things to do.  About six months ago my husband procured dental insurance, so I went in with my entire family and we proceeded to get x-rays and cleanings and examinations.  Fortunately, many years of avoiding the dentist didn't have any negative effects on my teeth, with the exception of having to endure thirty minutes of scraping with extremely sharp metal objects.

I was scheduled for a follow-up cleaning on Wednesday and so I showed up to my appointment fully prepared to endure 30 more minutes of scraping.  But first, it was "let's poke your gums until they bleed" time.  I learned quickly that you should not flinch, jump or make any movements whatsoever, because if you at any time indicate that the poking causes you discomfort, it brings on yet more poking to determine whether you have gum disease.  Apparently, if you have "sensitivity" you may have gum disease.  I challenge anyone to be poked in the gums with sharp objects and not have "sensitivity" but I am not a trained dental professional so what do I know.

My dental hygienist was a very nice woman who was very concerned about my gum health.  While poking my gums she inquired about my flossing habits:

"How many times a week do you floss?"
I immediately lied to her.  "Three times a week,"  I said, because it was a better answer than the truth, which is "at least once a year or when I get beef jerky stuck in my teeth."  I knew the truth would bring on continued poking and I was finding it difficult not to jerk around because I was already experiencing "sensitivity".
"Hmmmm....you know, you really should floss every day."  She continued poking, and when satisfied that she had at that point poked the requisite number of holes in my gums, she said, "Well, looks like you are good at three times a week!  Just keep doing what you are doing."

Take that, American Dental Association!!

We then reached the portion of the appointment wherein the hygienist asks you a question just as she places a cleaning tool, a suction hose and both of her hands in your mouth.

"Do you  have any kids?"

"FREEEE"

"What ages?"

"Ihteen, el le-ehn an nin"

She clearly could understand me because she kept asking questions, and when the cleaning was over I felt as if we had a lovely conversation and would be lifelong friends.  At least until my next appointment, when she starts poking my gums again.  I never encountered the actual dentist during this appointment.  That's next time, when I am due for another examination and more x-rays because they need photographic evidence that all of my teeth are still in there.  And I am going to try really hard to floss more, at least three times a week, so that I will no longer be lying to the nice lady who cares about my gum health.

The Sporting Life

Back in those quiet days before I had children and when I thought I knew everything, my husband and I would often discuss "those parents" who entered their kids into every sport and activity imaginable.  You know the ones. They drop off Jane at Tae Kwon Do while simultaneously picking up Jack from soccer and then dropping him off at his scout meeting.  They return to pick up Jane and deliver her to her soccer practice, and then realize that Jane forgot her soccer clothes that morning because she didn't get out of bed until five minutes before leaving for school.  Naturally they begin to fashion shin guards out of random materials found in the car, which by the way smells like expired snack food because not one of the children can be trusted to jam a pre-practice snack into their mouths without creating a four-foot blast radius of goldfish crumbs.  Once Jane has been delivered to soccer practice, they quickly run to the grocery store for more snacks that will soon be permanently adhered to the back seat .  It is at that point that they receive an accusatory phone call from the school because Jill has been waiting outside on the curb for two hours and OH MY GOD THEY FORGOT ABOUT JILL!

We weren't going to be those parents.  Absolutely not.

It all began so innocently.  Several of Maggie's friends played soccer on a club soccer team.  Mind you, this soccer team was in an entirely different town than we lived in, almost forty minutes away, but we were willing to make that sacrifice for our daughter, who had at that point never shown any interest in soccer, who had never even kicked a soccer ball as far as I know.  After that first season of soccer, Maggie has developed into quite the athlete, alternating between soccer, basketball, track, cross country, that ice sport with the brooms and competitive mood swinging, for which she should probably get an Olympic medal.

Then, there's The Boy.  The Boy has never been very interested in organized sports.  He claims to like baseball, but I know that the only reason he likes baseball is because the coach gives him sunflower seeds and bubblegum and spitting is acceptable.  So, we decided that swimming would be a good sport for him. There's no downtime where you are waiting for a baseball to be hit out to you in left field and so to pass the time you dig a little hole in the grass with your cleat and then when the ball, by some cruel act of fate, flies in your direction, you promptly trip in the hole and fall down while the ball sails over your head.  In swimming, you are either swimming or you are sinking, and there's a lifeguard to save you in the case of the latter.  So, I went online and purchased a "jammer", which is a variety of swimsuit which is not quite as obscene as most Speedos, thus guaranteeing that no self-respecting overweight white European would be caught dead wearing it, and signed him up for the swim team.  He also participates in archery, which despite the fact that we have voluntarily given him sharp projectiles against our better judgment, has turned out to be an enriching experience.  We just got the sign-up sheets for baseball, so I will soon be doomed  for the foreseeable future to sit in the pouring down rain in subzero temperatures so I can watch my son dig holes with his cleat and spit a lot.

Ella swims and plays soccer and basketball.  When I say "plays" I mean that she runs in the general direction that the ball is travelling and then looks around for an adult to give her some direction as to what to do once she reaches the ball.  She has absolutely no independent ideas about what should happen, which generally results in a situation where she is holding the ball with a totally blank look on her face, just waiting for an adult to activate her via voice command.  A typical soccer game or basketball game sounds something like this:

Coaches and various parents:  That's your ball!!  Get that ball!  GET IT!!!  PASS THE BALL!    NO, NOT TO THAT GIRL, SHE'S ON THE OTHER TEAM!   WAIT, COME BACK, YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!  THAT'S NOT YOUR BASKET/GOAL!!!  UH OH...GO GET THAT BALL!  GET IT!!!

And so on.  Many children are frequently voice activated by the wrong parents, which would explain why none of the players seem to really understand the game at all.  They're clearly just there because someone told them there would be snacks.

So, as you can see, over-participation in sports is a real societal problem.  But, I will have to address that later, because right now I have to go get the kids from the bus and deliver them to swim practice. After that, Matt has to pick up The Boy from swimming and take him to archery, while I pick  up Ella from swimming and Maggie from preseason track, and deliver Ella to her final basketball practice of the season where they will be going over the fine art of not passing the ball to the other team.  Hopefully I don't forget anyone, but I probably will.