A Model Dentist

Dentists should not be good looking.  I have had male dentists before, but they were old.  Not that old men can't be good looking, but my dentist wasn't.  Plus, I was 16, so old was probably 40, which doesn't sound so old anymore.  Anyway, since college I have had a female dentist.  She is good looking, so I should refine my statement to read: Male dentists should not be good looking.

I suppose there's a bit more to it than that.  Until this morning I was able to brag about the fact that I have never had a cavity.  Fine, I had one in a baby tooth when I was a kid, but baby teeth don't count.  At my last cleaning, at the end of August, the hygienist informed me that my dentist was out of town.  Would it be okay if one of the other dentists at the practice checked my teeth?  Checking my teeth has always meant my dentist took her little pointy metal thing and poked at my teeth for a second, then sat back and said "You have beautiful teeth."  Any dentist could do that, right? 

In walks Dr. Peterson.  Dreamy, tall, perfectly coiffed bed-head hair Dr. Peterson.  Only he didn't say I  have beautiful teeth.  He said "You have a break in one of your teeth.  We need to get that filled."  He didn't even say "a break in one of your beautiful teeth." 

This morning I was in to have it filled.  Having never really experienced this before, here's what I thought would happen: I sit down in the chair and make a joke about not having my coffee yet this morning.  Dr. Peterson, chuckling, says, "We'll get you outta here and having a cup of coffee in no time."  He has me open up and then gently fills the break with whatever they use for that type of thing.  Then he says, "That's it.  Wait 20 minutes for that coffee, okay?  Oh, and you have beautiful teeth." 

That's not what happened. 

I sat down in the chair and made a joke about not having had my coffee yet this morning.  Dr. Peterson said "We'll get you outta here and having that coffee in no time."  He laid my chair back, I opened up and he sticks a needle in my gum.  A few minutes later he has both of his hands, a cheek shield and the hygienists fingers all crammed in my mouth.  Then he starts drilling.  DRILLING!  I've heard the sounds of drills in dentists offices and often thought how awful that must be.  And now I know, for an absolute fact, how awful it is.  I get that this is a normal, every day occurrence for a dentist.  But not for me.  For me this was scary and sad and a little bit humiliating, now that I don't have perfect teeth anymore. 

But as I lay there with my mouth stretched open and the horrible sound of drilling in my head, I suddenly realized I was much more concerned about the fact that I'm due for my lip wax, but haven't gotten it done yet.  I started regretting my decision to just throw on sweats.  I could have at least put on decent shoes. What if I have a booger in my nose?!  None of this would have mattered to me if it had been my normal dentist.    But because Dr. Peterson is soap-opera-star handsome, not only was I depressed that I now have a filling (I refuse to use the word cavity), but I had to feel self-conscious as well.

The whole thing seemed to last forever, but couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes.  My tooth feels funny and now that the Novocain is wearing off it's starting to hurt just a bit.  He told me not to eat anything hard for a while and not to drink my coffee on that side of my mouth.  He said he'd seen me at my next cleaning.  He didn't say that I have beautiful teeth. 

A Moment of Expense

Imagine coming home to a clean house.  You just walk in the door and the floor is mopped, the bathrooms are sparkling, the baked-on chili, which no amount of scrubbing seemed to loosen off the stove, is gone.  Of course it only lasts for a moment, just long enough for dirty shoes, a little boy's bad aim and boiled over mac'n cheese for lunch.  

Ugh, housework.  It's something that I hate.  And I'm not good at it.  So, I hired a cleaning service.  They only came once a month, it's not like I had a live-in maid, but it was definitely a big help.  I got to have a clean slate (pun intended) once a month, and my goal was to maintain it until they magically showed up again four weeks later.  But my cleaning fairies are no more.

I started thinking about how expensive that moment was.  That moment, post cleaning crew, just after I open the door to my house and just before the kids and dog catapult in behind me.  It's an amazing, fresh, sparkly moment.  And for a little while I was able to convince myself that it was worth any amount of money.  But now that I've mostly quit my job, and therefore mostly lost my paycheck, I had to reconsider how much that moment is actually worth. 

