Remember a few weeks ago when my older daughter, E, got her braces? She was both delighted and appalled at them, as was I, but for different reasons. Well, I thought an update on the condition of her mouth was in order.
Her first appointment to see how things were going was not what we expected. I figured we would stop by after school and the orthodontist would take a looky-loo, maybe crank her expander, and tell us to come back in a week. After all, a nice space was already developing between her front Chiclets, somewhere between Madonna’s and Anna Paquin’s in the gap size department. The doctor did give her a couple of good cranks, which is fun if it’s not your mouth. But then his assistant wanted to change her rubber bands.
Since I never had braces, I didn't know that the real torture comes from the rubber bands. They encircle the brackets glued to each tooth, and nowadays, they come in a rainbow of colors. I have decided the reason for the variety is to give these young victims some small sense of control over what is happening inside their very heads. If they can pick out the colors on their teeth, maybe they won’t mind the braces and the accompanying pain so much.
According to E, that is utter bullshit, although she thankfully didn’t say it like that. Changing the rubber bands is about the third circle of Hell. They have to remove each rubber band with something that looks like needle nose pliers, and then take new rubber bands, ones that have yet to soften in saliva and lose a bit of their elasticity, and stretch them around the brackets. One at a time. That’s a total of twenty times; well, eighteen for E, since her adult canines have yet to join the rest of the party.
The rubber bands themselves are about the size of a seed bead, for those of you who are familiar with Native American crafts. Bigger than a poppy seed, maybe sesame seed size. They don’t have a whole lot of give. Add to that the fact that each tooth is being pushed around and has loosened up a bit, and you can imagine how good a little pressure on each one might feel. I now know why the wire is there. It’s to keep all the teeth from falling out. It’s a tooth cage, a guard rail.
Well, when E sat patiently with her mouth open wide, and don’t forget, her piehole is like a baby bird’s, the assistant removed the rubber bands until she lost control of one and the tooth bracket shot across the room. Not good. That meant that the wire had to be removed, then the glue residue scraped off that tooth, then another bracket glued onto the tooth, which then had to dry, before she could be rewired, and finally, rubber banded. Our five minute mouth check turned into a forty-five minute session of pre-teen water boarding.
We couldn’t even send her to school the next day with Motrin for her pain, because the bottle of the popular over the counter medicine said for adults, twelve and older, which E is not. The school nurse takes those directions more seriously than we do. So she could have children's chewables, which would get stuck in her braces, or liquid, which would require her drinking the entire bottle to give her a therapeutic dosage. Did I mention how tough my kid is?
We went back to the orthodontist last week for another check up. I had no idea that getting braces was going to be a new extracurricular activity. Had I known, we could have given up piano or guitar lessons to make time for it. Anyway, her expander had worked. She now has a space between her front teeth big enough for another tooth, which I am pretty sure was the point. She went back to the exam area, got the once over by the extremely friendly orthodontist, and then got wire on the top. The cranking of the expander was over, and while it will continue to sit in her mouth for six months, regular braces could commence. She was wired on her top teeth, and only one rubber band was added. A big one, hot pink, was stretched across that ravine between her incisors. It's a pretty obvious rubber band.
“Nice slingshot,” I told her. “You can shoot peas across the lunch room.” She gave me that look she is perfecting in response.
The best part, aside from the fact that I am not the one with the mouth hardware, is that we don’t have to go back for six weeks. So while she won’t be able to get black and orange rubber bands for Halloween, which bums me a little, she does get a break from stretching her mouth wide enough to rip the little corners. We are all chewing our gum secretly, in hiding, so as not to make her mad and fire some projectile out of her mouth arsenal. And yes, she still does sound a bit like John Merrick.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Next Year in...Myrtle Beach?
What is the deal with those crappy beach stores in Myrtle Beach? They all shout their names in bright neon, EAGLES or WINGS or WAVES. At least WAVES has something to do with the beach. They are huge square boxes, brightly lit, and filled with more crap than they have crappy looking people to buy it. Sometimes, when my family gets bored on a trip to the beach, we like to stop in one of those beach stores and look around. We never buy anything. We just stroll, making fun of everything, before we leave empty-handed. Last time we went to the beach, however, we found something that we never expected at a beach store in South Carolina.
