Doesn't this Kid Know I'm the Mom That's Crazy as Hell?

Prison Rules in the Suburbs

Today I have one thing on the calendar.  I get to meet a new neighbor and tell her how fortunate I feel that we've moved into a neighborhood where her little man-child is free to roam the streets and/or neighborhood park demonstrating his stellar social skills.  Further, I can't wait to talk about her husband's career choice ... his son is quite proud Daddy's a judge.  Judge of what, I'm not sure, but apparently not a judge of character as his man-child demonstrates.

In our little planned community we have parks .. planned parks ... where the little suburbanite children can play with their other suburbanite peers.  I've only ever experienced one type of throw down in these little utopias ... but that was by the meanest kid in the world from Colorado.  Here in the land of Zion, Saratoga Springs Utah County no less, people seem to be one way or the other.  Your either a cloud cruiser (you float on clouds), or a walker.  We're walkers.  We don't have a cloud and live by the mantra that if you spit in the wind it's bound to come back and hit you in the face.  It gives us a lot of personal wiggle room when our kids misbehave in public places. 

In Saratoga Springs, Utah County we see alot of pleghm floating around.  Apparently spitting in the wind doesn't have the ramifications we imagined.  They spit alot, but I'm not sure the phlegm has yet caught up with the cloud floating masses.  This mentality has created man and woman children with phenomenally naive social skills that would get their little asses a swift beat down anywhere else in the world.  Yesterday, at the planned coummunity park, Bradyn was fortunate enough to be intoduced to a phlegm spitting little by product we will refer to as "the boy".

Bradyn grabbed a buddy and they headed for the park yesterday.  The two of them are rather unassuming kids and Bradyn, although my 100lb built like a brick linebacker 3rd grader, is a sensitive fellow.  Captain Sensitive met "the boy" when "the boy" saw fit to introduce himself with a social ca-cah (crow sound) flauncing his peacock feathers and obvious king of the neighborhood park status.  "The boy" looked at Bradyn's friend, pointed at Bradyn, and said, "who's this fag?"  Huh.  I've never been asked my name with that amount of passion in the statement.  He's obviously well trained at home in social etiquette.

"The boy" is about 3 years older than Bradyn and his friend, so his friend treaded lightly when he responded, "he's not a fag, he's my friend."  "The boy" wasn't quite satisfied with this response and he obviously was concerned about Bradyn's financial situation so he responded with, "what's your dad do for a living, pick up trash? My Dad's a judge!"  Huh.  Bradyn apparently informed the kid his Dad does not pick up trash for a living.  Good comeback son (we'll work with him).

"The boy" returned the comeback with again asking Bradyn's friend who the new fag was.  At this point, Bradyn and his friend were a little scared so they hightailed it to the friends house to get his 15 year-old sister to come meet with "the boy" and explain to him that Bradyn was indeed not a fag and his Dad does not pick up trash for a living.  Their plan was thwarted when the sister refused to meet "the boy" because she didn't really care.

Bradyn recounted the whole social interaction that night at dinner.  Now, for most situations at our house we live by prison rules.  Prison rules are the only way to successfully manage having 4 boys.  Prison rules dictate no snitching and only come see me if there's blood, and it has to be alot of blood, minor trickle, work it out.  The boys have learned that in prison rules you just work it out ... social interactions, battles, brawls, whatever.  But, I've never had a man-child bring it to the doorstep referring to my man-child as the by product of a trash picking up father who procreated with his mother to create what obviously appears to be a fag to socially superior peacocks of the park.

I stared in awesome wonder as Bradyn finished his story.  I nodded.  I was quiet.  I wasn't quite sure what to say.  The fag comment.  We're not homophobic in our home, but come on, this wasn't a reference to the kids sexuality, this was a nasty little trash talking socially retarded child who apparently didn't get the memo that the word fag is not okay.  It's a slang better reserved for the underbelly of the planet sporting confederate flags and trailers in the woods complete with rotting couches on rotting front porches who throw around the word "sumbitch" when referring to their family members.

The daddy picking up trash for a living ... and "the boys" Dad being a judge.  Jon indeed does not pick up trash for a living, but I think if he saw "the boy" he might momentarily change his profession to pick up trash, aka "the boy" and take him to the county dump where he belongs.  While my mind was processing the whole scenario I weighed out prison rules against getting involved versus real live bullies.  The one thing I have in my aresenal as a mom is fear.  A man-child, no matter how tough he thinks he is, when approached by a mom will either a) pee his pants b) flee the scene of the crime and pray the mom doesn't ever talk to his mom.

