The Doctor is IN

They're all good sides.

Nine years ago today, I was born in a humble mansion in Powell, Ohio.  I knew from the beginning that I was destined for more, for greatness, and I decided that I needed a way out.  So when that blonde girl came to visit, as my other siblings were running around playing and acting like fools, I did what I had to do.  I'm almost ashamed to talk about it, but you know what they say about desperate times.  So yes I, the soon-to-be Dr. Vezer Paulus Esber, groveled.  I sat quietly in her lap. I looked soulfully into her eyes.  I did my absolute best to convince her that I needed her.  And she totally bought it...ate it up in fact.  What a sucker.

And so she became my Mommy.  And for the first three and a half years, I had her all to myself.  And it was awesome.  I didn't have to share her, I slept in her bed, went everywhere with her, and generally did whatever the heck I wanted to do.

Where's my shirt?

And then, boom: she got married.  And I had a daddy.  Now, don't get me wrong, two parent households are okay for some people.  But I'm not one of those people.  We were doing just fine on our own, thankyouverymuch.  Daddy tried to do things like sleep closer to Mommy than I was or sit on my chair at the table.  He even ignored me once when I was having an allergic reaction to a spider bite.  Good thing Mommy got home in the nick of time and rushed me to MedVet.

I eventually made peace with the Daddy situation.  I mean, it is nice to have four hands to pet you and 2 people to feed you.  And Daddy snuck me food that Mommy would never give me, like entire cheese slices.

Sitting in a hat?  Really?

And then, Mommy let a cat in the house.  A CAT.  They go to the bathroom inside for goodness sakes.  I don't even know what to say.  And the vet tried to blame it on ME!!  "A cat that had a home wouldn't willingly come in a house that has a dog" she said.  Don't put this on me, lady...I am a perfectly good dog.  I growled at it and tried to chase it out.  Maybe the cat is the defective one, did you think about that?!?  The only good part about it is that The Honorable seemed to be too busy with his plans for world domination to pay much attention to me, so life went on as usual.

Oti doesn't even deserve a caption.

And then, Oti the cat's condo burned down.  Now, I am nothing if not a humanitarian; so I suppose I can excuse housing a displaced fire victim every now and then.  Especially when that victim weighs half a ton and mostly cowers in fear of everything.  The part I don't get is why he's still living here, mooching off my Mommy, 3 years after the fire incident.

Please get this thing off of me.

And then, Mommy did the unthinkable.  She got me a BROTHER. Did I want a brother?  No.  But...maybe it could be cool to have someone who looks up to me, someone to teach all of my Vizsla wisdom to and who would otherwise worship the couch I lay on.  Yes, that would be cool.  But that's not who we got.  We got Quixx.  Now, I tried to make him a good Vizsla, I really did.  I tried to get him to listen to me and treat me like a god.  But he must have a learning disability, because he mostly just thinks that HE is the awesome one. And suddenly, the bed is too crowded.  Mommy and Daddy decide that Quixx and I have to sleep in the little bed...that's right, a TWIN SIZED bed that is pulled right up next to Mommy and Daddy's bed.  I called the ASPCA, but they were clearly negligent in this matter as they didn't even return my call.  Losers.

I hope you kept the receipt.

And then, a little person suddenly appeared.  And this one didn't just use the bathroom inside the house, he used it in his pants.  In.his.pants.  Gross.  So I did the only thing I could do.  I had to, and I'm not sorry about it.  I had an allergy attack.  Yep, I made my Mommy prove her love to me by making sure the first place she drove herself after having a baby was to the vet.  And you know what?  She did it.  And she proceeded to cook me special meals on top of caring for Daddy, The Honorable, Oti, Quixx, and the little person for the next 5 months.  And take me to lots and lots of doctors' appointments (I told her we didn't have to do that, but she insisted.)


So despite all these changes, and people that I now have to share my Mommy with, I know she still loves me the same way she did when I turned on the charm 9 years ago.  Which just goes to show you that I knew exactly what I was doing when I picked her.  I am so smart, it scares me sometimes...

