The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: embarrassing moments

That time I sprayed breast milk all over my dentist

Have I ever told you about the time I accidentally sprayed breast milk all over my dentist?

No?

Oh honey. Pull up a chair—this is a juicy one… so to speak.

Honestly, I would have rather been at home cradling my newborn son’s sweet little blue face to my beach-ball-sized bosoms, but I just couldn’t wait another day—I had to get to the dentist. It was an emergency.

I’m a “woman of a certain age.” Oh fine, I’ll tell you. I’m 43. And like most of my friends born in the ’60s and ’70s, my teeth are falling apart. I don’t know if it’s because we didn’t have the same preventative dental care back then or because I didn’t do a very good job brushing the Razzles and Now and Laters off my teeth, but by the time I was a senior in high school, every single one of my back molars was more filling than tooth. (Sorry, Mom.)

And the metal fillings from back then? They had a shelf life. By the time I was 30, every single one of those fillings had needed to be replaced.

All that drilling and refilling takes a toll on the old chompers.

I got my first crown when I was 35.

And then when I was pregnant with Bucket Head, it was obvious that I was going to need another crown.

But I was pregnant! And going to the dentist is the only time I get the good drugs! It would have to wait.

I bided my time for the rest of my pregnancy, chewing only on one side of my mouth and avoiding anything too hot, cold, sweet, or crunchy. It sucked. And then apparently while I was giving birth and biting on that leather strap out in the woods (not really, but that’s what it felt like) I cracked that compromised molar somethin’ fierce. I would need to get to the dentist as soon as I could remove the ice-pack from my nethers.

My husband had to work that day, so I called my neighbor and BFF, Tammie, and asked if she would be so kind as to drive me and newborn Bucket Head to the dentist and hold Bucket Head in the waiting room while I got my new temporary crown. “It will take two hours, tops.”

She agreed, God love her.

We timed it perfectly, or so we thought.

We got there a little early, and I nursed baby Bucket Head in the waiting room. Then he fell asleep in Tammie’s arms as I waited to be called into the back.

I was really scared. I hate having dental work done. It riles every single one of my freakishly heightened senses and I usually get prescribed valium for the night before and the morning of my procedure.

But I didn’t want to do that since I was nursing. I was drug-free and more nervous than a virgin at a prison rodeo.

As luck would have it, the dentist was running behind, and our perfectly timed breast feeding was for naught.

I’ll never forget it as long as I live. There I was, fully reclined in the dentist chair—mouth wide open, eyes tightly shut against the bright light, suction tube slurping away while the dentist drilled… and drilled… and drilled. I had my iPod rocking in my ears so I wouldn’t hear any of it. But the song ended, and in that 3 second lull between songs, I heard my baby cry.

Game over.

The tingling started. Then I felt the slightest bit of wetness in my ginormous nursing bra. I squeezed my eyes shut harder and prayed my breast pads would soak up the run-off.

The drilling persisted. My dentist, also a mother, kept stopping every few seconds to ask if I was okay, “Do you need me to stop?”

“No, keep going! He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? Do you want to go see him?”

“NO. The Novocain! It might wear off. Just do it. But hurry. I’m starting to leak.”

Suddenly, Bucket Head’s cries were the only thing I could hear, even over the drilling and the music on my headphones. My sweet little baby needed me, and my milk bags were responding to his hungry pleas.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I glanced down and my shirt was soaked. Actually, it was my husband’s shirt, since I had just had a baby and all I could fit in was one of his old button downs.

Behold, a dramatic reenactment:

That time I sprayed my dentist with breast milk by The Bearded Iris

The milk flow was so strong and steady, it soaked clear through the paper bib resting on my chest.

Y’all, there was milk everywhere. It was dripping down my back onto the chair!

I could smell it.

I was absolutely mortified.

Everyone worked at lightening speed to get me up and out of there. (And not just because of the milky mess I was making in their dentist chair.) The microsecond that temporary crown clicked into place, I was on my way back to the waiting room, unbuttoning my shirt like Clark Kent on his way to the phone booth. I could not get that baby onto my boob fast enough. Poor Tammie—I practically ripped her arms off taking that wailing baby from her.

Thankfully, everyone in the dentist’s office was so sweet and understanding. “Bless your heart!” they clucked repeatedly, and not in the stereotypical Southern “Oh you pitiful idiot” kind of way. It was more like, Solidarity, sister! We salute you and your overactive milk ducts! They were women helping one of their own, and I would be forever grateful.

Talk about the milk of human kindness.

This post, and my 13-year-old son’s future therapy bills for having to take that reenacted photo of my leaking fun-bags, were both made possible by the International Breast Milk Project. Their vision is that every infant in the world have access to donor human milk as a first choice when a mother’s own milk is not available, and they aim to create awareness for the need for donor human milk, mobilize donors, and provide donor milk to infants in need. 

