Tooth or Consequences

Zak lost his eighth tooth yesterday. And I mean "lost" literally. Fortunately we eventually found it on the stairs -- it had apparently fallen out of a tiny hole in the plastic bag we had put it in as he was carrying it upstairs to put it under his pillow. But of the eight of his baby teeth that have come out so far, three unfortunately DID disappear before the Tooth Fairy was able to redeem them.

He was delighted the first time one of his teeth started to wiggle. He constantly pushed it around with his finger or tongue, just fascinated. We kept telling him to be sure to hold on to it when it eventually came out so he could put it under his pillow.

Then one night when we were having dinner at Nana's house he froze mid-chew. His eyes got wide as saucers and I asked him if anything was wrong. He silently nodded. I asked him if it was his tooth, and he nodded again. So I asked him where his tooth was, and he slowly pointed to his stomach.

He looked like he was going to burst into tears at any second, and it was all I could do not to burst out laughing. We assured him that everything was all right and that we could just leave the Tooth Fairy a note to explain what happened. So when we got home he drew a fantastic picture of a mouthful of jagged teeth with one hole, a big circle below them representing his stomach, a little gray rectangle inside the circle and a red line from his mouth to the rectangle signifying the tooth's tragic path.

The Tooth Fairy accepted the proxy, and we stashed the picture away in a memory box. But he wasn't done making his baby teeth's exodus memorable.

Two of them I've pulled out at his request, going with the twist-and-pull technique each time and unfortunately also failing on my first attempt each time. But he just stood there stoically, mouth agape, and insisted I try again. He obviously inherited Danelle's tolerance for pain.

He was holding onto one in the car on the way home from soccer practice and dropped it. We sifted through the pieces of popcorn, Goldfish cracker crumbs and myriad other things that look an awful lot like teeth on the floor of my car for quite a while before eventually giving up. Another tooth lost.

We had another in a Ziploc bag on our kitchen counter that just vanished. Danelle insists I threw it away in a cleaning frenzy; I blame our cleaning ladies. Regardless, if we hadn't found last night's that would have been exactly half of his teeth so far that never made it under his pillow.

Thankfully we did, and his plastic bag had two dollars in it this morning. The Tooth Fairy apparently doesn't do silver any more; Zak even commented that a friend of his named Ben gets five dollars for each of his teeth.

A Tooth Fairy that forks over that kind of cash sounds not too bright. I wonder how much we could get for some of those pieces of popcorn...

At Least They Don't Chew Their Cuds

Zak and Taryn are grazers. They just can't -- or won't -- eat a lot at one sitting. The times we've tried to make them have usually ended in disaster -- i.e., vomit.

We've given them the "well, this is what's for dinner so don't expect any more later" line. We've negotiated with them in an "all right, just have two more bites of rice and one more bite of broccoli" fashion. We haven't tried the guilt angle with "there are people starving in Ethiopia" yet, but I don't think it would register at their ages anyway.

What I can't figure out is why we're trying so hard. Studies have shown that eating smaller meals more frequently throughout the day is actually healthier. It helps you avoid getting too hungry and overeating, and keeps your metabolism up so your energy level stays more consistent.

I'm sure part of it has to do with our own upbringings and habits. I have vivid memories of staring at the last cold piece of kielbasa or bite of babka on my plate long after the rest of my family had left the dining room table. I think my sister Dawn got to do it even more often than I did.

I wouldn't follow my kids' lead on most things -- for instance, which shirt and pants go together. But they just might have the right idea on this one.

Frankly, I'm all for anything that lowers my chances of having to clean up puke.

I Guess That Would Make Me The "One-Armed Bandit"

I had my first follow-up from last week's wrist surgery with my hand doctor today. They actually did let me stay awake during the surgery, but I remember almost nothing about it. Sort of like freshman calculus except for the staying awake part.

I do know that they let me watch some of the arthroscopy, but I don't have the foggiest idea what I saw. Fortunately they gave me a picture that they took of the ligament damage. It probably won't find its way into the family scrapbook, but it's neat to have.

One thing I do remember is that I was pretty chatty throughout the whole surgery. Probably a combination of the nerves and the anesthetic. When the surgeon came out to talk to Danelle afterwards about how things went he mentioned to her I asked the same questions over and over. I asked him today if I'd said anything embarrassing, and he just smiled and replied, "The operating room is like Vegas -- what happens there, stays there." I'm sure that policy comes in handy for malpractice suits, but I still appreciated his discretion.

