Say Aaahhh!

The last time I went to the dentist was when I had my wisdom teeth extracted in 2005. Yikes, I know. So it was with a fair amount of trepidation that I went to have a cleaning and exam this morning.

Usually I enjoy going to the dentist. Obviously not as much as shopping for a new pen or going for a chocolate-dipped chocolate cone at Dairy Queen, but it's always been sort of relaxing for me to sit in a chair while other people work on my mouth and I drift in and out of coherency. (That's without nitrous oxide.)

Side note: When I needed to have my wisdom teeth pulled, I went to see the dentist who's kids I used to babysit. (If any of you live close enough to visit him in Gresham, OR, it would be worth giving him your business. He's an excellent doctor with great prices, and he ain't bad to look at while you're staring straight up with your mouth pried open and drool sliding out anyway...) I knew I would be getting my first dose of "laughing gas" on that visit, but had no idea how that might make me react. I'm sure it was similar to most other's experiences. They hooked me up with the mask blowing the gas into my nose, and then left me there to inhale to my heart's desire. About three minutes later I was in a hysterical panic because I couldn't stop giggling, and I knew that Dr. Westover would be coming back any minute to yank my teeth from my skull. I had to think about something terrible.

The cost of tooth extraction.

Family reunions.

Nope, I tried to hold it in, but more giggling erupted from me.

Dead puppies.

Bill collectors.

Tried to hold in the laughing, which resulted in snorts.

Then I thought about Dr. Westover and his assistant possibly standing behind me and watching me convulse with snickers.

That embarrassed me enough to sit up straight and try to hold still. I pulled the mask away from my face, feeling relaxed enough that Dr. Westover could have come at me with a steak knife and a pair of pliers, and I would have been more than happy to "open wide".

And then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window, sitting so rigidly and trying to keep my mouth shut, and lost it all over again.

When the doc finally came back, I was exhausted from laughing at my hysterical self and tried hard to remember not to say anything at all, or I might just divulge my darkest secrets. When my teeth were removed, I yelled, a little too loudly, "You're AMAZING!" And then I tried to figure out how long I might have been laying there because my head felt like a balloon floating a few feet above my body, weightless, and somehow filled with lead at the same time. I was struggling to keep it upright.

That one experience helped me understand the appeal of illegal drugs.

Ok, where was I? Ah, yes. Today's visit. Today I was suffering from a bout of anxiety over how much money I would have to fork out to pay for not having had my teeth checked for so long. The really stupid thing is that I've had insurance for almost four years that covers cleanings 100%. I was certain that I would be told that I had set a new world record for most amount of cavities in one mouth, and my only comfort came from the fact that I had no pain anywhere.

That was not the case two months ago. Two months ago, I had terribly sore gums in just one spot between my two back molars on the top right. They were sensitive to the touch, and bothered me when I chewed on that side. My hypochondria kicked in just a bit and I became certain that I had gum disease and all my teeth were going to fall out. I looked it all up on the internet, inspected the color of my gums in the bathroom mirror, and became a very paranoid religious flosser. I flossed every day for six weeks, and my gums were still bothering me in that one spot.

That pain is what finally convinced me to schedule a check-up. The day after I made the appointment I was walking through Wal-Mart and my gums began to bleed in that upper right side. I was a bit freaked out as the taste of blood coated my tongue. I didn't want to reach into my mouth to see if I could feel some kind of nubbin' or abscess that might be causing the bleed because I had been pushing a Wal-Mart cart, and who knows what kind of plague-ish germs are on those things? So I felt around with my tongue, and what do you know? A tiny piece of a popcorn kernel slid out of that space between my teeth where my gums were irritated. I hadn't had popcorn in about six weeks - like since my gums became sore. How disgusting is that?

Boy, was I was mad! All that daily flossing, and the kernel had just been shoved further and further up until it had set up camp where I could no longer get to it. What a sham! I know I was flossing the right way - I had watched videos of what to do and what not to do on the internet! So I quit flossing after that. I felt like I'd been tricked!

I had three cavities filled today, and was told to start flossing again, or I would have three more to deal with in no time. It's a conspiracy.

Ouch, Part Two

So, in spite of the crippling back pain, I had to make turkey soup for dinner. So I hunched in a half-standing position at the kitchen counter and chopped carrots and celery and cabbage for the soup. I knew that cutting myself would be unavoidable because I couldn't stand with normal posture and kept jerking involuntarily every so often with little spasms of pain. So when I did cut a little slice into the tip of my thumb, I managed only the one swear word, (being unprepared for it would have warranted two, at least), and then, my sweet, sweet Ethan walked alongside me as I hobbled/crawled to the bathroom for a band-aid, and he insisted on getting it for me and unwrapping it. Cameron was too busy laughing at me to be bothered with helping. And to be honest, I was laughing too, because I felt ten degrees worse than ridiculous, whatever that might be, for having to crawl to the bathroom for my first-aid. On the bright side, the flap of skin I cut was still attached to my thumb, so nobody had to worry about eating my flesh with their soup.