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The mother of embarrassing moments

I’m In The Powder Room today sharing my most embarrassing moment. Well, one of them, anyway. It’s a doozy. Come see for yourself. People are already thanking me in the comments over there for making them feel better about themselves. Ah, what can I say? It’s a gift.

And speaking of embarrassing moments, we’re offering a two-for-one special at In The Powder Room today!

Remember my friend Kerry from HouseTalkN? She’s the one who created the #bloggersdance party. We met in person at the Haven Conference in Atlanta last June. She’s a hoot! LOVE HER.

Kerry and Leslie at the Haven blog conference last June.

Well I brought her In The Powder Room with me today to share one of her most embarrassing moments too.

Birds of a feather, and all that, you know.

See you over there!

-Leslie

I put the FREAK in freak accidents!

I’m no stranger to freak accidents.

When I was 10 I actually fell through a rotten wooden picnic table at a birthday party and broke my arm.

One time when I was in high school, my cousin Matt high-fived me a little too enthusiastically and broke one of my fingers.

I once attempted to catch an open tin can that I had accidentally knocked off the counter. That so’mbitch cut my hand open so wide I could see the bone.

And perhaps you recall the time I tried to pet a snapping turtle. (Doy-yoy-yoy.)

Well, I may have topped my record for stupidest accident this week. And that’s why I haven’t been around much, in case you noticed. (And if you noticed, thank you!)

But let’s start with a riddle to make it more fun! What do you get when you combine a 42 year old deeply sleeping woman, a vivid nightmare about forgetting to turn off the oven, and a hard linoleum bathroom floor?

Holla!

Yep. That’s me…in the ER Thursday afternoon.

Apparently I got dizzy when I jumped out of bed too fast at 3 AM Thursday morning to turn off the oven (in my dream) and then I fainted in the bathroom and landed FACE FIRST on the floor.

My sweet husband (already awake from me screaming “Oh my God! I forgot to turn off the oven!”) heard the thump and came running only to find me lying face down like a rag doll on the bathroom floor. I remember hearing him try to rouse me with “Are you okay?! Can you hear me?” and then he manhandled my limp body back to the bed. Unfortunately, he probably did more damage trying to hoist my dead-weight ass off the floor than I did landing smack on my kisser, because my neck and back are even more sore than my bruised and battered punim* today.

But the scariest part? When he picked my unresponsive body off the floor and I slowly “came to,” I was completely blind. I couldn’t even tell that there were lights on in the room. And the blindness lasted for about 3 minutes. Without a doubt, it was the single most frightening experience of my life. Even more frightening than that time I accidentally saw my grandma naked. {shudder}

Yeah, we probably should have called an ambulance, but it was 3 AM and all three of my kids were sound asleep. Plus, there was no way in hell I was going to let my neighbors see me being carried away on a gurney in my BITE ME (Primanti Brothers) t-shirt with a mangled face shouting “HEY! WHO TURNED OUT THE LIGHTS?” Like I’d give anyone that kind of gift. Sorry, I’m just not that generous.

So I did what my Dad told me to do the first time I fractured my arm when I was 7 after I rode my bike into a parked car, and I “shook it off.” I took 4 Advil, put an icepack on my pie hole, and cried myself to sleep wondering what the hell was wrong with me that I would pass out like that. (If you’re playing along at home, you know I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in 5 weeks.)

Are you with me so far?

When I woke up a few hours later I was sore, foggy headed, and worried. My husband took the day off and drove me to my doctor. She did a bunch of neurological tests and an EKG. Everything looked good. But she was really concerned about me temporarily losing the sight in both of my eyes, so she sent me to the Emergency Room for some more tests.

Yada yada yada, a quick stop at a drive-thru for a spicy chicken sandwich, and then next thing I knew I was hooked up to an IV with my head in a tube for a CT Scan.

Luckily for me, my husband does a great Arnold Schwarzenegger impression from the movie Kindergarten Cop: “It’s not a tumor.” Because seriously, I was so sure that the doctor was going to come back and tell me I had a growth the size of a honey dew melon that I was pretty darn scared.

But guess what?!

It’s not a tumor. 

My fainting was caused by mild dehydration, my extraordinarily low blood pressure, and standing up too fast.

So the good news is that I’m fine.

Well, as fine as one can be with a black eye, a fat lip, a sore shoulder, and a stiff neck.

You do not even want to know what kind of looks I was getting at the preschool Easter Egg hunt yesterday.

And my daughter went to school and told her teacher, the Room Mom, and her track coaches that I fell in the middle of the night and hit my head, so you know those Nosy Nellies are all “Glug-glug, wink-wink!”

Honestly, my pride hurts more than my face.

And so that’s where I’ve been the last few days.

Don’t worry, I have a check up scheduled for next week and have been religiously keeping myself hydrated since I got home from the hospital.

Now please tell me you have some kind of asinine freak accident story to share so I don’t feel like such a dork.

-Iris

*Punim is Yiddish for “face.” Get your mind out of the gutter.

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