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Okay, you know I love my neighborhood. And the people in it, with all of their weirdnesses and quirks and leopard print.

But I'm not like them.

I'm not better than them, just different.

Sure there are people like me, but not many. There are two other moms on the block and they are exactly my age and have four children between them, all under age 4. And they're cousins, and their mothers live on the block too. South Philly can be like that.
But they stay at home and think I'm the devil for working. They don't say I'm the actual devil, they just say that they don't know how I leave my baby all day and theyz thought I weres married an' what's my man even do that I can't stay home? That'sa sin.

(Do people in your neighborhood think everything's a sin? Killing the pope and dropping your favorite teacup are equally punishable by God in my neighborhood. Everything slightly unpleasant is branded as a sin.)

And they lay out in front of their houses if the mercury tops 65. In bikinis.
We don't have front yards.
And I saw one of their vaginas one time at a bar. She's just that kind of girl.

An' they openly and publicly take pills awl day coz it ain't like they gotsta be at work or nothin'.
Not saying that there's anything wrong with that. But there is. And I choose not to be around pillpoppin' mommas.
Because I ain't knowin' how they get high with their babies all day and I thought they weres married an' what's their men dooz that they can't get their balls together to tell their women to stop doin' drugs in fronna the kids. Or maybe their mens are selling the drugs, affording these girls a life full of fancy new cars and red velvet curtains and giant diamond rings and at-will baby spitting and no working.

The rest of my neighbors are old.
Old old.
Old like, maybe one of them will kick it soon so we can get rid of some of these damned handicapped parking spaces old.
Old like, I haven't seen Mabel lately. I wonder what that meaty smell coming from her front window is~ maybe she's cooking dinner, maybe she's dead old.
Old like, I hope when Stan and Bea kick it a nice young professional non-addicted couple will move in old.

Anyway. I love my neighborhood not for my neighbors but because it's more than safe and the food is world class and the culture is booming and the shops are thriving and the convenience is convenient and and and everything but the parking is all a girl could ever ask for in life.

I'm different than my neighbors, and I'm okay with that.
I've been different all my life, and I'm doing pretty well with it.

So what?
You ask?

I took Jake to the dentist for the first time today and even though we don't look like my neighbors (my neighbors are always asking Jake and I where we are from and I never tell them that I've only been here for a decade and they are shocked because we're so classylike and refined and full of teeth and unscarred skin) the highly-recommended pediatric dentist who was otherwise wonderful assumed that I was like my neighbors.

To a dentist, that means that not only did I not take my child to the dentist in the 3+ years he has been on this earth, but I also didn't bother to brush his teeth or floss or restrict his sweets.
I'm not like the other mothers.
He told me that I have to start brushing his teeth twice per day and flossing and restricting sweets. He asked me if Jake drinks from a bottle. He told me that while some bleeding from the gums is normal and damage can be reversed through gentle massage and thorough cleansing. He said that candy is bad for teeth.
He said this all while poking around in Jake's mouth so on the inside I was freaking thinking that he was finding all sorts of sugarbugbloodynastyholes in there.
On the outside I raised an eyebrow because Jake's teeth have been getting brushed since before that kid had teeth. His teeth were getting flossed since he had two teeth that touched. He was off the bottle by nine months. There was no blood. I'm mean and don't allow candy but every so often.

The dentist got one of those hookofdeath things out and started scraping. Then stopped. Then started. Then looked at me and said "do you talk to his father? Has Jacob been to the dentist recently with his dad? There is absolutely no plaque. No tartar. Nothing between his teeth. No redness. No bleeding. It looks like he just had a cleaning. I've never seen a kid's teeth look like this. I've never had a kid sit still like this. I think he's been to the dentist before"
(Jake sat in the chair instead of my lap. Apparently he was the first kid under age 4 to ever do that in that longstanding office. And he didn't move a muscle because we practiced Going to the Dentist with our two Hygenist Cousins for a month and practice makes perfect)
And have you seen my teeth? (worth the click) I'm obsessed. Bad oral hygiene is a sin. Or it should be. I can't take it. Not for one minute. Tooth neglect is a sure sign of something bigger. Normal, well, healthy people take care of their teeth.

I told that dentist, in so many other words, that I wasn't like the other mothers around here and Jacob certainly wasn't like the other little boys. Then I chuckled to make it sound like I was joking but I really wasn't. I said it all real nicelike because there were some of those other mothers right nearby. Slapping their little boys and hollering at them to be good like Jake.
On the inside I was freaking smiling because I'm not those moms and Jake's not those boys.

It's not that we are better than them, just different.

And this is why I'm going to hell, lest I judge.
You know what? Forget that. I'm okay with thinking I'm different than other people. I work hard to be different than other people.