We went out to eat dinner after a long day on the beach, and we had some time to kill before bedtime. We were too stuffed to go get ice cream or to go back to the condo and sit in front of the television, so I suggested we stop by one of our favorite crap beach stores. We like this particular one because the building has a gigantic cement shark in front of it, and by gigantic, I mean the entire length of the store. You have to walk through its jaws to enter the building, and the inside of its mouth is covered in graffiti. Even its beady shark eye is all lit up. Is there any wonder why it's one of our favorites?
We went inside and headed straight for the shark tank. Yes, you read that correctly. There was a concrete tank in the middle of the store that houses not one but two live sharks. Being nurse sharks, they are not the most active fish. They spent most of their time lounging on the bottom of the tank while the lonely remora swam in circles near the surface, hoping some idiot child would ignore the “caution, sharks will bite!” sign and plunge in a hand.
After five minutes of watching the sharks do nothing, we wandered up and down the cluttered rows of cotton-poly blend t-shirts and unflattering two piece bathing suits. I could see buying a t-shirt at a beach store, but really, don’t most people pack their swimsuits for a beach trip? They also had some vaguely Christian and beachy knick knacks, as if Jesus were on vacation and looking for a little something to take home to the dog sitter.
Near the front of the store was a baby turtle tank which was also fun to watch if you could get past the smell. The turtles were only cute because they are small, and they liked to climb atop one another, making a turtle tower straight out of Yertle the Turtle. One turtle got too cocky and tried to climb up using another turtle’s head as a step stool, and the whole lot fell into the water.
We watched them reconstruct their Jenga turtle tower before moving on to the hermit crabs.
They too reeked like dead fish trapped in a fat man’s armpits, but they were creepily fascinating to watch. They lived in shells that have been vandalized with paintings of soccer balls and SpongeBob Squarepants and fairies, which would be very humiliating if they ever caught sight of themselves in a mirror. The ones that disturbed me the most are those that have clawed their way up the wire mesh to the top of the tank. You know if you took that crab home, it would get loose inside your house like a giant beach bug, never to be seen alive again, until your grown children packed your things for your move to the assisted living home and found the empty shell, painted like a monkey, under your bookcase.
Right by the register was the display of cheap glass weed pipes and bongs that are a delight to explain to inquisitive children (vases and candle holders) who don’t understand why these glass items are more fragile than the ones out on the shelves for anyone to knock over. The next display case contained the “legal” pocket and button knives, my personal favorite of which featured on its handle a skeleton riding a motorcycle. Based on what these beach stores sell, it looked like some Jesus-loving couple in tiny Confederate flag bikinis and matching t-shirts were going to get high and chow down on some live seafood before capping off the evening with a good old-fashioned knife fight.
Even with all that splendor under one roof, we still found something shocking on the way out. On the side of the door frame, near the top, was a mezuzah, a good six inched announcement to all who entered that here was a Jewish place of business. My older daughter E noticed it first, and then we all had to block the entrance while we stood gawking at it. But seriously, this was South Carolina, not Miami Beach or Coney Island. American flag, yes. Jesus on the cross, you bet. Publicly and proudly admitting to be Jewish, at work? Not so much.
We were fascinated. I theorized that it was probably owned by an Israeli, although the woman behind the counter looked more like the pure blooded American shoppers rather than a foreign born owner. My husband added, “I bet all of these stores are owned by Israelis.” To test our theory, we had to look at another crap beach store.
We drove straight from the shark store to the killer whale store, which unfortunately does not have a whale tank in it. It did, however, have the same turtle and hermit crab tanks, but none of the bongs or knives, which made it seem more wholesome. We tried to act nonchalant because the swarthy man near the register was watching us, fully aware we had no intention of buying any of his schlock. And then bingo! Right in front of the cash register was a collection canister, a tzedakah box, if you will, sponsored by the Chabad of Myrtle Beach. We rushed back to the bay of doors and searched until we found the mezuzah. We laughed delightedly when we saw it, which confused poor Schlomo behind the counter.
