The Dentist's Chair (Watch out -- I use the word "drool" several times in this one.)

      I can think of no place where one is so inaccessible as the dentist's chair. I had this thought recently while sitting in the dentist's chair, listening to my cell phone ring. Not only was I flat on my back, not only was I pinned down by a tray of sharp and shiny instruments, not only was my mouth full of gauze, the dentist's hands, and some awful plastic contraption designed to keep me from closing my lips. If all this had not not enough to keep me from answering the phone, I'm not sure that the person calling would have understood me, anyway, since the right side of my mouth was completely numb. The numbness, one could say, was my own doing. The dentist had asked right away if I wanted painkillers before she drilled my tooth. That seemed like a ridiculous question, and I suppose the alacrity with which I answered was what prompted her to ask -- several times during the hour I sat in her chair -- if I would like some more painkillers.
      In French, "dentist" is one of those easy words that's the same as the English version, only with a French accent: "dahn-TEEST." The title actually makes more sense in French, since your teeth are "dents." It would be like calling American dentists "toothists" or something. When you make an appointment, it is for "Un rendez-vous chez dentiste," which, even after more than a year here, still sounds a little shady to me. I remember explaining to my French teacher that in America, a rendez-vous generally involves either spies or an illicit tryst, so I wasn't sure that I felt comfortable setting up a rendez-vous between the orthodontist and my teenaged daughter. She, however, assured me it was all perfectly above-board.
      Trapped in the dentist's chair, trying to distract oneself from the sound of drilling going on in one's own mouth, one has time and motivation for all sorts of thoughts. My first was, "Why on earth would anyone want to be a dentist?" To me, mouths are repulsive and not very interesting. I suppose maybe there is an artistic element to dentistry, and I know the pay is good, but is that enough to cause someone to put up with people drooling on their hands all day? My second thought, however, was to be thankful that not everyone shares my aversion to mouths. In particular, I was thankful for the dentiste now taking care of my mouth and letting me drool on her.
      I haven't had a cavity since before I went to college, and I wouldn't have been sitting in the chair having this one drilled if I hadn't mentioned to the hygienist, the week previous, that my very back right tooth hurt when I clenched my teeth.  I had debated not saying anything. After all, it didn't hurt much . . . and only when I bit down really hard . . . and maybe it would just disappear on its own. . . . Truly, however, I knew there was something unpleasant back there that wasn't going away. Both the hygienist and the dentist commented that they never would have known from the outside of the tooth that anything was wrong. It was only my discomfort and the x-ray that showed them the nasty truth. I spent several moments, my mouth open unnaturally wide and the painkillers not completely killing all sensation, wishing that I hadn't said anything. I wondered what would have happened. Would the cavity have remained only a small, invisible discomfort, or would it have grown so it was eventually visible -- and truly painful? Would it have spread to other teeth? Would I have needed something more major than an hour of dental labor? And I know this isn't an original thought (give me a break, my jaw was dislocating), but the whole thing reminded me of sin. How we try to pretend it isn't there, how that doesn't actually make it go away, how sometimes getting rid of some particular pet sin feels like having your teeth drilled and makes you wish maybe you'd just let it rot for a while longer. But how, really, dealing with the problem head on -- with the drill of repentance, if you will -- is the only way to stop it from doing more damage. God as the master dentist . . . not the best analogy ever, I know.
        I left the dentist's office feeling no regret that that particular hour of my life would never come again. My happiness was tempered, however, by the fact that I still couldn't feel half of my mouth. Also, my cheek felt enormous and I was sure that I was drooling. I took a quick peek in a mirror on the bus and was shocked to find that I looked completely normal. I'm sure there's a life lesson here as well, but right now, I can't put my finger on it. Maybe I should just be thankful that, in this case anyway, neither the aftermath of my cavity nor my sins were on display to everyone I passed.

A Fairy-Tale Birthday

The birthday girl.

     If you were Cinderella, this might be what your birthday party would look like. That, I suppose, makes me the wicked stepmother.
     Even the wicked stepmother, however, deserves a chance to give the backstory. Johanna turned 15 last week, which first of all, should be illegal, though it isn't as bad as 16, or -- heaven forbid -- 20. Geneva is the land of over-the-top kids' parties (a photo shoot followed by a ride in a taxi to dinner downtown, for example, or a fête on a yacht). While we like a good party, that kind of over-the-top is neither in our style or our budget. Fortunately, we have some creative children. This year, Johanna asked if she could have a Cupcake Wars party. Since I am not an avid watcher of the Food Network, this sounded to me like it involved throwing cupcakes. I was delighted to find that it actually involves baking cupcakes, though, as it turned out, that version is only slightly less messy than the food fight one.