Tomorrow is the day the cleaners would have come.  They would have dusted my dining room hutch and Windexed all the mirrors.  They would have gotten my kitchen sink cleaner than I've ever been able to, almost as clean as my mom can get it.  They would have stacked all the kids' books in nice, neat piles and lined up the stuffed animals on Max's top bunk.  They would have.  If I hadn't called earlier this evening and told them not to come.  Again.  Ever. 

So, tomorrow I'm going to get up and dust.  I haven't really dusted since the cleaners were here a month ago.  That's first on my list.  And then I'm going to wipe down my kitchen appliances, taking great care with my coffee maker, of course.  Wiping down appliances was something I never really did before, not unless something was splattered on them during one of my baking fiascoes, but it was my favorite thing the cleaners did.  Made such a difference.  It really did.  And I'm going to do windows tomorrow, too. 

I have a strange kind of excitement about whipping this place into shape on my own.  I think I've been feeling kind of useless lately (a topic for another day) and I'm ready to create my to-do list while sipping coffee in the morning.  And I have always gotten some satisfaction from crossing items off as I get them done. I don't need that cleaning crew.  But I definitely need to tell Wade to splatter less of his chili on my stove. 

Love at First Grade

My daughter came home from school today and told me that she has a boyfriend.  She has been talking about this boy for a few weeks now, but it was just today that things started to get serious.  She's hoping to marry him someday, but she said it's too early to know that for sure.  I was happy to hear that, as she's six years old.

She has started to care about what she wears and talks about how she looks. Until very recently, Sophie asked me to pick out her clothes.  And if she picked them out herself she looked like some kind of deranged clown.  Competing patterns, glaring colors, a thick heavy sweater on a 95° day.  But even in her crazy get-ups, she is stunningly beautiful.  So put her in a cute pair of jeans and a fitted little tee and she's a six-year-old knockout. Who wouldn't have a crush on her!

Years ago, when Sophie was about nine months, we were in an ECFE class.  All of the moms sat in a circle and in the center was a roly poly mess of babies.  My only memory of that class is Sophie, who wasn't quite crawling yet, sitting amongst the chaos.  A bigger baby started crawling in Sophie's direction and I watched as Sophie's little face lit up.  She reached her arms out toward the approaching baby.  But that bully of a baby plowed right over her and kept on going.  The anger I felt toward that other baby frightened me.  Of course, rationally, I knew that that baby hadn't done anything wrong.  But the mama bear in me wanted to hunt that child down (she was lost in the gaggle of babies and I had no idea which one had wronged my Sophie) and set her straight. I sat there, in that circle of mothers, as Sophie picked herself up and happily continued to look around.

I think what amazes me most about my eldest daughter is her ability to bounce back.  I have always been so afraid that people won't like me, that I'll be rejected somehow, that I have a hard time putting myself out there in the first place.  But Soph isn't like that.  On top of being cute, Sophie fearlessly, and with great vigor, puts herself out there.  She will talk to anyone, about anything.  And she has no qualms about announcing her feelings openly.  She will declare to a little girl she has just met at the park, "You're my best friend."  She loves everyone, and she assumes that everyone will genuinely love her back.  I have a lot to learn from this little six-year-old. 

Still, I am at a loss as to how to handle this boyfriend business with Sophie.  I know first-graders are too young to know what is means to fall in love or get married, but I don't like the idea of her only focusing on one friend, boy or girl.  On the other hand, I don't want to squash her excitement and I don't want to instill in her the fear that I'm now trying to overcome.  Plus, I know, in her future, there will be broken hearts.  Just a word of advice to those boys: watch out for mama bear.