You’re right, Mom,” E said when we left the store. “He definitely looked like an Israeli.”
“How can you tell?” S, my younger daughter, asked.
“You can tell,” E and I said knowingly, at the same time.
“Let’s check out another one!” I said as I drove out of the parking lot.
We went past one more crap beach store on the way home. Now that we knew what to look for, we didn’t have to get out of the car. We just slowly drove by the front door, and again spotted a mezuzah. We all screamed and careened out of the parking lot.
While the crap beach stores sell ashtrays and sun catchers and sea shells and snow globes, none of them sell mezuzahs. I guess they know their customers. It’s too bad, though, because I am pretty sure we would have bought one, if only to say we got it at a crap store in Myrtle Beach. Especially if it was camouflage and sporting a rebel flag.
We went out to eat dinner after a long day on the beach, and we had some time to kill before bedtime. We were too stuffed to go get ice cream or to go back to the condo and sit in front of the television, so I suggested we stop by one of our favorite crap beach stores. We like this particular one because the building has a gigantic cement shark in front of it, and by gigantic, I mean the entire length of the store. You have to walk through its jaws to enter the building, and the inside of its mouth is covered in graffiti. Even its beady shark eye is all lit up. Is there any wonder why it's one of our favorites?
We went inside and headed straight for the shark tank. Yes, you read that correctly. There was a concrete tank in the middle of the store that houses not one but two live sharks. Being nurse sharks, they are not the most active fish. They spent most of their time lounging on the bottom of the tank while the lonely remora swam in circles near the surface, hoping some idiot child would ignore the “caution, sharks will bite!” sign and plunge in a hand.
After five minutes of watching the sharks do nothing, we wandered up and down the cluttered rows of cotton-poly blend t-shirts and unflattering two piece bathing suits. I could see buying a t-shirt at a beach store, but really, don’t most people pack their swimsuits for a beach trip? They also had some vaguely Christian and beachy knick knacks, as if Jesus were on vacation and looking for a little something to take home to the dog sitter.
Near the front of the store was a baby turtle tank which was also fun to watch if you could get past the smell. The turtles were only cute because they are small, and they liked to climb atop one another, making a turtle tower straight out of Yertle the Turtle. One turtle got too cocky and tried to climb up using another turtle’s head as a step stool, and the whole lot fell into the water.
We watched them reconstruct their Jenga turtle tower before moving on to the hermit crabs.
They too reeked like dead fish trapped in a fat man’s armpits, but they were creepily fascinating to watch. They lived in shells that have been vandalized with paintings of soccer balls and SpongeBob Squarepants and fairies, which would be very humiliating if they ever caught sight of themselves in a mirror. The ones that disturbed me the most are those that have clawed their way up the wire mesh to the top of the tank. You know if you took that crab home, it would get loose inside your house like a giant beach bug, never to be seen alive again, until your grown children packed your things for your move to the assisted living home and found the empty shell, painted like a monkey, under your bookcase.
Right by the register was the display of cheap glass weed pipes and bongs that are a delight to explain to inquisitive children (vases and candle holders) who don’t understand why these glass items are more fragile than the ones out on the shelves for anyone to knock over. The next display case contained the “legal” pocket and button knives, my personal favorite of which featured on its handle a skeleton riding a motorcycle. Based on what these beach stores sell, it looked like some Jesus-loving couple in tiny Confederate flag bikinis and matching t-shirts were going to get high and chow down on some live seafood before capping off the evening with a good old-fashioned knife fight.
Even with all that splendor under one roof, we still found something shocking on the way out. On the side of the door frame, near the top, was a mezuzah, a good six inched announcement to all who entered that here was a Jewish place of business. My older daughter E noticed it first, and then we all had to block the entrance while we stood gawking at it. But seriously, this was South Carolina, not Miami Beach or Coney Island. American flag, yes. Jesus on the cross, you bet. Publicly and proudly admitting to be Jewish, at work? Not so much.
