The Tooth

"Leveling up" is my family's term for those periods in a child's natural maturation when they seem to make a huge leap from one developmental stage to the next, usually brought on by a catalyst of some kind. 

For example, when our kid went to sleep-away camp for the first time, the six year old who returned was remarkably more self-sufficient. She could get hurt and administer her own first aid (I earned a badge for this, mom, I know what I'm doing, I swear). And when, on the second night home from camp, she got up from dinner, cleared her plate, and took a shower without any prompting, my husband turned to me and said "Holy crap, she leveled up." 

It's a weird feeling when your kid levels up. You're proud because they're becoming more human, the savagery and weakness of childhood wears away and you start to see a capable, independent person emerging. It's simultaneously evidence of your success as parents and a reminder of the inevitable obsolescence of parenthood. 

Last night I watched our eight year old (almost nine, mom, I'm nine in like three weeks) worry and wiggle and yank at a loose tooth. The tooth wasn't ready to come out but the kid wouldn't hear that. She's at that age where everything's an argument so I decided to let her win this one. At ten minutes before bedtime I found her in the bathroom, blood was smeared across her face and dripping down her neck, her fingers furiously yanking and flicking the tooth. I could tell she was in pain and told her to stop even though both of us knew she wouldn't. She couldn't. 

It's bugging me! I can't sleep with it wiggling like this! She says this while leaning forward to spit a mouthful of blood and saliva into the sink. We both look away, reflex-gagging at the sight of blood-streaked saliva, while I blindly rinse the sink out. 

It's not the blood that bothers us, it's the saliva. We both have severe gag reflexes to even the mention of certain things and we are both deeply affected by the sight of saliva with any kind of color in it. We know it's probably OCD tendencies but in our house we don't fight that shit, we embrace our weird. 

The kid's in the process of losing what's left of her baby teeth and this particular tooth is absurdly small and chipped from an old fall. So when she tells me the string thing's not going to work because it's too [mumbling] small, I believe her and pretend to not hear her mumbled swearing. I let it slide because I am useless to her right now. 

I'm in the hallway outside her bathroom, stuck in a horrible cycle. It starts with genuine concern, precedes to offers of help, immediately followed by freaking the fuck out brought on by going into the bathroom and seeing my only child covered in blood and trying to rip off a piece of her body. At that point, I flee for the relative safety of pacing and twitching in the hallway until, of course, my motherly concern returns and the cycle repeats. Unfortunately she's old enough to understand exactly what's happening. I can tell by the way she rolls her eyes every time I say "No, really, sweetheart, I'll help. Let me take a look at OH HOLY SHIT! I CAN'T HANDLE THIS!" So when she swears under her breath and our eyes meet in the mirror, we both know she's earned it. 

It's not just the blood-streaked saliva that's making me useless. It's the piece of her body threatening to escape from the whole. A loose tooth, a split fingernail, a partially severed digit: all are equally repulsive because they are neither of the body nor away from the body. They are neither and both and terrible. The sight causes my nerves to sizzle and fire and I must flee. So she understands to a point but that doesn't help her irritation. One of her parents is present but useless and the other, having experienced both of our absurdly sensitive gag reflexes on many occasions, is (wisely) steering clear of the blast radius. 

Mom, I can't even tell you how scared I am right now, spitting more blood. 

Dude, you cannot be as scared as I am right now. You're my baby!

It's in my body! 

I made you in my body! She rinses and spits, eyeing me in the mirror, skeptical. I ignore this. Boom! Maternal trump card! Wilkie out! I walk into my bedroom. 

No way! No "Wilkie out!" I need you for moral support. 

She's twisting the tooth in the socket now, a pale rivulet of blood arcing down her pale wrist. I am overcome, again, as I am throughout every day, at her loveliness. Even now. Even covered in an old tie-dyed t-shirt and pajamas bottoms, blood streaked, and sweaty with exertion. My child. My beautiful strange creature. 

She leans forwards and spits something with substance into the sink. We look down, hopeful of seeing a small white pearl blooded on one side. Instead it's a blood clot floating in a jellyfish scrim of foamy saliva. In unison, our heads turn and the gagging comes. Her hands shoots out toward the hot tap, mine towards the cold. We splash wildly, our faces buried in the crooks of our elbows. I glance at the sink. All clear. 

She looks in the mirror, wipes her face with a washcloth, takes a deep shaky breath, and with more bravery than I have ever seen in one small person, starts to shove the tooth up and away from her gums. The angle is approximately the same as removing a nail from hard wood with the business end of a hammer, if you don't care how fucked up the nail gets in the process. We both know this will work and I know that no matter how much my nerves fire, or how loudly my brain screams at me to leave, I will stay and witness this. There is no fear in her eyes anymore, just a pure angry stubborn determination.  

As soon as I recognize this and think the teenage years are going to suck so bad, she's leaning forward, spitting again and reaching in to rinse off this impossibly small chunk of herself. 

The tooth, now no longer attached, has lost its power over me. I hand the kid a cold washcloth and tell her to bite down. I take the tooth, rinse it off, brush it gently (You gotta wash it, the tooth fairy won't pay if it's all gross), and hand it back. I clean up while she runs down, washcloth crammed in her mouth, and yell/mumbles something like Dad, I did it and didn't hurl! I hear him laugh and say Good job, kid! You just leveled up again!

