Yes, it's true: I've been grinding my jaw so much at night that my teeth have cracks in them. So he told me to have a glass of wine as soon as I got home (it was only 1 pm, you all. Even I have standards. And I suppose it's possible he was kidding. But I will probably take him quite seriously).
But: if I crack these teeth all the way through, I will need to have an extraction (not really the cool tooth fairy variety, though), and perhaps an "implant" or a "bridge." Dental terms that sound so horrifying I don't really want to know what they mean. So the dentist recommended not the fun kind, but the therapeutic kind, of Botox for my jaw, to atrophy the muscle and make it more "Pee Wee Herman" and less "Schwarzenegger" (his terms). I asked him if this Botox to my jaw would make me look younger. Alas, it would not (although if I do it why not have him stick in a few extra, more strategic needles, right?)
What I can't figure: why am I such a ball of stress? Yes, there's the six kids thing, but six isn't all that more than five, is it? And I think - or maybe my memory is failing - that five wasn't always stressful, that sometimes, in fact, it was even fun! And manageable! So I don't know. Yes, PVT's four day Golfapalooza trip, where he golfs with fraternity buddies at posh resorts far, far away, where wives are not welcome within a 100-mile radius, is coming up, which always unhinges me (what a great military wife I would be!). I am still working on finding a Magic Fairy to come live with me that weekend, because I am just not woman enough to face four days on my own.
And there are little incidents like these:
|Margaux's first breathing treatment. Woo hoo!|
Or the eight (possibly more!) soccer games we have this weekend.
I don't know. No one has cancer. PVT has a job. But it's a lot, I guess. Maybe it's a wonder I haven't chewed through my very skull at night, after all.