We were fascinated. I theorized that it was probably owned by an Israeli, although the woman behind the counter looked more like the pure blooded American shoppers rather than a foreign born owner. My husband added, “I bet all of these stores are owned by Israelis.” To test our theory, we had to look at another crap beach store.
We drove straight from the shark store to the killer whale store, which unfortunately does not have a whale tank in it. It did, however, have the same turtle and hermit crab tanks, but none of the bongs or knives, which made it seem more wholesome. We tried to act nonchalant because the swarthy man near the register was watching us, fully aware we had no intention of buying any of his schlock. And then bingo! Right in front of the cash register was a collection canister, a tzedakah box, if you will, sponsored by the Chabad of Myrtle Beach. We rushed back to the bay of doors and searched until we found the mezuzah. We laughed delightedly when we saw it, which confused poor Schlomo behind the counter.
You’re right, Mom,” E said when we left the store. “He definitely looked like an Israeli.”
“How can you tell?” S, my younger daughter, asked.
“You can tell,” E and I said knowingly, at the same time.
“Let’s check out another one!” I said as I drove out of the parking lot.
We went past one more crap beach store on the way home. Now that we knew what to look for, we didn’t have to get out of the car. We just slowly drove by the front door, and again spotted a mezuzah. We all screamed and careened out of the parking lot.
While the crap beach stores sell ashtrays and sun catchers and sea shells and snow globes, none of them sell mezuzahs. I guess they know their customers. It’s too bad, though, because I am pretty sure we would have bought one, if only to say we got it at a crap store in Myrtle Beach. Especially if it was camouflage and sporting a rebel flag.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Pancakes and Altered States
Last week, I went to North Carolina for breakfast. Maybe that doesn’t sound like a big deal to you, especially if you live in North Carolina. But I don’t. I live in South Carolina, which, contrary to popular belief, is actually a different state. Well, okay, we are talking about a fifty minute drive from home, but did I mention it was a school day? Or that I didn’t decide to go until an hour before I left? Who says I’m not spontaneous?
Me. I do. Not even a little spontaneous. Allow me to illustrate. A few weeks ago, my friend BD’s husband called to tell me he planned a surprise birthday trip to the Big Easy for his wife, and he thought I might want to go along, make it a girls’ weekend. He sent me the flight and hotel information and told me not to tell her, but that if I wanted to go, I should just show up at the airport and fly with her. He gave me two weeks’ notice. I gave it some thought for about a minute, but then I succeeded in coming up with a gazillion reasons why I couldn’t go and bowed out of the trip. Later, BD told me that when her husband mentioned to her that he had invited me along, she asked him if he was crazy. She told him how I hate to fly, how I plan my life out a year in advance, and how I have an irrational fear of New Orleans. She knew I was the last person to ask to scramble for an impromptu trip.
So, no, it’s not my imagination. I really am that inflexible. The other day, my friend JR asked me to drive up to Hendersonville, North Carolina, with her. Her artwork had been on display at a gallery there since the beginning of the summer, and she needed to go pick it up. She thought it would be fun for us to drive together and make a morning of it. The kids were back in school. The husbands were at work. It was a moment of uninterrupted grown-up time.
As usual, my first instinct was to say thanks, but no thanks. I wanted to go to the gym. I had a massage appointment scheduled for noon. I needed to buy bagels. I might have some laundry to do. The massage and the gym were my only real excuses. I decided to work that angle.
“I don’t know,” I told JR. “I really want to go to the gym.”
“Oh, come on, you can take a day off,” she said. “Two hours of child-free conversation. And we can stop for breakfast before the gallery opens.”
“Well,” I wavered,” I also have a massage appointment at noon.”
“I can have you back in plenty of time. I have to pick up lil JR by one anyway.” Lil JR is her two-year old.
I did the math in my head. An hour to drive up, an hour back. That left about fifteen minutes to get the art out of the gallery when it opened at ten. I wasn’t really sure how there was time for a meal too. I took a really long minute to breathe. JR waited patiently for me to answer.
