Complaining about minor inconveniences and top-quality dental care is my birthright as an American

I'm loathe to label this week as bad in my My Life, Week by Week emotion journal—because it's not that anything truly horrendous happened—but when accidentally standing on an anthill and not knowing until you've been bitten several times isn't the worst part of your week, then I'd say at least a frowny face is warranted. I mean, right?

Don't get me wrong, the anthill thing was bad, but Ethan immediately jumped into action and performed first aid on my poor foot (copious triple-antibiotic cream application and Elmo band aids). His outrage on my behalf was so intense I even agreed to let him say "freakin ants."

"Those freakin ants! Mommy, can I say 'freakin ants'?"
"I suppose."
"Freakin is the first name. Ants is the last name. Freakin ants!"

There's also been a lot of waiting around this week, owing to miscommunications, poor planning on the part of others, etc. I try to keep a patient attitude, but as it happens the anthill debacle occurred while I was waiting for over an hour because of a miscommunication.

Having a tooth yanked really took the cake. Yes, it was the tooth that gave me trouble a few weeks ago. A molar.

I've been nursing a gaping mouth wound for several days now, every fiber of my being focused on preventing dry socket—one of many gross-sounding conditions I've suffered from in the past. Guys, I haven't had anything crunchy since the Doritos I ate on Monday at the beach. First World Problem Alert! LOOK AT ME COMPLAINING ABOUT FOOD TEXTURE.

Noah has been babying me some, which I always appreciate, and I even made him look into my poor mouth this evening as punishment for forcing me to be a military wife.

"Wow, it's like The Walking Dead in there," he said encouragingly.