The Tooth King

My daughter's friend, Brianna, has a loose tooth, and her permanent tooth is already coming in behind the loose tooth. She whines quite a bit about her tooth hurting, and so I took a look into her mouth and wished the Tooth King was here. 

The Tooth King was my father. He pulled all of the baby teeth in our family. And in our neighborhood. He had a system, and it never changed, but we still had him pull the teeth. He was a wizard at doing it. 

First, he would ask to look at the tooth. He'd smile and act jolly and silly, and you'd trepidly open your mouth so that he could take a peek. Then he would reach in and wiggle the tooth. At this point, we would whine. Something along the lines of "don't pull it yet, I'm not ready." Then he would question that.

Dad: "You don't want me to pull it? You're sure? It's ready. It's loose. You don't want me to pull it?"

Then he'd remove his hand, and immediately your tongue would go to the tooth, and SURPRISE the tooth was gone, and you'd taste blood. My father would try to look innocent, but he would break into a grin at the disbelieving look on your face, and he'd hold out his hand, and there would be the tooth! You never felt a thing.

Sometimes there might be a slight tug, and he'd groan and say he couldn't get his fat fingers around it, but of course, he'd already yanked the tooth. He was slick and sly, and it would be over before we knew it had even begun. 

Dad: "Let me see that loose tooth."

Me: "Look at it. Don't pull it, Daddy. It's not ready yet. Just look at it."

Dad: "I just want to see it," 

Me: "But don't pull it. Okay? You won't pull it?"

Dad: "Well, how can I pull it if I haven't even seen it?"

Although it never hurt, I was always sure that this time it would. My Dad would lose patience, and out would come the roar.

Dad: "Dammit, let me see in there."

And of course, I would dutifully open my mouth, and once again, the tooth would end up in his hand, and once again, I'd be shocked that I didn't feel a thing. Sometimes he would play with us and not take the tooth at first.  

Dad: "Yep, it's almost ready. Maybe another two days. Or more. Let me wiggle it again." 

Poof! The tooth would be pulled. It never hurt. I'd feel the gap, be shocked and surprised, and then I'd freak out that I was bleeding. But that was only because I thought it warranted some reaction. I'd rinse out my mouth, and then I'd stare at him in wonder. How did he do that? How did it not hurt? He'd laugh his big, booming laugh and beam. He loved it.

We thought he was terrific. I was sure he had a gift. He was the Tooth King!

My father pulled all of my baby teeth except for the one that came out while I was chewing gum in the back of our station wagon, traveling on vacation. I remember being horrified at first that my tooth had come out, then elated that I'd done it myself, and then sad that I'd missed out on the whole Tooth King ritual. 

I miss my Dad. I miss the Tooth King.

Girl Scouting

Madison and I had her first Girl Scouts meeting. Actually, it's for Daisy Girl Scouts. Daisy Scouts is a troop for Kindergarteners, and it focuses on having fun through socializing. I thought it would be good for Madison to socialize with students outside of the private school she goes to, and well, her friend Brianna is doing it, and Krista is always good at trying to include us in other activities. Mostly I see Daisy Scouts as a bunch of arts and crafts, singing of songs, and helping people.  

Daisy Girl Scouts do NOT sell cookies or do fundraising. Thank God.

I was a Brownie and then a Girl Scout. It was something my mother had me do because she loved her time as a scout. 

Connie: "I lived for scouts."

I did not live for scouting, but I don't want to foist my feelings on to Madison, and I suggested we give scouts a try although it isn't high on Madison's list. 

I have few memories of Brownies. My memories of Girl Scouts includes my mother as a troop leader and one of the girls in the troop, her name was Whitney, telling the other girls that my mother was a meanie, and she didn't let us have any fun. Whitney ignored me from that moment on until we ended up in the same homeroom in High School. I asked her if she remembered that at all. She didn't.

Other memories of Girl Scouts included camping where my mother was the swimming instructor for our swimming badges, and we swam in a lake and slept in cabins, and selling Girl Scout cookies. My father was a salesman, and so selling was something my brother and I learned at his knee. Our goal every year was to sell enough cookies to get the reward the scouts offered. I remember it usually being a poster of some kind. I was a decent seller of cookies, I think. 