“Okay, I’ll go,” I said. I tried to make it sound like I wanted to. Because it’s not that I didn’t want to go. I did. I just didn’t see room for a road trip and my daily routine.
Sensing my reluctance, JR offered to drive. That morning, we dropped our kids off at school, and up to the mountains we went. Even without the leaves changing colors, the mountains of North Carolina are a beautiful sight. The rolling hills turn into immense green mounds, and you can count the churches, BBQ joints, and rebel flags along the way. Truly, the drive has a little something for everyone.
We got to Hendersonville in less than an hour and found a parking spot right near Mean Mr. Mustard’s, a quaint eatery unlike any we have here in Greenville. I loved the restaurant at first sight. Small tables, mismatched chairs, Beatles paraphernalia on the walls and counters. It was not all bright and flashy, but simple, like you could show up in your pajamas with your hair sticking out all over and your morning breath, and they would happily pour you a cup of coffee. The other patrons were retired and elderly and also were enjoying the luxury of a mid week breakfast out, so we were in good company, if one were looking for some hot over-85 action. We ordered our food, scrambled eggs for me, a veggie omelet for JR, and we talked and laughed while we waited for our meals.
The mark of a good breakfast joint in the South is the grits. Are they snow white, thin, and a little al dente? Because if so, don’t bring them to me. I can make those at home. I want coarse, stone-ground slow cooked grits, thick and creamy, the kind that need no extra butter, salt, or cheese. These grits were perfection, ambrosia, and only were rivaled by the float-like-a-cloud biscuits and homemade blackberry preserves. Company aside, those grits and biscuits were worth the drive.
After JR picked up the tab, which was part of her bribe for getting me to go with her, we walked over to the gallery. It was about ten, opening time, only the sign on the door said they opened at eleven, not ten. JR panicked and texted the owner, leaving her message after message, but it was clear by the lack of response that 11:00 was pretty firm.
I called the spa and luckily could push back my massage until 12:30. That allowed us to relax a bit, so we wandered up the street to check out the boutiques that thought ten was a reasonable time to get the business day going. We tried on a bunch of tops at one store, really cool funky stuff that looked great on the hangers and the 2% of the female population that are built like hangers. We decided we looked more like trolls than models and left empty handed, loathing our figure flaws.
With a few more minutes to kill, we went into a pet store, not the kind that sells food and de-worming products, but the kind that sells home baked dog treats and couture hand sewn dog dresses. They even had a selection of dog foot ware, from booties to jeweled sandals. I didn’t see any heels, so it wasn’t totally out of control. Still, $150 for a dog dress seemed a bit extreme, even for the over indulgent. How does a store like that make rent? Do they really sell enough raincoats and matching rubbers to cover their overhead? And no, we didn’t buy anything there either.
We met the gallery owner right at eleven, just as she unlocked the door. Within ten minutes, we were back in JR’s car, artwork packed in boxes, and headed for home. I made it to my massage appointment with one minute to spare.
JR was right, I did have enough time for a morning drive to the mountains, a fabulous car- filled breakfast, and a much needed break from routine. I recommend eating breakfast in a different state. It’s tasty and refreshing, and I don’t mean the grits. But seriously, they rocked.
Me. I do. Not even a little spontaneous. Allow me to illustrate. A few weeks ago, my friend BD’s husband called to tell me he planned a surprise birthday trip to the Big Easy for his wife, and he thought I might want to go along, make it a girls’ weekend. He sent me the flight and hotel information and told me not to tell her, but that if I wanted to go, I should just show up at the airport and fly with her. He gave me two weeks’ notice. I gave it some thought for about a minute, but then I succeeded in coming up with a gazillion reasons why I couldn’t go and bowed out of the trip. Later, BD told me that when her husband mentioned to her that he had invited me along, she asked him if he was crazy. She told him how I hate to fly, how I plan my life out a year in advance, and how I have an irrational fear of New Orleans. She knew I was the last person to ask to scramble for an impromptu trip.