So now I have a spiffy hard cast protecting my wrist. Even got to choose the color. I would have picked green, but the only shade they had was a garish fluorescent one. Then I thought how much Taryn would like it if I went with pink, but Danelle wryly commented that it might not be the best choice if I get an interview. So I ended up with just a nondescript blue which has been considerably improved by Zak and Taryn's artwork.

I've actually never had to have a cast before. All my previous injuries have been sprains or strains or other things that don't need to be cast to heal. I do remember when I was a kid that our family dog, Meghan, hurt one of her front legs and had to have one. She couldn't really move the leg well, so she just sort of dragged it around. Eventually she figured out that when our cat was asleep if she walked over her just right the cast would smack her right in the head.

So Danelle better keep being nice to me. You never know what unfortunate mishaps could occur during the night when I'm leaning over to adjust the alarm clock, or something.

Minor Surgery is Surgery That Someone Else Has

Things that are bad: Pain, nausea, daytime TV (no matter how many channels you have)

Things that are good: Vicodin, Danelle, Domino's Bacon Cheeseburger Feast

That's about all I can muster. Hopefully I'll feel up to more tomorrow.

I Hope The Big Green Turn Out Better Hand Surgeons Than Hockey Players

Short and early post today. I'm a bit preoccupied with my upcoming wrist surgery later this afternoon. This morning at 7:00 was the last time I could eat or drink anything, so I'm just going to get surlier as the day goes on. Nice combo with my increasing anxiety. Is it wrong that I really wanted to lick the leftover cottage cheese off of Taryn's lunch plate?

If my anesthesiologist allows it I'm thinking about just getting the arm block and staying awake during the procedure. She assured me if I go that route that I won't be able to smell my own burning flesh as they drill into my bones. I remain skeptical. Staying conscious through your own surgery seems like it would be a pretty interesting experience, though after two c-sections Danelle might have a dissenting opinion.

I did a little online research on the doctor doing the surgery and found out he went to Dartmouth. So I feel good about his education, but I also want to yell at him that his hockey team sucks. I'll try to resist that urge until after he's done cutting my arm open.

Thoughts and prayers for a successful procedure and speedy recovery are certainly welcome. Assuming I'm coherent enough I should resume normal posting tomorrow. If I'm not I may post anyway. That could be REALLY entertaining.

At My Current Pace, Expect Another Serious Biking Injury in 2020

"You did a number on it."

Those were my doctor's first words to me after she looked at the x-rays of my wrist. Not quite as ominous as "Do you have your affairs in order?", but definitely not what I was hoping for.

She went on to give me the more detailed diagnosis that I had a comminuted fracture of one of my wrist bones, a small break at the end of my ulna and some ligament damage. So I'm apparently going to have to put my baton twirling aspirations on the backburner for a while.

The timing of something like this happening is probably never good. But I'm especially bummed since Zak and Taryn are staying home with me starting tomorrow, and this is undoubtedly going to put some sort of cramp in what we're able to do together for a while.

The reality of becoming Mr. Mom was hammered home effectively by the nice nun who admitted me to have my x-rays taken. She asked if I still worked for the Broncos and I told her no. She asked who I worked for now and I told her nobody, so she said she'd put down unemployed. I laughed and replied that I was going to be a full-time dad starting tomorrow. She paused, then said, "I'll just go with 'homemaker,' then." I had to laugh again.

So no activity at all with my left hand until I go see the specialist on Wednesday. No driving, no typing, no cat's cradle -- you get the idea.

This isn't my first solid mountain biking injury. Back in 1996 when we still lived in Texas I hit an exposed root going down a steep incline and flipped over my handlebars, landing square on my right shoulder blade. I popped right up but the pain put me right back down to the ground.

Fortunately I was with a couple of buddies who walked me and my bike the mile or so back to the car, called Danelle and then drove me to the emergency room. I got x-rays and the doctor who looked at them told me it looked like I'd just been "rode hard and put up wet" and I should be fine, but he referred me to an orthopedist for follow-up just in case.

When I got home and told Danelle the diagnosis, she suggested I look in the mirror. I could have passed for Quasimodo's brother -- my right shoulder looked a good six inches higher than my left.

Needless to say, a quick call was made to that orthopedist to schedule a follow-up. He took one look at my x-rays and said, "It's separated all right. When do you want the surgery?" Turned out that when I landed on my shoulder blade and drove it in, my collarbone was driven up and all the connective tissue in between was completely torn.

