The Blame Game

First, before I share a little tidbit for today, here's a video that was meant for yesterday's post, but the World Wide Web (also known as The Internets), wouldn't let me. I suspect a technological conspiracy. And I suspect Baby Girl's involvement. She didn't want me embarrassing her--yet again. She doesn't realize that embarrassment is one of the key components of my parental contract. So, here you go:

You can just sense her desperation. What can I chew, What can I chew? My clothes, my arm, my foot, my shoulder? WHAT CAN I CHEW?!

Okay...now for today.

I went to the dentist, expecting an uneventful trip, as with every other dentist visit in my 31 years of life (Except, perhaps, during my braces era, but that was technically the orthodontist, so it doesn't count).

I go. They x-ray. They clean. We're done. And everyone's happy.

But today, Mama wasn't happy, 'cause I was informed that I have (drumroll please)...

Three. Freaking. Cavities.

Three.

Three.

THREE.

(Is it just me, or is "three" starting to look misspelled?).

Tres.

3.

T.H.R.E.E.

For you to truly feel my pain and angst, I should share that I have made it through 31years of life without a single cavity. Not a one. And then today...THREE.

And do you know whose fault it is???

This chica.

This adorable, happy-go-lucky, milk-protein-intolerant child isn't just a child. She's a CAVITY CAUSER.

At least, according to my dental hygienist who told me she rarely sees a preggers or post-preggers patient without new decay.

Boo.

The kicker: just when I was about to crack some joke about the fact that I officially place the blame on my child for said decay, she waxed poetic about the wonderful miracle that I got out of the deal, thereby robbing me of my ability to be bitter.

Optimistic b****.


P.S. If you had kids and didn't get cavities, don't tell me. I wanna stay in my fantasy land, whereby I believe motherhood = cavities.

The End.