Kelsey would like to thank her guest blogger, Dr. Vezer Paulus Esber, for taking time out of his busy schedule to fill in for her today.  And a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY to our Vizsla Major.  We love you and you will always be my first baby and founding member of the family...so enjoy the day lounging on the couch and licking the sticky baby.  You deserve it ;)

Miss Bindergarten's Last Day of Kindergarten

Today is my mom's last day of kindergarten.  Quite an accomplishment, considering she's been there 26 years.  Maybe the administration figured that since she didn't attend kindergarten herself, it would take her that long to figure out whether it's supposed to be called an oval or an ellipse.

All kidding aside, I am very proud of my mom for having such a successful teaching career.  In fact, I think I am a tad sentimental about her retiring.  I think about all the kids who she helped get off to a good start in formal education.  I think about how she has been the only teacher that has ever taught in her physical classroom, despite the building being almost 20 years old.  I think about her not "being a teacher" and it makes me a little sad.

She, on the other hand, is not sad.  At all.  Up until recently, she used to say things like, "I love my job!" and "what would I even do if I retired?"  But once the decision was made that this would be her last year, she has not looked back.  Even when I try to evoke some emotion:

Me: Won't you be sad that your career is over?                  

Kindergarten: The Early Years

Her: Nope.

Me: Will you miss doing (whatever they did at school that day)?
Her: Nope.

Me: You used to think you'd be bored being retired.  What do you think you'll do?
Her: Anything but teach.

Ooooookay.  Never mind then.  I'll just be over here being sentimental Sally by myself. 

But it does make me wonder what I will be like when I retire.  Will I miss drilling teeth?  Giving people shots?  Having complete strangers tell me they hate me?  Probably not.  But I think I will miss (most of) my patients, and the thought of selling a (hypothetical) practice that I've (hypothetically) worked so hard to build to some (hypothetical) whippersnapper that's fresh out of dental school already gives me the (not-so-hypothetical) heebie jeebies.

But my mom's career is different.  She has given her all to each classroom full of kids every year for 27 years, but eventually they move on.  To first grade, yes.  But also to middle school, then high school, college, and then real life.  And to think that my mom got to be their first teacher?  Well, that's pretty special in my book.  And if you cracked my mom's exterior, I think she'd admit that it has been pretty special for her too.  So Happy Retirement, Mom!!  Now maybe you can do something crazy, like not cross the tops of your capital Js...

We Don't Sow

I have recently decided that I should learn to sew.  You know, in all the free time I have.  This decision was made when I ordered a couple of infinity scarves from a very talented local WAHM (work-at-home-mom, for those outside the cloth diaper cult world) who was taking a break from making the most fabulous cloth diapers known to babies bums to make some mamas these scarves.  Now, never have I ever ordered a diaper, gotten it in the mail, and thought, "I could make this" but that is exactly what happened when I got these scarves.  They were beautiful.  They were incredibly well-made.  But they actually looked pretty simple to make.  So simple in fact, that I thought perhaps I could even do it.

So here my friends, is Kelsey's 10 Step Learn-to-Sew Program:

• Step 1 - Ask your mother to teach you
• My mother is an incredible teacher.  She will actually be retiring this year after 26 (I think) years of teaching kindergarten.  I know she is an incredible teacher because, well, she is my MOM after all.  She was my first and still is my primary teacher.  Anyway...in this case however, teaching me to sew did not prove to be successful.  My mom uses my grandmother's sewing machine from (I swear) the 1800s...you know, the ones that are actually attached to a huge wooden table??  Yep, here it is:
  
  
    I ended up mangling a onesie I was attempting to hem for my son.  Sewing fail.

• Step 2 - Sign up for a JoAnn Fabric's sewing class
•  Easy-peasy.  Go in, sign up, pay your money, learn to sew.  Except...I failed to plan ahead (surprise!!) and ended up with no one to watch my little mister during the class that I had already signed up and paid for.  So, he accompanies me to the first part of class.  About 15 minutes into it, I give him my cell phone as a distraction...and he throws it across the room, causing it to come apart and spatter under the other pupils' feet.  He laughs gleefully.  I apologize profusely.  After his grammy comes to get him, I manage to make this wallet:
  
  I am a natural!  This had absolutely nothing to do with the instructor who was hovering over my shoulder the entire time.  Nope, all me.

