I had to convince myself to not cry at the dentist.
Got my teeth cleaned a few days ago. I’m pretty good about going to the dentist regularly. This even surprises me because there is one part of the cleaning that I DREAD. When they bust out the “ultrasonic scaler” I shrivel back into my reclined chair as far as gravity will allow. I’m pretty sure this would be the slow-torture device used if someone really wanted to mentally destroy me.
If you don’t know what it is, let me explain. Instead of the old-fashioned hook that was used to scrape away tarter and plaque buildup, my fancy dental hygienist uses the ultrasonic scaler that basically has a super fast vibration tool. When placed on your tooth, it makes a very high pitch drilling noise as it cleans. This supposedly is more effective.
Effective or not, I had to talk myself out of crying. “Polly, you are 31 years old. You cannot cry at the dentist. Get a hold of yourself. Be thankful you have dental hygiene. Be thankful someone is cleaning your teeth. Do NOT cry. Disassociate. Think about something else….” My dental hygienist must have noticed my stress because after it was over, she kinda laughed and asked me if I was ok. Guess I didn’t have the poker face I thought I had. Or maybe she noticed the nail marks in my palms from me squeezing my fists so tight.
Thankful that’s over and I have no idea why I scheduled an appointment 6 months from now to do it all again. I’ll probably go because I am not someone to miss appointments.
My 17-month-old pooped in a dog bowl the other night.
You can’t make this stuff up, people.
It happened during the post-bath streaking session that occurs on a nightly basis at our house. Our children take great delight in making naked laps around the main floor after their bath. Hoping this doesn’t lead to too much confidence in nudity. ANYWAY, Tyler was in the kitchen and stopped mid-streak. I saw the familiar concentrated look on his face that indicates things are on the move…internally. Since I’m all too familiar with this look, I scooped him up to take him to the nearest toilet or changing table.
Too late. This kid was mid-poop but luckily nothing had dropped on the floor. I frantically looked around for the nearest thing for his skunk to land on and grabbed a dog bowl. Plop.
I’ll never look at Sophie’s dog bowl the same.
We have a fruit fly problem.
My husband takes much pride in himself when he catches one in the air. Multiple times in the past few days I’ll be in the other room and hear from the kitchen a battle-cry scream, “Got one!”
I’m pretty sure he likes it so much because it makes him feel like a ninja.
Fight the good fight, my dear. I applaud your efforts in defeating the present enemy of our kitchen.