I don't know what to report first. The good news or the bad news. I think I'll do the good news first.
I am officially rich and famous, as my name is in print above an article on page 31 of our local paper. I announced it on Facebook, which makes it official, quite like favourite bands and divorces.
I was pretty much jumping up and down until I noticed how much my bum wobbles when I do that and promptly stopped. I shall have to celebrate with a brisk walk on the treadmill.
Fun.
Coffee fairy did bring me a coffee this evening and two copies of the paper so I can have one to brag with and one to keep hidden away in a secret vault until my very wealthy family finds it after my death and uses the proceeds of the auction to build school houses in Africa.
That Coffee Fairy doesn't fully realize the impact her actions will have on generations to come, I'm sure.
Now. the bad news is worse, to state the obvious.
About three weeks ago Spawnling chipped a front tooth. Being the responsible, caring parent with excellent dental coverage that I am, I took him to the dentist to get him looked at. "The enamel on that tooth is weird," Dr. Dentist said. "It's a weak tooth brought on by genetics or possibly due to insufficient dental care. Either way, watch for abscessing, because it that happens it has to come out right away."
Insufficient dental care? Oh, do you mean the lack of tooth brushing brought on by screams of "I CAN DO IT!" and "NO, DON' TOUCH MY TOOFBRUSS 'CUZ IT'S MINE!" ?
If I get his teeth brushed once a day I'm doing very well. Normally it's about once every two days, with the in-between day done by him. Sometimes I have to pretend I'm checking for elephants in his mouth with a pretend flashlight on the end of the toofbruss. For some reason this works.
The last few days The Spawn has been in good form. I have several scratches on my forearms to prove it, and the rest of the family members have at least one goose egg on their noggins from random Tonka launchings. The mood he's been in has been epic and will be written about in the history book of All Things Toddler.
Today was no exception: Spawn woke up on the wrong side of the pod with a slightly swollen face. I checked under his lip: no abscess. I asked him if anything hurt: no. We went about our day, which involved having four other children over. Two of them were singled out as enemy targets and subjected to random terror attacks. I'm surprised their mothers are still speaking to me. (They congratulated me on Facebook for my first article, which I assume means we're cool).
Spawnling's weapon of choice during our playdate was the Guitar of Death, meaning his little accoustic guitar that now only has five keys and four strings. I suppose it's technically an accoustic bass now, but those are semantics. The important thing is that two little boys went crying to their mommies clutching limbs and looking over their shoulders for the tempermental toddler.
I was near my breaking point by the time everyone went home early this afternoon. I had sat Spawnling on the stairs more times than I care to admit and had him apologize half-heartedly to his frienemies at least a dozen times. In the end, I decided the best way to clear up his mood was to serve him two bowls of Kraft Dinner and throw him a bath for some playtime.
And that's when I noticed the lip.
His upper lip had been swollen for two days, but just slightly. Just enough to have me checking for that pesky abscess I had begun to think would never show up. In my mind I knew we would be in the clear of the risk of tooth loss and he could go through the next four years with a chipped greying front tooth, but nothing more. Besides, he couldn't get that one pulled anyway, as his brother Gutsy had the very same one pulled at the very same age for the very same reason - a tooth abscess, but brought on by a creepy half-tooth that combined with the front one, decayed and took the good one with it. Watching little Gutsy go through the frightening and traumatic experience of having his tooth pulled while frozen but fully conscious still goes down as one of my top ten worst days as a mother. And, since I have three gremlins that's saying a lot. So, for no other reason, fate would not deal my boys and I the same hand twice. Too predictable.
That's why, when I found the large bump on the gum above his tooth today, I immediately turned from his sweet but puffy little face and started to weep silently. That's so not fair, I told myself and whoever was listening. So, so not fair.
It all made sense, suddenly: The grouchiness, the swollen lip and cheek, the sleeplessness. He had likely been fighting this off for several days before anything became visible. All the while I had expected him to behave well and go about his day like he wasn't dealing with something terribly painful and potentially dangerous.
Guilt made my tears flow a little heavier. Guilt tends to do that. Stupid guilt.