Washed Up

I have a very strict laundry schedule.  Mondays I wash sheets.  Tuesdays are towels.  Wednesdays I wash the kids' clothes and Thursday I wash my and Wade's.  I have it written out on a piece of paper... somewhere. And sometimes I even stick to the schedule.

On the weeks when I follow my strict laundry schedule, everything seems to go smoothly.  I don't feel overwhelmed by large monster-sized piles of clothes or bath towels.  I walk upstairs and it feels so big, so roomy, without having to step over the separated lights, darks and reds (my mom can at least be proud that she raised me well enough to do that) looming in the hallway.

It's not just the laundry.  When I stick to my laundry schedule, I tend to be better about vacuuming.  Most likely because I can see the carpet.  It's easier to get ready in the morning, both for me and for the kids.  Instead of trying to piece together an outfit, Sophie can pull her favorite shirt from her drawer and off she goes.  I don't have to try on all my clean pants to see what fits me, when the laundry is done I just have to grab my sweats and head to the bus stop.  My house feels more organized, and therefore my life feels more organized. 

One would think, then, that I would stay on top of the laundry to ensure that the rest of my life is running smoothly.  One would be wrong.  It starts on Mondays when I forget that I'm supposed to wash the sheets.  Or I remember that afternoon, when I know I won't have everything washed and dried before bedtime.  That means that I put the clean sheets on the beds, but the dirty ones are in a pile on the laundry room floor.  Tuesday, already feeling behind, I get to work washing the sheets, and pile the towels in the hallway upstairs.  Wednesday is when things really fall apart.  I start the morning sorting the kids' clothes, but rarely get to putting them in the wash before heading out for the day.  That means that Thursday I have sheets, towels, clothes for three kids and two adults and, lest we not forget, the cloth diapers, too boot.  Needless to say, I rarely get caught up.  And all too often, I'm so overwhelmed that I don't even get started.

It seems that for every good laundry week I have, there are two or three bad ones.  For some reason, I can think of three off hand, I just can't seem to get it together the way I imagine most people do.  I do have high expectations for myself.  My mom is the perfect homemaker.  She works very hard and it shows.  Her house is clean.  Yes yes, she no longer has kids at home, but it was clean even when the three of us did live in her home.  And I don't remember stepping over heaps of laundry when I was growing up either.  Although, I do remember one time when my mom had covered her bed in folded laundry, ready to be put away, and my brother and sister jumped on the bed, creating a huge laundry mess.  My mom sat on the edge of the bed and cried.

I think, all too often, I try to live up to her standards, and when it becomes clear that I can't, I just give up completely.  So I'm trying to set my own standards.  I'm working towards understanding what my limits are and reaching those, rather than always trying to go beyond and being disappointed.  I'm also working on remembering to wash the sheets on Monday, so that the rest of my week, in more ways than just laundry, gets off to the right start.

Today is Wednesday and I just heard the laundry buzzer.  I'm happy to report that I am currently washing the kids' clothes.  From last week.  Maybe next week will be the good laundry week. 

Hi Sister

Sometimes, around 3 or 4:00 in the afternoon, my sister and I have a cup of coffee together.  Over gmail chat. She's in New York City and I'm here in suburban world, so a computerized cup of coffee is the best we can do.  If things were different, that's to say that if she lived here, I would like to think that having a cup of coffee together would be a regular occurrence. 

Many years ago, when Molly and I were growing up, we shared a bedroom.  As the older sister, I hated it.  And loved it.  She was a fun little sister, cute, silly, gullible.  Once, when I was mad at her, I put tape across our room and told her she had the half with the window and I got the half with the door.  She stood at that tape-line and cried for over an hour.  When I was nine and she was five we moved to Bloomington, IL and into a house where all three of us kids had our own rooms.  For the first couple of weeks she slept in mine.