I calmly asked Bradyn if he told "the boy" that his mom was crazy as hell because she is the mom of 4 boys and she might have to visit the park to get aquainted with the judges nasty mouthed by-product.  Bradyn smiled.  I wasn't really kidding.  I asked Bradyn if he told "the boy" what his dad does do ... and if he added the part that daddy spent 12 years in the military and is freaking mercenary (not a mercenary, his purple heart nomination came from the time he was in Iraq and his MRE had rotten M&M's ... it caused some PTSD) who brings down the pain when he plays Call of Duty on the x-box?  Bradyn had not informed the kid he had a crazy as hell Mom or a mercenary for a father.

Bradyn and I chatted about "the boys" social skills seriously needing a brush up, and told Bradyn next time he interacts with the boy he should for sure arrange an introduction between "the boy", his crazy as hell mother, and his mercenary father.  So I slept on all of this.  This morning I have made a decision.  Prison rules aside, I can't really stand by and have this little snot, "the boy", roaming free around the neighborhood frew to spew his venemous slander ... especially at my kid.  Today, I have chosen to open the Mom arsenal.  My sources, Mom's have sources, never doubt that Mom's have sources, have already informed me of "the boys" locale. 

First thing this morning I am going to walk to said locale, with my son, and introduce ourselves as being new to the neighborhood.  I will smile sweetly as I ask to meet "the boy" so I can get a visual of whether or not he has a blackened rotting front tooth (hillbilly style).  I will watch in pleasure as the boy is called to the front door to see his victim, the fag, and his mom standing on his turf.  I will take notice when the boy pees down one leg knowing that his time is at hand to be called out on his social interactions at the park.  I will tell "the boys" mom how obviously proud he is of his daddy and his profession as a judge ... and how "the boy" is convinced and ready to comment that any other kid at the playground has a dad who works in sanitation.

I can only hope that "the boy" has a mother who is also crazy as hell.  I can only hope she isn't beat down and sweet and allows her 15 children to run the neighborhood and her household like a hillbilly haven.  Further, I hope the judge has a large wooden paddle, possibly with holes in it to prevent wind resistance while teaching "the boy" social skills are taught in the home.

Dr. Smiles, aka "the fleecing of the teeth in Zion"

Yesterday I took all three boys to the dentist ... okay, all 4 boys, but Bennett still has a fine mouthful of "gums".  Before I proceed, there need be an understanding of "dental in Utah".  I went to a gianormous High School in Northern Utah.  My graduating class had well over 1500 kids.  Of those 1500 kids, I am fairly certain that at least half of the graduating class (all the boys) went to dental school ... except for the 2 I know of that actually went to real doctor school (don't be offended dentists, you are doctors with better hours).

It's not that I think dentists aren't "real doctors" ... I'm just at the odd age now where dentists (okay, most medical professionals) are considerably younger than me and I've decided young aspiring utah dentists (see half of utah population) assume dentistry to be a more 9-5 operation suiting the utah male and his large family.  And yes, according to my mom, it is bizarre to be in a dental office and have your mouth examined by the same kid who graduated with one of your kids in High School. Fortunately we have not lived in the motherland for the last 16 years, so I have never had to have my physician walk in and say, "wasn't I friends with your little sister?"  That might destroy me.

So, at the end of the day: teenage utah male+go on mission+marry a sweet girl+ want 14 children + the means to support their family + the time to actually see said family during the week+ and to be close to family within Utah = Dentists on every plot of land, in every building, on every corner, and all wanting to build their practice.  I can't fault them for the build their practice instinct, they are young, this is their business, their 12th child is on the way, they are not even 30 years old yet.  The competition?  Don't get me started.  We get these magazines once a month telling us whats happening around the local towns.  The magazines are full of advertisements and at least half of them are dental.  Half of them.  I'm not exagerrating.  So there are a ton of options there ... and a ton of young dentists looking to get your business and money in their wallets and somewhere along the way hope you will tell your friends and so on and so forth.

SO, here we have it.  Dentists everywere.  We called our insurance company, found on "in network" and called them.  Dr. Smiles I believe is his aka ... not kidding.  Sounds nice enough.  The staff took down some information over the phone about insurance, etc. names birthdates, etc. and confirmed the date and times. It was 2 weeks away.  Beginning 10 days prior to the appointment I start getting text messagess from the dental office telling me I have these three appointments for the boys and to respond yes if we will be there.  Okay, yes, click.  This happened DAILY.  The first one I understood, okay covering their bases making sure people will be at their appointments.  The second, did you forget you already sent this to me?  The third time, you must have forgotten. Fourth time, really?  Really? Fifth time, if you send me one more of these frigging text messages ... YES WE WILL BE THERE! Still got 9 more texts.  Ignored all of them.

