This morning I received an evite for my good friend Liz's bachelorette party. Whirlyball followed by delicious dinner followed by merriment. Hooray! Celebrating Liz! Also, I finally get to play whirlyball -- an event I've heard others gush over, but I've managed to miss out on time and time again! Win-win!
I click on the link, to remind myself what a game of whirlyball entails, when I see the link "Who Can't Play." Click. Skim. Elation shattered.
Pregnant women cannot play whirlyball.
[Neither can short people (less than 4'6"), children (<12), drunk people (I've heard this is just false), and folks with major neck or back problems.]
One more addition to the list of things I cannot do. Such as ski downhill, sit in a hot tub, lay on my back for longer than 15 minutes, eat delicious authentic brie, etc. Honestly, getting pregnant is like taking one ginormous step back. Back when you had to follow seemingly unnecessary rules because your parents said so. Maybe this is just the beginning of that cycle. Expectant mothers grow tired of being told what they can't do, so they impose rules on their children later in life to get a little piece of control back. I mean, why weren't we allowed to sing at the dinner table? Why?
The best part of being an adult is making your own rules. Brad reminds me of this every time I suggest that he not eat cake for breakfast. "I'm a adult. I can eat cake whenever I want." I feel like I've lost that perk. I've got tater to show for it, which is fabulous. But shouldn't there be more things only pregnant women are allowed to do, to make up a bit of the difference? Pregnancy perks, if you will. So far, I've discovered few item to put on that list. One, to be exact: Walk around in public with your pants undone. However, I'm considering another: Get out of [insert undesirable task]. I'll explain.
I had a dentist appointment today. I hate the dentist. This likely stems from a childhood of endless dental problems, despite being a dedicated little brusher. Morning and night I would stand at the sink, alligator-handle toothbrush at the ready, and give my pearly whites a thorough cleaning. Every once in a while I would chew those disgusting tablets that show what plaque you missed, longing to find that I'd pulled off a flawless brushing job. I was desperate to perfect my oral hygiene regime. Meanwhile, my little brother would go days without picking up his toothbrush. Yet every time we went to our awesome childhood dentist, guess who would go home with the "no cavities" sticker and an extra toy from the treasure trove cabinet? I'm not even sure I got a sticker, but if I did, it said something like, "Fewer cavities than last time." Oh the sorrow. And it didn't end at childhood. I brush and floss daily, but my first trip to the dentist in Seattle revealed an urgent need to put in nine, NINE, new fillings. Five replacements and four new cavities. We split it into two appointments, one of which was three hours long. It was agony.
So, when I moved back to Chicago, I wasn't eager to find a new dentist. But it seemed wise when I started my job and had dental insurance again. Six months ago, I went for my initial appointment. Lots of x-rays + a thorough cleaning. I left in tears. Turns out they have recently invented a new dental torture instrument -- the vibrating pick. My mouth is not a fan.
At that first appointment, my new dentist told me that I should meet with an oral surgeon to see about having my lower wisdom teeth extracted. I shuddered. This likely will not come as a surprise: my first wisdom teeth extraction did not go well. It also ended in tears. I was 21, and the dentist put me in a headlock to get a solid hold on each tooth. Then he wrenched them out, only to let them FALL ONTO MY TONGUE and remain there for a few seconds before retrieving them. Oh it was horrible. So the thought of going through anything wisdom-teeth-related did not sit well with me. Thus, I took the referral card, tacked it to my to-do cork board, and promptly began ignoring it.
Today went considerably better. The hygienist remembered how much I hated the electronic torture pick and did the cleaning by hand. (She even asked at the end if it went better, recalling that I expressed extreme displeasure at the end of our last appointment. I don't remember sharing my thoughts with her, but Brad assures me that I likely did.) When the doctor looked me over, he asked if I had scheduled the appointment with his wisdom tooth pall. "Well, because I'm pregnant, I thought it would be best to put that off." Low and behold, he AGREED.
So. No whirlyball, but pregnancy won me a stay from wisdom teeth extraction hell. Hallelujah.
