Sherry’s Blog

My mother has always told me I can do anything I want to do. I recently put her encouragement to the test: I pulled a friend’s tooth.

What happened was that my friend suffered with severe pain all night one night. When I found out the next morning, I drove him to a dentist who would not pull the tooth until my friend’s heart doctor allowed it. The heart doctor did not give my friend the “all clear” until five o’clock in the afternoon, too late to see the dentist.

I looked at the tooth, an incisor on the left side of his lower jaw. My friend showed me how easily he could wiggle his tooth. He lamented that he faced another night of pain. I offered to do the task.

Now I am no novice at the idea of pulling teeth at home. I am backed by years of watching my own mom pull her children’s teeth whenever each tooth hung on with a strip of skin. I pulled one or two of my own children’s teeth like that, too, except my husband put a stop to it. He scared the children so badly that they would never allow me to ease their suffering by plucking a dangling tooth, which sometimes could have been done with my fingers.

Mother’s tool of choice was a pair of pliers. She’d grab a tooth and yank it right out. I remember the feeling of metal against my teeth, a sensation that was much worse than the pain. I learned to pull my own baby teeth whenever they loosened, and my children learned to do the same.

Pulling an adult’s tooth, though, is more daunting. I stood above my friend and told him I would try to pull the tooth if he wanted me to. He told me the dentist had x-rayed the tooth earlier in the day and said there was no root that wrapped around a jawbone or anything else like that. With this new information, I made my offer a second time. I would pull the tooth if my friend wanted me to.

My husband stood nearby scaring my friend as he once scared the children. “No way,” he said. “No way I’d let her near me. The tooth’s liable to break off.”

My friend’s expression was wistful. He was hurting. He did not want to go to the emergency room where they would keep him for hours. He looked from my husband’s wagging head to my hand holding a pair of pliers lined with gauze in their grip.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

“I want it out,” he said softly.

I placed a chair on the back porch, away from “the discourager.” I motioned for my friend. He followed me, sat down, and opened his mouth. I placed the gauze over the tooth. My friend jumped straight up and yelped.

“Did that hurt?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m just jumpy.”

“This time I’ll place the pliers over the gauze,” I said, “but try not to jump like that again.”

I grasped the tooth with the pliers. My friend sat still. “Do I have a good grip?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Do you want me to pull the tooth?”

He nodded again.

I yanked the tooth as hard as I could and voila! My friend jumped straight up on impuse, but he didn’t make a sound. I pushed him back down and handed him a clean piece of gauze to place on his bleeding gum. I stepped back and looked at the white tooth with its sizable root.

“Now you can get some sleep,” I said, as I tossed my trophy in a nearby trash can.

My mother was right. I can do anything I want to do.

There comes a time in all women’s lives when they see themselves in their mothers. For years, I have heard my mother’s words as I spoke them to my own children and grandchildren. I look like my mother, especially when she was my age, I am told. Thirdly, I have many mannerisms shared with my mother.
Recently, I watched my mother  talking to someone. As she finished what appeared to be a funny conversation, I saw her end the conversation with a wave of her right hand in the air, little finger first. I knew it was a duplicate mannerism of mine.

I first noticed my own pinky-first “wave of the hand” about a year ago when I spoke to groups promoting my first book. I was more observant of my hand motions than usual because I have made an effort to be as effective a speaker as possible. I critiqued myself on voice inflection, hand motions, eye contact, and mannerisms. I remember this backward wave of my hand whenever I said something funny.

I recently listened to my mother express extreme emotional pain. I felt the same pain shoot through my heart. What happened was my niece, 34, developed severe pain in her hand due to either a blood clot or a vascular condition. This niece is my mother’s firstborn grandchild. I called Mother to tell her the possibility of my niece losing her hand and/or two of her fingers. I knew Mother would be upset; and when she broke down and cried, I tried to lift her spirits.

