Livingston, I Presume

A kinder, gentler dentist

So we took Connery to the dentist yesterday and had an unexpected milestone. While I knew that they were going to try to clean his teeth (all his other appointments had involved little more than meeting the dentist and getting a free toothbrush), I had no idea they were going to clean them without me.

Is it pathetic that I was sad when he trundled back with the hygienist, happy as a clam and ready to enter the realm of real dental care? Maybe, but I will cop to it. I have never given him over to a healthcare provider before, in part because I imagine him deciding his own answers to pertinent questions like, "How often do you brush your teeth?" in a way that would not be, shall we say, accurate. What if he said that we never brush his teeth and feed him candy all day long? I mean, this is the same kid who told his whole Kindermusik class that we have a puppy and told his daycare that I had a baby in my tummy long before I was pregnant. Would I end up having to fight social services for my son by the end of this appointment, even though we not only brush but floss the child's teeth every night?

Luckily, he seemed to be in an honest sort of mood and apparently told the doctor that we were not subsisting on bottles full of Hi-C or something. Moreover, he allowed the hygienist to clean his teeth, once he had been properly introduced to Mr. Thirsty, Mr. Sprayer, and Mr. Tooth-Tickler. Myself, I've never met Mr. Tooth-Tickler. Mr. Scrape-My-Teeth-Until-They-Ache, yes. Him, I know.

Anyway, Connery was thrilled to get a new toothbrush, two kinds of floss, stickers, and a squishy worm. He told everyone else that we saw yesterday about his trip to the dentist. I like that pediatric dental practices have made the prospect of going to the dentist much less stressful for kids. I'm sure that cynics would say that I'm just falling for some clever marketing, but as a parent, I appreciate that he doesn't have to be dragged back to the exam room, kicking (me) and screaming. I appreciate that the hygienists squat down so that they can talk to my child face-to-face about the coming procedures. In fact, if they'd let me, I'd go see Dr. Todd for my appointments.

I'd like to meet this Tooth Tickler guy.

Not the kind with Sarah Michelle Gellar

Chip called me out recently over a grudge that he thought I had against someone. His feeling was that the incidents about which I might have been holding the grudge did not remotely merit the grudginess. He seemed particularly aggrieved that I could have been holding this grudge for nearly two years.

I didn't say it at the time, but what I was thinking was (1) I didn't really have a grudge against this person, which was actually pretty generous considering that the grudgeworthy event had happened not just once but twice, and (2) two years? really? Is that a long time to hold a grudge? Because I have grudges that predate not only meeting Chip (note, when I was a mere child of 19) but, indeed, that correlate roughly with the Carter administration. I can barely remember the Carter administration, but I remember the actions of girls called Heather and Stacy. And not in a good way.

Does that mean if I ran into them in the street that I would go all nuts and start airing my grievances? No, of course not. It did mean that for the rest of our childhoods, I viewed them with suspicion that kept them at arm's length, and as it turned out, that was not a bad thing. Whether because of my preconceived notions or because perhaps they were miserable little heifers not worth my time anyway, they seemed to act in ways that only confirmed my original judgment.

I often find that others have the same reaction that Chip does about the grudge issue. There's a reason that "forgive and forget" is a cliche, after all. But within my family of origin--at least those of us who grew up under the loving influence of the Montana towns of Butte and Anaconda--I never have to explain. It's the flip side of another trait that many people prize: loyalty. It's not just grudges I have from 1978 but friends. Good friends. People I went to kindergarten with or, in one case, met for the first time when I was just nine days old.

I suppose that there are probably a lot of people out there--better people than I, apparently--who have memories as long and clear as that but have managed only to hold on to only the good things about the people they've met on the journey. Maybe my life would be better if I did that. In the meantime, I'm not going to apologize. It's who I am. My name is Nicole, and I hold grudges. And there are worse things.

Did you say something?

As I've mentioned, I've been weathering the pregnancy pretty well. Well enough that one fellow pregger I see often probably wants to kill me, based on her incredulity when I insist that I still feel good. The one thing that's really taken a hit is my ability to concentrate. Like, I can't. At all.

Let's take today as an example. I was proud of myself for remembering that there is a retirement party this afternoon for one of Connery's former teachers at his old childcare facility. I was doubly proud of myself for remembering this in time to bake something to bring with me. My pride vanished when I realized that the brownies I had just baked were smothered on top with peanut butter--an absolute no-no at that childcare due to one of its charge's severe peanut allergy. Sure, I could still bring them, but I'd have to invite people back to the mini-van to actually have a bite, like some kind of pusher. (Pssst, wanna go back to my van? Duncan Hines, man. The good shit. It'll rock your world.)

I remember this happening with Connery toward the last month or so as well. Luckily, working in the Czech Republic, I was required to go on maternity leave a full six weeks before my due date (being an American, I fudged it to four weeks, but still). That meant only a week or so of my sitting at a hellfire hot desk in Zizkov, trying valiantly to concentrate on the finer points of European integration and non-native English and Central Asian dictators before I could say my goodbyes and go be flaky in the privacy of my own home. This time, I'm planning--in the great spirit of America--to work up until I actually go into labor, possibly through the first few hours, assuming it's not too messy or loud. (See "Loudest woman ever gives birth at Bulovka Hospital" for an idea of how likely that is.) Here in the land of no maternity leave, it's what one does.

In the meantime, I'm trying to keep myself on task. Lists help. The Internet decidedly does not. Deadlines help. Understanding editors and bosses do not. (Why are you all so nice?) In a clear act of desperation, I resurrected my Palm Pilot this morning. Of course I haven't had the concentration necessary to do anything more than charge and sync it, but it's the thought that counts, right?

Don't bother answering that. I'm already thinking about something else.

