Sunday, January 15, 2012
Losing Teeth: Why Must this Happen?
Now my other one is losing teeth. Sophia has been telling me for weeks she has a loose tooth. I'd keep my distance, pretend to watch her wiggle it, and then distract myself from the image of a loose tooth. I really had no idea if the wiggliness of it was real or Sophia's wishful thinking. She has been dying to have a tooth pop out after watching Ella lose two teeth, get $1 from the tooth fairy, and then shop at the dollar store, picking out whatever cheap, made-in-China treasure she desired.
I'm not sure if I have a strong sense of empathy and over-identify with what others feel? Or perhaps I have some sort of genetic mutation passed on from my dad who I'm pretty sure wanted nothing to do with my mom while she was giving birth. Whatever it is, it causes me to have a dramatic response to simple bodily functions of those around me. One time walking home from school with a dear elementary friend, I dry heaved because she kept burping over and over again as a form of entertainment -- despite me complaining it was disgusting.
Dave says about that story, "Like dry heaving is so attractive, too. What a lovely pair the two of you were. Neither of you must have had enough oxygen going to your brain."
I've nearly had to run out of zumba and throw up because someone in there keeps...tooting, as the girls and I politely call what little boys call "farting." To avoid making a scene, I try to hold my breath, but that class is so demanding -- 700 calories are usually shed in one hour -- that by depriving myself of breath when I most need it, I grow dizzy and see spots.
When I was six, I vomited all over the speakers of my mom's 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme after watching my infant brother throw up as we drove home from the doctor office.
I've passed out having my earrings changed, and I've gotten woozy at the pediatrician office every time they give one of the girls a finger prick and I have to sit and hold them because the little cowards won't sit still on the table without being held, thereby forcing me to have to pretend I'm a caring, nurturing, protective mom when what I'd really rather do is run screaming down the hallway to the nearest exit.
I do hate to wish away my children's young childhood, or display a lack of excitement for them when they are giddy with the hilly-billy smile they have achieved by losing the baby tooth that only five years ago made us exclaim, "LOOK! A tooth! She's getting so big!" Now with the shedding of that very same tooth we exclaim about her smile, "Look! No more tooth! She's getting so big!"
And then I turn away, and quick -- focus on anything I can, distracting myself from both the swirl of the room and the emotions.