I still have my Girl Scout sash and patches and pins. I have my book, my hat, and my scout pouch with camping paraphernalia like a knife and fork. I'm picturing Madison one day using all of it. 

I have opted not to be a Daisy troop leader.  I have signed up for "bringing the Daisy snacks."  

Learning to sew

I have decided to learn to sew.  My children are both in school, and from 9:15 AM to 11:40 AM, I have time to myself.  I have made a list of projects, and learning to sew is at the top. My mother-in-law, Mary Anne, has agreed to teach me, and my neighbor, Howard, has offered me the use of his late wife's sewing machine.  I am ready.

My last time sewing, besides sewing on buttons or cross-stitching, was in my Home Economics class that we were required to take my 8th grade year. That would've been in the '70s. They split up the 8th graders with half the class taking Home Ec. and the other half taking Industrial Arts for the first half of the year. Then they were switched. Both classes stand out clearly in my mind. In Home Economics, we learned to sew and to cook.  My first project in sewing was a wallet that I made out of denim. It ended up quite large, and I painted my brother's initials on it in green fluorescent paint.  I vaguely remember him saying he would never be caught dead with it.

The second project (and our final grade) was to sew an outfit that we would model in a school-wide fashion show. Most of the girls chose dresses. I decided instead to sew a jumpsuit. The fabric was gabardine.  I had never heard of gabardine then, and I have never run across it since.  The gabardine fabric was beige.  I imagined how great I would look modeling it.

Most of the time, as it is with my children, my mother was the one I turned to for assistance with homework and school projects. Not, however, in sewing. This was not her forte. At all. When my father had holes in his pants pockets, she stapled them together. While she could sew on a button, that was the extent of her abilities. She turned to our neighbor Sue for any and all sewing and alterations. But she was not without ideas, and so, when it became clear that I was not going to meet the deadline for the sewing project, she packed me and my gabardine fabric into the car and drove two and a half hours to my Great Aunt Helen's farm.

Aunt Helen was a retired Home Economics teacher, and it was up to her to help me finish the jumpsuit. Her sewing room was in her bedroom, and I tried very hard to pay attention and to listen to her instructions, but I probably spent way more time taking in the things about her room as it wasn't one where we ever ventured. Plus, sewing and cutting and marking and all that other nonsense were just too tedious and back-breaking. I hated it. I always messed up the bobbin, and the threading and my stitches were crooked and UGH. 

Realizing this, my Aunt Helen finally ended up finishing what was left. I'm not sure what I got on the outfit. Probably a C. The jumpsuit was worn in the fashion show and a few times after, but I don't know what happened to it. I do know, however, that that was the end of my sewing. 

Until now... My MIL began with a simple pattern, and we set to work.  Surprisingly, my 8th-grade education returned. I could thread the machine. I remembered bobbins. I recalled backstitching, pining patterns, and the chalk thing used on the fabric. If I had known how to contact my Home Economics teacher from 8th grade, I'd have let her know she did something right. 

We began by laying out the pattern on my dining room table. Can someone explain why in the world patterns are made with tissue paper? Why not something more durable? And why for heaven's sake are all the sizes on the same tissue paper so that you have to get out your own tissue paper to trace the pattern of the size you need?  It's all so time-consuming. And boring. My back started hurting from bending, and eventually, my MIL finished that task and cut it out. I love to cut. I find it peaceful, and I'm very good at it.

We had to stop when we realized we didn't have the interfacing. I had no idea what the hell interfacing was then, but I've since gone to the fabric store and purchased it. I do not, however, know what it is.  I've looked at all the dresses in my daughter's closets, and I don't see any with interfacing.  I should look it up in a dictionary.

Since we had no interfacing, my MIL left.  She handed me the instructions and told me to start sewing, and then SHE LEFT.  That right there had me paralyzed for a day. Then I got the interfacing and began following her instructions to read the instructions and start sewing. Suddenly more memories of my 8th-grade sewing class came back.  

Memories like the machine jamming.  The bobbin thread losing its place.  How to pull out a stitch with that special puller outer.  The fact that I hate sewing. All of that came back with a vengeance. 

I think I should've started with a pillowcase or something easier first.