So, no, it’s not my imagination. I really am that inflexible. The other day, my friend JR asked me to drive up to Hendersonville, North Carolina, with her. Her artwork had been on display at a gallery there since the beginning of the summer, and she needed to go pick it up. She thought it would be fun for us to drive together and make a morning of it. The kids were back in school. The husbands were at work. It was a moment of uninterrupted grown-up time.
As usual, my first instinct was to say thanks, but no thanks. I wanted to go to the gym. I had a massage appointment scheduled for noon. I needed to buy bagels. I might have some laundry to do. The massage and the gym were my only real excuses. I decided to work that angle.
“I don’t know,” I told JR. “I really want to go to the gym.”
“Oh, come on, you can take a day off,” she said. “Two hours of child-free conversation. And we can stop for breakfast before the gallery opens.”
“Well,” I wavered,” I also have a massage appointment at noon.”
“I can have you back in plenty of time. I have to pick up lil JR by one anyway.” Lil JR is her two-year old.
I did the math in my head. An hour to drive up, an hour back. That left about fifteen minutes to get the art out of the gallery when it opened at ten. I wasn’t really sure how there was time for a meal too. I took a really long minute to breathe. JR waited patiently for me to answer.
“Okay, I’ll go,” I said. I tried to make it sound like I wanted to. Because it’s not that I didn’t want to go. I did. I just didn’t see room for a road trip and my daily routine.
Sensing my reluctance, JR offered to drive. That morning, we dropped our kids off at school, and up to the mountains we went. Even without the leaves changing colors, the mountains of North Carolina are a beautiful sight. The rolling hills turn into immense green mounds, and you can count the churches, BBQ joints, and rebel flags along the way. Truly, the drive has a little something for everyone.
We got to Hendersonville in less than an hour and found a parking spot right near Mean Mr. Mustard’s, a quaint eatery unlike any we have here in Greenville. I loved the restaurant at first sight. Small tables, mismatched chairs, Beatles paraphernalia on the walls and counters. It was not all bright and flashy, but simple, like you could show up in your pajamas with your hair sticking out all over and your morning breath, and they would happily pour you a cup of coffee. The other patrons were retired and elderly and also were enjoying the luxury of a mid week breakfast out, so we were in good company, if one were looking for some hot over-85 action. We ordered our food, scrambled eggs for me, a veggie omelet for JR, and we talked and laughed while we waited for our meals.
The mark of a good breakfast joint in the South is the grits. Are they snow white, thin, and a little al dente? Because if so, don’t bring them to me. I can make those at home. I want coarse, stone-ground slow cooked grits, thick and creamy, the kind that need no extra butter, salt, or cheese. These grits were perfection, ambrosia, and only were rivaled by the float-like-a-cloud biscuits and homemade blackberry preserves. Company aside, those grits and biscuits were worth the drive.
After JR picked up the tab, which was part of her bribe for getting me to go with her, we walked over to the gallery. It was about ten, opening time, only the sign on the door said they opened at eleven, not ten. JR panicked and texted the owner, leaving her message after message, but it was clear by the lack of response that 11:00 was pretty firm.
I called the spa and luckily could push back my massage until 12:30. That allowed us to relax a bit, so we wandered up the street to check out the boutiques that thought ten was a reasonable time to get the business day going. We tried on a bunch of tops at one store, really cool funky stuff that looked great on the hangers and the 2% of the female population that are built like hangers. We decided we looked more like trolls than models and left empty handed, loathing our figure flaws.
With a few more minutes to kill, we went into a pet store, not the kind that sells food and de-worming products, but the kind that sells home baked dog treats and couture hand sewn dog dresses. They even had a selection of dog foot ware, from booties to jeweled sandals. I didn’t see any heels, so it wasn’t totally out of control. Still, $150 for a dog dress seemed a bit extreme, even for the over indulgent. How does a store like that make rent? Do they really sell enough raincoats and matching rubbers to cover their overhead? And no, we didn’t buy anything there either.
We met the gallery owner right at eleven, just as she unlocked the door. Within ten minutes, we were back in JR’s car, artwork packed in boxes, and headed for home. I made it to my massage appointment with one minute to spare.
