It's Like Pulling Teeth... Or Elbows.
Yesterday, I took Gutsy to see our new dentist. I figured since Spawnling's teeth were rotting out of his mouth and the old dentist didn't catch it, we might want to question the validity of Gutsy's "perfectly healthy teeth" report at his last cleaning a few months ago. Intrepid will eventually follow suit and have his own appointment. But frankly I'm getting really tired of dental clinic smell. It makes me think about parting with money.
The new dentist took some x-rays and showed me the heavy decay in two of the middle child's front teeth. Yes, the same spot as Spawnling's. Not nearly as pronounced, but enough that they will need to be drilled and filled, thankfully without sedation. Gutsy is perfectly happy to watch Sponge-Bob on the television in the ceiling while they work on his frozen mouth. He has no need for $850 in sleep medicine like some people. *CoughSpawnlingCough*
Of course I'm unimpressed by the total lack of dentistry that has been going on at the old dentist's. However, this latest discovery makes me feel less like a jerk for leaving over one mistake, even though it's a big one. And yes, I was feeling a little jerkish being so pissy. I don't do anger very well. I'm more of a 'find some way to make it my fault' kind of person. It suits my personality better and it makes for fewer uncomfortable confrontations. I don't like accusing people of not doing their job very well; probably because I feel edgy when people do it to me. It's okay if I question my capabilities as a mother, but you had better not critique me or I'll get all up in your face.
Or I might just go somewhere and cry, or pay for therapy so I can cry in front of someone.
Now that both Guts and The Spawn are going under the knife - or drill, or plyers *shudder* - I'm finding it very easy to take our business elsewhere. Even the prospect of writing him a letter explaining the situation is less scary. I don't know what I'm going to say just yet, but maybe it'll go something like this:
See? Polite and positive. That's the best form of complaint letter.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch: This morning I had been visiting a friend of mine and was just getting back into Vanzilla when I got a call on my cell phone.
"Hello, Maven? Are you near the school? ... Oh, good. You'll want to come pick up Gutsy. He and a boy were playing outside and Gutsy's arm was pulled. He can't move it at the elbow anymore."
"Ah. He dislocated it. It happens. I'll be there in a few minutes."
You might think I would be freaking out at this point, but we're old hats at this. Intrepid had four separate trips to the emergency clinic to have his elbows put back in. This was Gutsy's third go in six years. Our children have wussy joints. It's not their fault. If there is a genetic mutation to be discovered that causes someone to be ten pounds at birth, have poor elbow joints, weak enamel and hearing loss, the gremlins will be frontpage news in the science world. Until then it's one blurry haze as we travel from specialist to specialist with occasion trips to the hospital.
But you get used to it and it stops becoming a big deal. It's not drama if it happens all the time. When I want drama now I just start some rumours about people, or make them get into fights with each other but subtly egging them on. It's not like I'm busy with my own life or anything.
I immediately called Geekster and informed him that he'd be spending the afternoon keeping Gutsy company in the CHEO emergency waiting room. "Again?" was his reply. I explained I was working in two hours' time doing childcare for my friend who is, ironically, a nurse, and that I didn't think she'd appreciate me minding her babies in a hospital full of sick children. Something about contamination or superbugs or whatever. Those nurses are so paranoid.
I would like to say that I then hung up the phone and, panic-stricken, raced down the road at top speed so as to gather my sore child into my arms and comfort him, but I transitioned out of that state a long time ago. That's what first-timers do and I'm a seasoned pro. Old skool, baby.
By dislocated elbow #2 I stopped panicking and put on the radio to drown out crying on our way to the hospital (there are only so many times your heart can get ripped out of your chest as you helplessly listen to your child wimper every time your vehicle turns a corner or changes speed). By #4 I had learned to make a nifty sling out of either a pillowcase or receiving blanket. And by #6 I knew I could get a coffee or a bite to eat before heading out anywhere as long as the gremlin in question was not in complete agony. In this case, time #7, Gutsy's elbow episode sounded minor compared to the others and probably only partially dislocated. He was sitting, not screaming and simply keeping it propped up so it wouldn't hurt. Sounds like a candiated for pre-pickup coffee if you ask me!
After four hours the Gutsmeister was back home with his partially dislocated elbow now mended (can I call them or what?). I was finished my paying job for the day and we ate dinner. I then made my way over to my neighbour's house where I got the skinny on my other part-time moneymaker, which is the cleaning and organizing of her home.
Now, if you know me and have been to my place, you might ask yourself why anyone in their right mind who also knows me and has been to my place would trust me to clean theirs. While I've improved how tidy and organized Casa Maven is, it still doesn't look like I have mad skillz, yo. More like my skillz are starting to get moderately angry. It's a work in progress. But, like I explained to someone today, if I was paid cash every time I swept and mopped my floors or organized a pantry, my house would be sparkling at all times.
Then I would mess it all up and clean it again.
Then, after a few cycles of that, I would retire and my retirement home would remain a pigsty.
My only hope is that the people I'm working for will be able to go on without me when I'm a successful author who no longer needs to pimp out her other skillz to the masses. It won't be long before I'm rolling in more cash than I know what to do with. That's because I'm an awesome writer. So awesome I have all these writing jobs!
Oh, wait.