So, soup simmering on the stove by some miracle, and into my living room comes Dr. Hull, the world's best chiropractor. He set up his portable adjustment table as I looked on with something akin to fear swelling inside me. I hurt so bad all on my own, I knew he was going to be torturing me - for my own good, of course.

Let's just say I cried. A lot. And with a little bit of hysteria that would normally not be me at all. And I couldn't even muster up the decency to be embarrassed that he had to touch my sweaty back, and who knows what else. (I hadn't yet been able to figure how to take a shower.) I should have thought to tell him that I wouldn't be offended in the least if he wanted to go wash his hands when he was done. Hey, Matt...next time, wash your hands when you're done. I'm good with that.

So Dr. Hull left, and I felt a million times worse than when he arrived. But that happens with chiropractors. They poke you, or turn you, or put pressure where you feel they really should not, until you want to die...or they just make you touch your toes without bending your knees and remind you how inflexible you are. And then a few hours later, you can magically walk again, or squat down to wipe up the milk that someone let dribble from their mouth onto the floor. And in all fairness, Dr. Hull was very gentle, and even helped me turn over and sit up when I found that I could no longer move any part of my body below the second lumbar and was stuck. Course, I suppose he had to help me, or he wouldn't have gotten his table back.

So, I need to thank my posse for their help in getting me through my night. I thank Ethan, who took care of me like a pro. I thank Cameron for keeping me laughing. I thank Drew, Trent and Bryan for not pooping their diapers after I got to the point where I could no longer move my back without shouting, "Holy sonnofa mother lovin' frishterbaza!" I thank David, who kindly stopped at the store and bought rolls and ice cream and cake when I found that I couldn't stand erect or even semi-erect in the kitchen anymore to make the garlic cheese biscuits that I had intended to go with the soup. Oh, and for emptying the dishwasher this morning, too. And I thank Andrew, who stopped pretending that he didn't know how to change a dirty diaper, brought me my dinner in my chair, plugged in my heating pad, made me an ice cream cone, and told me that, no, he would not come save me if he heard a huge ker-thumpity bang! from the bathroom while I was taking a shower, but then told me that I shouldn't lock the door, just in case. Oh! And he also didn't call me a drama queen even once. I would have found a way to punch him in the face if he had. And, in case I haven't actually given real praise yet, I thank Dr. Hull, who punished me just enough to have me walking entirely upright this morning, and almost without that, "I have something stuck in my fanny cheeks" look. And, if he refrained from doing a mocking imitation of my overwrought sobbing for my parents and siblings when he got home, then I thank him for that, too.

And now, I am going to get out of my chair, with only one brief wince and a grunt, and see if I can manage putting a load of laundry in the washing machine. Wish me luck!

Ouch.

I did something to my back today. Not sure what exactly, but I find myself incapable of carrying anything and walking at the same time. For instance, I SLOWLY lifted Trent from the floor to take him to his crib for a nap just a bit ago, (back already hurt at this point, it was not caused by lifting Trent just the one time), and when I got him into my arms, my lower back refused to allow nerve signals past it, thus preventing my legs from taking the necessary steps to travel from the living room to the bedroom. I shuffled, tiny little spaces, cringing and moaning, hardly able to hold on to Trent. The pain in the lower back was trying to convince me to drop him. After about a minute, maybe two, I found myself halfway down the hall, almost to the door I needed, and the moaning seemed to be causing Trent a case of the giggles, which made him harder to carry, and made me start to laugh, which increased the difficulty of the task as well as the pain. Somehow, I made it to the crib, and lowered Trent in, only dropping him the last couple of inches, which he enjoyed. But then I couldn't get back upright. Hmmm... I was sorta OK to just hover there, bent like a cripple, but at some point, I'd have to exit the room if Trent were ever to fall asleep. I backed off the crib, (glad that I have no breasts that would have gotten hung-up on the railing), and left the room, closed the door behind me, and shuffled back to the living room, where I tipped myself onto the couch and spent five minutes straightening out, one millimeter at a time. I'm good now. I just can't lift anything, carry anything, or bend over. The babies are going to have to stay in their cribs until Cameron gets home to lift them out.

