Dentistry

Today was The Boy's annual dentist appointment.

I have extremely few fond memories of the dentist as a child. My first dentist, only hazily remembered, was an older man, the one my parents used, who wasn't that well suited to children. He soon told my mother he was removing kids from his practice, so we went elsewhere. The next one I don't remember as particularly personable either. The third one -- the one who I stayed with until I left the hometown -- was a very nice man and a great dentist, but he had the unpleasant task of removing the baby teeth I had that just. wouldn't. fall. out. I think all in all he pulled three or four of my baby teeth out, which was a painful and traumatizing experience, one which is forever burned in my brain.

Not the mention the fact that he was the man who recommended to my mother that I get braces, which of course in hindsight was a great decision, because my teeth are pretty and probably healthier because of it, but it was a full year of painful mouth and peer teasing, which pretty much SUCKED. Good memories of dentistry are something I simply don't have.

So the first time we took The Boy to the dentist, I was beyond nervous. I picked a pediatric dentist, too -- more expensive, but I was hoping he would be excellent with children, and so would his hygienists, and thus The Boy's first experiences would be good ones. I do believe that good oral hygiene is a very good practice, and I think a good start in life down this road will be a very good thing.

But I was nervous. So nervous, in fact, that I had to leave the room when they were looking at his teeth. I'm sitting there, just watching, and was feeling so ill and so horrible that I had to leave the room. They weren't doing anything that hurt, he was fine, but I was so distraught I had to leave the room. Let's keep in mind that I've held my kid down while he screamed while they stuck him with IV needles when he was sick with a kidney infection, so clearly I have a real neurosis here.

So I made The Man take him this time. Oh, I told him what was coming, I reminded him of last time and how he went to the special room with the special chair that tipped back and that they were going to look inside his mouth. "And count my teeth!" he remembered. And I said yes, but THIS time they would also BRUSH his teeth for him! He was puzzled by this news, but accepting. (Of course, he's three; if I told him they were going to kindly stroke his tongue he'd be puzzled but accepting. Everything is new.)

We texted back and forth through it, me at home, The Man at the office. When his turn came, The Boy just trotted off happily with the hygienist. The Man on tenterhooks, listening intently in the waiting room for close to half an hour for noises of distress and wailing. Nothing. He's called in, sees our tiny boy, legs in the air, back on the chair. His mouth is open, the dentist pokes around; the dentist pauses to talk to The Man, and The Boy closes his mouth. The dentist turns his attention back to our child, who obediently just opens his mouth again. Not a peep, not a complaint, not a tiny bit of resistance. Just ... fine.

This isn't the first time he's surprised me with his bravery in new situations; this is especially notable because he wasn't a terribly adaptable nor outgoing baby. But I guess this is what parenting is: you spend the time and energy and try to prepare your child to go out into the world, and if you are lucky they are just as able as you hope they will be. And we are. Very lucky.

But to put this into perspective, I might also note that upon leaving the dentist's office, The Man and The Boy encountered ... wait for it ... WIND. And while he can sit and have his mouth poked at for half an hour with nary a complaint, the WIND in his FACE was a definite cause for disquiet and great complaints.

You just never can tell.