Damn.
The new dentist took some x-rays and showed me the heavy decay in two of the middle child's front teeth. Yes, the same spot as Spawnling's. Not nearly as pronounced, but enough that they will need to be drilled and filled, thankfully without sedation. Gutsy is perfectly happy to watch Sponge-Bob on the television in the ceiling while they work on his frozen mouth. He has no need for $850 in sleep medicine like some people. *CoughSpawnlingCough*
Of course I'm unimpressed by the total lack of dentistry that has been going on at the old dentist's. However, this latest discovery makes me feel less like a jerk for leaving over one mistake, even though it's a big one. And yes, I was feeling a little jerkish being so pissy. I don't do anger very well. I'm more of a 'find some way to make it my fault' kind of person. It suits my personality better and it makes for fewer uncomfortable confrontations. I don't like accusing people of not doing their job very well; probably because I feel edgy when people do it to me. It's okay if I question my capabilities as a mother, but you had better not critique me or I'll get all up in your face.
Or I might just go somewhere and cry, or pay for therapy so I can cry in front of someone.
Now that both Guts and The Spawn are going under the knife - or drill, or plyers *shudder* - I'm finding it very easy to take our business elsewhere. Even the prospect of writing him a letter explaining the situation is less scary. I don't know what I'm going to say just yet, but maybe it'll go something like this:
Dear Dentist,
Thank you for missing obvious dental problems in two of my children. Specifically, eight cavities in total. We're eagerly awaiting April 25th, when our toddler will be sedated and lose four of his teeth because they are now so badly decayed they can't be saved. I'm also looking forward to paying our portion of the $1500 for his dental surgery and his likely need for braces in a few years' times.
It's okay. They didn't need to go to college anyway.
Sincerely,
The Maven
See? Polite and positive. That's the best form of complaint letter.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch: This morning I had been visiting a friend of mine and was just getting back into Vanzilla when I got a call on my cell phone.
"Hello, Maven? Are you near the school? ... Oh, good. You'll want to come pick up Gutsy. He and a boy were playing outside and Gutsy's arm was pulled. He can't move it at the elbow anymore."
"Ah. He dislocated it. It happens. I'll be there in a few minutes."
You might think I would be freaking out at this point, but we're old hats at this. Intrepid had four separate trips to the emergency clinic to have his elbows put back in. This was Gutsy's third go in six years. Our children have wussy joints. It's not their fault. If there is a genetic mutation to be discovered that causes someone to be ten pounds at birth, have poor elbow joints, weak enamel and hearing loss, the gremlins will be frontpage news in the science world. Until then it's one blurry haze as we travel from specialist to specialist with occasion trips to the hospital.
But you get used to it and it stops becoming a big deal. It's not drama if it happens all the time. When I want drama now I just start some rumours about people, or make them get into fights with each other but subtly egging them on. It's not like I'm busy with my own life or anything.
I immediately called Geekster and informed him that he'd be spending the afternoon keeping Gutsy company in the CHEO emergency waiting room. "Again?" was his reply. I explained I was working in two hours' time doing childcare for my friend who is, ironically, a nurse, and that I didn't think she'd appreciate me minding her babies in a hospital full of sick children. Something about contamination or superbugs or whatever. Those nurses are so paranoid.
I would like to say that I then hung up the phone and, panic-stricken, raced down the road at top speed so as to gather my sore child into my arms and comfort him, but I transitioned out of that state a long time ago. That's what first-timers do and I'm a seasoned pro. Old skool, baby.
By dislocated elbow #2 I stopped panicking and put on the radio to drown out crying on our way to the hospital (there are only so many times your heart can get ripped out of your chest as you helplessly listen to your child wimper every time your vehicle turns a corner or changes speed). By #4 I had learned to make a nifty sling out of either a pillowcase or receiving blanket. And by #6 I knew I could get a coffee or a bite to eat before heading out anywhere as long as the gremlin in question was not in complete agony. In this case, time #7, Gutsy's elbow episode sounded minor compared to the others and probably only partially dislocated. He was sitting, not screaming and simply keeping it propped up so it wouldn't hurt. Sounds like a candiated for pre-pickup coffee if you ask me!
After four hours the Gutsmeister was back home with his partially dislocated elbow now mended (can I call them or what?). I was finished my paying job for the day and we ate dinner. I then made my way over to my neighbour's house where I got the skinny on my other part-time moneymaker, which is the cleaning and organizing of her home.
Now, if you know me and have been to my place, you might ask yourself why anyone in their right mind who also knows me and has been to my place would trust me to clean theirs. While I've improved how tidy and organized Casa Maven is, it still doesn't look like I have mad skillz, yo. More like my skillz are starting to get moderately angry. It's a work in progress. But, like I explained to someone today, if I was paid cash every time I swept and mopped my floors or organized a pantry, my house would be sparkling at all times.
Then I would mess it all up and clean it again.
Then, after a few cycles of that, I would retire and my retirement home would remain a pigsty.
My only hope is that the people I'm working for will be able to go on without me when I'm a successful author who no longer needs to pimp out her other skillz to the masses. It won't be long before I'm rolling in more cash than I know what to do with. That's because I'm an awesome writer. So awesome I have all these writing jobs!
Oh, wait.
Damn.