The jinx

Not long after the woman at the reception desk checked us in, she offered to schedule the boy’s sixth-month cleaning.

I hesitated. The moment elongated as my mind scanned through a litany of concerns I was compelled to tick off on an imaginary punch list, which, I’m not too proud to admit, not only includes worries about potential scheduling conflicts and also a host of involuntary superstitions.

This preemptive searching for open calendar entries ahead of the appointment at hand - which was just the routine x-rays and cleaning, scheduled six months earlier … at check-out.

As I scrolled through my phone’s calendar, my hands felt a little clammy, it seemed altogether possible that this might be THE THING that jinxes his 17-year record of being cavity-free.

It was a thought I suppressed using past history and hopeful thinking (his doctor has ALWAYS joked with us about the evenness of the terrain of his teeth, and how that means it’s unlikely the boy would ever need sealants or have trouble with the areas of the mouth in other mere mortals would find to be the cavity-prone zones.

I took deep breaths as I scrolled through my calendar, and swallowed as I accepted a day and time similar to the here and now.

“You can go back with him if you want.”

I have never enjoyed this part of parenting. Sitting in a corner chair of an exam room, holding my breath and waiting for the let-down while I listen to dialogue somewhere in the middle of a familiar animated movie, but neither of us has committed to memory.

I listen to the questions about the number and duration of daily brushings, and the half-truth he tells about the consistency of his morning brush and the evening floss.

“Does he still wear his retainer?”

Oh, I hope so. 

He receives the same advice as last time, and time before that: “Take extra time at the gum line. Close your mouth a little when you are scrubbing the molars.”

Honestly, I feel pretty good as the hygienist collects the tools and heads for the door. You are ready for the doctor, she almost sings as she exits. 

I have stopped trying to gauge her expressions. I couldn’t see a furrowed brow under the mask and cap unless I were obnoxiously close. My heart rate has returned to normal. My shoulders are substantially lower than my ears and I have stopped bouncing my knees to my mind’s playlist of atonal jazz.

When the doctor strides in with the practiced ease, my smile is genuine. Nothing in his voice worries me as he dictates letters and classes and occlusions and eruptions to the assistant.

“But unfortunately .…  it does look like he has a very tiny cavity in the back molar. Nothing to worry about, but it will need to be filled. We’ll get you back here in a week or two. No problem.”

“Is this your first adult cavity?”

“Well, it was a good run.”

I am relieved no one sounds too disappointed. 

Especially as I think - but don’t list - any of his recent dietary changes, particularly his newfound adoration of Arizona Arnold Palmer’s may be the culprit. 

That’s a conversation for later. 

Safety in redundancy

When New Yorkers cast their ballots in the 2024 election, they will have an opportunity to strengthen the State Constitution’s current equal protection provisions.

I hope they will see fit to do just that.

If approved, Proposition 1, known as the Equal Rights Amendment, would amend Article 1, Section 11 of the New York Constitution, which currently protects against unequal treatment based on race, color, creed, and religion. The proposal will amend the act to also protect against unequal treatment based on ethnicity, national origin, age, disability, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, gender expression, pregnancy, and pregnancy outcomes, as well as reproductive healthcare and autonomy. The amendment will also allow laws to prevent or undo past discrimination.

 The League of Women Voters, a proponent of the measure, says Prop 1 will "cement the right to abortion in the State Constitution as well as protect access to reproductive healthcare, including abortion, birth control, and fertility treatments. The measure would also protect older New Yorkers, those who are disabled, and LGBTQ New Yorkers from discrimination in many areas of public life including hiring, housing, education, public accommodations, and healthcare."  

The LWV has explained that the wording, which clarifies that discrimination based on pregnancy or pregnancy outcome is sex discrimination, is crucial given the national trend of criminalizing people for all manner of pregnancy outcomes as well as medical procedures affected by the Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe V. Wade.

The measure would also ensure comprehensive and inclusive equal protections that will guard against attacks on rights from the federal government or federal judges, including threats to the legal equality of LGBTQI+ people.

The New York State Republican Committee, which stands in opposition to the Equal  Rights Amendment largely based on issues surrounding abortion and transgender rights, has argued the measure is too vague, and could potentially codify so-called late-term abortion into law. 

The organization has also raised suspicions that a Constitutional amendment would enable courts to take decisions about their children’s healthcare away from parents.

But while Republicans raise alarm bells about minors going to judges on their own to gain access to sex change operations, they also minimize the risk pregnant New Yorkers face, claiming that since abortion up to viability (about 24-26 weeks) has been legal in the state since 1970 and that the law is unlikely to change the ERA measure isn’t necessary. 

This argument should raise alarms.

Because if this measure merely adds a redundant layer of protection, why are they so adamantly fighting it? 

Perhaps watching 21 states ban abortion or restrict access well before the viability provisions of Roe has made them hopeful that the likelihood of change is within their grasp, especially as states continue to grapple with a landscape wherein seismic shifts in civil rights happen one sunny day in June with another 6-3 decision. 

Or perhaps we’ve noticed that they won’t stop there. They continue to push for an even more dystopian future where women won’t be allowed to travel across state lines for healthcare. 

Since Dobbs, New Yorkers are beginning to wake up to the understanding that without autonomy, women are at serious risk of being treated as community property, not individuals deserving of the ability to make their own decisions.

The pleasure of pressures

When I was in college, and away from home, I used to be so annoyed with my mother.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” she’d say glibly. I didn’t know how she meant it, but I assumed it to be a tiny jab at my expense for not being more communicative; as well as a liberal amount of self defense – maybe a window into how a mother’s anxiety evolves by degrees as her children neglect to call or write after leaving the nest.