“Mother, please don’t dwell on what could happen,” I said, “Let’s have faith that she will not lose her fingers.” Still Mother cried. Her voice shook with grief as she said no, no, no. “Mother, we should look on the bright side,” I said. “At least this problem exists in her hand and not in her heart.” Mother signed deeply and cried again. I almost said something else, anything else, to help Mother’s feelings, but I stopped. I had to hold my breath to keep from crying, too. What if this were my first-born grandchild? I knew words would not console me, either.

One of my sisters called some time later and hinted to me I should not have told Mother about the possible surgery. Maybe I was wrong. However, I know how Mother feels. And, if this were my granddaughter, I would want to know the worst so I could hope for the best.

Since the initial health report, my niece is a little better. The doctors are now saying the possibility of amputation is only slight. I credit this to many prayers on her behalf of my friends and family. We have been staying in touch over the telephone because my niece is about a hundred miles away from the majority of us. Since a week ago, we all feel a little more comforted about the situation, but I am also empathetic with my mother and my sister whose child is it who is suffering. I share their feelings because we are all in tune with our feelings and our bonds. My feelings are in my family members, and theirs are in me.

All of these traits and feelings that we family members share remind me of what Christ said in John 14:20, “At that day ye shall know that I [am] in my Father, and ye in me, and I in you.” The way my family feels about one another is the same way we Christians should feel about Christ and about each other, bonded, hopeful when problems arise, and prayerful.

Please keep my precious niece in your prayers. I’ll re-post to let everyone know her progress.

Family members, beware. I have a new bedspread that I plan to keep for awhile. No throwing up or bleeding on it, nor any administering of cough syrups near it. I want to keep it smooth, clean, and strain-free.

I amazed myself by how much time I spent picking out this new bedspread. I shopped in about six stores and saw nothing I wanted. I searched the Internet and picked up catalogs from J.C. Penney’s before I saw a one I liked in the catalog for www.jcp.com. Even then, I would not order the bedspread unless I had my decorator daughter’s approval. She looked on the Internet and agreed it was lovely.

A few days later, my new bedspread arrived. It is bright apricot in color with taupe and cream-colored stripes. I even bought matching pillow shams and new sheets. While making up the bed and practically bursting with pride, I realized that the bedroom where my bed is located is the first one I could ever call my own, which made the new bedspread ensemble even more special.

Looking back, I began to understand my obsession with having a new bedspread. I was raised in a small household with four children. I always had to share a bedroom until I married. Then, I shared a bedroom with my husband for more than thirty years until his health problems forced him to remain in a recliner all night.

Nowadays, I fall asleep in my recliner, too. (We married couple must stay connected somehow.) During the night, though, with my frequent tossing and turning, I arise and go to “my” bedroom. I rarely visit my bedroom during the day, but when I pass by it, I find myself lingering there and admiring it. Occasionally, I will need a short nap, and there is no place like having one’s own bedroom for a nap.

My determination to keep the bedspread looking new was recently tested with the visit of two of my grandchildren who spent the night. My granddaughter said she felt nauseated. “Feel nauseated elsewhere,” I thought to myself. I put her to bed in another bedroom with a large trash can next to the bed. “If you throw up,” I thought, “don’t come near my bedroom.”

I was surprised at my feelings. I value my grandchildren much more than I value material things, but having a quiet, well-decorated room must have meant more to me than I realized.

A few days later, my seven-year-old grandson asked to take a nap, an event almost as rare as buying a new bedspread. I folded the covers back and covered him with a sheet and a loose, fleece blanket. I checked on him several times as he slept for fear he was sick. I decided I would quickly rip the bedspread off the bed even with him sleeping there if he showed any signs of illness. He did not.

“What is wrong with me?” I thought. I have never worried this much about any other bedspread.

Oh, well, maybe I over analyze myself. There’s nothing wrong with protecting one’s new things, because after spending time, effort, and money related to this bedspread, it may be twenty more years before I buy another.

