Are you a mom in need of a vacation?
Of course you are, who of us isn’t? I know what you’re thinking: a vacation? In this economy? Stay with me.
You’ve been meaning to schedule a dental cleaning for some time now. You were a good little pregnant lady and stayed up on your dental care because you know growing fetuses sap all your calcium and you really like your teeth inside your head. But then baby was born and most days you didn’t get around to brushing your teeth til 3pm and what are you supposed to do with a breastfeeding baby when literally nothing and nowhere in this world is designed to accommodate a mother and her breastfeeding baby? Dentist appointment? Easily 2 hours, with an hour and a half of that simply waiting to be seen in an exam room in which there is certainly nowhere to set your purse let alone an infant. Don’t despair, here’s what to do and how to make a vacation out of it.
Firstly, make sure to breastfeed exclusively, neglect introducing a bottle regularly before that 4 month mark, and don’t pump because obviously pumping is time-consuming, uncomfortable, and therefore, stupid. Ok now you have a baby who is deeply offended by even the mention of a bottle and that you can basically never be away from. Now this plan will work even if you’re not breastfeeding, but it will feel like EVEN MORE of a vacation if you and your baby can’t even comprehend the meaning of personal space, bodily autonomy, or a moment’s separation. What is yours is your baby’s and what is your baby’s is also your baby’s. Great, moving on.
Ok now that your baby is a year old, you’ve not seen a dentist in at least that much time, and a tiny piece of a tooth has broken off and you’re pretty sure you need a crown. You’re ready for your vacation. I know you don’t want to blame your baby for this dental predicament, but I assure you, it is your baby’s fault. She’s been voraciously consuming you from the inside out for going on two years. Luxuriate in offloading that blame.
So, you have your appointment scheduled. The office is 20 minutes away, but it’s Atlanta so getting home could take anywhere from 25-45 minutes. That’s after an appointment that could take an hour? Four hours? Who knows because the world is overbooked and understaffed, and they may have to fashion a water suction thingy on the spot because supply-chain issues have undoubtedly affected their reserves of functional dental implements. Ok so this means baby needs to be close enough for an emergency nursing session, but still far enough away that it feels like a vacation. Send baby with other parent or appropriate childminder to nearby park. Now take a deep calming breath and board the elevator to the third floor of that medical building. As you step into the elevator, ignore the walls and floor covered in butcher paper (is this the freaking service elevator?) and get your favorite reading material handy for the waiting room. DO NOT waste your precious time numbly scrolling through social media, you already do that enough while nursing and waiting for baby to fall asleep. Read a novel, goddamnit, and praise the creator that you’ll get through multiple sentences, several pages even, without being interrupted.
You’re signed in and, thank god, you didn’t have eleven minutes of paperwork to fill out, just the obligatory do you have covid? have you had covid? does anyone you’ve ever known had covid? are you thinking about getting covid? questionnaire that you’re pretty sure you see the nurse immediately put into the recycling bin without even looking at because who the fuck cares anymore? Oh, look at that: Gabriel Dorito? The nurse has already mangled your extremely phonetic name, but you don’t even correct her. She can call you Tobey Maguire as long as she’s not yanking at your shirt, eh eh eh!-ing desperately for your nipple. As you wander down the hall, passing each exam cubicle containing its own supine victim, face stretched taut in a mask of rigid horror, set upon by tiny whining drills, envision instead, a beach lined with rows of private cabanas and massage attendants. You’ve now arrived at your very own cabinet of torture, I mean cabana. Stretch out on the electric-powered chaise lounge and prep your face with a vigorous massage and a slathering of lip balm.
At this point, it really shouldn’t be too difficult to keep up this beach vacay charade. All the dental assistants have eyelash extensions as dense as the giant leopard moth caterpillars currently nesting all over your front porch and neon patterned nails filed to the length and point of stiletto daggers which suggests a festive, summer vibe. Don’t worry about their ability to see and negotiate the small confines of your mouth. I assure you they move through the world with these adornments with ease and agility as though they were born with them. Furthermore, they’ve handed you a giant pair of dark-tinted goggles (sunglasses) to shield your eyes from the overhead lamp (sun) and the wayward spray (ocean mist) of the oral irrigator (waves). As they drill into your tooth, shaving it down to a pitiful nubbin to be capped and covered by sturdier, more reliable material, take some deep breaths. Inhale the fine dust of your tooth and imagine the smell of bone is the smell of ancient ocean flora and fauna pulverized over millennia and ground into the sugar-soft sand upon which you now lie in the palace of your mind. Isn’t this nice?
Lastly, as the drill is put away and the bill is brought out, hand over your credit card with the flair of a wealthy and carefree traveler purchasing stupid fruity cocktails you would never in your real life consume. Sign the receipt with the bewilderment of a bedraggled and now-sober traveler wondering, was that actually fun? am I, in fact, more tired than when I got here? Even your bill is reminiscent of a vacation! Just about the same price of a week-long stay at a mediocre hotel, 10 minutes from the beach by car, and two nights worth of overpriced, underwhelming seafood dinners that, once again, you are reminded you don’t actually enjoy this much seafood in real life.
Proceed to the front desk and schedule your next appointment because don’t kid yourself, this procedure is only two-thirds complete and halfway paid for. As you wander out into the actual sun, blinking and numb on the right side of your face, you see your hubs waving across the street, baby strapped to his chest and you think GAWDDAAAAMN he’s so hot wearing our baby. Then your baby sees you and starts squirming and waving frantically, her face about to split in half from the effort of her smile, and you couldn’t be happier to be back from your vacation. You smile ecstatically with only half of your face and walk blissfully into the arms of your family.
Things currently revving my engine:
Storyteller by Leslie Marmon Silko. A combination of poetry, short stories, and memoir from a master of narrative.
my new serger sewing machine! I sew like the goddamn wind now.
Luci saying green beans, which sounds like ween means.
There’d Better Be a Mirrorball, the Arctic Monkeys latest single. In an alternate universe I am Alex Turner’s latest girlfriend, a normally sized woman with femur bones of an average length. I am a deviation in his habit of underfed, taffy-stretched models and I help him arrange his hair every morning in that 50s greaser ice cream swirl he like so much. Eventually I get fed up with his excessive collection of hair products and he tires of the shortness of my leg bones. We agree to part ways amicably citing artistic differences. We both learn valuable lessons.