Eating vs. Gorging

Boys are bottomless pits, we all know it. I've heard it from my mother and sisters-in-law for years, and until about 6 months ago, I had no idea just how true that is. Now that I know first-hand, I'm frightened. Cameron and Ethan are eight and six. How in the world am I going to feed them when they reach their teen years? I may have to discourage sports and tell them that all the cool kids are in the chess club, because if we add strenuous physical activity to the mix, they'll be even more ravenous.

Most of my concern came about yesterday. A while back, it was common for Cameron to come home from school and eat a Popsicle or a banana and be fine until dinner. Yesterday, he came home, threw down his bag, and charged the kitchen. He ate one banana, two slices of toast, one frozen burrito and two pieces of licorice while he waited for the darn microwave the cook the burrito at what he certainly felt was an unfairly slow speed. Had this been just one day, I would have thought that he didn't eat a very good lunch, but this seems to be the new trend.

Ethan was doing his best to keep up with Cameron by pounding down one bologna sandwich, a bowl full of goldfish crackers, and a handful of chocolate animal crackers. Not bad.

So I've done some calculating, and I figure that in eight more years, Cameron will be sixteen, Ethan fourteen, and I'll be working a full time job just to earn the extra $1,000 a month it's going to take to keep them from suffering malnutrition.

And there is another problem with food in this house. Andrew battles his weight on a daily basis in hopes of fighting off heart disease and living to teach every one of his grandsons the joy of fishing. So with a family health history that is a bit scary, and not entirely on Andrew's side, when do I start telling my kids when enough is enough? We talk on almost a daily basis about healthy foods and portion sizes, (thus the two hypocritical packages of frozen burritos in the freezer...), but how do I tell the difference between the nutritional needs of growing boys and gluttony?

Over the years, Andrew has become a good sport when it comes to my nagging about food. I have tried to train him to put his snacks in a dish rather than eat potato chips, for example, straight out of the bag. This way he knows exactly how much he's eating. I force him to put fruit and veg on his dinner plate, and then I hide the butter and salt. I quit letting him scoop his own ice cream a while back, and now he is becoming used to what I call the "Norman-size bowl of ice cream". (That's right, I said "Norman", not "normal".) And my husband knows that I do all of these things out of love. I want him to be around until I'm good and wrinkly and ready to go myself.

And not to seem self-righteous, I have to say that I don't do a lot of exercising myself, and I have a sweet tooth. There is always candy in our cupboards and soda pop in our fridge. The kids are allowed to share one soda on Friday nights, but that's about all they get. (Do as I say, not as I do.) And they are used to candy being around, so they don't freak out and try to out-eat each other when they catch sight of it. It's just there. No big deal. They don't have candy every day. (But I do!...when they aren't looking!)

My kids in particular need to learn healthy eating practices while they are young. I'm not concerned so much with the type of food they eat, because we rarely have fried chicken with gravy and cotton candy for breakfast. Not wanting to stunt their growth, however, I am wondering when it's appropriate to reign them in on their quantities of food. Thoughts?

The Down-side of a Good Metabolism

Let's talk about food, shall we? I love to eat. The best time of day for eating is about 5 seconds after all the kids are in bed. It's the first moment of the day when I can completely relax, and relaxing sometimes equals food.

When I was a child, my parents would send my sisters and I to bed and then waste no time in plugging in the hot air popcorn popper and pulling out a bag of Mn'M's and pouring them into a GLASS bowl, so that we could hear them chink-chink-chinking into the dish, and our mouths would water as soon as we could smell the butter melting in the microwave. Oh! the taste of real butter on top of steaming popcorn and sprinkled with salt... We lay there in bed, sure that Mom and Dad did this just to show us how much they despised us and loved nothing more than being pure mean. We whispered to each other that if they couldn't indulge while we were there to share the feast with them, then kinder parents would have at least waited until we were asleep and oblivious to the prepping of goodies before they settled in to watch their grown-up television. But I digress.

I have never had a favorite food, but I sometimes order a dish in a restaurant that I don't really like just because it comes with garlic bread. I am a sucker for a good piece of garlic bread. It can't be mushy - it ought to be crispy and full of flavor to the point that if you ate an entire plate of it, you would die from salt overdose. Other than that, I like just about anything that doesn't contain raisins or coconut, ie; the Devil's Food.

It is a sad day around our house when Drew has committed another atrocity and there is no candy or chocolate to provide comfort after cleaning up whatever disaster has occurred. Chocolate is therapeutic, but I must admit that anything conceived of Mr. Wonka is also uplifting. I never grew out of my appreciation for Nerds or the giant, soft SweetTarts that come in a four pack and, unfortunately, two of the flavors have to be lemon and green. That's right, Green. I'm not actually sure what fruit flavor it is supposed to be, so it is referred to as Green.

