Braces

I chose to have braces put on my teeth two years ago.  Just in time for my 25th high school reunion.  Neato.

One friend commented that braces would give me plenty of blog fodder.  But there wasn't much to say about them after the initial post introducing my new accessory.  I carried Ortho Wax and knew which neighborhood kids to call when I ran out.  My teeth ached occasionally and Mother asked, "When do you get those off?" EVERY time she saw me.

My braces seemed more visually intense than other mouthfuls I've seen.  Maybe it was because I selected traditional silver, wore power chains most months, or have small teeth.  Regardless, I felt like I looked like Jaws in the James Bond movies.

*****

I met a little boy named Albert in an Anaheim laundromat last March.  We were in California for a family vacation and I needed to wash clothes.  Four-year-old Albert asked me for money and mints that night while his mother and I did our laundry next to one another.  I gave him both as his mom said, "Albert! Eso no es amable."  That's not polite. 

He was round and dimpled.  The plump kind of child that I was certain would pop if I stuck a pin in him.  But I fell in love with Albert after he took one look at my smile and said, "Nice grill."

*****

My braces finally came off in November.  I apologize to my Facebook friends who have already seen the following photo, but I promised Gabi With An Eye a sans braces shot in this post.

So there you go.  It took me a few weeks to get used to my new teeth.  I felt like I looked strange and radically different.  Like when someone Photoshops big teeth on an animal or small child.

Recently, I purchased two new pairs of glasses.  One pair has progressive lenses.  I get motion sick easily and I'd heard that adjusting to no-line bifocals can make a person nauseous.  I figured the larger the lens, the smoother the adjustment.

My theory worked.  A little vertigo for the first few hours, but the bifocal sweet spot is small compared to the large distance lens.  I adapted quickly.  Only now it doesn't matter that I'm not wearing braces, because I look like the smart turtle in children's books.

I Love You Too, Rocker

Labels are so unfair.  As kids, they can be difficult if not impossible to shake.  I had a buttoned-up image in high school.  One day I wanted to dress grungey instead of preppy.  Not only was I uncomfortable, but so were the kids around me.  Like, "Whatcha doin?"  Don't screw with the norm, man.

It goes without saying that we all have many facets to our personalities, but most of us settle into a recognizeable label or two, either by choice, or by allowing ourselves to be steamrolled into it.  It took me years to have the courage to pick at, peel, and rip the labels off of myself that I didn't want there in the first place.  I realized, Gee, that wasn't so hard.

I'm careful with labels and descriptors around our sons.  Pointing out one boy's emerging interest or talent has -- at times -- limited the other two, unintentionally.  All three boys are finding and creating their personal definition, and they deserve to feel comfortable editing well into adulthood.  I don't want my parental power [and yes, I still have some] to influence who they want to be.  Or, who they are.

Disclaimer complete.

Inspite of my careful word choice around the kids, they label themselves and each other.  The boys have -- in their own words -- been a birdwatcher, bug-catcher, chef, artist, scientist, nature-lover, the athletic one, the diabetic, the creative one, the polite one, the tidy one, the sloppy one, the ornery one, school boy, and the rocker.

Middle Boy [11] is a self-described rocker.  He wears his label loud and proud, but I remind him that he's like a Colorform set.  He's the laminated board and the labels he tries on in life, as long as he's careful and kind, are vinyl and easy to remove. 

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In an effort to get the following photograph for my parents' holiday card...

... we had plenty of outtakes like this one.

Christmas dinner was punctuated with exciting moments like this...

...and a tender moment -- where the young help the old make the "rock on" sign properly -- is captured below.  [Although, no one is doing it right.  But, shhh, don't tell.]

Even my mother and the son who chooses not to be a rocker, had fun playing with the vinyl label.

Middle Boy seems happy with his evolving identity for now.  He feels good about himself and is enjoying the Colorform scene he created.  Who knows how long it will last?

