Jaws

The following post is inspired by the memoir In Stitches by Anthony Youn and Alan Eisenstock. The book chronicles Youn’s path to becoming a plastic surgeon from his high school years when he dealt with a disfiguring underbite to his apprenticeship with a celebrity surgeon in Beverly Hills. I received a copy from the publisher, gratis, as a member of the online book club, From Left to Write. I was not paid to write this article. You can read other blogs inspired by the book here, on August 9th.

This has absolutely nothing to do with Sophia.

I have great teeth. That sounds like a brag. It’s not. I earned these teeth. My mother calls it “the million dollar smile.” And she’s not kidding. Like Youn, I had a vicious underbite and years of orthodontia.

In my early years, my underbite was considered cute. My parents will still imitate my primate smile with an expression that conveys how adorable they thought it was. But, as my jaw outpaced the rest of my diminutive frame, they grew alarmed. At least, I surmise that they did based on the sheer amount of dollars and time they invested in my mouth.

I received my first contraption when I was about nine or ten. Contraption, not braces. Oh, I would have braces, for four long years I would have braces, but they were to come much later. First, I had a retainer that was cemented into the roof of my mouth.
This medieval device came with a little key, kept in a small pocket in my mother’s apron. Alright, I made up the last bit about the apron. But she did have a key that she periodically used to tighten the medieval device at my sadistic orthodontist’s whim. Of course, I hated it. I would pick at the metallic parts that were wrapped around my incisors, until one day, when my mother was on the phone, I finally dislodged it. Well, I half-dislodged it. The other half remained affixed to the other side of my mouth so that it hung askew making it impossible to close my mouth. “MAHRM,” came my garbled cry. With an exasperated, “You kids!” my mother hung up with her friend and took me on an emergency trip to the Drs. Vella.

I went to not one but two orthodontists. Husband and wife who plied their evil trade side-by-side. Mrs. Dr. Vella was very proper and all business. Her manner was brusque, her adjustments less than gentle. Mr. Dr. Vella was her polar opposite. He looked like Buddy Hackett from the Tuscan dairy popsicle commercials. He was silly, kind and gentle. Whenever we went for a checkup, I prayed that I would get Mr. Dr. V.

The two conferred about my case. I heard them tell my mother that if we didn’t comply with the preventative work, when I was a teenager I would have to have my jaw broken. That was sufficient motivation for me to keep my retainer in my mouth from that day forward. They added a chin cup to the mix. It fit like a cap over my advancing mandible, attaching to head gear with little rubber bands. Sweat would pool in the chin cup creating the perfect ecosystem for zits to grow and flourish. Before donning my orthodontic crown each night, I’d slather my chin with Clearasil in a futile attempt to keep the pimples at bay.

After two years, when I was released from the iron grasp of my retainer, I was rewired with the latest in brace technology. They were clear and meant to be invisible, however, within hours of eating, they adopted a yellow stain that remained for the next four years. There was no key this time, but I had to wear increasingly tight rubber bands that hooked my upper and lower decks together and would shoot out of my mouth at the most inopportune moments.

When, at last, I was cut free at 16, my braces left behind a memento of sixteen perfectly symmetrical cavities, my first ever. I was drilled, filled and presented with The Positioner. It was to be my last, and perhaps most vexing, appliance. The Positioner was much like a boxer’s mouthpiece—a large silicone mold of my mouth that I was to chew into for four hours each day. With a piece of plastic this large in your mouth, it is impossible to swallow. My saliva would pool in my mouth, inducing nausea and leaking down the sides of my face. I would sit in front of the television for hours with a hand towel to soak up the effluvia. Ultimately, it was too gross for me to tolerate and I stopped using it altogether. My orthodontist threatened me (Mrs. Dr.) that I would go right back to the way I started...but by some miracle this did not come to pass. My teeth stayed put, no trace of an underbite.

I wish I could say that it inspired me to take excellent care of my teeth. That I flossed and brushed and pampered my mouth with a newfound respect. But I didn’t. As soon as I had a beautiful smile, I began to take it for granted. I reveled in the blissful relief that I didn’t have to think about my mouth. That it wasn’t in constant pain. That it looked like other people’s mouths. Freed of my dental shackles, I walked away and didn't look back.

Reflecting on this experience, I wonder, what past afflictions others have walked away from, shed selves, now-invisible experiences that paved the path towards today. What hides behind the pretty little smiles?

What's Good for the Grandchild Is Not Good for the Daughter

This post was inspired by Adena Halpern’s novel, 29, the April selection of the online book club, From Left to Write. I received a complementary copy of the book from the publisher, but was not otherwise compensated to write this piece. Find out how other writers were inspired by the book here.

My mother does not spoil my daughter, Sophia, as much as she would like to. I won’t let her. After dinner one night, she asks if she can give Sophia a second helping of ice cream. A disappointed look crosses her face as I shake my head no. I watch her mouth tighten, and I know she’s holding her tongue. Still, she tries to back me up, saying, “Sorry, Sophia, Mommy says ‘no.’” It isn’t until Sophia is out of ear shot that she asks, “Come on, Melissa. Is a little bit more going to kill her?”