In the days of landlines, before caller ID, she’d answer the phone, hear my voice, and ask: “What-do-you-want?” as if the question contained only one word but was loaded with angst.  

It would always set me on edge. My knee-jerk reply was always to say I didn’t want anything. I just wanted to check-in. I would then take time to meander through pleasantries and a retelling of a parent-friendly escapade before getting, invariably, to the point – the real reasons I was calling home … whatever it was that had gone wrong.

I think of her often these days, usually as I settle in for an evening of night-time television viewing, or before retiring to bed at what seems like an impossibly early hour.

Days and nights go by. We don’t hear from our worldly firstborn. 

For the past few weeks, we've had scant news from our college student. A text here, letting me know showing me two pictures: a baking sheet full of vegetables, and the soup they became was very yummy; and a text there, telling me a social event she had planned – Dogs, Donuts, and Democracy – as part of her duties as Resident Assistant to encourage voting, and which included Campus Police puppies, Munchkins and hand-outs on how to apply for absentee ballots was also well received.

I still worry. 

But I also console myself using the same words I heard my mother say: Bad news travels fast. 

Which is why my heart jumps into my throat whenever her face lights up my phone.

No matter what the interwebs or TikTok or Googly-peg tell you, ANY phone call from your newly-adult children will raise your heart rate no matter what time of day it arrives. Maybe especially at the ungodly twenty-something hours of 8 a.m.

I did not panic.

“Hey! How’s it going?” I answer, trying to keep my voice calm.

She dispenses with small talk and gets to the point.

“When you replaced the tires, do you remember which you replaced?”

Of course, I couldn’t remember. With three cars that have been my responsibility to maintain over the past four years, it seems like all I have done recently is buy new tires for cars I don’t drive.

“Why?” I asked tightly, worried she was calling from a roadside with four flat tires and cars cartoonishly piling up in the aftermath.

“Because I’ve had to replace the air in a few of them two or three times in the last few months. It’s starting to worry me. Can you ask Dad?”

I try not to let on that the last bit annoys me. Not only had I been the one to handle car maintenance, but how many times had she been with me as I pressure-tested tires, or filled them up when the sensors alerted me to a slow leak? 

This is my wheelhouse.

I can hear her voice relax when I tell her not to worry. And for the next twenty or so minutes as she carries me around the gas station air pump, reading the pressure for each tire into the phone, she tells me about her day, her worries, and her petty grievances. 

“These are all fine.”

Pressures are relieved all around.

Into the void

 The day started with disappointment.

“Hey did you move the sign?” My husband brought me the first cup of the day and bad news.

The sign, his gift to me, was a hand-painted, snake-shaped uterus and the words “The Don’t Tread on Me.” And evidently, it was missing from the end of our driveway where it had lived for two years and four months.

I shook my head and shrugged as I took the coffee. “I guess Scary Season is upon us.”

After I felt a smidge more human, I slithered out of bed and zombie-walked to my desk, where, still drowsy, I sat staring blanking into a blank screen staring back.

 

I slurped from my mug and absently tapped at the keys. I hover my chin over the mug and tap a little harder. The computer hadn’t awakened from its sleep. 

My eyes finally opened to full attention, and as I pushed all the dim possibilities from my thoughts, landing on a similar time in history when I had parked in front of the bus station to wait for a friend’s arrival … theatrically reading the sign plastered on the wall in front of me … I’d said it aloud, over and over, making my voice sound as strange and Muppet-like as I was able … until the words’ meaning suddenly settled in: “We’ve moved.”

Oh. No one was there to witness my chagrin as I turned the ignition key and followed the sign’s directions to the new station building. 

In my office, I reached behind the screen and blindly located the computer’s ignition switch to press it. After a moment, my breath caught as the starting chime was interrupted leaving the screen dark and lifeless.

Each new attempt at a fix - checking cord connections, and power sources, unplugging all peripheral instruments, and trying the steps again. 

Nothing.

 

Hard starts, safe starts, and jump starts never got off the ground. The hobgoblins of technology blocked each and every attempt at multi-key depressive reconciliation.

I’m not sure I could tell you what I might have given for just a momentary glimpse of color, even if it were the feared Blue Screen of Death.

After swishing another cup of three of java down my gullet, I called out the Independent IT Cavalry … who would be sending someone directly ... or perhaps as directly as a squirrel in rush-hour traffic. Things are busy right now.

I take deep breaths.

“This is no time to panic,” I tell myself, using my inner puppet voice for levity. I see no sense in getting all worked up when all isn’t lost … just yet.

But while I wait for the madness that I am sure will descend, I have other methods at my disposal.

I dig out my laptop, which I hope will allow me to work from a backup I have tended faithfully but never had to employ. I have no reason to believe it will work. At least not effortlessly. 

  

My mind may be in the early stages of hardening against the updates of software or losing the flexibility and muscle memory to adapt to programs that speak to Kids Today (I’m talking about you SnapChat) but I refuse to give up.

And so … I  convince myself, after careful Googling, I discover that when it comes to this alternate frontier, space is likely the issue. And I might be able to free up some of it and at least get some work accomplished, if I just press “Yes” on the button that appears for a second time, giving me one last chance to back out from performing a function that in plain text sounds as if it will, in one fell swoop, will magically, tragically, but entirely make everything inside my computer disappear like smoke into a Cloud.

And off it went. 

Into the void.

.

Just as I should have suspected. All I can do now is to get another cup of coffee, dig out some new sign board, and wait for the calvary. There’s nowhere to go but up.