When She Grows Up

I distinctly remember wanting to be a Firefighter, growing up.  Or, a lawyer.  The Nana always said I had a propensity for words. (And, quite frankly, anyone who uses the word propensity when speaking to their children should expect such things.)

That day, back in 1976, when an actual Firefighter came to our classroom to tell us all about his job, was etched in my memory.  My ears had perked up when the firefighter told us that they got to watch lots of TV and eat heaping plates of lasagna between fire calls.  What six-year-old doesn’t think that’s living, right there? Many different professionals made their way into my Kindergarten classroom that week, but this one… This one lit a little spark in my heart.

Our teacher asked us to draw what we wanted to be when we grew up, at the conclusion of that exciting week. There was no question in my mind! I was just sure that between the yellow firefighting suit (Hello! That’s my color!) and the ability to help people, I’d found my Calling.

Plus, LASAGNA!

Fast forward a couple of decades.

I am no firefighter.

I am, however, a parent.

That’s a different kind of fire fighting, right there.

Am I right?

Anyhoo, we are nearing the end of the school year, around here. Sweetgirl’s kindergarten class has hit that part of the yearly curriculum where they begin touching on what they want to be when they grow up.

You can probably guess what made its way home this week in Sweetgirl’s folder…

firetruck_missindeedy

Oh yes, indeedy!

Apparently, my six-year-old daughter wants to be a Firefighter when she grows up. Shocker!

She would prefer to douse those flames with a pink flower barrette in her hair, thank-you-very-much! I was also informed that why she really wants to be a Firefighter is because you can,  “be friendly and get to save people.”

I’m wondering at what age it will dawn on her that in between taming flames and outrunning fireballs, she’s not going to have a whole heckuva lot of time to be chit-chatting it up with the folks she’s saving.

I can see it now…

“Hi, I’m Sweetgirl and I’m here to save you and your kitties from the fire! OOOOooh, you have 13 kitties?  What are their names?  How old are they? Did you buy them at a pet store?”

And then, there are suddenly two people and 13 kitties that need rescuing.

Sigh…

I’ve heard it said that there are no people who can run faster than their guardian angels can fly.

I say, “Have you met my Sweetgirl?”!

Indeed.

Maybe I should start praying for the firehouse that might end up with their very own blonde-haired Five Alarm.  They only have about a decade and change before she storms their gates! I should also warn them to stock up on the mac-n-cheese.  She’s no lasagna fan.

Actually, I think I’ll just pray that she follows her heart, as she pursues her calling.

And, I’ll keep a stash of pink barrettes waiting in the wings.

What did you want to be when you grew up?  Did you end up doing that?  Or something else?  (I ended up teaching elementary students. I guess you could say I became a Fire Starter? )

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Dentists Are Dead to Me

It’s official: Dentists are dead to me.

I was pretty sure that we were coming to this when I had that fateful dentist appointment a couple of years ago.

But this?  This takes the cake.

And frosts it with cavities.

Poor Sweetgirl.  We have just returned from her semi-annual dentist check up.  She’s had a stellar report each time that we’ve gone. We brush. We swish. We don’t floss. But, hey, we don’t live on candy around here, either. Neither child drinks the usual suspects for cavity inducing liquids.

So, we expected a great report again.

Sweetboy had just gotten a great report again, moments before.

And, Sweetgirl has the cutest little pearly whites I think I’ve ever seen! And I’m only mostly biased.

Seriously? What's not to love about that smile?!

Seriously? What’s not to love about that smile?!

Apparently though, she did not get my healthy toother genes.

Dang.

She bravely marched into the x-ray chair for the very first time this morning, all smiles and cute little pearly teeth. She opened wide and allowed the hygienist to arrange the spacer thingy in her mouth for the optimal viewing of her tiny teeth.  She held still.

SHE HELD STILL!

It was for five seconds, but PEOPLE! She did it!

We returned to our room and she hopped up into the pink (coral) chair to pick out her prize from the revered Prize Box.

Not so fast there, missy.

“Oh, Sweetgirl, you have some boo-boos on your teeth,” the Dentist said in his adorable Argentinian accent.  (I may give him a few extra points for delivering such devastating news in such a pleasant way. MAY.)

I immediately jumped out of my seat. “What kind of boo-boos?”

“She haas seeex cavities on her lowers teeth,” he calmly said.

Sweetboy said, “OH NO!”

I said “HOW MUCH?”

Sweetgirl said, “But, is the medicine to fix them PINK?”

I kid you not.

In that order.

He then gently explained that this will require two separate visits, laughing gas, Novocaine, and a viewing of Frozen.

I asked him if he could pass some of that laughing gas to me.

He was not amused.

Or, surprised.

So, clearly, I am going to have to pray about my stinky attitude toward all Dentists who are not from Argentina.

I’ll do that while I’m at the drugstore trying to find children’s dental floss. That’s pink.

Yes indeedy.