I wiped my eyes, got him out of the bath, set down my Mother Of The Year trophy on the mantle with all the others, and called the dentist. Half an hour later we were in the office, Spawnling asleep on me. I tried to read an article on Russia in Time magazine, but the stupid thing fell between the chairs in the waiting room and nobody offered to pick it up for me. Thanks, everyone. I'm fine. I'm just holding a sleeping toddler who needs to have his tooth pulled today. I hope he screams loud enough that you can't enjoy your cleanings, jerks.
But I wasn't bitter. Not at all.
I thought about how much I'd miss his full smile. Just recently I had pulled out pictures of Gutsy when he had his full set of teeth and remembered how perfect that grin was. I mean, it still is, but having a tooth missing as a preschooler seemed to have taken something away that wasn't supposed to gone just yet. It also took a little something away from the excitement we all should have experienced when he lost what should have been his first tooth at the age of five. I acted thrilled, but inside it just wasn't the same.
And now we were going to do that again, and that made me sad. I'm a drama queen, so that's not entirely suprising.
I tried not to cry in the dentist's office because that's a declaration of guilt right there. It would obviously show that I felt bad for not brushing his teeth all the time, which would lead to dirty looks and quite possibly an anonymous phone call to the authorities to have all my children removed and placed in a home where they get regular oral care.
"It's going to have to come out," said Dr. Dentist.
"I know" I replied, fighting back tears. He was going to be so scared when he saw the freezing needle. It was going to prick and then he'd feel numb and freaked out.
Dr. Dentist continued. "The problem is that... well... It's best if we don't use any freezing."
"... What?" Did Dr. Dentist start doing meth recently? I couldn't get a good look at his mouth for confirmation, but I knew it must be the drugs talking.
"The puss inside the abscess will prevent the freezing from working, and we'll just hurt him for no reason. Either we take it out now, with no freezing, or we send him to get sedated. But I'd rather do it now, since I don't think the infection has spread yet. Once the tooth is out the abscess will drain and he'll be okay."
Damn it, damn it, damn it... Quick and painful now, or wait for sedation in a day or two with some antibiotics or something.... If that would even work... and he's sore... And, oh man... Why did I tell him he didn't have to wear a condom? When we said we were done, we should have actually started using something. Then I wouldn't have to be making these on-the-spot decisions again and... fuck!
Yes, I thought fuck! I do swear quite a bit in my head, and sometimes out loud, just so you know. I don't even know why I thought about The Spawn in terms of sperm-meets-egg what-if scenarios, but I did. It's not like we don't want him around or I've ever wished he wasn't. It's just that I hated being stuck in that spot, making what seems like big decisions without having a chance to think. Why is it that mothers have to make on-the-spot choices when we can't even think straight enough to put the milk back in the fridge instead of the pantry?
"Can you be quick? Like, really quick? And we won't wake him up until you're ready?" I asked/demanded. Stroking Spawnling's hair, trying not to cry, trying to not feel like I can't make a good decision to save my life, or his tooth, and that I'm a really lousy excuse for a mother or we wouldn't be here at all.
"Absolutely."
He woke up as his tooth was being pulled. It took about ten seconds. He bled a lot for the next few minutes and everyone in the office lost a few decibels of hearing.
Next time you'll get me my damn Time magazine, won't you? Bitches.
We went home and he ate popcicles. I cuddled him on the couch and wouldn't let him go for a long time.
On his second popcicle, Spawnling said "Mommy? I feel a lot better now 'cuz my toof is gone."
I feel a lot worse, Spawnling, my love. I'm sorry for screwing up and not always brushing your teeth, for missing the warning signs, for making you try to socialize when you were in agony, for holding you down while you felt every single thing. But I am glad you feel better, baby.
I just wish I did, too.
Motherhood. We sign up without knowing what's coming, without knowing how hard some of these situations are going to be on them or on us. If we did, would we still do it? I thought about that when we were halfway to the appointment today, him asleep with his head drooped to one side, the sun illuminating his puffy-yet-still-beautiful face.
Motherhood. It sucks sometimes.
I think I should get that on a t-shirt. I'll only wear it in the house though, so the authorities don't remove my children and place them with people who don't have offensive statements written on their clothing.