This morning I had the privilege (ha!) of taking all four of my children to the dentist.

We had to wait for nearly an hour before we were called, which wasn’t too bad since the first thing I did upon arriving was to ask the receptionist if I could put in a video. The kids sat, slack-jawed, till it was their turn and then the two older kids did me proud, acting all mature and calm and civilized (though Yo-Yo did slip a set of Billy Bob teeth into his mouth before sitting down in the chair). The Baby Nickel even followed most of the hygienist’s instructions.

But Sweetsie, bless her heart, was a different story, or rather, animal. As is her custom, she refused to open her mouth and any time a white coat hove into sight she assumed her don’t-touch-me posture: lips pressed tight together, head nestled low between raised shoulders, and back turned. The dentist said we should just let it go, but that because this isn’t normal behavior at this great late age of five, he would make a referral to an office where they could knock her out with laughing gas in order to make the whole experience more pleasant, or at the very least, successful.

By that time we were already two hours into the appointment, and I had a few overwhelming negative feelings (such as: NO! NO! NO!) when he mentioned making another trip to another dentist. I assessed the situation. Beauty and The Beast (they had already seen The Lion King in its entirety) still had my children beautifully hypnotized, so I decided that now would be the perfect time to help Sweetsie work through her irrational phobia once and for all.

I sat her down in my lap and proceeded to talk some sense into her little noggin. Then I bribed her. And then we role-played. (I hate role playing, but I was pulling out all the stops). In the meantime the next clients were called, so we had to wait for another forty-five more minutes till Sweetsie could have another go at unclenching her jaw. She had agreed to comply, but by then she was so hungry and tired (and possibly feverish) that when she finally did step up on the stool, she clammed up all over again.

In the car I underwent a (mostly) mental hissy fit. A whole gorgeous morning spent in a basement office waiting for Sweetsie to open her mouth and the task wasn’t even completed! No chores accomplished, not to mention any school work, and company (just family, but still) coming this evening! I hadn’t (and here’s was where I started really whooping it up) even done any writing all week long! My life was in ruins! I could never accomplish anything!

I had to open the car windows and do some deep breathing to calm myself.

When we got home I smelled granola burning because, see, I had forgotten to turn off the oven before going to town. One pan was okay, but in the state I was in I chose to focus, of course, on the pan that went to the chickens.

(And while we’re at it, I might as well mention that last night I made a sponge cake that flopped and so I made another one from a different recipe, spreading a layer of thick blueberry fruit sauce between the layers and topping it with whipped cream and the first thing that Mr. Handsome said when I asked him what he thought of it was that it would’ve been better with lemon.)

At nap-time, illustrating my feelings perfectly, The Baby Nickel had a doozy of a meltdown—it involved vigorous flailing of the extremities and consistent high-volume vocal emissions—before falling unconscious.

Dentists, sponge cake, granola, temper tantrums—they all run together in one big blurry mess. It’s about enough to make me want to move to Australia.