Molly is just enough younger than me to have been a true little sister.  The kind of little sister who yelled things like, "Sara loooooooves Joel." when the boy I liked happened to call.  She and my brother spent hours making silly movies in our basement and ganging up on me for siding with my parents when we were deciding where to go for dinner.  And then, one day, she grew up.  As we got older, and became closer, we started talking about boys, relationships, friends.  It took me a long time to take her advice seriously.  As she would be talking to me, and usually giving me very good, insightful input, all I could see was a little seven-year-old girl blabbing on and on about her made up language or singing one of her silly songs (pizza pizza patio / how do you know it?).

Seven years ago she moved from Chicago to the Big Apple.  Her life is so different than mine - acting, roommates (although now she lives on her own, which is equally different than my living situation), taking the subway, working in Manhattan.  She lives in Astoria.  The last time I was out to visit her I helped her move into her new place, a cute basement apartment with a sweet, if not over-protective, landlord. 

Eventually I was able to see that she's not a little girl.  But she is my sister.  She knows me better than just about anyone else on this planet.  She might be worlds away from husbands and changing poopy diapers, but she has helped me through trying times and laughed with me through the joyful ones.  She's been here for the birth of all three of my kids.  She calls me Suki (she's the only one who's allowed) and tells me when I have too much mascara on or when my butt looks really good in my jeans.

When I was pregnant with Lily, but didn't yet know it was Lily, I would think about having another boy or another girl.  I know that my brother has always wished that he had a brother, and there was a part of me that wanted that for Max.  But when it came down to it, I couldn't imagine Sophie not having a little sister.  Maybe someday, when Sophie and Lily are grown and living their lives on the same block or different continents, they will meet for coffee.  Or, at the very least, their holograms will (because it's the future...get it?).

Like Me

I started this blog to get myself writing.  Again.  And it's done that.  While I'm writing I tend to forget that other people may be reading what I'm writing.  Except for right now, because I happen to be writing this to you.  I discovered something new about my blog.  New to me, that is.  I'm pretty sure it's been there all along.  It only took me 6 months to notice the "stats" tab for My Life in Coffee and when I clicked on it I was pleasantly surprised and completely terrified at the same time.

I knew that friends were reading what I wrote.  And it still catches me off guard when someone, seemingly out of the blue, says something like, "I've thought about getting a tattoo" or "I had a sinus infection once, too."  Like we're in the middle of a conversation.  Then I realize they are responding to what I had written and I go from feeling confused to flattered that someone actually read what I wrote.

I know my mom reads this from time to time.  When she first read it she called me and said she thought I was a talented writer (she has to think this, she's my mom).  And my dad said he laughed out loud when he read the last line of Slow Down.  That made me happy because I laughed out loud when I wrote it. 

Even knowing that friends and family were reading this, and hopefully enjoying it, I'm still able to honestly share my thoughts, sometimes better than others.  But the stats were crazy!  At least to me.  I am sure, compared to most writers (bloggers?...not sure how I feel about that term) what I saw was small potatoes, but to me it was overwhelming.   I saw how many hits my blog has gotten.  I can see how people stumbled upon my blog, mostly through Facebook, obviously.  I'm not going to throw out numbers (they aren't that impressive!).  But I am going to throw out a country.  Latvia.  Okay, a few countries.  Russia.  The Netherlands.  South Korea?

I can only assume that the people in places other than the Unites States, or Minnesota for that matter, who looked at my blog ended up there by random chance.  I'm sure they typed amoxicillin into Google and ended up at my Pharmacy post or typed tile and found themselves rolling their eyes at my do-it-yourself disaster.  But it's blowing my mind that someone, anyone, that I don't know might be looking at my blog.  In a good way.  In an overwhelmingly good way.

So, now that I'm world-famous, I thought I would give my little blog a Facebook page.  So please, if you like my blog, like it. 

Pharmacy

I don't usually take anything when I'm sick.  So right now I feel like a walking pharmacy.  Well, at least a walking drug store.  In the last hour I have taken Sudafed, ibuprofen, amoxicillin, and a dash of Afrin.  Now I'm just waiting to feel better.

