Category Archive

Leaving the last two of my wisdom teeth in place until I’m 30.  In some circles, that would be considered unwise.

I finally let my dentist write a referral for oral surgery and last week I had them removed.  To save money and recovery time (and to prove that I was unafraid, I think), I opted to be awake for the surgery, with laughing gas. 

I want you to appreciate what a hard core decision that was.

As the drill vibrated my skull and I listened to my impacted lower tooth being cracked apart and ripped out in chunks, I kept forgetting to take deep breaths in from my nose and missed out on the full effects of the gas, I believe.  I braced myself and sweated through my clothes despite the air conditioning and being dressed for August weather.

Soon the drill hit a portion of my root that had not been completely numbed.  The surgeon was very good about asking me if I could feel this or that throughout, so he was able to intervene with painkiller to spare me.  He narrated every move he made, and at one point he prepared me for feeling some pressure and a burn.  It wouldn’t have surprised me to see him pull out a blow torch out of his arsenal. 

My favorite part was getting my after-care instructions before I could even stand up. The sheer volume of novacaine in my system was causing my body to twitch and shake.  I went back over my pages of instructions later, and I really love this one: Keep your head elevated to reduce swelling.

Well that sure put a damper on my plan to walk around in a handstand for the rest of the week.

I’m sure that many others before me have considered the larger metaphor at work here–the whole idea of ripping out teeth that are named to represent ”wisdom.”  How interesting that normally these teeth are removed before they have the chance to develop and take root.  And cause problems.

Imagine that, wisdom causing problems.  Wonder what sort of commentary Adam and Eve might have on that.

Or maybe it is actually what we mistake for wisdom that causes the problems: when we think we know it all and have it all figured out.  False wisdom.  For me right now, false wisdom takes the form of the negative self-talk I’ve mastered so beautifully.

You’re always going to be broke. It’s actually more noble than being rich and you can be self-righteous about it. 

If you try to pass yourself off as an artist or a writer, everyone will see that you’re just a fake.

Wisdom teeth, and false wisdom, are like bad habits. The longer we let them grow and develop, the more problems they cause and the more difficult the surgery is to remove them.  We become attached.  Even when we can see what problems they are causing, we can become afraid of what it will take to remove them.

Interestingly, my early path into parenthood is what prevented me from having my wisdom teeth removed when I was 17.  I was nursing a baby at the time and couldn’t picture how the drugs and drama of the procedure would fit in taking care of a baby. 

I allowed my wisdom teeth to take hold, and I recall feeling more than a little rebellious about it.  How adolescent of me. The pamphlet at the oral surgery office says that wisdom teeth are named because they erupt during the “age of wisdom.”  Of course!  When we know it all!

After my stitch was placed and I bit down on a gauze pad, I had this unexplainable urge to undo what had just been done.  I wanted to say, “I’ve changed my mind. Please put them back.”  And it would have sounded ridiculous, I’m sure.  Muffled by blood and drool and gauze and laughing gas.  

I’m rather glad that there isn’t an option to put them back, and that I’m not in danger of growing new wisdom teeth. Because there’s no way I’d be going back for more oral surgery.

It leaves me wondering how I can permanently remove the false wisdom plauguing me.  I have the sense that God is leading the surgical team on this one.  And that it will require courage and resolve and a time for healing.

It’s time to ask for a referral.   

I did something stupid and now I look like an idiot to everyone at the school where I work.

I heard a rumor that one of the paraprofessionals (classroom assistant) was leaving her job. She and I get along very well and I felt comfortable calling her directly to find out if it was true.  I left a message with another member of her household.  (Just my name and number.) 

You should know that in a small town like this one, these para jobs are highly sought-after.  There aren’t a lot of good-paying, part-time jobs available in a town with a population of 1200. Para positions usually end up getting filled within hours of being vacated (which happens like once every twenty million years when someone retires or dies) so I wanted to be sure to get my name in right away, in case the rumor turned out to be true.

