Eddie

There is a dear man outside doing yardwork for us. He is a gentle black man, with the style, mannerisms and ethic of the black people I remember from the south, growing up in Louisiana. They are the hardest working people around, and humble and proud all at the same time. He isn't too proud to do this kind of work for an hourly rate, and he isn't too humble to boss around a young white woman a little bit. Matt saw him working in the yard of one of our neighbors, and stopped by on his way out of the neighborhood to ask him if he would be interested in doing some work for us. He agreed to it, and he and Matt have spoken a few times. I met him for the first time today, and had not expected Matt to arrange for him come when he wasn't here, so I was a bit unprepared. I've always got a running handyman/yard work list going, but I get a little shy when it comes time to tell them what I want. I know it's probably good practice for me, but the truth of the matter is that I grew up being on the receiving end of the orders, and into adulthood as well, and I'm still not comfortable being the Mistress of the House. So as I was taking him around to the yard, talking about the beds, I made a comment or two about talking to Matt about what we wanted to do about this or that. I wasn't sure just how much money Matt was thinking about spending, and I assumed I'd be doing some of the work myself, as I normally do. He shook his finger at me and scolded me a little: "Nah, yaw runnin' the show. Come on!" He was telling me to take charge and make some decisions! So funny. Jonny is always a bit of a problem in situations like this because he's soooo friendly and soooo loves to watch and help. My other, more expensive and more annoying handyman (now ex-handyman, thanks to Eddie) would get irritable with him and often yelled before the dog bit him, so to speak. Once he actually yelled at Elena and Hope, who are both much older and very well behaved. Anyway, I usually spend my time reminding Jonny over and over again to go play elsewhere. This morning I started doing the same thing, until Eddie told me to leave him alone and to quit "taking away my help." Jonny is helping take the dirt clumps to the curb, sweeping, and kinda talking his head off. And I don't have to tell you how little help this boy actually is sometimes. :-) But Eddie seems to be as patient and longsuffering as ever, and he has won favor with the Mistress of the House because of it!

The Tooth

This morning I lied to my daughter repeatedly. Actually, I first started lying to her 2 days ago …
The first time she complained of tooth pain, I told her she probably bit down on something. The second time, after I looked in her mouth, I told her that her molar that was going to be coming in soon likely was pushing on her teeth and causing the pain. Then when she woke up with an abscess on the side of her gums, I told her that we had to go to the dentist but that she would likely just get some antibiotics and NO SHOT. (I really thought they wouldn't do anything until the infection was cleared up.)
We weren’t there five minutes before my lies started to unravel. First he cleaned out the abscess and took x-rays in an effort to determine the source of the problem. This already alarmed her and caused her some pain. Then he came out in the hall and delivered the news to me: he had to pull it. I told him to hide the needle so that she at least she didn’t know the big, hairy, scary reason for the pain. the psychological pain is the worst part. I know this because two of my sisters are needle phobes.
Noelle can be a bit dramatic about her injuries, and for all her choleric toughness, quite a wimp when it comes to pain. Her father and I are the same way – we each have our tough spots but we are both serious wimps in certain areas. Matt would gladly let some nurse excavate his veins for hours, and often gets fillings without Novocain. But if one of our kids is coughing, he is a as tender as an open wound and cannot sleep or even keep a rational thought for fear of them suffering. His history with sickness and asthma explains that. Me? I can give birth naturally seven times and yet I have this irrational fear that when I have dental work done the Novocain will wear off and I’ll feel the most terrible pain of my life. My other area of weakness involves medical procedures being done to my children. Even if I know it has to be done for their own good, I usually fight an irrational fear to tell them they can’t touch my kid.
You see where I’m going with this?
So I came to terms with the fact that he had to do this to Noelle, but since her rambling fear all morning was all about shots and pain, I figured it would be best if she was kept in the dark about the forthcoming proceedings. Generally, I believe in complete honesty with my children, but frankly I was afraid her fear would make her fight and thrash about, only causing more problems. She didn’t even know she had had two shots until I told her on the way home. In the end, I think I decided the right thing, and she tells me that I did. But I just can’t get out of my head her screaming from the other room when he did the deed:
HE TOOK MY TOOTH! HE TOOK MY TOOTH! HE TOOK MY TOOTH!
It reminded me all those horrible scenes you’ve seen in war movies where some poor soldier has to have a leg amputated with only some whisky as sedative. She kept insisting it hurt, and I nearly went for the dentist’s throat. But he assured me that she most likely only felt the pressure and was scared. After 2 hours of questioning her about it, I think he’s actually right. But I was seriously considering tying him down and letting him see what it felt like.
I was outside the room when it happened because Owen wouldn’t let go of me and her intermittent crying was freaking him out. I couldn’t be in two places at once, and I decided to step out for a few minutes to see if I could get Owen interested in the movie that was playing in the waiting room. I didn’t realize he was so close to doing it. Besides, I was probably in serious danger of passing out. I almost did once when they pulled Elena's baby tooth that wouldn't come out.
In all the chaos that ensued, I was somehow able to calm her fears, which really were the biggest factor in all the crying and hubbub. She worried that her mouth wouldn’t heal, that the bump would never go away, that she would never have a tooth there again (it was a baby tooth). Once she learned that all her worst fears were not going to come true, and that it was over, she calmed down significantly. We were both shaking when I hugged her.
What I hate about these kinds of situations is that there’s no winning. I still think that not telling her was less traumatic, and yet I feel bad that a little bit of trust might have been broken. When I asked her after if she wished that I had told her first, she told me no. Shouldn’t that make me feel better? It doesn’t. The whole thing was just so unpleasant. Why does doing the right thing have to feel so bad sometimes???
And it got me thinking just how much we place in the hands of another human being. What if this dentist (who just recently took over the practice) was the irresponsible 16 year-old who would not take out the trash as a child. Or the 21 year-old who drank and drove home from a party. What if he just BARELY made it through college?
Actually, I think he’s a good dentist. His coworkers speak very highly of him, and I’ve been very impressed before today with his style and manner. The first time he had to do something unpleasant to one of my kids, he called later in the evening to make sure she was OK. He’s seems to be a caring father too. So I’m sure he’s fine, it’s just the Mama Bear in me talking.