I went to the Minute Clinic today because I suspected I had a sinus infection.  I was right.  My head feels like a balloon.  A big, painful, snot-filled balloon.  I'm supposed to be doing laundry right now, but instead I decided to sit on my couch.  And write.

This is when the guilt sets in. Wade has been sick and I wasn't the most, um, sympathetic wife. But, of course, as soon as I told him that I had a fever and a sinus infection he has been sending me texts that say "I'm sorry" and sad faces.  :(  The equivalent of bringing me chicken noodle soup in our technological world, I suppose.  And I know that when he gets home he'll take the kids out so that I can have a break and maybe even take a little nap.

So, I've been thinking about why I'm unable (because I try, I really try!) to show that same sympathy when he's sick.  Obviously, having three kids takes up most of my patience and energy on any given day.  After making meals, cleaning up, changing diapers, chasing Lily constantly (she never stops moving!!), being yelled at, being told "I wish you weren't my mom", doing laundry...you get the idea, I don't have much left over to wait on my husband.  And yes, I know that makes me a terrible wife.  So when he's sick, all I see is one more person depending on me to take care of him. 

That's only part of it, though.  And the other part doesn't make me out to be much better than the first.  I get jealous.  When Wade was home sick last week he got to lie up in bed.  He read.  He listened to his sports radio.  He slept.  I told the kids to leave him alone so he could rest (I may not have been overly sympathetic, but I'm not completely heartless).  But I've been sick, too.  I've had a cold for weeks.  But so have my husband and daughters, so no one seemed to notice. 

Then, today, my head started imploding to the point where putting my contacts in made me want to cry.  But I didn't get  to lie in bed.  I had to make breakfast and get the kids ready for school.  I had to entertain two kids while waiting at the Minute Clinic.  I said earlier that I was sitting on my couch, but that's not entirely true.  I got up because Lily only slept for a half hour (instead of her usual 3 hours).  And then I got up because she got a hold of and then dumped an entire box of spaghetti noodles on the floor.  And then I got up because Mia arrived (a little girl I watch a few days a week).  Snacks were requested (more like demanded).  Then I heard Lily splashing in the toilet.  Then I found out that Max and his friend stole Mia's sucker and threw it in the woods.  And that pretty much brings us to now.

I'm not complaining.  Well, yes I am.  Obviously.  I don't get a sick day when I'm sick. I just get a regular day, only I fee like crud the whole time. 

I think all those meds are finally starting work.  But don't tell Wade.  I'm still hoping he takes the kids out of the house for a while. 

Hunka Hunka Burning Love

Wade and I are in the process of deciding where we are going to celebrate our anniversary this month.  For our first two anniversaries, before children, we got away for a weekend.  Since having Sophie, we're lucky if we get out to a movie.  But this year my parents have offered to watch all three kids for an entire weekend so that we can get away once again.  I knew I would be excited about a break from the kids (it's okay to want a break from my kids, right?) but it caught me by surprise how much I'm looking forward to two whole days alone with my husband. 

Wade brought the kids out to the 3Day for a Cure to cheer me on this past August.  This was the first time that two of my team members had ever met him.  We stopped and chatted with him and the kids for a few minutes, but as we were walking away one of these team members, said, "I bet you have a lot of fun with that hunk of a man."  My immediate visual was of Wade in his chair watching tv, mostly sleeping, mouth open, occasionally making a snorting noise, all while holding the remote and accidentally deleting my shows instead of fast-forwarding through the commercials.  Yea, fun.

But the thing is, my hubby is very handsome.  I just forget sometimes.  Every once in a while when we're out, say, at the grocery store, I'll momentarily see him through the eyes of someone else.  I'll come around a corner and see him deciding which soup he wants (usually split pea or something southwestern) and I'll think, Look at that good looking guy .  And then I remember that that good looking guy is mine.  And that I get to walk up to him and put my arm through his as we walk down the isle (the grocery isle, that is).