Goodbye, Milltown

Slate has a great photo essay today about the removal of the Milltown dam from the Clark Fork, part of a massive Superfund cleanup at work in Western Montana. Check it out.

My brain hurts

Driving home from downtown today, I heard the president of the United States addressing the pope in a recorded report on NPR. He proclaimed the following:

“In a world where some treat life as something to be debased and discarded, we need your message that all human life is sacred.”

After I peeled my fender out of the tree that I accidentally drove into while I was ranting and swearing about how "all human life" does not apparently include people from Iraq or mentally retarded people who are convicted of committing crimes or people who might be terrorists, I got back on the road only to hear (the NPR version of) this:

"In rejecting that standard, the majority justices said there is no Eighth Amendment requirement that a government-sanctioned execution be pain-free. The Eighth Amendment requires that an execution procedure not involve "a 'substantial' or 'objectively intolerable' risk of serious harm," writes Chief Justice John Roberts in the court's main opinion."

Serious harm like...oh...I don't know...death? The cognitive dissonance, it burns! And it was considerably harder to extricate myself from the second tree.

Luckily, this was waiting for me when I got home. The laughing made my brain feel better.

Is this a five-minute argument or the full half hour?

Remember this?

You may think that's an old Monty Python sketch, but it's really secret YouTube footage of my family. I bet you didn't know that I looked so much like Michael Palin. Also, Connery is very tall on film. I heard the camera adds four feet and about 30 years.

Connery will argue about anything, even things that have no bearing whatsoever on logic. Our latest argument involves a great work of literature by Theodor Geisel, Ph.D. In this seminal volume, Geisel presents the lesson that the unknown need not be feared, using the metaphor of a pair of verdant trousers that move on their own, or, as the good doctor terms them, "pale green pants with nobody inside them." He repeatedly uses the language of "empty pants", thus emphasizing their utter lack of occupation. And yet they move--bicycling, boating, walking about.

This is where Geisel and my whimsy-impaired son part ways. If the pants can move, there must be somebody inside them--even if the other character in the story does not yet realize it. Reading this story to him is like visiting the argument clinic:

Me: "And then they moved, those empty pants, they kind of--"

Connery: Except they weren't really empty. There was someone there.

Me: No, they were empty. It says so right there.

Connery: But they can't be empty, because they're jumping.

And so it goes. He will argue spiritedly, heatedly, sometimes even angrily about things that make no sense at all. This morning he told me that in the next story about the pale green pants we would find out who was actually inside. How do I argue with that, short of, "This isn't some Spiderman movie here! There's no sequel! Dr. Seuss is dead and he's not writing anything else. Not ever!" Which, you know, might not be the best way to end breakfast.

Short trip to the abuse room, isn't it?

A Rosenleaf baby by any other name

I'm a little bit of a freak about the whole baby naming thing. I don't want much, really, just a name that does not appear in the Social Security Top 1000, will not be the subject of derision on this site or on the hypothetical playground, has not been used or held by any of my friends, acquaintances, co-workers, relatives, or unlikeable celebrities, and is not weird. And doesn't start with an 'R. Or end with an 'R'.

I can't figure out why I'm not having better luck. There must be...um...six girl names in the universe that fit those criteria.

Is it a bad sign that we had to hold a contest at my work to name our cat when we got her seven years ago?

No joke

Alas, everything--including the $750 per month prescription--in my April Fool's Day post was true. Apparently I misconstrued the whole Foolish part of the day. I never was much for practical jokes and tomfoolery, which will surprise you.

I've got a lot to say on the subject, but I am planning some wider-scale activities and so won't say much more than this: If John McCain and our beloved president truly believe that the system works and doesn't need any reform, I would invite them to drop their Cadillac-level health coverage and join me on the high-deductible HSA scam that they seem to like so much. Oh, and they have to do it on the median income of a Montana family of four, $55,641. Good luck with that, because it's working like rainbows and unicorns for us.

In other news, thanks to a recent trip with Nana and Papa to see Mamma Mia! in Spokane, Connery is the latest member of the ABBA fan club. Our evening waterboarding sessions now involve high-decibel ABBA, meant to screw up his courage in the face of the nasal irrigator. I often think to myself in those moments that I am experiencing something that just may be unique. Perhaps nowhere else in the world are two thirtysomething American parents attempting to squirt water, baking soda, and salt up the uncooperative nostrils of a four-year-old child while "Dancing Queen" blares at painful levels in the background. Off the top of my head, I can think of approximately 2,359,031 ways that I would prefer to be unique. Too bad those aren't on the menu.

Another grandparent-inspired new song craze:

Anyone else grow up singing that song? I know every word, and now Connery does, too. Awesome.

What I've been doing instead of blogging

1. Watching the snow fall.
2. Rechristening the baby "Mambo."
3. Failing to come up with an actual name for the baby.
4. Waterboarding my son. (Oh, the asthma specialist calls it nasal irrigation but the effect is strikingly similar.)
5. Not going to the gym.
6. Sleeping in--twice!
7. Letting my pregnancy hormones get the better of me while on the phone with pharmaceutical giant Astra-Zeneca about their $750-per-month asthma medication.
8. Not providing free linky-links to pharmaceutical giants. (Take that!)
9. Laughing about Sher's Easter Massacre.
10. Missing the deadlines for both childbirth education and sibling classes. Second baby syndrome much?
11. Paying $3.40 a gallon for gas.
12. Trying not to be bitter as I remember European gas prices.
13. Failing because I also remember European mass transit opportunities.
14. Attempting to rip off my own ears rather than listen to another radio story about the presidential elections.
15. Reattaching them with needle and thread after remembering the $750-per-month prescription.

Anything that needs clarification?