• Step 3 - Acquire / Borrow / Steal a sewing machine
• Now would be a good time to mention that my mother DOES actually have a more modern sewing machine.  And by "more modern" I mean from the 1970s (which is technically almost a century more modern than the one she uses.)  I have nicknamed it the Steel Beast.  It looks like this:
  
  The Steel Beast weighs approximately 40 pounds and has not been used since the day my grandparents bought it for her.  In the 1970s.  That is because, and I quote: "It has a lot of stitches and it's too confusing."  So my mom and I dig it out of her basement...it is behind an old aquarium and a plastic bin full of books, and it is COVERED in dust.  Sawdust from my dad's workbench, but also 30-some years of not-moving-sitting-on-a-back-shelf-in-someone's-basement dust.  My mom insists that I take it outside immediately and Clorox wipe it down.  I am positive this will work however, because I have a couple of things working in my favor: one, I am now a professional because I took a 2 hour class at JoAnn Fabric's and I am apparently a natural at sewing (I mean, look at that wallet again.  Beautiful.); two, my mom somehow managed to find the manual and I am very good at following instructions in picture form (how do you think dentists BECOME dentists??  It ain't by working on real people, that's for sure); and three, I am incredibly cheap and the most inexpensive sewing machine I can find is close to $150 and looks like it will break after a month of use.  And trust me, the Steel Beast is NOT going to break.  And it's free. 

•  Step 4 - Read the manual
• Over and over and over and over and over and over.  Screw something up.  Repeat. 

• Step 5 - Make something simple
• I decide that I will start with a drawstring bag.  It goes well enough:
  
  But...I feel like I cheated.  I didn't use a pattern, I just free-handed it (so-to-speak).  So I attempt to be like a real big-girl sew-er and use a pattern to make another wallet.  It goes semi-okay-I-guess.  For a wallet that will never see the light of day, at least:
  
  
  
  I decide free-handing it is the way to go.  Dentists are spacial and all of that, right?  (Please note that says "spacial," not "special.")

• Step 6 - Get a custom order
• I excitedly show Patrick my drawstring bag, and was even more excited when he asked me to make him one to put his extra cash in (side note: Patrick has a box of "cool stuff" that he puts things like playing cards and cash in...I think the concept of having a "cool stuff" box is something boys never outgrow, the cool stuff just gets different).  I perhaps get a tad over excited about this and proceed to pull out the huge stash of fabric I have been (secretly) buying online and hoarding upstairs in the laundry room.  I spread it ALL out and ask what fabric he wants his bag made from.  He looks at me with a "you can't be serious, you have sewn approximately 3 items and you already have all this fabric?!?!?" look, but smartly just chooses a fabric and (after pestering his desired dimensions out of him) goes on his way. 
  
• Step 7 -Learn the importance of seam allowances
• I decide that I am clearly enough of a proper seamstress that I should have a pin cushion.  I find a relatively easy tutorial and I am off to sewing!  I enjoy telling myself that it looks cool, alternative and modern like this:
  
  Which is way better than telling myself that I messed up the seam allowances and it sits wonky like this:
  
• Step 8 - Try different stitches
• My mom is right, the Steel Beast does have a lot of stitches.  And a lot of ways to use each stitch too (length and zig-zag controls?)  I want to try the stitches, but I don't like to waste fabric just stitching for the heck of it.  I decide to make some un-paper towels (which, to my understanding, is just how hip, young, environmentally minded people say "dishcloths") to add to our stack.  I turn and top-stitch them, each side of each one with a different stitch.  Now if I could just remember which side corresponded with which stitch, I'd be all set.
  

•  Step 9 - Organize your sewing space
• We actually have a spare bedroom that is designated the "craft room."  It houses all of our wrapping paper, my paint supplies, our little mister's paint supplies, some assorted fabric, dot markers, construction paper, scissors, tape, etc. etc. etc.  We have a nice, roomy table up there, along with a desk for Patrick to use when he studies.  But...it is right next to our son's bedroom, and the only free time I have is when he is asleep.  And the Steel Beast is noisy.  And the last thing I want is less free time a cranky child because I woke him up while sewing.  So our dining room has become my sewing room.  I like to think of it as yet another reason why I clearly deserve to win a housekeeper of the year award.
  