Wade and I met at the beginning of our freshman year at St. Olaf college and got to be good friends throughout our senior year.  We started dating about a year after graduation, but I do remember thinking, early on, that I loved his broad shoulders and his brown eyes.  Friends often said, even before we were actually dating, that we looked good together.  We did.  And we still do.  Only now it's harder for us to see it.

Not because we're older.  As a matter of fact, I think we both look better, healthier, now than we did before we were married.  It's harder to see my husband's handsome-ness because there are three little people standing in the way.  I love those three little people.  Very much.  But the chance to spend some time with Wade, alone, for more than a dinner at a restaurant on a Friday night, but for days, is much needed.  To sleep in and wake up without someone standing next to the bed saying "Is it morning yet?"  To have a conversation without someone interrupting to show us his newest lego creation.  To have a meal without the littlest of these people throwing her food on the floor.  Much much needed.

Because, my hope at least, is that once it's just the two of us we will remember (not to imply that we've forgotten) why we wanted to get married and have a family in the first place.  We used to have fun, be silly, hold hands.  That still happens.  Sometimes.  But now we have an audience. Funny how nine years ago having a family with this guy was all I could think about.  And now, all I want is a weekend alone with him.  And I plan to have fun with that hunk of a man.

Simply Sophisticated

You know, I'm a pretty sophisticated person. I went to an art gallery last night. Sure, most days I wear sweatpants and sometimes completely forget to put makeup on before leaving my house, but when need be, I can step it up and look the part. At least according to that woman in the ladies' room at that hole-in-the-wall bar last night in Hudson.

I don't get dressed up very often. So when I have occasion to do so, I'm never sure if I look like I have it all together, or if I look like I'm trying to look like I have it all together. I don't buy myself clothes very often. And when I do, I have a hard time rationalizing spending money on something I won't wear too often (ie. dress pants or skirts) versus something that I know I will (ie. more sweatpants). I watch What Not To Wear and lately, as I've been getting in my car to drive to Target (quite possibly to buy more sweats) I think about Stacy and Clinton forcing me to sit and watch a video of me shopping with no makeup, baggy pants and flip flops. And then the 360° mirror. It would be torturous!

Last night I went to an art gallery with two friends. We had kidded that we're obviously pretty darn sophisticated if we're the kind of people who go to art showings at art galleries. While we were joking around, I kept thinking about what I would wear, really. I have a pair of jeans that I finally fit into and with little heels they look pretty good. But my tops are all still a bit snug. I decided to wear a big-necked sweater and a little jacket. Oh, and I remembered to put on makeup.

They picked me up and my friends looked hip and truly sophisticated. I hoped that I didn't look like I was trying too hard, especially next to the two of them, who make it look effortless. We got to the gallery and fit right in. That's because there were people there dressed in everything from fancy dresses with leggings (that's for you, Shawnessy!) to jeans and flannel shirts. I think, even if I'd worn my sweatpants I wouldn't have felt out of place.

Someone once said to me, "Sara, you portray confidence, no matter what you're wearing." What's that supposed to mean? I thought. First off, what does that say about what I'm wearing? And second, I do tend to forget what I look like. For instance, Lily will be crying before I've had a chance to take a shower, and before I know it we're heading out the door to get to the bus stop and then I'm usually off to run errands. I'll catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and cringe. But by the time I get to Target (I spend a lot of time at Target) I have usually forgotten to be embarrassed about my hair or lack or mascara or the stain on my shirt. Is that confidence?

After the art gallery (and hob-nobbing with one of the artists, I might add), we went to a nearby dive bar. We had a couple of drinks and on our way out we stopped in the ladies room (which is putting it nicely). My friends struck up a conversation with a couple of other women waiting and as I came out of the stall one of them asked me, "Are you with them?" Before I could answer she said, "You look like you're with them." I know how junior high this sounds, and it really really shouldn't matter at all, but that one little drunken comment, just outside of a nasty bathroom stall, totally made my night. "Yea, I'm with them."