I decided to leave a note for the principal–acknowledging that it was only a rumor but stating that I would be interested in the position if it becomes available. I also asked a couple of teachers if they would give me a good reference.  They were all so encouraging and it felt warm and fuzzy to hear some praise.  I thought, “This is why it was a good idea to work summer school–so that I could be around to hear about an opportunity like this.”  And it felt so good to hear encouraging words that I couldn’t help but mention it (of course) to some other staff, who were also very encouraging.

You all know where this is going, right? 

Well, she called me back tonight, and you guessed it: the rumor wasn’t true. 

It’s like I’m living in a fable.  You know, the one where a rumor starts out being true and then gets twisted for dramatic effect.  I play the part of some foolish hen on the street.  Except, I not only come off looking foolish, but also like some sort of rumor-mongering would-be job-stealing blood-sucking hen.

Honestly, I don’t know if I want to go back to working in the kitchen. I loved working in a classroom this summer, and I had high hopes that it was a step in the right direction. 

As a para this summer, I especially enjoyed helping kids who are in danger of falling through the cracks.  Many of the students I worked with are just a cut above special ed.  They need extra help, but they don’t qualify for special services. 

And what a difference working with fabulously talented and pleasant teachers like Ms. G and Ms. H versus working with a direct supervisor who is a Complainer.  And a Repeater.  Did I mention that she repeats every detail of every complaint? And then she just has to repeat it, rephrasing it a bit but saying essentially the same thing.  And then she says it again because she just seems to have to fill the space with her complaints.

When I thought that a para position was opening up, I really felt like it was a gift from God. An answer to a prayer and an answer to the question:”What am I supposed to be doing?” I was even feeling peaceful about being passed over (at least that’s what I assume–no word, posting has disappeared) for the graphic designer position I interviewed for a few weeks ago. It was all making sense.

Now I just feel shitty.

For being a shitty little vampire hen.  For being unable–still–to start filling in the financial hole we’ve been digging for the past twelve years.  For being unhappy and ungrateful.  For setting myself up for disappointment.  For being arrogant enough to think that my prayer was going to be answered with the very thing I wanted. 

Sigh.

As I stood on the hill, broken dog harness hanging from my hand, the futility of it all began to sink in. 

The last week has been freakishly busy for me.  Lots of music duties for church (five nights of VBS and a Sunday service, and a paid wedding gig), I started a new job as a para for summer school and hosted five houseguests all week (feeding a total of eleven people 3+ times a day). 

Oh, yeah, and we adopted a dog.  

Maddie came to us from Sean’s family in Kansas, who were under the impression that she was a chocolate lab mix when they acquired her for free on December 23 in the Wal-Mart parking lot.  We did see her as a puppy and can understand how they came to that conclusion at that time.  However, when she arrived on Saturday, we began to doubt our skills in puppy breed analysis.

She has responded moderately well to our brief but frequent attempts at training.  She seems eager to please. But I’ve never met such a hyper dog.  She digs, she jumps on people, she escapes the yard, she scares the shit out of my toddler and preschooler, and I’ve seriously never heard a more terrifying bark. 

Her hair is very short, and her face is wide, although she does have floppy lab ears.  Today I went searching the internet and there’s no doubt about it: she is some sort of mix involving an American Pit Bull Terrier. 

There are plenty of people who can argue for the good qualities of a pit bull.  Right?

Because she had found at least two ways to get out of the fenced yard, I decided to use the tie out in the front yard where there are fewer obstacles around which to get caught.  Wrestling her out into place, I finally had the harness fastened around her and the tie-out wrapped around the ash tree. 

As I let go of her, a rabbit bounded into the neighbor’s yard.

She took off running, and I have to admit that I wasn’t exactly dreading the jerk and yelp I anticipated when she reached the end of the tie-out.  Instead, however, the green harness simply popped free with a clink and landed gently in the grass, metal rings twisted and bent with authority.  I was reduced to calling out for her and stomping around the neighborhood half in tears but mostly just feeling pissed off.  

I returned to stand on the hill, watching Maddie jump and run and play all through the neighborhood.  Joy unleashed. 