  Side note: no, I did not make the diaper that is in the bottom of this picture.  And no, I have no idea why it is there.  <--- Housekeeper of the year.  Just sayin'.

• Step 10 - Debut your work
• So the day of reckoning has come.  I have made an infinity scarf and I will proudly wear it to a social function.  And I do.  Annnnnnd...no one says a word about it.  Not.one.word.  And trust me...they saw it.  It's not the type of scarf you miss.
  
  
  I like it, but anyone who knows me knows that I have odd fashion sense (or maybe NO fashion sense).  I like big (ie: gaudy), bold (ie: tacky), statement (ie: not necessarily a good one) pieces.  Which will be what you can tell yourself when you see me wearing my next creation...
  

Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes

After 17 years of consistent running, 6 of which were competitive, I would wager that there are very few running "experiences" that I have not had the pleasure of having.  Vomit, check.  Other intestinal feats of strength, check.  Using the woods as a bathroom, check.  Falling and the sequel to falling (bleeding), check.  Blisters, check, check, check, and...check.  But after my half marathon two weekends ago, I am going to experience something I never have before.

I am going to lose a toenail.

That's right, I said it.  And if it grosses you out that I typed that, then you should stop reading.

How is it, you might ask yourself, that I have managed to go this long without losing a toenail?  My dad's feet barely have any as a norm, and Patrick has lost his fair share over the years.  I'd like to chalk it up to my superior form, you know, my feet are perfectly aligned and I strike on them evenly blah blah blah.  I'd even accept that my beloved Asics are impenetrable to the type of trauma necessary to injure a toe badly enough to cause this.  And although my feet are misshapen, as my pinkie toe (when straightened) is the same length (or longer) as my fourth toe, that seems like it would encourage injury, not prevent it.

Nope, it's as simple as this.  In 17 years of running, I have never once stubbed my toe on the couch less than an hour after getting home from a race.  What's that?  You don't think that counts as a legitimate running injury?  Excuse me???  It legitimately hurt, and I'm pretty sure that my clumsiness could only be attributed to being tired after running (yes, I'm SURE that's it...). Therefore, it is a running injury and I will count it as such.

Now that we've established the legitimacy of this injury, let's get on with the pictures.

This is what my toe looked like 2 days after the race.  At the time, I thought it looked pretty bad and decided against wearing sandals out of the house that day.  In retrospect, I should have embraced the sandals because who knows when I will get a chance to bare my feet again.

This is about 5 days post-race.  I was taking off my work shoes this day and said to Patrick, "I think my toenail fell off."  He barely glanced at my foot and said, "no it didn't."  "How can you tell?" I asked.  His response: "When it falls off, it won't be black anymore."  How much I have to learn...

Current picture, 9 days post-race.  I am getting impatient.  I have considered buying black nail polish and painting all of my toenails so this one doesn't look like the pinkie step-child of the group.  Just.fall.off.already.





So I will continue to wait (and wait and wait...) until I am one less toenail.  And for those of you wondering, my next race will be a 5k that will be winner-take-all for either me or Patrick.  So hopefully after that little competition, I won't be one less toenail AND one less husband...

Everything Zen

For those that are wondering, yes I do actually remember that this blog is supposed to be loosely based on my running escapades.  And yes, I am training for a half marathon coming up in a week or so.  Well, at least as much as I "train" for anything...

Running to me isn't about training for a big event.  It's about, well, running.  So when I was sitting in a staff meeting a couple of weeks ago, and my boss says to me, "why don't you run the Tough Mudder?" and one of our hygienists says, "or the Warrior Dash?" I have no problem saying "NO."

You see, those races combine "running" and an obstacle course.  I have running in quotes there, because I would challenge the fact that these races are for "runners."  These are races for people who like a challenge, sure.  But...not true runners.  Please note that I am not saying that you can't be a true runner and participate in these events.  No, no...I am saying that IF you ARE a true runner and you participate in these events, you clearly realize that you are NOT doing this as a running event.  You are doing this as an obstacle course.  And that is very, very different from true running.

