The title of this post was supposed to mean that I was out of ideas for this blog, but I just realized I am also out of potty training ideas. So, yay! Double entendre!
Seriously, the number of things Will has peed on around here is nearing a record. How did I get stuck teaching these chimpanzees to be people?
And also, anything you, my loyal blog readers, are burning for me to write about? Anything? Bueller?
There is one story I haven't told you, about the dentist and my kids. You see, things being as they are, I had been putting off taking the boys for a check-up at the dentist. So I FINALLY got around to making the appointment and off we went.
We sat in the waiting room for an hour and a half. A crowded waiting room full of no toys and limited seating. After 45 minutes had passed, I asked the receptionist how long it would be. You know, because my appointment was at 10. I explained that the children were melting (lunch and naps were being encroached on!) and that we couldn't wait much longer. I was informed that it would only be another few minutes and that if she was me, she'd wait. Because the next available appointment was in December.
Sigh. Whatever. We waited some more. The hygienist finally appeared at 11:30. And then the hygienist would not let me go with the children to their cleanings. "There just isn't room for you back there," she explained wearily, following up with something about how children do better without their parents blah blah BLAH. Ok, fine. This was okay for Gus (I thought), but not so okay for Will, who was showing all the signs of needing to be pried off my leg with a crowbar. I explained as politely as I could that she could either let me go with the terrified three-year-old, or she could pry him off my leg and good luck.
When she called me back to discuss Gus's cleaning with me, she whispered behind her file folder that he had been "a bit dramatic." You know, like she and I were buddies, and that I wanted to hear her confidential girlfriend-style take on my son. "He pulled the crying card," she added, "but we managed." This is the place in the story where I should have gone postal. The hygienist was this skinny redheaded chick, I could totally have taken her. Instead I just sighed and gave her my best "I pity you because you're a dumbass" look.
OF COURSE THE KID WAS DRAMATIC. OF COURSE HE CRIED. HE WAS SCARED. He's five, and he's never been to the dentist. We talked about it and we read books and I explained what would happen, but all that talk is nothing compared to real life. Jesus, I was counting on the hygienist to be a little bit more understanding and, you know, patient. The crying card MY ASS. Besides, the only one who is allowed to roll their eyes at the kid's drama is me because I'm his mother. Being the mother comes with certain inalienable rights.
I'm his mother and I say that he was terrified. So back off, Red.
Obviously, Will did not get his teeth cleaned, because he could not be detached from my body. The ever-helpful hygienist suggested we find a pediatric dentist and gave me a "referral." A referral that consisted of a list of pediatric dentists she suggested I call myself, because not all of them will take my insurance. Wow, thanks, you're a peach. That's not a referral, that's the phone book.
"You should know that most dentists won't let you go back with the patient," she warned. "So you may want to get him ready for the appointment." Gee, Red, I hadn't thought of that. Are you sure you shouldn't be teaching parenting classes? Because you have all the good ideas!
Gah. At least there will be no permanent emotional scarring, largely due to the free toothbrush. Come to think of it, I never saw the dentist. Also, I'd just like to note for the record that there was totally room for me to stand next to the kids while they were getting their teeth cleaned. It wasn't like I wanted to stand close enough to hand her the spit sucker. And yes, that's a technical term.
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