What Passes as an Ordinary Monday

I picked the girls up from school yesterday afternoon and took a short cut down a residential street on our way to the orthodontist's office. My oldest daughter, E, inherited her father's tiny little bird mouth and needs to get an expander now at age 8 so that she can have the railroad tracks in a few years. Luckily you don't see kids with full head gear anymore, but if you did, she would be one of those.

We drove by a man walking his effeminate little dog down the street, happily swinging a bag of feces like he had just come from the penny candy store. I said to my girls, "Hey, that guy is carrying a bag of poop." E was on the other side of the car and could not see him. "I sure hope he has a dog," she said. Bada-bing!


We arrived at the orthodontist's office right on time for her appointment. I signed E in and took my seat in the waiting room. The music is typically loud in his office, and yesterday was no different. The song playing had that pop ballad studio produced quality, and I tried to ignore it while organizing the homework the girls needed to do while waiting. "Christ," sang the unknown to me Christian singer. "Chhrrriiissst, my Savviiooouurrrrr." Oh Christ, indeed. Can we not sit at the orthodontist's office without praising His name?

E went back with the assistant to have an impression of her mouth made while S, my other daughter, and I sat and read a "Minnie and Moo" story. I love Minnie and Moo, and so does S. They are such stupid cows. We tried to ignore the exultation of the satellite radio and finish the story when E came mincing back to us. "Already finished? That was fast."

Dr. J followed her into the waiting area and handed me a slip of paper for the front office staff. "She did great!" he announced in his booming voice. Dr. J has a full beard, rosy cheeks, and a plump little belly. If he grays steadily over the next twenty years, he will look exactly like Santa Claus, and lucky for him, he has the voice and the laugh to complete the look. I have to admit, however, that his jolly takes some of the fear out of going to his office, for both me and my daughter.

"Great, huh? Does that mean she didn't throw up?" I asked him quietly. "Yes, it does!" he shouted. "Yesterday, one girl just gagged once and shot it out, but my assistant took a fast step back and missed it." It never occurred to him that might be a better story to keep to himself and his staff. "She sounds very agile," I replied. I scheduled our next appointments and we left. E still had flecks of white from the impression material on her face.

"How did you do?" I asked her once we got in the car. "I get to eat jellybeans for the next three weeks!" she exclaimed. And she is right, she can. Because after that, eating is not going to be something that brings joy to her. I'll let her figure that out on her own.