An expensive tooth fairy visit

My daughters are at the age where they are shedding baby teeth and growing adult teeth.  The first baby tooth to be lost is always a little traumatic, but some have dropped out gently like leaves from a tree in autumn.  However there was one tooth that sent my older daughter into a bit of an emotional tailspin.

My girls were watching TV while I prepared supper.  I am aware that the older one has been fiddling with a wobbly tooth ever since I collected her from school.  I like it as it keeps her quiet!  I hear a little exclamation and she trots into kitchen, mouth open, hand under chin.

“Bauud?” she asks.  I peer in her mouth, “Yes, there’s blood.”  She takes some kitchen towel and returns to the TV, still fiddling through the blood.

Supper is near completion when there is a sound like an injured animal from the living room.  I rush in to find my darling diva with mouth wide open, drooling blood into her kitchen towel and squawking like a parrot with a broken beak.  She dashes up to me doing a panicked mime show, all the time making loud injured parrot noises.  I interpret.  “Hmmm.  You’ve been wiggling your tooth” (she nods) “and it’s twisted round’ (NODS) ‘and you can’t move it back?”  She nods, squawks and starts flapping around.  I ask her what she wants me to do and a look of fear passes over her face.

“Do you want me to try and turn the tooth back round or pull it out”  “GAARRRR” she gurgles loudly as she runs around the living room in circles.  Cats scatter to other rooms, her unimpressed sister cranks up the TV volume and I turn the oven off before I pursue my drama queen.  At this point my dear husband returns home to find the usual scenes of domestic bliss.  He hangs up his coat and goes straight into daughter-soothing mode.  Wonderful man.

I return to the kitchen to rescue the supper, turning the TV volume down as I pass.  My younger daughter and I eat our meal as my husband tries to reason with the older one.  She still has her mouth stiffly open with a sopping wet, blood stained kitchen towel hanging out of it.  At least she has let her father inspect the damage, although he isn’t allowed to touch the tooth.

She is presented with the choice of staying as she is, drooling and bleeding, or we (WE?) can pull the tooth out and get it over with (little squawks of horror from her), says her father.  She is informed that the tooth fairy pays extra for tricky teeth like this.  Having finished my meal I go over to assist.  My daughter is exhausted and uncomfortable so she agrees to have the tooth pulled. She immediately panics again so I sit on her.  My husband instructs her to breathe hard – breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out TWEAK!!!

The drama queen screams as my husband pulls the tooth out and then says “Oh” and bursts into slightly hysterical laughter.  It seems that it didn’t hurt at all.  What an anticlimax after such a talented performance!

That night the tooth fairy is obliged to pay double the going rate AND my daughter got to eat ice-cream for supper!

Posted in Brats | 2 Comments

The swimsuit trauma

At the best of times I don’t like clothes shopping for myself, the worst ever is buying a new swimming costume.  Perhaps if I was 20 years younger and several sizes smaller I wouldn’t mind so much.

To avoid the dreaded shopping trip I have been using my old maternity swimsuit which still fits me – not a good thing.  I want to get back in the habit of lane swimming every morning.  As I blew away the cobwebs on the swimming costume, I noticed it was looking a little bedraggled, but optimistically hoped to avoid replacing it until I had a sylph-like figure again (HA HA HA!)

And then disaster!  I caught my bad boy cat disemboweling my swimsuit.  “NOOOO!!  GET OFFFFF!”  I yell at the horrible beast, but it was too late – the swimsuit is dead.

I mentally braced myself for the dreaded shopping trip and headed to the mall.  The first shop has plenty of swimsuits that fit me … if I had an enormous bosom, but I don’t.  The flatter chested variety was pretty grim – they had me silently screaming “PENSIONER” when I tried them on, so I beat a hasty retreat.

The next shop has a much bigger selection but the swimsuits were smaller.  I finally found the rack for deluded-overweight-middle-aged-mothers-who still-think-they-might-look-acceptable-in-a-swimsuit.  There were a few costumes left – I think it was popular.  I grabbed a couple to try on.

The first one was really lovely and I eagerly pulled it on.  As I quickly winched it up over my chest I realized something was wrong.  Very wrong … I was in a vice like grip and could hardly breathe.  It seemed the swimsuit was too small, but it was now stuck on me, refusing to go back over my stomach.  Thumps, bangs and a lot of grunting emerged from my changing cubicle as I struggled to be free.

I carefully checked the label of the next costume, and proceeded with far more caution.  It fitted and looked fine.  Traumatic shopping mission completed.  I was so pleased, I forgot about the noise I had been making.  I emerged to face several shoppers all looking at me askance.  HA – I didn’t care – I had a swimsuit that fitted!

Posted in Expats | 2 Comments