While we're on the subject, why do food manufacturers insist on putting undesired flavors in the packages with the good flavors? For example, does anyone ever go for a lime popsicle when there are still Banana and Root Beer to be had? Not in our house. We push and shove and knock each other down to get the Root Beer, and then we let the kids choose from whatever is left. People eat the lime popsicles when the only other snacks available are mushy apples or the cookies that a neighbor brought over which nobody will eat because we have never been inside their house and do not know if the kitchen those cookies were baked in is sanitary. (Or because we have been inside and now know that their cat is allowed to preen himself on top of the kitchen counters.)

My mother is a fantastic cook. Anything but grilled cheese, which she will burn, even if she stands right in front of the stove, spatula in hand, staring, waiting for the perfect moment to flip. It's an unfair curse, really. Experimentation is her true forte. She makes a French roast with red cabbage that I can't even explain justly. And pork chops with homemade mango salsa, and Latkes, and just about anything you can imagine. Aside from that, I dare you to find someone who can make a more beautiful, flaky and simply delicious pie crust. You can't. Don't bother. But the meat loaf. I can't tell you how much we dreaded meat loaf when we were kids. The meat loaf itself, was always fine, no complaints. But meat loaf always meant lima beans. Mom used an electric frying pan, put the meat loaf, potato wedges and lima beans all in the pan together and fried it until the meat loaf was done, which meant the potatoes were crisp on the outside and perfectly soft on the inside, but the lima beans were usually blackened. And not in a spicy, Cajun way. They were just black and hard and covered in grease from the meat loaf. We ate them because we were afraid not to, but we hated it. And yes, I can speak for myself and every one of my siblings on that one. Years later, I realized that fried to death and covered in grease is actually the best way to eat a lima bean.

My family is not unique in it's love of food. Every holiday we have our standard favorites that can make or break the buffet spread, but so does everyone else. I had to teach my husband that Crab Dip on Christmas Eve is just that - a dip. Not a side dish. He knows that now, but it doesn't stop him from scooping it by the spoonful onto his plate and then throwing a cracker on top to make it look legitimate.

I grew up never having to worry about how much I ate and where on my body it might land. I was blessed with a metabolism that loved to work over-time. In high school I wore pants 2 sizes too big for me just to make sure they were long enough for my 5 foot 10 and a quarter inch frame. I weighed around 120 pounds. Then came my early twenties and giving birth to two children. About 2 months after Ethan was born, I settled in at an acceptable 135 pounds. Then came Drew, and exactly 10 months after he was born, I finally got back to that blessed 135, and I got there without exercise or dieting. Patience and time is all it took. (Go ahead and hate me now if you want to, but rest assured, my comeuppance is hurtling towards me with frightening speed.) Exactly one week after I returned to that 135 pound pre-baby weight, I found out I was pregnant with a very unexpected fourth baby. (Curse my body for spontaneously deciding to ovulate again without the aid of medication, and curse myself for being so stupid as to think anovulation is acceptable birth control. Not that we don't love Trent to death.)

So here we are, another ten months after child birth, and I cannot get below 142 pounds. Fine. I can live with 142. What I cannot live with is where those 7 extra pounds, plus the last few ounces of breast tissue I had that shrunk into oblivion decided to set up camp. Right behind my belly button. Standing naked in front of the mirror is now comically sad. I look like a character from a Dr. Suess book - dangly arms with a narrow chest which slopes down into a round, protuberant belly, then back into skinny legs. I take comfort that at least I am not as hairy as a Suess creation.

So if the trend continues; 120's in my teen years, 130's in my twenties and 140's as I creep up on my thirties, then I will weigh 180 pounds by the time I am seventy, but it will all be in my mid-section so that my stomach enters a room before I do and may in fact be able to flip light switches up or down of it's own accord if I should happen to turn around too hastily.

And that, Dear Readers, is the plight of me with my super powered metabolism that died off on me after I've lived 29 years and packed them full of bad habits that I will now have to break if I ever want to fit back into my jeans. I have, count them, one..two..three..four..five..six..seven..eight..nine..ten..ELVEN pairs of jeans, and I can only manage to squeeze myself into three of them and retain my ability to walk while slightly bending my knees.

I am going to have to start exercising. I am going to have to stop eating every time I walk through or past the kitchen. I am going to have to change everything I have taught myself about self control, (which so far has only been something that other people have to worry about.)

The bright side is that I came to this realization after we had already made our trip to Washington and eaten like there was no tomorrow. So please enjoy these pictures of people eating that I took while we were away. (I was determined to find a way to post pictures of our trip without actually writing about it, and what do you know? I've done it twice now. I'm sure there will be more!)