In my opinion, when true runners want to run a race, they don't want obstacles to distract them from the actual joy of running.  They don't want to leave the ground to scale a rickety wooden A-frame.  They don't need to prove how tough they are by jumping into ice water.  And they've got plenty of mud on their shoes without having to artificially create a mud-pit to fling themselves into.

I don't even listen to music while I run.  I don't need someone's voice in my ear, I need to listen to my own thoughts.  Plan my own dreams.  Pay attention to the road or maybe study the other people going by.  I don't want to be distracted from my run, I just want to breathe deep and enjoy it.

I think this is part of the reason that the horrible events at the Boston Marathon shook me to my core.  Running is my safe place.  It's where I go to get away from the terrible things in this world.  To just complete such a small "challenge" as a run so I know that I can complete the bigger challenges of this life.  And to think that someone would attack others that were enjoying my beloved sport just makes me very sad and very angry all at the same time.

So next Saturday, I will stand at the start line and begin another half marathon (I have seriously lost count of what number this will be...even Patrick couldn't remember).  I will get about two hours and 10 minutes (give or take) of solitude amongst 16,000 other true runners.  I will reflect on those in Boston and count myself blessed.  I will compose a grocery list, ask myself why I do this, and make up a back-story for the person in front of me.  But trust me when I say that after I finish, there will be no part of me that thinks, "I wish I could have crawled under some barbed wire about half-way through that run..."  

  

IT JUST TASTES LIKE A HOT DOG, OKAY?!?!?

Every week as I compose my grocery list, I ask Patrick what he would like for our upcoming dinners.  And for the first four years of our marriage, every week he would invariably say one of the following items:

Meatloaf

Spaghetti

Fish

Please do not suppose that this is because I lack creativity in the kitchen.  I enjoy cooking (mostly because I enjoy eating) and I am not afraid to tackle new recipes.  And Patrick is most certainly not afraid to tackle new foods.  In fact, he likes to order items off restaurant menus that he has no idea what they are just to be surprised when they show up at the table (swiss cheese, ham, powdered sugar, and grape jelly on pumpernickel bread anyone?)  

Last June, I asked him the same old question expecting the same old answer.  But this time, I got this response:

Hot Dogs

Now, I am not a food snob, but I have some standards.  And eating hot dogs for dinner is below them.  But he followed his response up with this:

...and I'll make them.

And that, my friends, is all it took for hot dogs to no longer be below my standards for dinner in our household.  Bring on the frankfurters.

So over the past 10 months, we have periodically had hot dogs for dinner.  But Patrick cannot just bring himself to slap together a hot dog, bun, ketchup, and mustard and call it dinner.  No, no, we must become hot dog connoisseurs.  We must not just eat the hot dog, we must experience it.  And (like all things the Esbers do) we must make hot dogs unnecessarily complicated.

Our running list of "hot dogs we have tried" is written on the back of a sample ballot for the 2012 election.  A ballot which a friend asked to borrow and make a copy of, and I said, "uhhh, not to be difficult, but our hot dog list is on the back of that...so can I email you the website I got it from instead?"  Aforementioned friend's look was priceless.  A mix between "what the heck are you talking about?!?!?" and "why am I somehow not surprised that the Esbers think their hot dogs are more important than the presidential election?"  Like I said, priceless.

The list goes as followed:

• Cuban Dog - ham, Swiss cheese, pickles
• Seattle Dog - onions, cream cheese, brown mustard, sauerkraut 
• Hawaiian Dog - mango, pineapple, jalapeño peppers
• Parisian Dog - pears, Brie cheese, Dijon mustard
• Chicago Dog - tomato, pickle relish, yellow peppers, onions 
• Pizza Dog - marinara sauce, mushrooms, fresh mozzerella cheese, basil leaves
• Banh Mi Dog - mayo, Sriracha sauce, sugar, cucumber, carrot, mint leaves

Not exactly a health food list.  But overall, they were good; some better than others (mint + hot dogs = bad choice) but as long as Patrick is willing to fix them, I suppose we will be adding new recipes to the list.  But for a woman who prides herself on her "personalized" grocery coupons always being for carrots, apples, and whole wheat bread, I will admit to being a tad appalled when our last flyer arrived in the mail.  You guessed it: $1.00 off your choice of hot dogs...