All I know is, my sweet boy thinks he's leaving me the "rock on" sign in the shower every day.  But the wonderful thing is... he's signing, "I love you."

Sick

Before I share my little story, it's important for you to know that I am not seeking sympathy, expressions of, "Poor Chrisy," or any other obvious comments that might follow.  We all have people in our lives who are much worthier of our sympathies, prayers and good thoughts.  I'm fine.

All three boys are recovering from the virus dujour of the prior week.  I assumed it was my turn when I felt feverish on Monday.  Advil, Mucinex, Vicks Vapor Rub on my feet, and naps in between shuttling boys to and from school all began to fail me by Wednesday evening.

Chris arrived home late Wednesday night from a business trip and didn't realize how sick I was as he quickly kissed my head goodbye the next morning, took the older boys to school and headed to work.

I knew I had more than a head cold, but tested my abilities several times to prove to myself that I was in trouble.  Sit up.  Faint.  Sit up.  Faint.  Sit up s l o w l y.  Faintfast.

I called Supermodel about 9:00 a.m.  "I'm sick."

"Do you need me to come over there?"

"Yeah.  I don't even know where the five-year-old is."

And I didn't.  I couldn't get out of bed.

Within moments I heard our garage door go up and her footsteps on the stairs.  My bedroom door opened.

"How are you?"

"Sick," I said without looking at her.

"What do you want to do?" she asked me.

"I don't know."

"Do you need me to take you to the bathroom?"

"I don't know."

We remained silent for a moment.  I saw my five-year-old boy standing next to Supermodel.

"Will you feed him?"

She knew me well enough to let the controlling and—at times—bizarrely indecisive parts of my personality fizzle.

She went downstairs, took care of things, then returned to check on me.  I told her I was afraid I might have pneumonia again, but it seemed strange it would hit so fast.  Her cell phone rang.  It was her physician sister-in-law, calling for a different reason, but Supermodel was able to ask her about my symptoms.  Physician-Sister-In-Law advised we go to the doctor.

Supermodel called my doctor, made an appointment for a couple of hours later and took the five-year-old to her house so I could rest.

When she returned later with my son, I felt slightly better and thought it was silly to go to the doctor for what was likely a virus.

"I think I'm better," I said.

"Your face looks red."

"My fever just broke.  I'm sweating."

"I still think we should get you to the doctor," she said calmly, but without condescension.

"Look at my hair.  I'm a mess."

"You're sick.  I'll help you put it in a ponytail."

"What are they gonna do?  I have a virus, I look terrible, I should be in bed," I whined as I tried to regain control.

"C'mon.  Let's go."

Supermodel tied my snow boots, helped me cover my wrinkly, damp-from-perspiration pajamas with a large army green winter coat, and grabbed a 1-gallon ziploc bag [my choice throw up receptacle] and loaded the five-year-old boy and me into the car.

I tested positive for the flu and a chest X-ray confirmed pneumonia.  While I sat on a chair in the hall outside the X-ray room, hunched over, my head in the light salmon pink vomit box they give sick people, the nurse pulled my pajama pants down and gave me a shot of antibiotics.

Chris arrived at the doctor's office in time to spell Supermodel.  She needed to resume her own Mom duties; it was time to retrieve Supermodel Jr. from school.

Two days later, the antibiotics are working and so are fresh pajamas.

I told Chris I was writing a blog post about Sick Thursday and he said, "From what angle?"

"I don't know," I replied.

Maybe it's this.  In an ideal setting, when a full-time caregiver/homemaker/child-rearer feels ill, they call in sick for work or arrange for a sub for a day or two.  We all know that's not how it works.  We're supposed to reach out to friends for help.

But it can be difficult.

There are people who take advantage of the help and support of others.  They're in need all the time, not just a difficult season or two, but for life.  Always asking, never giving.  I like to think those folks are in the minority.

So, friends, let's all agree... when we're in need, when we're hungry, when we're sick, and can't get out of bed?  We'll call Supermodel.  I'll get you her number.