She’s more than I can handle.  My good intention to provide a loving home won’t change that.  That pretty much sums up my life: lots of good intentions, slow on gripping reality.  I usually get there, it just takes some time and it usually takes getting a little pissed off. 

This is an excerpt from an email I wrote to my good friend Gail on May 10 (minus the kids’ names). I meant to turn it into an essay for Mother’s Day, but this as far as I’m getting with it for now.  Consider it a (very) rough first draft. Or a couple of related vignettes that are tied together by something big that I need to think about more.

—–

I was just folding laundry and sitting here thinking about writing about living my life in service to my kids.  Not that today was all that unique, it just occurred to me that I seriously did nothing but meet the demands of my children all
afternoon and evening today.  I did nothing else.  Many times, the tasks even overlapped so that I was holding off meeting one demand while finishing meeting another.

I went from getting juice to setting up the sprinkler, to digging up swimsuits to putting on sunscreen (and trying to convince toddler to put on sunscreen) to putting clothes back on toddler and preparing a snack to taking the clothes back off and then putting the suit back on toddler to getting towels out to putting clothes back on toddler to bringing toddler out to the car to go pick up teenager from school to putting the swimsuit back on to pushing the kids in the swings to making dinner to changing a diaper while my food got cold to throwing the kids back outside.  Then I had a few moments of peace (folding laundry) before being the mean mom who made them clean up outsuide and come in and have an ice cream cone while they all competed to get my attention and got all mad and huffy if they didn’t get to tell their unintelligible joke that no one gets and isn’t funny because it was made up on the spot by a four year old.

I was having digestive issues and got toddler ready for bed while I sat on the can.  Of course, then preteen walked away from preschooler to get something and preschooler had a fit because she was ALONE. I still managed to read stories, getting interrupted on every page to discuss which characters were people from our family in the book and to watch preschooler enact her favorite part.  We sang songs and they poked each other and I told preschooler to go lie down in her bed and then toddler and I snuggled and he petted my face and my ear and my hair and fell asleep holding my hand and looking like such an angel and not like a monster that can make you change its clothes seven times a day.

—–(end of email)

I spent Mother’s Day at my Mom and Dad’s house.  My mom was at the hospital, to be with my dad, who is recovering from major surgery that happened May 1. I mowed the grass and picked up some extra dog food (their dog is staying with us while my dad recovers) and decided to pick up some purple petunias and plant them in some of my mom’s pots.  House and garden projects are at a standstill for my folks.  Life is at a standstill.  They are in an alternate universe, otherwise known as “fighting cancer.” I was excited to see a week’s worth of dirty dishes in the sink, because I knew I could help out by washing them. 

I thought about how my mom has been in the trenches of caregiving with toddlers and teenagers, and how she’s in the trenches now with my dad. 

April 5, 1999

Everyone around me seemed to own an expert pair of hands. The nurses washed and diapered my new baby efficiently and casually, and my mom knew just how to swaddle her up in a receiving blanket. Over me loomed a middle-aged nurse with unnaturally black hair and a permanent scowl. She barked orders as I tried to nurse my baby for the first time, my hands and heart shaking. Despite her disdainful looks, I was determined to breastfeed. My mom had made it eight weeks with her first baby, and if I could just make it that far with mine, then I figured that I would prove to myself and to everyone else that I could be a good parent.

The words “teen mom” rarely escape a negative connotation. I was a junior in high school when I became pregnant. Even though I was only 16, I really wanted to be a good mom. Not because I was living some fantasy about how I needed a baby “to love me unconditionally,” but because I wanted to take responsibility for my actions.

I got my hands on every piece of literature I could find about baby care and child development. In my little independent crash course, I learned that breastfed babies are healthier and have fewer developmental delays. I also found that babies with teen moms were more likely to be affected by SIDS and other emotional and physical problems. It also happens that teen moms are the least likely to breastfeed. I was determined to prove the studies wrong; I would nurse, giving my baby the best start I possibly could.