While she's hugging me goodnight, I tell her I'm proud of her. I tell her she's crazy-brave and my hero. I hold her close and breathe her in, eyes closed. I get the feeling I'm going down on an elevator of scent, floor to floor, seeking something... the sharp copper tang of blood mingles with her lavender lotion... then it's chamomile soap and tea tree shampoo, cappuccino lip balm and sugared vanilla bubble bath... the warm sweet funk of exhausted child and spent adrenaline...and finally, I find it. Her. Just her. The smell that is only one person, my person. My child.

She smiles up at me, gap-toothed and sleepy, and says I am a total bad-ass. I grin back, voice thick with emotion, and tell her: damn right, you are.

To read when I'm making excuses for why I'm not writing.

Dear Shitty Little Voice In My Head,

I’m sick of you. I’m done listening to the disapproving, negative, creative-mojo-killing fuckery you say to me (ME! A miasmatic ball of electric creativity and throbbing life!) anytime I sit down to write. I am banishing you by doing what I do best: shouting down your most common criticisms with brilliant, carefully considered arguments and enough profanity to make my entire host of ancestors spin in their graves.

Stupid-Ass Statement #1: I have nothing new to say.

Bullshit! You’re always talking/thinking/pontificating/blowing smoke up other people’s asses and a  lot of it is good and interesting and well-thought out and some of it is total and complete shite and you know it while you’re saying it, but goddamnit, you’ve started down a certain path and you’ll see it through. But the beauty of it, the reason you do it is that no one knows when you’re serious. Ever. Most people think you’re fucking with them all the time. And sometimes you’re not sure if you are or not. What?! I know! So write and you’ll figure out how you really feel and then you can decide whether or not you want to fuck with people.

But you’re right in a sense. There isn’t anything new to say, only new ways to saying. And that’s plenty to aim for.

Stupid-Ass Statement #2: I haven’t thought out my idea clearly, I’ll write about nothing.

So fucking what? Start with nothing and then figure out what you sat down to say because THAT’S WHAT WRITING IS! It’s an exploration, a journey, an investigation. It’s an essay, in the oldest Frenchest sense of the word (hat tip, Old Masters) and a journal in the oldest, pillowbookiest sense of the word (deep bow, Old Mistress). It’s Nellie Bly, Truman Capote, bell hooks, Les Gutkind, Barbara Ehrenreich. It’s every writer writing. It’s every person speaking. It’s truth and lies and everything in the middle. It’s fight and struggle and blood and it’s The Written Word and it’s all you’ve ever believed in. It’s been your only constant, your best friend, your lover, your life ring, your child, your sustenance and flesh and breath and blood and bone. It is all there is and it is in every cell of you and how can you deny that? Write nothing because at least you have created something tangible and real and true in this vast, horrible world.

Plus Seinfeld was famously “about nothing” and while that’s more of a dismal statement on the mind-numbingly stupid consumer culture we live in, dude still made mad cash writing about NOTHING. And after all, wouldn’t it at least be fun to try to prove the validity of the adage “mo’ money, mo’ problems?” And while you have no desire to own a house in the Hamptons or a private yacht or any of that shit, taking off for a month or so every year to go write and read and eat and drink and smoke and fuck in a cabin somewhere with your brilliant, sexy husband is, in fact, your version of the American dream and it’s absolutely attainable. So get writing; the cabin is waiting.

Stupid Ass Statement #3: I never finish anything so why start yet another new thing?  

Don’t you fucking “never” me. What’s that shit? Fuck “never.” Fuck “always.” You hate that shit. It’s lazy and dismissive and ridiculous and you’re better than that. And why start something new? Because if you don’t, you’ll forget what you were going to say and then you’re fucked. Plus, if you write more, you’re eventually going to just glue your ass to the chair and get it done (hat tip, Nita Sweeney’s Bum Glue) so stop bitching and write. Computer’s not charged up? Your hand’s not broken, fucker. No paper? What do you think your inner arm is for? WRITE.

Stupid Ass Statement #4: If I turn off the Little Voice, my writing will get sloppy.

Wrong. The Little Voice is never far away. The Little Voice likes to make our life a living hell and criticize everything we do. We’ve tried to get rid of her before and it’s never worked for long. The best we can hope for is temporary banishment.

And yes, your writing will get sloppy but guess what? Your Writing will exist and Your Writing will get better when you sit your ass down to edit. Why? Because you’re fucking good at it and you know it. DON’T FRONT! Modesty is for liars and people who aren’t good at anything. I am a good writer and a good reader and a good editor. I’m not the best, most brilliant, shining little star but for fuck’s sake, I’m not the dimmest one either. Read some samples on Kindle and tell me your shit doesn’t smell a whole lot better than a lot of the shit out there. You can at least crank out some $2.99 pulp novels. Jesus. Who cares? Sell out if you want. Just sell out doing something you love instead of just to pull in a paycheck. You’re better than that.

Stupid Ass Statement #5: What if I fail?

First of all, what does that mean? If you’re writing every day, you’re already succeeding. Period. That should be the ONLY measure of success or failure. Are you creating? Are you doing what you were meant to do? If you are, good job. You’ve won. Keep going. If you aren’t creating every day, you have failed.

Second: publishing? Is that what you’re worried about? Didn’t you have a pretty fucking good ratio of submissions to rejections when you were still sending your shit out? And how did it feel to hold something in your hands that has your name on it? To see people reading your shit and responding to it? To get hate mail? Seriously?! HATE MAIL! That’s the best fucking compliment a writer can get! Why wouldn’t you want that again?

I know there are more (you are nothing if not prolific) but you’ve finally gone silent. When you start whispering again, casting doubt and slowing my fingers, I will address each item in turn. You will not win. I will not let you. Go fuck yourself, Little Shitty Voice.

As ever,

D