I'm sure that if I could just get "Goodmorning Starshine" out of my head I'd be a lot happier. Sigh. I blame Beth - she's the one who told the whole Baby Club that she sings it to her baby in the morning because the happy babble elevates everyone's spirits. Two days ago I went through my parents' vinyl collection to find some Sharon, Lois & Bram albums ("Circle of the Sun" is running thin...inspiration is drying up). I found the original cast recording of Hair, and put it on in the living room. Blake, like countless other babies, was put down in front of the speakers to groove.

(Heh. Talk about your time capsules. My mom immediately came into the room and started dancing & singing with Blake. I can't believe they let her highschool produce it. Very daring. Or maybe no one bothered to read the song list.)

It was amazing how quickly my mother got into the spirit of the exercise. I really think that vinyl is the last form of music technology that she's comfortable with. I don't mean that's a bad thing, although it means that she's more or less alienated & intimidated by cutting edge music recording technology. That means that there's less music in her life. But maybe she sings more to recover that loss.

Sorry about the rambling. It's hard to be concise with "nibby nabby nooby" running through your thoughts.

Big news: at some point yesterday, One-Tooth the Squirrel Boy became Tommy Two-Teeth. To celebrate I bought some organic teething cookies that look suspiciously like dog biscuits. Ha. We'll have to be on the lookout for a cold wet nose.

I am cystless. Yes, yes. (Preacher & those with faint hearts may wish to skip this section.) Yesterday was the dreaded appointment. On Tuesday I took the walk to get the cream to numb the place to bear the pain of having this cyst removed. It was supposed to take an hour to work, which was why the gyno wouldn't do the procedure at last month's appointment. Dutifully I applied the cream. It, uh, burned. I wondered if the pain from the cream was supposed to distract me from the draining.

At the office, the receptionist asked the Boy if he would run out to the drugstore & pick up the syringe they needed for the procedure. I blanched. Then the receptionist attempted to ease my fears by reassuring me that the reason they didn't have the equipment on hand was because "he never does these [procedures]." Oh crap, I thought, and I wondered what the consequences would be if I just cut & ran.

She asked if I would like the Boy to come in & hold my hand. Very shaky now, I nodded. He walked in a minute later.

"Good news, honey. You have to do it yourself!"

"Let me scrub up," he replied, snapping imaginary surgical gloves.

Many minutes later, the gyno came in. With a minimum of conversation, he peeled the wrapper off the syringe & went to town. THE CREAM DID NOTHING. Absolutely nothing. I whimpered and felt a labour flashback coming on. Finally it was over. The Boy watched the gyno squirt the syringe down the sink, telling me later that he was both fascinated & appalled by how much material was there. I was feeling pretty queasy myself, and not just because my blood was pooling on the examining table.

I was given no healing timeline and no aftercare instructions. This, coupled with the non-functional cream and the Desperately Seeking a Syringe performance, makes me think that I need a new gynocologist.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 6/04/2004 08:53:00 p.m.