Heavy Metal (Mouth)

In junior high, I watched most of my friends get braces. I saw the whole process through from beginning to end - head gear for the unfortunate, rubber bands, and missed classes for tightening appointments.

One by one, the time passed and my friends emerged from the experience with big smiles and straight teeth. Sure, there were retainers to be worn after - but that was all part of the fun, right? I was green with envy; my teeth were so crooked that one tooth was completely eclipsed by my magnificent, chiclet-sized front teeth. Braces had never been a consideration since we never could have afforded them.

I have always been self-conscious about my teeth. I covered my mouth with my hand when I laughed, and most photos taken were of me with a close-lipped smile on my face. One of the most embarrassing moments that I've had as an adult was during Halloween, when a co-worker thought I was wearing fake teeth as part of my witch costume. I will never forget the look on her face when she realized her mistake - but I can tell you with certainty that I felt worse than she did. There's just no taking something like that back.

So, I got braces as an adult. At 25-years old, I endured rubber bands, missed work for tightening appointments, and even head gear - although my orthodontist said I was fortunate because I would only have to wear it at night. My thought was, "Fortunate? For whom?" Because I can tell you that all romance grinds to a halt walking into the bedroom with that thing on my face. It's just so not sexy.

And although it felt like time stood still, eventually came the final appointment where I had them removed. Running my tongue across my teeth was one of the best feelings ever, and the nicest thing I've done for my self esteem.

To celebrate the occasion, we had friends over for dinner. The menu? Ribs, corn on the cob, and caramel apples for dessert.

Potty Mouth

"I don't consider shit to be a cuss word."

Jared, Age 11

Moment of Truth

When I was in first grade, my mom told me that the teacher made me sit in the corner and wear a dunce cap during math. I actually have no memory of this - the only thing I remember about my first grade teacher was that she had black hair. I have heard this story often, and my mom tells me that this is the origin of my 'math fear'.

This is such a cruel and horrible story that part of me simply doesn't believe it. I mean, what kind of person would do that to a child? My mom is also prone to exaggeration; I have stood beside her during conversations, and she will come away with a completely different experience and outcome - sometimes adding parts that didn't occur.

During this last school year, Girl attended a Saturday workshop for a social studies project. The teachers that were there were introduced, and one of them had the same name as my first grade teacher. I thought, "This couldn't be the same teacher, could it?"

I decided to approach her; she was a woman in her late 50's or early 60's with black hair. So I asked her, "I heard your name, and was wondering if you ever taught at _____ Elementary School?"

She replied, "Yes! That was my first year teaching..."

So, here is where I wonder whether this is my moment of truth: Do I lay into this woman for an experience that I don't remember having? Anyone who knows me also knows that I hate conflict or confrontation. I'm all about rainbows and butterflies. I am a total lightweight that would rather move than deal with an uncomfortable situation.

In the end, it occurred to me that it wasn't my moment of truth - it was my mom's. And I can say with confidence that had my mother been there, you would have seen some old ladies brawlin'.

The Penfifteen Club

Boy's drum teacher recently gave me a CD of his band, The Penfifteen Club. I played the CD for Boy and Girl today in the car on our way home from school, and we all like it pretty well.

But studying the liner notes and looking at the pictures of the band - I was amazed at how different the drum teacher looks! Girl asked me if he was wearing make-up, and I said that was how it looked to me. Maybe just eyeliner?

Girl replies, "No, Mom. You mean guyliner..."

First Day of School

Today is Girl Doll's first day of junior high. What a big deal that was for me! She is nervous and very excited, and when I dropped her off she went to the big rock to wait for her friend.

We spent last night getting ready: picked up a few last minute things for school, organized her supplies, washed and put out The Outfit. While she wasn't looking I tucked in a note and some Twizzlers into her backpack.

I love you so very much, Beauty. I can't wait to hear about your day!

My Summer Girl

Girl Doll will start junior high in the fall, which means that yesterday was her very last day of elementary school...ever.

 When I arrived at school to pick up the kids, I found Girl flanked by two of her friends, sobbing. One was a fourth grader who was devastated to be left behind, and the other a soon-to-be 7th grader who will be  moving on to a different school. Everyone was difficult to console. In the end, I gave her some time and went to get us lunch. I had a heavy heart over it.

It is rare that she cries like that, and it was difficult to see her so sad. Many of my friends kids cry easily and a lot, but Girl Doll is not generally very emotional or sentimental. It's not that she is some kind of robot - she is very compassionate, but she is also easy-going and not much rattles her.

Maybe that will be her saving grace going into junior high school.

Prerequisite

My mom was 19-years old when she had me, and knew very little about babies. She read that it was important to talk to your baby, except she didn't know what she should say, so she settled on reading me The New York Times every morning.

Growing up, we lived for a short period in San Francisco. One of my first memories was seeing the backdoor off it's hinges; we'd been robbed. Her roommate's TV was stolen, and it wasn't replaced until my mom got a boyfriend that moved in with one. Being an only child without electronic entertainment, I was resourceful and creative. I played for hours by myself with stuffed animals, but mostly I read. Frequently, I would look over recipes in my mom's Good Housekeeping Cookbook while she cooked dinner, which was a kind of excellent torture. 

I worked my way through books about horses, starting with the gorgeously illustrated Billy and Blaze stories by C.W. Anderson, and then Misty of Chincoteague, which I didn't care for as much - and the entire Walter Farley series of books, beginning with the his first story written in the 1940's, The Black Stallion. I loved comics: Archie, Richie Rich and Mad Magazine. I read pre-teen fiction: anything written by Judy Blume, and VC Andrew's Flowers in the Attic series. As I got older, I read nearly everything written by Stephen King, although my favorite was a book of short stories called Different Seasons. Three of the four short stories became screenplays, and two of those are among my all-time favorite movies: Stand By Me and Shawshank Redemption.  

At 11-years old, I would play handball against the side of the stairwell at our apartment for hours. It was meditative; I'd settle into a rhythm with hitting the ball ka-chung ka-chung ka-chung and I would think of elaborate stories about horses. I wrote my first short story over several days on a yellow, legal-sized pad of paper about a pony and rider that got caught in a high tide along the bluffs of the beach.

When I was 14-years old, we were assigned to write a descriptive essay about a high school locker for an English class. Our teacher asked us to describe the contents of the locker and what the locker itself it looked like, until each word written was in the 'perfect place' and the whole paper just felt right. He chose an assignment to read out loud to the class and without knowing in advance, he chose my paper. I felt myself turning crimson from embarrassment.

After he finished one of the popular boys remarked, "Someone in this class wrote that?!" Our teacher indicated it was me, and I was both shy and thrilled at the same time. Ever since that brief moment of validation that my writing reached someone and meant something, I have wanted to become a writer.