Sunshine in a bag, 100 days, and a gap-toothed smile.

October 09, 2006 | Category:

My parents paid a fortune somewhere in the neighborhood of the GNP of Lichtenstein for my teenaged braces. I was a buck-toothed lass, sucked my thumb into double digits. Aye, and shaming the whole clan back to the Mayflower this fine Columbus Day by admitting it. I sucked my thumb!!

Thus began the saga of braces and headgear and rubberbands and retainers.

Once I fell down some steps in high school and my braces got stuck in the mesh shirt of the football hero in front of me. I tagged along behind him, begging Jesus that the guy wouldn't ever see me but of course about a million kids pointed and laughed and he figured out that he'd gone tandem with a dork in headgear.

We were separated by the heavy sheers of the Art Teacher, but I know he mourns me still. I carry a bit of his shirt with me always.

Oh, buy lovely teeth I finally had. For years upon years - straight and true.

Until that long day and night of the Childbirth.

After which, came the spread. My breasts, my ass, my feet, and... my two front teeth.

Lauren Hutton can carry it off.

I? Can't.

I sing the refrain to the Gorrilaz' "Sunshine, In a bag" with my son as we paint.

"You spit," he accuses, flicking indigo in my direction.

"I do not," I decry. But I do, dammit. I do. Sunshine, it fells me. And wets the paper.

The dentist laughs when I ask him what I can do.

He says....

braces.

Oh. No.

This is some kind of new age mysticism karma, right? And Matt Damon will man the drill? Please?

No.

Just braces.

At ... my age.

Well.

I made a decision, a few months ago, to become more - and less- than a raving corporate mommy. To step into the arena now, seeking the new knowledge of who it is to be, now.

In our travels, this summer. When road fatigue would hit. Bear would ask from the back seat... "Can we be where we're going already? Please, Mommy?" And I would pull over, and he'd climb up to the front passenger seat, and we'd look at the map and measure the distance and find the milestones. Until the blur of time again made sense. Until our purpose glowed in yellow highlighter alongs the squiggles and lines.

So I told him today. Over indigo and azure swirls. That I don't know where we're going. We'll be all right, as long as we're together. But the destination isn't clear yet.

"When will we know?" he asked, all serious.

"100 days," I decided. And we looked it up on the calendar. January 17, 2007. It looked like a nice Wednesday. Probably we'll have snow.

"In 100 days, I think all the pieces will have formed enough of a plan."

Bear liked the idea. So did I. So the goal is 100 days - of peace and pieces, of planning and trying, of preparing for the worst and pushing for the best. For honestly seeing who we are, and where we want to go from here. And finding that road.

And we started today, looking at a picture from Bear's first day in his new kindergarten. And with the gap in my teeth. If only I had had a steaduer hand that morning then I might have attempted makeup. Mascara! Big Tammy-Faye size antennae jutting out from my eyelids distracting the viewer from my gap-toothed grin.

But no. I was plain that day. Hell, even my bra strap was showing.

A true mirror. No dodging.

And in the spirit of the 100 days, I talked with Bear. And decided... what the hay. How bad can braces be a second time around?

Share: Delicious! | Stumble It! |   Slashdot It!