Learning to breastfeed was clumsy, messy, and painful. My nipples got chapped and blistered. Although I didn’t have to carry bottles around, I had to wear easy access clothing all the time, and I had to deal with having my breasts out in public. When engorgement hit, all I could do was cry and wait for A. to get hungry enough to relieve some pressure. I got so huge that her tiny lips couldn’t make it all the way around the nipple unless I expressed milk into the sink first. If she happened to disconnect herself after the milk had let down, it would squirt all over, leaving little beads of milk on her face and all over the rocking chair and tiled floor, as I scrambled to grab a receiving blanket or towel.

An emotional and financial dependent, I was still living with my parents. Even though I had done research on baby care, I had no practical skills with babies. My mom had experience, and A’s dad was a quick study when it came to her physical care. I was glad for the help and for the connection that he was making with our daughter. But their expertise intimidated me. I second-guessed myself when it came to deciding whether her cries meant hunger or wetness or a request for affection. My impulse was to ask Mom or A’s dad, the experts, to tell me what to do. The problem was that I couldn’t ask anyone else to keep track of feedings or the time she nursed on each side; I was the only one who could do it. If breastfeeding was going to work, I had to make a real commitment. I had to be in charge.

Being a mom was enough to worry about, yet I still had to finish senior year at my Catholic high school. I kept an extra uniform shirt in my locker because the milk would let down at the mere thought of nursing, soaking me with breastmilk. The problem was that I owned only three uniform shirts. Once I had leaked through all of them, I would have to dig out the ugly polyester uniform sweater. I would spend the rest of the day hot, wet and smelling strangely sweet.

Even on days that I didn’t leak, I hurried home to feed A. She was my only extra-cirricular activity. As my peers played sports and went to prom, I rushed home to take a nap and express another feeding so that I could go to school the next day. Needless to say, I felt disconnected from the other kids at high school.

Breastfeeding didn’t let me feel like a teenager. A. was a slow nurser; a feeding took about 30 to 45 minutes, leaving me with an hour and half-maximum-to be away until the next feeding. I had to live my life according to the last time she ate. When my physics class spent a day at Valleyfair, I had to prepare by expressing an extra feeding into a bottle every day for a week. Then I brought a pump along to the park. Halfway through the day, I left my friends and stood inside a steamy bathroom stall, squeezing out a few ounces to relieve the growing pressure. I had no way to store the milk and use it later; I ended up flushing it down the toilet. Being responsible for every drop of liquid she ate ruined the fun of going anywhere. I couldn’t just hand her off and forget about her. Most of the time, I just stayed home.

I agonized over my loss of freedom, but being the “only one who could do it” was both an inconvenience and a blessing. The experts could pin a diaper and bathe her better than I, but she depended on me to eat. No one else could take my place and enjoy the half-view of her face as she nursed. From my exclusive angle above her, I could see just a slice of her upper lip. Her nose and cheeks would press against the skin of my breast. Being that she was a slow nurser, I gazed on that view for sometimes eight hours in one day. I would stroke her wispy blonde hair, and her tiny fist would curl around one of my fingers or tug on my shirt. Sometimes she would look up at me and smile, breaking the suction. My nipple would glide out, still shaped like the inside of her mouth as her smile grew. Being forced to stay home for feedings gave me real time and a physical connection with her that I might not have had if I were busy off being a teenager. Breastfeeding made me “the mom.”

I nursed A. until she was thirteen months old; when she weaned herself, she had teeth and could walk. By then, breastfeeding meant more than beating my mom’s record. I had become an expert at nursing. Every day when I got home from school, A. would nuzzle down into my chest, signaling my body to let down. I could whip her into position and get her latched on before anyone in the room even realized that she wanted to nurse.

My growing feelings of expertise spilled over into other areas of parenting. As she began eating table foods, my confidence in feeding her was already solid. Staying home with her, I practiced changing, bathing, and dressing her. I did manage to get the hang of it. Being with her every day and being physically close for huge portions of the day, I couldn’t help but get to know her well. She’s an incredibly flexible and observant child, healthy and developmentally right on target. She seems excited to start kindergarten next year, and I’m looking forward to being a grade school mom.