Some of the ingredients. Unfortunately, I forgot to take a "before" picture, so this is also some of the mess.
I promise that the glass of wine did not belong to any of the children. It was also not a cupcake ingredient.

       Johanna, being who she is, has a dizzying variety of friends from school last year, church youth group, Bible Study, running, and random street corners. We attempted to divide the participants so that everyone was in a group with as many strangers as possible. Fortunately Johanna's friends, though diverse, are universally friendly and pleasant -- I do think expat kids tend to mix pretty well; it's a survival skill. We told the teams that they could win prizes for best team name, most delicious cupcake, and most attractive cupcake. Then we gave them an ingredient list, a mixer and bowls, a laptop (hey, this is the 21st century), and two hours to create the perfect cupcake.

Members of Team 1 (Coolest Cupcake Cuties) and Team 2 (The Cupcakinators) share the kitchen.

Team Three (The Cupcake Masters) tries to create an Oreo substitute using melted chocolate.

Team One comes up with a novel entry in the Most Attractive category.

Team Two is checking out the competition and discussing strategies.

I'm not sure whether this passed the taste test.

     I hung around to answer questions and supervise the actual baking. Since we live in a European house, we have one teeny oven that can cook one panful of cupcakes at a time. Nonetheless, we managed to bake more than 30 cupcakes. They were vanilla, chocolate, red velvet, and Coke-flavored -- that last a worthwhile experiment that failed to yield the hoped-for results.

Some of the aftermath -- above and below.

Some of the cupcakes that didn't make the final cut. They were, however, all gone before the evening was out.

      The judges were Lucas, me, and a friend who showed up too late to help with the cooking. The competition was fierce, and only some back-room politicking resolved our disputes. We had told the girls that we were going to judge the entires for each category based on merit, rather than trying to make sure each team won a prize. As it turned out, however, each team did win something. The best name went to Coolest Cupcake Cuties (though I voted for Cupcakinators -- Johanna told me that she knew I would, because it's kind of a oxymoron, and I like that kind of thing). The prize for taste went to a chocolate cupcake with vanilla frosting and raspberries. Again, I liked the vanilla cupcakes better, but Lucas insisted that they were too floury. I did get my way for the most attractive cupcake, an owl whose eyes were supposed to be made of Oreos. The team improvised with chocolate and frosting, and I thought the results were outstanding. Lucas kept calling it a penguin, but he was still willing to let it win.

The Most Attractive Cupcake.

The prizes -- beautiful and useful!

Another really attractive cupcake that didn't win.

The proud creators of the sheep.

A couple of delicious contestants.

      The party was fun, delicious, and also hands-down the messiest event we've ever held at our house. It took a few hours after the guests left to return the kitchen and living room to a nearly normal state, and I was cleaning stickiness off the drawer and cupboard handles for the next several days. We don't have any more big entertaining challenges on the horizon -- at least, I don't. Eric and his running buddies have organized a challenge they are calling the "Men of Men Dinners" (no idea, don't ask), wherein each of the dads has to plan, shop for, and prepare a meal for the three families. Eric is up first, and if you think of it, you can say a prayer for him. I just hope that in addition to planning, shopping, and cooking, the "Men of Men" with also be taking care of the cleaning. Otherwise, I'll be making an appeal to our resident Cinderella.

Not My Pajamas

       A dear friend, who shall remain nameless and who did later eat her words, once criticized home-school moms for staying in their pajamas until after lunch. In order to avoid any confusion (should a reader of this blog stop by my house unannounced around 1 p.m. and find me looking too comfortably clad) I would like to make it clear that:
       Number 1 -- These are not pajamas. They are workout clothes. In many regions, such vestments are considered stylish and acceptable.

 

       Number 2 -- The reason I am wearing workout clothes is because at some point during this day, I will be working out. The moment may not yet have arrived, but trust that it is planned. I do not take this Under Armor lightly.

Above: Workout clothes; Below: PJs. The difference should be obvious.