JR was right, I did have enough time for a morning drive to the mountains, a fabulous car- filled breakfast, and a much needed break from routine. I recommend eating breakfast in a different state. It’s tasty and refreshing, and I don’t mean the grits. But seriously, they rocked.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Brace Yourself
I am happy to report that the orthodontist’s office has stopped playing Christian rock. It’s bad enough to spend a morning in the waiting room without bringing Jesus into the picture. I suppose some people would feel the need for faith and prayer while waiting for braces. Dear God, don’t make this hurt. Please, Lord, let my teeth look better. Sweet Jesus, how am I going to pay for this? Still, I will take an Air Supply song( "I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you") over singing His praise any day, especially the day my older daughter, E, got braces.
Yesterday, as I sat sipping my complimentary peppermint tea, resting my feet on a zebra striped ottoman, E became a brace face, a metal mouth. Poor E inherited her father’s tiny bird mouth. She has already been through three expanders and has had her baby canines pulled. All that work was in anticipation of yesterday, the start of her awkward phase.
I am convinced that orthodontics as a practice originated during the Spanish Inquisition. Take the expander, for instance. It has a key which must be turned twice a day to stretch the upper jaw. Everybody knows bones don’t stretch. It’s like the rack, only attached inside the mouth, which means no gummy bears or Hubba Bubba while that metal thing is glued to your teeth. After a few days of cranking, you might actually hear a pop as the bones pull apart a little. That’s how you know it’s working, and if you’re lucky, your kid will tell you what really happened to your new lipstick last week.
Even the office layout is a little shady. At a regular dentist’s office, you have a modicum of privacy in those separate operators. But at the orthodontist’s office, all the kids are lined up within view of each other, not unlike Abu Graib. The theory is that the open floor plan allows the orthodontist to move easily from patient to patient, but I think it is a peer pressure thing. Most preteens don’t want to scream and cry in front of other preteens, let alone gag and puke. It’s imposed social control.
E doesn’t like me to go back with her at the office, which was why I was relaxing in the waiting area with my writing pad and Nook. I don’t know if I make her more nervous or if she doesn’t like me chatting with the doctor, who was a classmate of my husband’s. While she doesn’t want me to wait with her, she also doesn’t want me to leave. I was instructed to check on her progress every half hour like a Thanksgiving turkey. So much for running to the grocery store or Target during that two hour procedure.
Last time I checked on her, she had a giant red cheek expander, which looks like a pair of evil Bozo the clown lips, almost ripping her mouth open. In fact, the whole row of kids back there had their mouths stretched wide open like a herd of laughing horses. Her poor mouth was stretched wide enough to fit in a size thirteen Doc Marten and three tennis balls, and she had little metal brackets glued to each of her teeth. My poor baby. I wish they had a little mini-bar in the lobby to spike this peppermint tea.
She looked so exposed and vulnerable and slightly robotic. She looked like she would need to be wanded at the airport security checkpoint. She looked like any minute, Mr. Roger’s trolley would return from the Land of Make Believe, which must be located in the back of her mouth.
Yes, I took before and after pictures. I did not, however, take during pictures. I am sure, however, that there is a fetish website devoted to those very images. I also checked on her every half hour as she requested, from the attaching of the expander to the gluing of the brackets to the attaching of the wire to the selection and application of the rubber bands. Each time, I would squeeze her hand and look at her, and her eyes would look back at mine with pure misery.
She selected orange and green rubber bands. I don’t know the significance of her color scheme, but I did try to talk her out of the green. She doubted that it would look like spinach stuck in her brackets and disregarded my opinion, which is how I knew she was really okay. It's not a look I would have gone with, but then again, it's not my mouth, thank you Jesus.
We stopped by my husband’s office before I took E back to school so she could show off her several thousand dollar obstructed smile. She slurped her extra saliva and moaned softly to herself in the car ride there. I asked her to say “I am not an animal. I am a human being” to him when we saw him, which she did. She doesn’t know who the Elephant Man is anyway, so it’s not like she knows I was making fun of her. Except I too couldn’t stop slurping, and that got on her nerves.