In my lectury teacher voice I tell her, “No, of course not, Mom. But she had already had a cupcake in nursery school today and I want treats to be special, not something that is routinely doled out after each meal.” My mother sighs. She knows I’m right. And then I remind her, “Besides, when I was a kid you were adamant about limiting our sweets. Have you forgotten? Why is it different with Sophia?”

It’s true. We were never allowed to have sugar cereals and the cookie drawer was strictly off-limits. There was always stuff around (my father had an insatiable sweet tooth), and there were no locks on the cookie drawer, but I was a pretty rule-bound kid. I tended to obey the guidelines my parents set forth, indulging only when my younger sister goaded me on. Jenny would barge into my room on a Sunday morning, before our parents were awake. “You wanna take some of mom’s truffles and melt them on the radiator and smear them on bread to make chocolate sandwiches?” she’d ask, a gleam in her eye. “Uh, okay,” and we’d do it, though I knew there’d be hell to pay.

Also, I can’t remember my mother indulging in sweets when I was a child the way she does now. A half-gallon of Edy’s Flavor of the Month is lucky to last a night in her freezer. And if you’re sharing with her, your wrist better be limber and ready for battle. So, maybe it’s part of a broader loosening of her rules as she gets older.

Or maybe, this is the grandmother dynamic. Be the person you could not be as a parent. The person who says “yes” to everything. The person who elicits broad smiles instead of tantrums. The person who for whom my daughter only has positive associations: going to her nursery school, visiting museums, reading books, staying up late, eating ice cream. Maybe after all those hard years of trying to shape, and instill, and promote, and push back, there is great joy to be had in indulgence. In letting go.

It might be different if Sophia was with my mother on a daily basis, and Sophia had to comply with requests my mother makes. But I am usually there, waiting in the wings to be the heavy: Listen to your grandmother. Sit in your chair. Eat your broccoli. Brush your teeth. Put your pajamas on. I deal with the push back; I dole out the consequences. My mother did it for me, and now it’s her turn to relax.

I suppose I just have to wait my turn, when Sophia has a child of her own who I can lavish attention on, and then hand back for the tough stuff. In the meanwhile, I am earning my stripes. Laying down the law. Following through on what I say. Teaching Sophia self control, because it is not the treats in and of themselves that are so sweet, but the departure from restrictions. Appreciation and gratitude are born out of limits, not excess. If Sophia is going to be able to pass along this lesson to her daughter, she has to first learn it from me.

Grandma is my foil and my counterpart.

Dreaming in Yankee

The following post--which is about Life Before Sophia--was inspired by the book, Mr. Rosenblum Dreams in English, by the March selection of the online bookclub, From Left to Write. I received a copy of the book from the publisher free-of-charge, but was not compensated to write this essay. Read other posts inspired by the book here.

I made a promise to my husband. After spending five long years in graduate school in New Jersey together, I would follow him down to North Carolina. To live. Forever and ever.

My husband has a deep love of the South. His parents both came from Georgia, and though he was raised in Illinois, he felt more deeply connected to the South than the Midwest. I, on the other hand, was a diehard North Easter. I ate fast, I walked fast, I slept fast, I talked fast. Though I knew I had neighbors, I rarely spoke to them. And I like bagels, preferably with lox.

At the time of The Promise, I was terrified, but game. Having never been able to escape the throes of New Jersey (outside of four years of college in New York), I was ready for a change.

I went in good faith.

We moved to Asheville, a funky little town situated on the French River overlooking the Smoky Mountains. It was a liberal artist-haven oasis surrounded by rolling, rural country-side of staunch conservatism. It had a thriving center with steep, angular streets flanked by galleries, shops and restaurants. We rented a house in the historic district that was so huge (we couldn’t believe what we could get for our money), I’d have to call Kevin on his cell to find him. We were minutes away from phenomenal hiking and outdoor sports of all kinds—kayaking down the Natahala, mountain biking on rugged trails.

I was miserable.

I became a joiner. I joined a thriving group psychological practice—and was never at a loss for meaningful work. I joined a local gym and worked out for hours each day, getting into the best shape of my life. I joined a book club with so many participants you had to fight your way to be heard. I joined a knitting group and made small talk with hippie moms as I wrested cables onto a hat for Kevin.

I participated, but I could not assimilate. In fairness, I am told it takes time. At least a year. Perhaps it was due to the fact that I literally kept one foot in NJ, flying up there once each month to conduct trainings for curriculum I designed in alone in that big house in Asheville. I loved those whirlwind weeks—filled with friends, family and the familiar. I mourned a little every time I stepped back on the plane for Asheville and left what still felt like home.

Or perhaps it was simply that I was too identified with my Northern persona. When I left the house, I’d first peek out the windows, scanning for my neighbor with the 16 cats. If he caught me, I’d be drawn into a half-hour conversation about how much he adored Maxwell (my cat). I dreaded trips to the supermarket, where I was sure to be interminably stuck on line at the register as each person had a very lengthy conversation with the cashier about the weather. I’d squirm uncomfortably as women would discuss people they didn’t like while smiling and saying things like “bless her heart.”