I can’t claim that she would be any different if I hadn’t breastfed her successfully, but I think it’s fair to say that I would be a much different parent today. Handing her off more easily, I would have missed many moments of physical and emotional connection. I didn’t have the experience or motivation to connect with her in other ways. Breastfeeding forced me to spend the time with her that we needed.

When I decided to breastfeed, I knew that the odds were stacked against me. I was determined to break the bad teen mom stereotype, and I thought that nursing would prove to everyone that I could do a good job. What it did, instead, was prove to me that I could do it. I’m not a good mom because I chose to breastfeed. Breastfeeding made me a good mom.

As the saying goes, we mothers wear many hats.  From doctor to barber, toy mechanic to massage therapist, I’ve worn my share of hats.  This week I can add canine mortician to the list.

Wednesday night as I went upstairs to go to bed, I found that our chocolate lab, Fran, had died. 

She has had these bouts where her belly gets bloated and she whines and generally acts uncomfortable for a few hours and then it goes away on its own (or after she finally lets herself puke).  It happened once or twice right after she came to live with us and has been happening with more frequency over the past couple of months, usually after a thaw in the weather. We figured that maybe she was getting into tainted “treats” down in the woods.

Of course, now I suspect that there was something else happening.  I feel terrible that I didn’t bring her to the vet.  She was due for a checkup in May and I was going to wait until then and ask about it. 

There was nothing different about Wednesday night’s round of belly bloat, except that she went to bed and then didn’t wake up again. 

She usually sleeps at the foot of our bed.  When I turned on the light and entered the bedroom, I didn’t hear the ‘whap, whap’ of her tail wagging and hitting the carpet.  She didn’t move at all.  Lying on her side and halfway off her dog bed, her eyes were wide open, her ear was flopped back, and her teeth were bared.  No breathing movements.  Then I had a classic moment of denial.  I thought, “I can just call her name and scratch her belly, and she will wag her tail and start breathing again.”

I called her name, and when I scratched her belly I could feel that she was still warm.

I didn’t know what to do.  Sean was at work, and I tried calling his cell phone, hoping that he would have some idea about what to do.  At the very least, I needed to say the words out loud that she was dead and no longer be the only one who knew it.  But there was no answer.

I called my mom and asked, “What do you do when your dog dies?” 

And she said, “Well, I guess you call your mom.”

She helped me come up with a plan.  I was going to move her into the living room and get her presentable for the kids in the morning, rather than hiding the news until after school.  We would figure out all the burial details later.

I hung up, found an old yellow blanket, and gathered my courage.  I circled her a couple of times, trying to figure out the best angle for getting the blanket underneath her so that I could move her.  I was stalling. I don’t know about you, but moving a dead animal is not an appealing (or comfortable) activity to me.

To get myself comfortable with touching her, I started by petting her head gently and flopping her ear right.  Not too scary.  She still felt like Fran.  Still smelled like dog. 

I could tell that her lip had just flopped into her mouth, so next I reached over and pulled it down to cover her teeth.  Wow, that sure made a difference.  She no longer looked poised for an attack.  It was going well.  I was feeling proud of myself for making progess.

Next it was time to get her eyes closed.  I debated about what angle my hand should be and what direction I should move as I pressed them closed.  I decided to start with the eye that was showing. 

Holding my breath, I carefully pressed her eyelid down.  I was aware of the muscles in her forehead and thought about all the times she used them to lift her ‘eyebrows’ at us.  Her eye closed easily.  And I started to breathe again. 

I let go, however, and her eyelid drew slowly back to where it had been. 

Open. 

Believe it or not, I didn’t run away shrieking.  I’d be willing to bet that my blood pressure went up a bit, but by that point I was so engrossed in my work that it just didn’t occur to me to be afraid or freaked out.   

I tried again.  This time I held her eyelid in place for a few more moments, and used a little more pressure.

Again.  Open.

