Monday, October 22, 2007

Dentists and other Joys of being a Grown-up

ChellBell announces at the breakfast table Sunday morning, "It's hard to be the child. You must be happy to be parents. Being the parents is easy."

This comment came in response to her having to eat eggs instead of Twinkies for breakfast. Poor, slighted, well-fed child. Her life is tough. And we are so mean.

Chris and I begin to explain the endless responsibilities of an adult, trying to nobly and rationally impart the wisdom of thirty-something year olds into her six-year-old brain. She plays along and acts like she understands our plight, and then asks again to trade her eggs for the Twinkie.

Every six year old wishes to be the parent, and on most days, I would trade shoes with her for the life of a child. You too?

The thing about being an adult is that we're expected to be so stinking responsible. Pay your bills, get an oil change, save for retirement, call your Grandma, fold your laundry and put it away. And we have to do all these things without someone telling us. We just have to make ourselves do them. And we don't get any kind of reward -- no stickers or ice cream or Polly Pockets or increase in allowance waiting for us when we do what we're supposed to do.

Like today.

I'm going in for a root canal.

Now this is something I argue about with the six-year-old that's still somewhere inside of me. I hate the dentist. Hate is a strong and horrible word, which is why it is the perfect word choice to describe my feelings for the dentist. I loathe it. It makes me nauseous. It makes me tremble. I shudder to think about it. My mouth is claustrophobic, and there is only room in there for teeth, a tongue, and an occasional straw, food, or gum. Not a stranger's hands. And definitely not a stranger's hands accompanied by sharp objects, some kind of sucking thing, and a needle of Novocaine. And by the way, just because I can't FEEL it does not mean I am not aware that you are there and hating every minute of it. AWFUL.

But I'll go because it's the responsible thing to do. Although I'm sure that there will be no toys or even "you're such a good girl!" waiting for me. Nope, just a bill, that I'll have to work to pay off.

Although I did eye a new Bettye Muller way-out-of-my-price-range-zebra-print pump at Nordstrom, and maybe that will be my 'atta girl for going through with the root canal on my own accord.

There has to be some benefit to being an adult...

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