If your kid puked in the car on the way there, would you still take them to the dentist?

No? Oh. Um. Okay.

But what if the dentist was 30 minutes away, and you got really lost so you were already 15 minutes late but really almost there and still kind of lost, and you knew you had to find the dentist before you could even begin to find your way home?

And what if the puke wasn't like real puke, but just a little bluecch -- watery nothing that didn't even get on the real clothes, just the jacket? What if it was erasable puke?

And what if she perked up right after? And said she still wanted to go to the dentist?

Still no?

Yeah, well, I totally did.

And she was completely fine at the dentist, puke-wise, but notsomuch look-at-my-teeth-wise, when faced with lying down on the dentist table, which, WTF, we had been talking for a week about the cool dentist chair and that little plot twist totally mucked up the plan. There was much wailing and pulling on mama's clothes and exposing much mama skin and jiggle in the flabdomen and boobular area. And then there was the flossing. Flossing! At three and a half!

Emotionally, it was like taking our old cat to the vet, for both of us: me feeling helpless over the terror of this thing I love, and the subject of the examination coming very close to doing some actual biting. And then she got a treat, all was right with the world.

There was also me lying down on the table like a goof ball and letting the hygenist poke around in my mouth while I, in exaggerated happiness, brushed the very large teeth of a stuffed purple hippo. And Bird sat in a chair against the wall with her arms folded across her chest, giving me and my shenanigans a look that could not be mistaken for anything other than "Surely You Are Not Fucking Serious."

There was also the part where I thought I had locked my keys in the car, but didn't, and the hygenist found them at the front desk while I rooted through my cavernous bag like a raccoon going for the banana peel at the bottom of the garbage can, all grubby wild-eyed and hissing.

And there was also the part where we waited for a long time while they sorted out Birdy's heart murmur history with our pediatrician, and everything was totally fine, just a CYA thing involving possible antibiotics and more drama than I was prepared for at this, our first dentist appointment.

This sounds so traumatic-- Nobody got hurt or permanently emotionally scarred, the whole thing just felt a little more like a pediatrician's visit with shots than the happy fun denist time that this particular practice advertises in their tv commercials.

And then there was also the part where Bird looked really, really tall to me today, in her new dress and "no-feet tights," puke or no puke, with this suddenly big kid face, saying big kid things and asking me to turn off the radio, please, because she was "constentrating."

So yeah. We went to the dentist.

And this evening I made homemade pretzel dough in the bread machine and brushed some egg on top and baked 'em up and OMG.

I am crossing some shit off my list:

Tonight: Taxes!
Tomorrow: The rest of the shit on the list! *

And just so you know, I never intend to neglect this blog, though I do admit it is often first on the chopping block since I am spending my days clickety-clacking out words in various persuasive and illustrative combinations so as to earn the money to pay the mortgage, buy the toilet paper, etc. Makes the pulling-together-the-words thing a bit less appealing after coming home, cooking/ eating, Bird-ing, bedtime-ing. Seems there is less to write about now, even though there is just as much as ever, and I think it's because I no longer spend hours alone in my car thinking about weird things, encountering fascinating tribes of rural humans, and generally twisting my brain around however I want. Instead, I am flattening it out like a pancake and writing very informative and detailed web sites about technology and services within the healthcare industry. Yes, I know. Maybe I should start smoking again, just to spice things up. Or maybe start drinking. Around noonish.

* Okay. At a minimum, one of the things on the list. And let's be honest, it's probably not going to be "organize photos" or "guest room closet." That is the kind of shit that I am leaving for Bird and any subsequent children to deal with after I pass from this world at a ripe old age, finally tired from my many years of not really organizing anything, ever.

Sweet Sounds of Southern Indiana

A list of things my Granny says:

Cheekin (chicken)
Marnin (morning)
Caish (cash)
Schnoe (snow)
Boosh (bush)
dreckly (directly)
downtha (down at the)
deeshis (dishes)

(3/15/09) Edited to add:

Warsh (wash).

Thanks to Mr. Littlebrother-- can't believe I forgot that one.

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There's been a lot going on around here. Tons of work, a little accomplishment, not much balance, more family loss, a sense of things totally falling apart (and also-- weirdly-- coming together), and really, not a minute of time to myself. A lot going on, for sure.

So instead of talking about any of that, I'd like to tell you about a sandwich-- on homemade whole wheat with peanut butter, bananas, thin apple slices, a drizzle of honey and cinnamon, toasted--the very one we just ate on this gorgeous 65-degree Saturday in February.

And now, off to make: pita bread, a shopping list, a trip to the grocery, sense of everything.