Finally the big day arrived.  We walked into the office where the kids immediately went to the 3X4 room  sporting a love sack, tv, and two xbox controllers.  I went to the front desk hauling with me my larger than life 20+ pound 5 month-old.  The front desk girl seemed nervous as she immediately asked me, "um, we need more insurance information."  Uh, okay, I already gave that to her on the phone when I scheduled the appointments, but okay.  "Um, do you have a policy number on your dental insurance?"  Before she could finish, what I can only assume was the head office secretary, (who was sitting behind the front desk on the phone) barked, "we can't treat them WITHOUT insurance."  "Uh," I thought, "we have really good insurance you nasty hag."  I called Jon and asked for a policy number.  We didn't have one and he was in the middle of telling me he thought it was his social security number when hagdalena magdalena barked out, "it's probably the husband's social."  Uh, okay rain man, glad you figured that one out.

It was then, and only then, the front office clerk handed me the sign in paperwork for all the boys.  Wierd, but okay, doing their job I guess.  I started filling out all the paperwork and somewhere between marking my children's medical conditions, "no, not pregnant, no, no drug usage, no, no hep c" (I hate those things, how many pregnant-drug using-positive hep C 3 year-olds are there out there?) they apparently discovered we did indeed have insurance because hygenists appeared to take the kids back.  All three went back, i finished paperwork, then headed back.

The hygenists x-rayed and cleaned the kids teeth.  Nice girls, but it didn't escape my attention that every person on that office staff had the exact color/shade of blonde hair, similar hairstyles, and size 2 behinds.  It was a little stepford dentistry, but, again, okay.  After the cleanings, all 4 boys and I were shoved into one exam room to wait for the dentist.  We sat there ... and sat there ... and sat there.  Caden got bored at about minute 10 and started rifling through the drawers in the office.  I tried to stop him until minute 20, then I just let him shove as many toys in his pockets as he could.  Bradyn discovered Caden's maneuvers at minute 25.  I tried to stop him from taking the toys.  At minute 30, I allowed him to start shoving toys in his pocket.  Drew discovered the toy drawer at minute 40.  Tried to stop him, actually tried to shame him for getting into the baby toy drawer.  He only shoved one toy in his pocket at minute 45.   Minute 50 ... dentist and nurse finally arrived ... toys were falling out of my kids pockets.

Bennett had about lost his cool at this point, Caden was bouncing all over the room, Bradyn was chattering non stop, and Drew was lying down in the dental chair ready for his exam.  The dentist sat down, put his hands in his (the dentist's) lap, looked at the nurse and said, "did we get their insurance information settled?"  I looked over at the nurse only to see she was not looking at my kid's x-rays on the computer, but rather our financials and dental coverage info.  "Yes, that's all worked out," she said.  "Oh good, okay, what's their coverage?"  She rattled off something about teeth I didn't understand and finished with, "they have full coverage."  The dentist smiled, slapped both hands in his lap, and said, "ok, great!"  It was then, and only then, he actually started to examine Drew.  WTF?

One after another he examined the kids.  Every word he said was contrary to what every other dentist had ever told me about my kids.  Drew needed braces, let's take some more x-rays, Bradyn needed a root canal (on a friggin baby tooth!) and had 4 cavities (this was not news, Bradyn has the bad teeth in the family), AND Bradyn would also need braces and let's take some x-rays on him (uh, he's 8, and every dentist has told me both kids would never need braces ... including their check up 6 months prior) and Caden had 20 teeth (this was not contrary to what the other dentist told me).  Bennett had lost all control at this point, I was scattered, and the nurse got on eye level after the kids exams and told all three of them, "why don't you all go into the waiting room so mommy and I can talk about some appointments and insurance."  Again, I repeat, WTF?  All I could muster at that point was, "how long is this going to take?"  "Oh, it's fast, about 30 minutes."  Bennett wailed and I told her she had 30 seconds.