ALMOST all the kids eating Tacos in a Bowl at Susie and Nate's house. Wouldn't I love a table this big?


The Kamahaku Family at Mo's. Aren't they beautiful?


Andrew in food heaven. He had been dreaming of Mo's halibut fish n' chips for weeks, and I think all of us enjoyed them more than we should have. I find myself even now, wishing that I had eaten them more slowly.


How come Susie gets to look cute when she eats? Hmm. Anyway, she's eating Cherry Delight which I believe was made especially for Andrew since he is Sandy's favorite child. (He isn't really the favorite, I'm sure, but Sandy does love making her youngest son feel special!)


Cameron and Jayden eating the ice cream that Todd and Andrea brought for all the kids. I don't think that my kids ate a vegetable all week.


Trent apparently loves potato salad. The more dill pickle, the better!

Good Stuff

I just finished watching President Obama's speech, and I appreciated his words.  The boys and I will be discussing it later this evening, and I think we will all choose one goal to work towards.  Myself included, because one is never too old to learn.  


Also, I've been drinking more water lately, (probably not as much as the rest of you, but still), and I had to run to the bathroom in the middle of cooking breakfast this morning - left the eggs unattended on the stove.  That's how bad it was.  Can we not find a happy medium here?

That strange new feeling.

Of late, I have been experiencing a foreign phenomenon where my abdomen causes me much discomfort and pain.  I, admittedly, have hypochondriasis tenancies, and was originally convinced that a tumor was growing on my ovary, probably the left one, and that I surely had no more than a year to live.  Then I realized that I needed to change my bathroom reading.  The only options in the drawer next to the toilet were some book on the Navajo, a VW Club newsletter, (which I have already read several times), or The Christmas Shoes, which is a book based on the depressing country song where a kid buys a pair of shoes for his dying mother on Christmas Eve so that she'll look beautiful if she were to meet Jesus that night.  The mother in the book is dying of ovarian cancer, or uterine cancer, I don't remember which, but apparently it made an impression.  I am now considering seeking professional help, but not for my imagined tumor. 


So it hits me one day that maybe I conjured up my terminal disease because I had been spending too much time in the bathroom reading that stupid book.  When was the last time that I produced anything during my visits to the toilet, anyway?  Am I supposed to be keeping track of how many bowel movements I have in, say, a week?  I thought that was something that you only did with infants?  I feel certain that I've made a deposit during each trip, but does it matter how much you give, or just how often?  Can you be constipated if you've been going regularly?  (Yes, Heidi and Kitti, I am talking to you because there is no way I'm calling a doctor to ask!)  I've always been the type who could just let the fruit ripen and fall from the tree.  Thirty seconds, in and out, no effort required.  That's why I think that my self-diagnosis of constipation must be accurate because yesterday I found myself using birthing techniques to eliminate the brick that was lodged somewhere in my lower intestine.  Pull knees up to chest, tuck chin and push like hell for the count of ten.  Take breath, resume pushing.  And so on and so forth.  I was pleased to find that when it was all over and done with, I did not require stitches, but was disgusted that for all my hard work, I had passed a pitiful excuse for a bowel movement, (although I swear it had corners), and that I had earned a hemorrhoid.  At least, I think that's what it was, and if not, then the hypochondriasis is about to take over again.  I stood there in the bathroom wondering what it would feel like to ride in a car for twelve hours next week with an mn'm type thing resting on the edge of my sphincter.  Thankfully, I will not have to find out, because the bulge has since disappeared. 


I am a notorius hater of water.  It doesn't taste like Dr. Pepper or Cherry Coke, therefore, it must be bad.  I drink mostly soda, a little milk, and occasionally some juice or Crystal Lite.  But when I really think about it, I don't drink a lot of those either.  I am not an idiot, so I know that my poor hydration habits are not helping with my dry skin or migraines, and that is probably the exact cause of my constipation.  When I was younger, my body probably dealt with it just fine, and with age comes a realization that I have turned my digestive system into a sewer treatment plant. 


So what do I do?  Do any of you have tips?  Let me tell you right now that I'm not ready to give up the soda or the pop, (both being the same thing - but I wanted to make sure that everyone from every U.S. geographical region knew to what I was referring), because I'm just not there.  Might not ever be.  But I need some good ways to make sure I drink a lot of water along with my Dr. Pepper.  Water alone is gross, especially our city water.  Does it count as drinking water if you add something to it?  And what do you add that won't give you cancer?  (Again with the hypochondriasis.)  Aspartame is bad, right?  Help me out here, people, my body is begging you!