No, I much preferred the place where it was socially acceptable to say, “sorry, but I’m in a hurry.” Or, “could you please open up another register?” Or, “She’s a real b****.” without raising an eyebrow.

I am a blurter. I have no filter. I say what comes to mind. I was exhausted at days end from holding back. My cheeks hurt from smiling too much. I felt like, in the South, even in Ashville, I couldn’t be my authentic me.

As fate would have it I didn’t have to stay there for long. An irresistible job opportunity opened up for me in the North, and we moved back. For ever. And for the first time, I really understood what Kevin was sacrificing.

Fortunately, we managed to find a place where we both felt at home. A place where we love our neighbors, and it’s okay to tell them we’re in a hurry. Now, I look back on the days in Asheville with some fondness. I’m glad I had the unsettling experience of living in another place. It helped me to understand how much place is a part of who we are.

On Being a Fallible, Accountable Parent

This blog is inspired by Maddie Dawson’s new novel, the stuff that never happened. The stuff is the August selection of the online bookclub, From Left to Write.

The Stuff That Never Happened is thematically rich, and I found much to relate to in its engrossing pages. But the one theme that gripped me and possessed me to write was of the line parents walk between trying to be a positive role model for their children and being the fallible human beings they are. Every time we lose our temper, smoke, drink, kiss a handsome stranger, use some really juicy language, argue, lie, steal, cheat, gossip…do the things that people do, we convey a message to our children. Decontextualized, i.e., without explanation or exploration, the message becomes “This is okay,” However, if we reflect with our children on what we’ve done “I regret having done this because….” or “This is okay for me but not for you because….” or “I hope when you are older and forced with a similar choice you will choose to (insert choice) because….” the experience can be instructive. Edifying. Life changing.

In the novel, Annabelle McKay’s adult daughter learns of her mother’s affair…an affair that took place early in Annabelle’s marriage, before she had children. Sophie (her daughter and, coincidentally, also the name of my daughter) is aghast and struggles with this new version of her mother. Her mother struggles alongside her, trying to help Sophie understand the choices she made and how these choices have affected the course of her life.

I can remember the exact moment when I had the same epiphany about my own mother. It also happened as an adult, when, for a course in family therapy, I created a Genogram and began asking questions. My mother, for reasons I still do not understand, took this opportunity to reveal some very painful truths. There were truths that made me angry. Truths that made me cry. Truths that explained a lot about my past and my own internal conflicts. They were truths that ushered my mother off the pedestal upon which I had placed her and brought her back down to Earth. Through it all my mother allowed me to ask her questions and answered them patiently, accepting my reactions, apologizing for choices she had made that had negatively impacted me. This is where her model was key. Not when she was actually making the choices, but how she handled our processing of them. She was so brave, my mother. And once we had been through it, several times over, I came to terms with it. And now, I believe, we are much closer for it.

If I peer into the future, what choices will I have made that I will be held accountable for by my Sophie? Given the strength of intergenerational patterns (i.e., making the same damn choices our parents did) and my track record of transgressions, chances are, one day she will be disappointed with me, or shocked by my behavior or just plain angry. I can see myself sitting across from a full-grown Sophia on a luncheon date, her huge gray eyes growing larger and rounder as I blurt out the thing I have told no one. Perhaps it is because she wants to know and because I cannot lie to her. Perhaps because I can no longer keep it a secret. I can see her expressive face registering shock. And then I can see the way she looks at me, once wholly adoring, changing forever. She sees me more clearly now. More authentically.

I believe we each need the opportunity to be angry with, disappointed by and forgive our parents for the choices they have made. (Just now, I struggled with whether to write “mistakes” or choices. But to call them mistakes is judgmental. As Miranda July once said, “Things usually make sense in time and even bad decisions have their own kind of correctness.” In the book, I don’t think Annabelle deemed her affair a mistake so much as a choice she made that had both positive and negative consequences. She experienced an intensely passionate relationship, something that was lacking in her marriage, but she deeply hurt and sacrificed the trust of those she loved. When her daughter inquires about the affair, Annabelle admits its wrongness and explores the meaning it had for her. She is not perfect, but she holds herself accountable, takes responsibility for her actions. And out of the discussion there emerges several life lessons—that marriage has its ups and downs, but neither is a static state. That “you cannot completely know or completely control another person.” And that “anything can happen” in life; part of happiness lies in embracing the uncertainty.” By the end of the conversation, Sophie appears to be letting go of some of her own fears about her husband’s fidelity.

I know it is inevitable that I will make bad choices my daughter will have every right to question. I will not promise to be the perfect role model, setting myself up for certain failure. But when the time comes. When we are sitting across from each other over crisp salads and glasses of wine—Sophia on the brink of womanhood and I in the midst of its decline—and the truth suddenly, surprisingly rises from a deep place within me. I will not backpeddle. I will not run. I will do as my mother did: sitting before my daughter, answering her questions, mourning the loss of her image of me and revealing myself as the fallible yet accountable parent I aspire to be. And hopefully, we will be closer for it.


The stuff that never happened was provided to me by the publisher free of charge through my participation in the online book club, from left to write. I was not paid for this review. See how other moms were inspired by this book here.