Zen and the Art of Motherhood

Today I overslept.  It was really cold and my covers were so snuggly warm.  When I finally dragged my carcass out of bed, I was greeted by the thermometer in our kitchen.  I had to check it twice.  It couldn't be right.  No way in hell.  Most definitely, it couldn't really be -13.

It was at that very moment that I threw any notions of a good day right out the window.  The foreshadowing was clearly on the wall. 

My first thought was to run and hide.  But I forced myself to continue. To my suprise, I didn't mind the cold once I was in it.  It did wonders for those pesky hot flashes I've been getting lately.  There I was in my car -- window rolled down, head sticking out to the side, all while I peeled away layer upon layer of clothing.

Damn it felt good.

About halfway through the day, I realized things were still running smoothly. Everyone made it to school OK, I was able to put the finishing touches on the new paint in the living room (Very big NOTE TO SELF:  Never, never again take on a painting project two weeks before Christmas!).   I even got a little quality TV time so I could finally catch up on my Heroes episodes.

Could it be?  An actual, bonified good day?  I began losing faith in my own prediction abilities. Why it was downright peaceful.

And. Then. I saw it.

On the refrigerator, written ever so neatly on the calendar was an appointment.  Not just any appointment.  The one that I happen to dread most.

Let's get this straight.  I'm no wimp.  I can handle my fair share of pain.  Why, I've given birth to four children, for God's sake. So how is it that seven letters on the refrigerator could have me breaking out in a cold sweat?

Easy.

When those seven letters spell D-E-N-T-I-S-T.

There. I admit it.  I hate the dentist.

Maybe I watched Little Shop of Horrors one too many times growing up, but even a routine cleaning can make me cry like a little baby.

Too bad today was no ordinary cleaning.  It involved two cavities.  Oh, and a drill.  And that can never be good.

First, there's the sheer humiliation of being put in that chair.  They lay you back, use some kind of crank to open your mouth wider than you ever thought possible, then stick all sorts of contraptions inside.

If that's not bad enough, they keep talking.  Like that's supposed to make you forget what they're up to.  Nice try.

Why, they just won't shut up.  Laughing. Telling witty jokes. Asking you tons of questions.

Hello?  Do you really expect me to answer that?

Whoops.  Digression rules, yet again.  Back to the story...

The first filling went fine.  Once again, visions of peacefulness danced through my head.

Not so fast, missy.

Time for the second one.  I was sufficiently pumped full of Novocaine.  So I thought.  Too bad I felt every zip of the drill.  So in came more Novocaine.  Then more pain.  A little more Novocaine.  A lot more pain.

Finally the words I hoped to never hear were spoken.  Root canal.

I've never had one.  I was fine with that.  I could have lived a long and useful life without ever have this lovely experience.  But someone up there had other plans for me.

So tomorrow morning I get to call the specialist to make yet another scary appointment.  I'm really thinking of blowing it off.  Maybe if I just ignore it, it will go away on its own.

Ya think?  Me neither. Guess I'll be writing a check for an early Christmas present.  I think I'd rather get coal.  Darn, I feel another Bah Humbug coming on.