My Mother-in-law dug out her guilt stick and has beaten me senseless with it every chance she gets because I have not posted since the Olympic season. What is there to blog about when Bob Costas is not a fixture in your life? Like, I mean, C'mons
Hey. Have you ever noticed that BLOG and BRAG are spelled almost the same?
Cue:
"Pomp and Circumstance." Played by the high school band. With the brass section a little off key. And it's pouring down rain because it always pours down rain for graduation.
Enter:
One of your Children. In a graduation robe. With a
DOCTOR hood on it. It's one of your children, filing into an auditorium, that is stuffy and hot, but you don't care because your son is wearing a graduation robe with one of those
DOCTOR thingies on it that only people who study really really hard and become
DOCTORS get to wear.
Feel:
The magic. Because you birthed that
DOCTOR who is filing in down there, you birthed that
DOCTOR waiting to get his diploma. You birthed him, and raised him, and made him stop sassing you, and you feel the wonder of it all. How could this be, you ask honestly? He finally made something of himself if it was the last thing he did.
Magicmagicmagic you keep hearing someone whisper in your ear....
Hear:
The sound of the record needle screech (for those you that can remember the sound of a record needle screech.)
For those who were born after 1982, a record needle screeching symbolizes my little graduation scenario careening off the road, down the cliff, rolling head over tail, bouncing off rocks and splatting upside down in the deepest part of the ocean. With no survivors. You have just heard the sound of no survivors.
Enter:
Reality. There is no graduation ceremony. There is no music. There is no robe. There is no robe with a fancy smancy hood on it. There is no magic. There is no waving wildly from the stuffy bleacher hoping people will click their tongues and say wow, did
she really raise that smart
DOCTOR type because he looks like he might have been a sassy pants in his day? Wowzers She's AMAZING!!
OK. OK. In all reality there IS a diploma. And there IS a
DOCTOR. But because of some dumb opportunity in some dumb other state, and because they had to be there by June 21st,
someone robbed their mommacita of the glory that is only derived in a stuffy bleacher. So instead I bring to you, (my mother-in-law, my only reader left):
.
The Final Teeth Cleaning:
(please, out of respect, hum the Pomp song)
.
First, instead of a cap and gown and hoodie, we have scrubs that have been washed 1000s of times filing down the aisle, bearing a smile and searching the crowd for the woman who made it all possible by letting him cement 2 gold crowns in her mouth.
.
Next we have the putting on of the ceramonial final-teeth-cleaning rubber gloves. Almost as good as a Dr. Hood but only if this is all you get.
.
Next, we have a close up, of the million dollar specs that won't likely be needed in the world of Orthodontia. Sassy Pants Payback.
.
Seriously
.
What mommacita would be worth her salt if she hadn't taken a picture of herself, in her son's dental chair, with his hands in HER mouth? Can you believe how on point I am? If the people in the bleachers only knew about me. And my nostrils.
.
My feet in my own sassy son's dental chair. Gloria, you might not be able to tell, but my shoes are purple patent leather.
.
Final proceedure in dental school: all done. ALL DONE ALLDONEALLDONEALLDONE.
.
The graduate next to us was jealous that Dubers has such a wonderful mother.
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Last paper work of dental school.
You'd think you'd get a ceremony when that happens.
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My Chair Hair, and My Finger. Which by the way has nothing to do with the accomplishments of the graduate.
.
I found this on the counter in Duber's new kitchen. It is mail, received in his new state. You might have noticed the DOCTOR by his name. It's real baby, it's real
.
(You might also have noticed that this is a bill. Cue: self righteous little harumph)