I wasn't expecting to hear the "s" word, so I asked if non-surgical treatment was an option. He said sure, but my right arm would always be about 10% weaker and I'd have a "cosmetic deformity." So I asked what the downside was of surgery. He just shrugged and said, "Surgery."

So I got an inch-and-a-half screw put in for six weeks while things healed. Danelle thought it would be neat to watch it get taken out, but changed her mind when they gave me a local anisthetic, cut my shoulder back open and stuck a screwdriver in there. The sound of screwdriver on bone is a little disconcerting, especially when it's your bone (or your spouse's).

The surgery was apparently a success since I really haven't had any problems with the shoulder since. I wore the screw on a cord around my neck for a while but lost it, so my only remaining memento of the experience is a pretty cool scar.

My mom probably summed it up best when I told her about my latest misadventure. "You and mountain biking; you don't crash often but make up for it when you do."

Hopefully I won't have anything more than a scar to remember this experience by, too. In any event, this certainly isn't going to make me take up running.

And yes, I typed this whole thing with my right hand. :P

When They Invent a Rice Cake That Tastes Like a Whopper, I'll Probably Be First in Line

I just got back from my physical, which went pretty well with a couple of exceptions. One was the nurse practitioner making quite a production of putting some KY and a pair of surgical gloves out for the doctor, and the other was my cholesterol being a little high.

I first got my cholesterol checked a couple of years ago, and was pretty upset to learn that it was 222. This put me squarely in the "borderline-high risk" category. Compounded with my dad's history of heart problems that eventually led to his early death, I was a little freaked out.

I'm pretty physically active and I don't smoke, so the area where I could most effect a positive change was clearly diet. And there was an easy target within my regular diet -- fast food. I went cold turkey with it and got my cholesterol down into the "desirable" zone at 191 just a few months later.

I've definitely backslid in the ensuing two years to the point where I probably have a fast-food meal two or three times a week, and now my cholesterol is back up to 209. My LDL or "bad" cholesterol level is 136, another "borderline high" number and "a better gauge of risk than total blood cholesterol" according to the American Heart Association.

My doctor said she'd like to see me try and correct this on my own over the next couple of years, then consider medication once I turn 40 if my numbers aren't where they should be. There are probably genetic factors involved that may make this something I can't do on my own. But the real question now is how much am I willing to try?

I know fast food is horrible for you. I saw Super Size Me, which probably would have been more effective if Spurlock hadn't taken his fast-food eating to unrealistically excessive levels. His point became dangerously easy to dismiss when he was doing things like eating multiple entrees at one sitting. But even setting portion control aside, I don't think anyone would argue that a McGriddle and a Coke is as healthy a breakfast as a bowl of high-fiber cereal in fat-free milk with a glass of pomegranate juice.

It comes down to a classic struggle -- sacrificing short-term and direct benefits for long-term, indirect ones. Fast food is convenient, cheap and generally tasty (curse you, MSG!). The benefits of eating healthy are things you may or may not end up getting, and that will also be influenced by a lot of other factors -- better overall health, higher quality of life, longer life and so on. And your stereotypical "healthy" food like a salad can't easily be eaten while driving, is likely to be more expensive than a burger and doesn't excite basic taste sensations like salty, sweet and umami (don't feel bad clicking the link; I had to look that last one up, too).

We face these kind of questions all the time in our lives. Should I play outside and get some fresh air and exercise or just watch another music video? Should I study for that exam that might help me raise my overall GPA to where I get that interview for that great job in a few years, or should I just go to that frat party and get tanked? Should I stay late to finish up that project at work that might help me get a raise and promotion someday, or should I just go home and watch the big game?

Long-term benefits may be harder to quantify, harder to get and feel a lot less in my control. But when I take the time to really think about them, I generally realize they're much more worth having. Is eating that BK Stacker worth the risk of not being around to bounce my grandchildren on my knee? No contest. I just don't often take the time to think about things in those terms, and I don't think I'm unique in that regard.

So I'll try to say good-bye again to Guacamole Bacon Burgers and Spicy Chicken Sandwiches. Sure, I could get hit by a bus and all the sound diet and exercise choices won't matter. But however I eventually go out, I'd like to believe I was mature enough to make sensible choices and set a good example for my kids along the way.

Besides, if I didn't believe in doing things with no direct short-term benefits I probably wouldn't be blogging.