We as mature women can learn to anticipate times when relationship conflicts will arise. In addition, we can learn how best to handle the unavoidable bad times.

The well-known acronym called H.A.L.T. is a good rule of thumb to use to avoid situations when tempers boil over. The acronym means we nor those we love should ever get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired. We older folks know from experience that it is usually a confluence of several factors that feed into relationship conflicts.

Recently, while traveling with church friends, the older generation who were present listened to the younger generation’s plans. We told the younger crowd that the schedule was too tiring. The younger generation heard the warning but plowed ahead with their plans, much like we used to do when we were young. That is when the blessing of being older and wiser kicked in.

Two of our young people got mad with each other just as our adventure started. One stomped away only to return and say he was leaving the group. An older mother called the young man aside. “Go off with your friend, talk, and calm down for ten minutes. Come back after that,” she said, and she asked the rest of us to wait, which we did.

“What else did you tell them?” I asked during the wait.

“That we had all come too far, spent too much money, and wanted too much to have a great day to allow anger to destroy our trip,” she said.

The dozen or so of us who stood a little ways off watched out the corner of our eyes when the young man and his friend returned. My friend was waiting on them.

Instead of saying a word, she held out her arms and hugged them. Both cried.

“I am so sorry,” we heard one of them saying. “I misunderstood what was said, and what I thought I heard made me mad.”

“Forgive yourself, because we’ve forgiven you,” she said. “Now let’s make up for lost time.”

The young people fell into step with the group and was gradually hugged by each one of us. We all recognized our own need for an occasional calming-down time and for forgiveness.

I was so proud afterwards for having a friend who is such a wise, older mother. I hope I will may be so wise in the future when dealing with angry folks.

I recently watched my daughter handle her three-year-old son during one of his negative moods. We had driven to a restaurant after church and had to wait about thirty minutes to eat. His mood grew worse and worse. He climbed on a low wall on the patio for a few minutes and twice jumped off and ran toward a busy highway. My daughter made him sit on her lap for that offense. Then, he whined . He wanted to climb a nearby tree; and when told he couldn’t, he said his tummy hurt.

We entered the restaurant where he wiggled on and off of his chair during the ordering process. My daughter patiently reminded him to sit still. We received our drinks and bread. We ordered him some soup. He pouted and said he did not like the soup. He wanted the fruit plate and corndogs he had ordered, and he wanted them right then.

“I think he needs a talk,” I told my daughter, after the whining had grown louder and had prevented us adults from having a conversation. My daughter nodded and said, “I think he’s just hungry, Mom.”

After three or four more minutes of whining, though, she took him outdoors and had “the talk.” “The talk” when I delivered it to my three children when they were growing up was more sternness of voice and a temporary distraction than meaningful conversation. My daughter seemed to follow my lead. She knows, like all good parents know, that logic is wasted on a hungry, whining three-year-old. She and the grandson returned in pleasant moods and sat down.

The food arrived, and the child hungrily ate his fruit and his corndogs and at once became the adorable child he is ninety percent of the time. Later, I wondered what was the predominant reason for his behavior. His mother had certainly nurtured him well. He, at times, is self-disciplined, and when not, he is disciplined firmly but kindly by both parents. His father told me that afternoon that he himself has always become very irritable when hungry, a state he knows to avoid. I told him how his son’s behavior had echoed that pattern earlier in the day.

This morning, I was thinking about the incident and how proud I am of a daughter who had handled a pivotal moment so well. I called her and told her so. “You think I did that well?” she asked. “I was so unsure about what to do. I am so often confused now by his behavior. It seems as if he’s exploring his own emotions, and I am never sure whether to impose discipline or to allow him to discipline himself.”

Parenting is a game with no definite rules. My daughter is on the right track, though, to continue questioning her response to her son’s behavior during the various stages that he will go through. With help from God, a supportive set of family and friends, and her and her husband’s desire to raise their son well, our little man who will grow up just fine.