I am pretty sure she is going to look great when all this is finished, whenever that is. In the meantime, I need to remember how to make my own baby food, since she isn’t eating anything with texture for a while. With those train tracks, the breakouts in the T zone, and the fact that she stands eye to eye, one thing is clear. My poor baby is no longer a baby.
Yesterday, as I sat sipping my complimentary peppermint tea, resting my feet on a zebra striped ottoman, E became a brace face, a metal mouth. Poor E inherited her father’s tiny bird mouth. She has already been through three expanders and has had her baby canines pulled. All that work was in anticipation of yesterday, the start of her awkward phase.
I am convinced that orthodontics as a practice originated during the Spanish Inquisition. Take the expander, for instance. It has a key which must be turned twice a day to stretch the upper jaw. Everybody knows bones don’t stretch. It’s like the rack, only attached inside the mouth, which means no gummy bears or Hubba Bubba while that metal thing is glued to your teeth. After a few days of cranking, you might actually hear a pop as the bones pull apart a little. That’s how you know it’s working, and if you’re lucky, your kid will tell you what really happened to your new lipstick last week.
Even the office layout is a little shady. At a regular dentist’s office, you have a modicum of privacy in those separate operators. But at the orthodontist’s office, all the kids are lined up within view of each other, not unlike Abu Graib. The theory is that the open floor plan allows the orthodontist to move easily from patient to patient, but I think it is a peer pressure thing. Most preteens don’t want to scream and cry in front of other preteens, let alone gag and puke. It’s imposed social control.
E doesn’t like me to go back with her at the office, which was why I was relaxing in the waiting area with my writing pad and Nook. I don’t know if I make her more nervous or if she doesn’t like me chatting with the doctor, who was a classmate of my husband’s. While she doesn’t want me to wait with her, she also doesn’t want me to leave. I was instructed to check on her progress every half hour like a Thanksgiving turkey. So much for running to the grocery store or Target during that two hour procedure.
Last time I checked on her, she had a giant red cheek expander, which looks like a pair of evil Bozo the clown lips, almost ripping her mouth open. In fact, the whole row of kids back there had their mouths stretched wide open like a herd of laughing horses. Her poor mouth was stretched wide enough to fit in a size thirteen Doc Marten and three tennis balls, and she had little metal brackets glued to each of her teeth. My poor baby. I wish they had a little mini-bar in the lobby to spike this peppermint tea.
She looked so exposed and vulnerable and slightly robotic. She looked like she would need to be wanded at the airport security checkpoint. She looked like any minute, Mr. Roger’s trolley would return from the Land of Make Believe, which must be located in the back of her mouth.
Yes, I took before and after pictures. I did not, however, take during pictures. I am sure, however, that there is a fetish website devoted to those very images. I also checked on her every half hour as she requested, from the attaching of the expander to the gluing of the brackets to the attaching of the wire to the selection and application of the rubber bands. Each time, I would squeeze her hand and look at her, and her eyes would look back at mine with pure misery.
She selected orange and green rubber bands. I don’t know the significance of her color scheme, but I did try to talk her out of the green. She doubted that it would look like spinach stuck in her brackets and disregarded my opinion, which is how I knew she was really okay. It's not a look I would have gone with, but then again, it's not my mouth, thank you Jesus.
We stopped by my husband’s office before I took E back to school so she could show off her several thousand dollar obstructed smile. She slurped her extra saliva and moaned softly to herself in the car ride there. I asked her to say “I am not an animal. I am a human being” to him when we saw him, which she did. She doesn’t know who the Elephant Man is anyway, so it’s not like she knows I was making fun of her. Except I too couldn’t stop slurping, and that got on her nerves.
I am pretty sure she is going to look great when all this is finished, whenever that is. In the meantime, I need to remember how to make my own baby food, since she isn’t eating anything with texture for a while. With those train tracks, the breakouts in the T zone, and the fact that she stands eye to eye, one thing is clear. My poor baby is no longer a baby.
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