 

        Some days, I actually exercise first thing in the morning -- or almost first thing. First first thing, I have to make myself get out of bed. This, as everyone knows, is the most difficult task of the day. I usually accomplish it by bribing myself with coffee. This works especially well if we have cream in the house, or at least half and half. Another first thing is making breakfast. Sometimes, I am the ambitious kind of mom who makes cinnamon rolls or banana muffins. Sometimes I am the kind who says, "the cereal is in the cupboard, and there might be some milk left in the fridge." Either way, breakfast involves me cutting up fruit and setting some at everyone's place. Many of the members of my family share an odd trait regarding food. While they will eat anything that is placed in front of them with nary a murmur, they will not under their own steam provide themselves with fruits or vegetables. I was raised to be a little rigid about eating greens, so I still dole out the morning fruit. By this time, the others are starting to trickle downstairs.

       Johanna is often first. She aims to wake up and start school every morning at 6, and she achieves the goal much of the time. Then Eric comes down and drinks coffee while he waits for Drew, who wakes up after 7 and is ready to leave the house just moments later. As for Luc, sleep is one of the central joys of his life, and he begged me to let him sleep until 8 this year, so he usually eats breakfast by himself. Since he's a budding chef, fixing his own breakfast is no problem (except the fruit part).

      So anyway, there's the fruit, and the coffee, and sometimes packing Drew's lunch (Monday is sometimes McDonald's Day, and Friday is Rotisserie Chicken Day now that he and his friends have achieved the grand privilege of leaving campus at lunchtime). After all that, sometimes I go for a run. Lately, though, I have had other workout commitments. On Tuesday afternoons, I run 400 repeats with Johanna. Actually, we jog to the track at Les Evaux, I run a lap or two while she changes into her spikes, and then I time her running 400s. It's good exercise, because she wants to know her time at every 100, so I race back and forth across the oval to tell her. On Thursdays, I usually run with a friend,  which -- as an opportunity for feminine adult conversation as well as fitness -- is a highlight of my week. And lately on Wednesdays, I've been running with Lucas, as his climbing class is on hiatus.

       Because sometimes I am the fun kind of mom, I have been trying to make these Wednesday runs "adventures,"  which means we run to a bus stop, then take the bus to a nearby sports store or -- last week -- the American Food Avenue, where one can buy Cheese-Its (for $8 a box). Lucas, who is far too old for this kind of fun, tells me that I need to brush up on the meaning of the word "adventure." In his lexicon, adventure necessarily includes some kind of danger, and apparently the dangers of crackers with artificial coloring and partially hydrogenated vegetable oil don't count. This week, however, Lucas himself suggested the adventure. He wanted to run to Melectronics (the electronics store owned -- like most of Geneva -- by the Migros grocery chain), buy a tripod with his laundry earnings, and take the bus back. It sounded motivational to me, and Drew wanted to come along, which made this a Fun Family Event. Drew has recently decided that all exercise is good exercise, and he runs everywhere -- even to swimming, which seems a bit like overkill to me. I'm just trying to keep the calories flowing into the system. Everything went according to plan, except that the run seemed longer than the 5.16k advertised on mapmyrun.com, and that I spent a good deal of time doing what our French children's books call "pouf-poufs" and saying, "You can just wait for me at the next light."

       While we at the Collège de Tirelonge like to think of ourselves as fit, we are not, strictly speaking, a "sport-études" program. That means we also have to do our full share of academic subjects. This is what that part of the day looks like: Johanna has a huge pile of books, a list of tasks for the week, and a blank planner to fill in with what she does. She pops in from time to time to ask about the side-splitter theorem, whether she has correctly identified an example of metonymy, or what the word "apologetics" means. I also do physics experiments with her, because what is more lonely than doing labs without a lab partner?

Johanna hard at work.

Lucas has a bit more imposed structure in the form of a schedule posted on the bookshelf and hourly check-ins with mom to start the next subject or finish the prior one. He has been making great strides towards independence, except that I have to really sit on him to keep him from putting too much "voice" into his academic essays. Those of you who know him will know what I mean.

Lucas woke up an hour early this morning so he would have time for his new favorite fun: video editing. The second computer is to listen to an audiobook of Huck Finn.

       In between discussing thesis statements, polyhedrons, and the Monroe Doctrine, I keep myself out if trouble by cleaning bathrooms and writing emails in French. Sometimes I cook. And usually, by 5 p.m. or so (17h around here), I have managed to exchange the "pajamas" for actual daytime grown-up clothes.