Well, I would simply have to figure that out later.

I changed gears and decided to get her on the blanket so that she could be pulled down the hall to the living room.  But should I lay out the blanket and roll her onto it?  Should I lift her up onto it?  I tried moving her legs, and they were already pretty stiff.  Tucking the blanket under her belly and legs, I pushed her the rest of the way onto the blanket and carefully smoothed out her fur once she was situated. She was ready for transport. 

As I began to pull her around the first corner, I heard movement in the bedroom belonging to my ten-year-old and four-year-old daughters. L. was climbing down from the top bunk and heading for the door where she would encounter her mother dragging her dead dog down the hallway.  I was not ready to break this news yet.  My heart was racing. 

I quickly stepped into L.’s bedroom and closed the door behind me.  Sleepwalking, L. was easily persuaded back into bed.  I told her, “Everything’s fine.  Go back to bed, Sweetie.”  I watched to make sure that she got herself back underneath the covers and slipped back out into the hallway.

I resumed pulling Fran down the hall and put her next to the piano in the living room, evening out the blanket underneath her and unfolding it a bit so that I could cover her up.  I didn’t cover her, though.  I sat next to her, smoothing her fur down and holding her head, trying to get her eyes to stay closed.  I held her and I closed my own eyes and started to feel the loss. 

Thank you for being a good dog

Such a good dog 

I hope we loved you enough

I hope that I can get your eyes to stay closed

Each time I took my hand away from her eyes, they stayed closed a little longer.  I had hope that if I could keep them closed long enough, they might just stay that way.  But I wasn’t going to sit there all night. 

Fashioning a mask of rolled gauze,  I carefully tucked and wrapped her face with her eyelids pulled closed.  I gave her belly another pat and sat with her for a few minutes, thinking about what it means to be a caregiver.  

‘Caregiver’ sums up my role.  Whether I am planning meals and shopping, or singing someone to sleep, or picking up dog poop in the yard, I am caring for my family.  It’s a huge piece of my identity that took me a long time to accept and to let flourish.  I remember when my oldest daughter turned one year old.  I felt like everyone should be marveling at my accomplishment. I did it!  I kept her alive for one whole year! 

To lose Fran, someone in my care, threatens me with the loss of everyone else in my care.  How can I possibly be qualified to keep my children alive if I couldn’t even keep this dog alive?  Am I a total failure as a caregiver? 

On a daily basis, caregiving means getting off my butt to make sure that the diapers are changed and food is made, but during the significant, memory-making times caregiving challenges us to to work outside our comfort zone, at times even detaching ourselves from the intense emotions of a moment to put someone else’s needs first.  Having a weak stomach, I never thought I’d be able to wipe up puke.  However, the first time a child puked on me, I rose to the challenge of not only wiping it up off the floor and off of myself, but I also managed to be calm and reassuring to my sick little girl. 

Pulling out teeth or helping a daughter get through a first crush, bringing a child to ER for stitches in her elbow–these are moments I look forward to with trepidation.  As I navigate through them and arrive at the other side where I can tell the stories, the experiences bring a sense of pride and competence. 

As I sat with Fran on the floor, I felt proud of myself for transforming the way she looked so that my kids could see her and touch her in the morning without fear, to help them begin their process of grief and loss in a healthy and meaningful way. It was important for them to see her looking peaceful.  On Friday, we had a short ceremony and laid her to rest in our backyard garden, where we will cover her with wildflower seed this spring and place a set of garden stones to mark her grave.

I am incredibly grateful that I was the one to discover that she had died, and that the kids were asleep as I prepared her body for viewing.  How sweet of her to time it just right.

I will never forget my one last night of caring for Fran.  She was a good dog and our family misses her.  I feel almost silly admitting how sad I am that she is gone.  I felt like a failure as a caregiver for letting Fran die, but the act of moving and fashioning her body and closing her eyes was ultimately a wonderful moment of realizing how capable I am at giving care, going outside the comfort zone to put someone else’s needs first.

And it was just another reminder that motherhood is not for the squeamish.