Stranger Danger

For several years, Patrick and I have called New Life our church home.  And we loved it; we loved that the church's focus was on Christ, we loved our small groups, we loved the nursery for our son, and we loved our friends.  What we did not love however, was that it is located in Gahanna.  Which was not convenient when we lived in Clintonville, became very inconvenient when we moved to Delaware, and super-duper massively inconvenient when we had a child.  It was not unusual for us to walk in 20 minutes late (and yet we never seemed to miss the "everybody turn around and greet each other" segment.  I think the pastor held off on that every week until he saw us walk in.)

So this fall, we embarked on a search for a new church home...this time in Delaware.  After a few visits, Patrick announced on the way home from Delaware Grace Brethren that he liked it and thought we could regularly attend there.  Patrick doesn't typically make such bold announcements, so I figured that either A) he liked it or B) he was as sick of being unsettled as I was.

And so we started attending Delaware Grace, and (due in part to the small size of the nursery, as well as in part to the fact that he is awesome) our son quickly became known to the nursery workers.  And he met a friend, who is very close to his age and has about the same amount of hair (that is, not much).  So the little Mister was settling in nicely.  For Patrick and I however, the service size is approximately 200 times the size of the nursery and we are not nearly as awesome as we'd like to think...so meeting new people is more difficult.

Here is a little known fact about me: I hate telling new people about myself.  Please note that this has nothing to do with the other person.  This is because the number one question that people ask a stranger is....

What do you do for a living?

And my answer is: 

I'm a dentist  

After I make the above statement, the conversation can go one of many ways:

1)  I hate the dentist.
 -Now, I am well aware that it is not a fun place to visit.  I work there for goodness sakes.  Heck, I don't just work there, I AM THE FREAKING DENTIST!!!!  Didn't your mama ever teach you that it's totally rude to tell a person that you just met that you hate them?!?!?  Apparently this rule does not apply to dentists, as we are sub-human.


2)  Oh. (uncomfortable silence)  Well, I'd best be going.  *abrupt end to conversation*
 -I think this is typically the reaction of someone who feels like I am looking at their teeth and judging them.  Trust me, when I am not at work, I don't care about your dental sins.  But I can sympathize with this group of people...it's the same way I feel when someone says, "I'm a personal trainer" and I suck in my stomach and suddenly regret that pint of Ben & Jerry's I just inhaled. 

3) I got this tooth that's giving me trouble if you wouldn't mind taking a look...

 -Yes, I would mind taking a look.  You are a complete stranger, we are not in my office, you are not my patient, and (unless you are going to pay me for this advice) I am not at work.  I mind very much.

4) My aunt's second cousin's husband is a dentist in Montana, Dr. Tom Smith.  Do you know him?

 - No, I don't actually.  He must not have paid his yearly dues to the super-secret-all-dentists-know-each-other club.  Alternatively, sometimes I like to mix it up a bit and say, "Oh yeah, Dr. Smith!!  How is he doing these days???"

5) My dentist pulled a tooth once and his knee was up on my chest!!!

 -This has never happened in the history of ever.  Period.  If you would like more of an explanation on WHY a dentist would never do this, feel free to leave a comment and I might get back to you.

6) You must make a lot of money

 -This one, even if they are just thinking it, is THE WORST.  I can honestly say that I hate that more than anything.  I paid the dental school six figures for the pleasure of attending.  So no, I do not take a money shower after work every night.

I have actually considered lying when I answer this question.  Not because I am ashamed of my profession, I love being a dentist and we do serve a need in society (a need that people hate, but a need nonetheless).  But I don't exactly know what I would say instead, so by default I always tell the truth...and brace myself for the other person's reaction. 

So a couple of weeks after we started attending Delaware Grace, a very nice woman came up to us and introduced herself.  We chatted a little bit, and the inevitable question came up.  But when I answered, she very sweetly replied, "How nice!  You must really enjoy that!"  And I just stared at her...I didn't even know what to say.  No judgement?  No remarks about how you hate me?  No random tooth issues that suddenly need resolved on a Sunday morning?  Ummmm, yes, yes I do enjoy it...thank you.

Come to find out, that very nice lady is the pastor's wife.  I think we might just fit in here after all...