I waited in the exam room for about 3 minutes and Bennett had now lost all sense of perspective.  I could only pat his butt and rock him back and forth so much.  I left the exam room, headed to the waiting room, made a bottle, strapped him in his carseat, propped the bottle in his mouth, and started to gather the boys.  The nurse, almost literally, came breathlessly flying out of the back room.  Apparently she had noticed I was leaving the building, 30 seconds was up.  "Um, okay, can you just give us 2 minutes, we have everything ready to go."  I wasn't sure what that meant, but she seemed like this was a desperate attempt to keep her job so I followed her to the back office ... where I met the HEAD office person ... sitting behind a giant mahogany desk ... and she started shoving paperwork at me talking a thousand miles an hour telling me to sign this, sign this, here's what this means, sign this ... I thought, "am I buying a car, I'm feeling the same sense of bending over and taking it like a man." 

I signed.  My eyes were glazed over at this point and I could hear Bennett screaming from the waiting room.  "Okay, so let's schedule those appointments for Bradyn and then let's get you and your husband scheduled for an exam and cleaning."  Uh, I hadn't said anything about Jon and I.  I pleasantly refused scheduling for Jon and I and told her I would call her on Bradyn because Bennett was screaming and it was time to go.  She tried desperately to give me the tough car salesman sell.  I think, like a car salesman, she didn't want me to get out of the office and actually think about what I was signing.

I left, got the kids home, and finally had a moment to think about what had happened.  Really, a dentist asking about our insurance?  A root canal on my 8 year-old ... on a baby tooth?  Won't treat without insurance?  What if we didn't have insurance?  What if we were paying cash?  Then what?  Why was there so much pressure to schedule Jon and I asap?  Why did I get a 1000 text messages 10 days prior to the appointment?  My head was spinning and everything seemed "off".  Of course, I called my mom.  Maybe I was nuts and she could make sense of this.  After all, I was with Bennett and had shattered nerves at the dental office.

Mom DID make sense of it ... the dentist was fleecing us.  Huh.  Yes, yes he was!  I had never been to a doctor, ever, dentist or otherwise, that started the exam with, "what's your coverage?"  Something was very, very wrong.  The next morning at exactly 8a.m. I get a call from Dr. Smiles front office, "hello, when are we scheduling those appointments for Bradyn, you, and Jon?"  I had slept on this whole experience the night prior and by 8a.m. that morning this front office girl was little more to me than a morsel to chew up and spit out.  As my little sister would say about an individual that enters into a verbal sparring match with me, "wow, aren't they the brave little toaster."

The brave little toaster got an earful ... she was a nervous little toaster and I was only half finished with my thoughts when she transferred me to the hag who said we couldn't be treated without insurance the day prior.  Bad move.  I repeated my tirade.  It included the words, "fleecing, ass, do you realize there are 10 other dentists in this tiny town, insurance fraud, when I'm through you will be out of network, husband in charge of making sure the gazillion dollar new adobe plant is built, contractors hired, and then the facilites managed (major news in Utah, many new jobs, huge economic boost, LOTS of out of staters moving into our little town), and never assume the haggard looking mother of 4 won't hesitate to use any and all influence at her disposal to make sure word spreads far and wide about Dr. Smiles ... you screwed up, we have REALLY good insurance, maxing out our coverage ... send me my kids x-rays so I can get them into a dentist with some semblance of integrity." 

She paused, did the whole, "sorry you feel that way," line (I hate that phrase, yes, I do feel that way, it's the most condescending phrase in the English language), backtracked, and told me the dentist is really involved in the insurance end of the practice.  Was she joking?  Would she really tell me that?  Yes, I had a response.  It was fortunate I was tired of talking to her and it was time to feed Bennett or this brave little toaster was headed to the scrap heap.  She tried to tell me she couldn't send me the x-rays.  Before she could finish her sentence I suggested she DO send me the x-rays because I OWNED them as I had PAID for them with my, you screwed up you dumb hag, REALLY good insurance.  She digressed, but told me I had to sign a release.  "To send them to my house?!"  Whatever, send me the release form.  Jon had his vasecotmy (another story, of course, there is nothing simple and fast without a story in the Eldridge household) later that afternoon so I had to put off calling another dentist for Bradyn's teeth. 

Now I'm rethinking that I didn't make that call to another local dentist before the weekend ... I'm pretty sure all the dentists talked to each other on church sunday.  I may have to find a dentist the next town over... in a different stake. (For those of you that don't know what the terminology stake means, see "mormon congregation of gathered little congregations with one leadership forming one mega conglomeration with another leadership all working in tandem".  There are lots of stakes in Utah.)

If you graduated from High School with me, and you are now a dentist, all 750 of you, take notice.  Build your practice, be successful, but let the front office staff handle the finances.  Never, ever, ever start an exam asking, "what's your coverage?"