I click on the link, to remind myself what a game of whirlyball entails, when I see the link "Who Can't Play." Click. Skim. Elation shattered.
Pregnant women cannot play whirlyball.
[Neither can short people (less than 4'6"), children (<12), drunk people (I've heard this is just false), and folks with major neck or back problems.]
One more addition to the list of things I cannot do. Such as ski downhill, sit in a hot tub, lay on my back for longer than 15 minutes, eat delicious authentic brie, etc. Honestly, getting pregnant is like taking one ginormous step back. Back when you had to follow seemingly unnecessary rules because your parents said so. Maybe this is just the beginning of that cycle. Expectant mothers grow tired of being told what they can't do, so they impose rules on their children later in life to get a little piece of control back. I mean, why weren't we allowed to sing at the dinner table? Why?
The best part of being an adult is making your own rules. Brad reminds me of this every time I suggest that he not eat cake for breakfast. "I'm a adult. I can eat cake whenever I want." I feel like I've lost that perk. I've got tater to show for it, which is fabulous. But shouldn't there be more things only pregnant women are allowed to do, to make up a bit of the difference? Pregnancy perks, if you will. So far, I've discovered few item to put on that list. One, to be exact: Walk around in public with your pants undone. However, I'm considering another: Get out of [insert undesirable task]. I'll explain.
I had a dentist appointment today. I hate the dentist. This likely stems from a childhood of endless dental problems, despite being a dedicated little brusher. Morning and night I would stand at the sink, alligator-handle toothbrush at the ready, and give my pearly whites a thorough cleaning. Every once in a while I would chew those disgusting tablets that show what plaque you missed, longing to find that I'd pulled off a flawless brushing job. I was desperate to perfect my oral hygiene regime. Meanwhile, my little brother would go days without picking up his toothbrush. Yet every time we went to our awesome childhood dentist, guess who would go home with the "no cavities" sticker and an extra toy from the treasure trove cabinet? I'm not even sure I got a sticker, but if I did, it said something like, "Fewer cavities than last time." Oh the sorrow. And it didn't end at childhood. I brush and floss daily, but my first trip to the dentist in Seattle revealed an urgent need to put in nine, NINE, new fillings. Five replacements and four new cavities. We split it into two appointments, one of which was three hours long. It was agony.
So, when I moved back to Chicago, I wasn't eager to find a new dentist. But it seemed wise when I started my job and had dental insurance again. Six months ago, I went for my initial appointment. Lots of x-rays + a thorough cleaning. I left in tears. Turns out they have recently invented a new dental torture instrument -- the vibrating pick. My mouth is not a fan.
At that first appointment, my new dentist told me that I should meet with an oral surgeon to see about having my lower wisdom teeth extracted. I shuddered. This likely will not come as a surprise: my first wisdom teeth extraction did not go well. It also ended in tears. I was 21, and the dentist put me in a headlock to get a solid hold on each tooth. Then he wrenched them out, only to let them FALL ONTO MY TONGUE and remain there for a few seconds before retrieving them. Oh it was horrible. So the thought of going through anything wisdom-teeth-related did not sit well with me. Thus, I took the referral card, tacked it to my to-do cork board, and promptly began ignoring it.
Today went considerably better. The hygienist remembered how much I hated the electronic torture pick and did the cleaning by hand. (She even asked at the end if it went better, recalling that I expressed extreme displeasure at the end of our last appointment. I don't remember sharing my thoughts with her, but Brad assures me that I likely did.) When the doctor looked me over, he asked if I had scheduled the appointment with his wisdom tooth pall. "Well, because I'm pregnant, I thought it would be best to put that off." Low and behold, he AGREED.
So. No whirlyball, but pregnancy won me a stay from wisdom teeth extraction hell. Hallelujah.
Oh that pick is TORTURE!!!!!!!!!!!! That is the reason I still avoid my dentist. Tell Brad the more cake he eats the more he'll have to deal with the torture pick :)
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