Ultraviolet

Anyone else find it ironic that I just slathered myself with SPF 70 and put on a sunhat to go sit in the shade at the pool at 5 pm on a cloudy day when this is what my skin looked like all summer long a mere decade ago?

Nope. Me neither.

State Of The Uterus Address

Ethan is an only child. For all intents and purposes, he will remain so.

There are about fourteen billion reasons for me NOT to have another baby, not the least of which is the fact that pregnancy-related hormones can cause tumor size to increase. But that is not something I am willing to discuss with most people in my life. My best friends, yes. But not the checkout guy at Trader Joe's, the school bus driver, or the old lady on the corner with the bad knees and blue hair.

Yet people I don't know well feel compelled to ask all the time, "When I am going to have another?" Like, if you have one child, obviously the pipes are working and doesn't everyone want to be like that show on TLC where the family has six-hundred and eleventy children all named J-names living in some sort of expansive compound that the children built together in flagrant violation of child labor laws? Isn't that the American Dream?

This line of questioning is analogous to relative strangers asking my formerly pregnant self direct questions about the action South Of The Border ("dilated yet?") or about my boobs ("planning to breastfeed?"). You may have noted I am not a particularly private person, but even I found exchanges about my nipples with people I am not on a first name basis with awkward.

I honestly do not know how to reply when people ask, "Isn't it time for another?" or my personal special favorite warning, "Only children grow up to be spoiled and selfish." I am tempted to reply that if that is the case, my son and I will get along just fine as he grows up since Spoiled And Selfish is my middle name (but when sending correspondence, I shorten it to "S" for the sake of brevity).

Recently, Ethan has himself been championing the baby cause. He informed me the other day that "going to your doctors and nurses can put a baby in your tummy." In which case, remind me to ask for an additional exam bench liner during my next appointment. God knows what is on that seat and one cannot be too careful.

A Day For The Fathers

Because it is hard to be brilliant twice, below is a re-post from November 2009. Salutations to all the baby daddies out there, hope you are enjoying a day full of tools, grilling, and other manly endeavors.

Cheers to my awesome dad, especially!

XO, J

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Dear Dad,

In honor of your birthday today, I baked you a cake. Well, not really, but Mom did. We both know that is much better because it will be delicious and cooked in all places, unlike my cakes. What I did do was download some Internet pictures OF cake for you to enjoy for your birthday, which is practically the same thing as baking, in terms of effort. Those will come later ... too many good ones to comment on. Who knew so many cakes were created to celebrate teeth?

As you know, you retired this month from practice, but you enjoyed being a dentist for 34 years.

I remember I thought it was so cool when you'd come to Career Day at my elementary school. In first grade, you handed out those pink tablets that kids chew and then their teeth would turn pink in places where they had not brushed enough. Judging by these tablets, nobody in the first grade class had brushed their teeth for at least four years.

Dentistry is admittedly not the most "cool" profession (we all know, that would be accounting) but in third grade, I met Patrick Ewing when he came in for an appointment and that was cool to me. Sort-of famous people are impressive to little kids. From what I recall, he had tall incisors. When I was in fourth grade, you saved a German Shepherd by performing emergency skull and jaw surgery after he got hit by a truck. (I don't know why the vet was not on call, but whatever ... my memories, my retelling ... ) Add that to my Dad Is A Hero column!

Then, sometime between middle and high school, you switched from World's Greatest Dad, My Hero to Mr. Terrible, He Who Is Intent On Life Ruining And Fun Prevention. You were strict growing up. You may recall, I was grounded fairly consistently from years twelve until eighteen. I was expected to have a job. I was not allowed to wear clothes that were either crotchtacular or cleavagey. If I was giving off even a hint of that street-corner vibe, I was sent upstairs to change (and while I was it, I could wash that paint off my face too).

Don't get me started on boys or drinking. The look you gave my boyfriend when he came to pick me up for Prom said loud and clear, "Don't test me. Home by midnight is not a suggestion, but a threat, I know where you live and I don't think anyone would miss you."

I do not even want to discuss what happened when you and Mom were on vacation and I had a friend or two (hundred) over and a few of said friends tampered with the nitrous tank in your office (Words of advice: IF YOU DO NOT WANT YOUR KIDS TO PLAY WITH THE NITROUS DURING HIGH SCHOOL PARTIES THEY ARE NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE, THEN YOU SHOULD TELL THEM THAT AHEAD OF TIME. Like, duh ... I was not a mind-reader).

One of the biggest points of contention during adolescence was that you would not let me get my driver's license until I was seventeen. At the time, you might as well have forced me to wear headgear and a yellow "I'm With Stupid" t-shirt to the Homecoming Game. No driver's license = Social Death. And then you refused to buy me a car, cruel and unusual punishment in its own right.

Get this Internet: I was told if I wanted a car, I HAD TO BUY MY OWN. But adversity makes one stronger and I managed to survive despite your continued efforts at life-ruining. I grudgingly admit that since I started college able to read, spell, and as not-a-parent, maybe you were doing something right.

When you were not attempting to ruin my teenage life for the sheer fun of it, you were working. You had a practice in Georgetown, where you were a professor, and one in Columbia. The hours were long, the commute was long, you were busy. Always a consummate professional, your patients loved you. It was due to you that I learned work ethic and responsibility to cases and clients. You always cared about the people you treated, not just the cases, and that was a lesson I carried with me through the years. You did pro bono work for people that could not afford dental care, something I eventually tried to emulate in my own practice, even if it meant scheduling time for them on weekends or late evenings.

No matter how much of yourself you devoted to your practice, you taught me that work did not preempt family. You always structured your practice to be there for kids' stuff growing up. You never missed any of my horse shows or Scott's baseball games. On weekends, you would take us to DC to visit the Museum of Natural History or one of the art museums (probably because it was free, but also because it was educational). Now that Ethan is playing soccer, you've always been there to cheer him on when he makes a goal, or sometimes, just trips over another kid and falls in the mud. You cheer for that too.

A toast to you on your birthday, the best dad I have. Mom shared this picture with me. It is a favorite of mine, I think it captures you in all your wisdom and dignity.

Georgetown Dental School Graduation, 1974

(**Casual Dress Day?)

Two weeks after you graduated with open lab jacket, triumphant Budweiser in hand, and prominent chest hair on display, Mom married you. I mean, how could she say no to all that? Scott and I know the rest of the story. We'll have some cake in your honor tonight and I promise to floss when I am done.

Happy Birthday Dad!

We love you!