i-Persecuted

On Friday I took Anna to a pediatric dental specialist. It seems she is going to need extensive work done on her teeth. Her adult teeth are insufficiently calcified and will need to be reinforced. I spent a good two weeks beating myself up for not being able to keep down calcium supplements (or anything else) while I was pregnant. But when we got to the specialist he said no, adult teeth actually form in the first year of life and it has little to do with diet, his own daughter had the same problem, and I could stop flagellating myself.

They gave her some Vicodin and nitrous oxide and promised me she wouldn't feel a thing. She was going to have a cap put on one of her back molars, which the dentist said was “as soft as butter”. But as soon as they started the procedure she started to cry and complain of pain. The crying intensified and soon she began to wail, a long, slow, low-pitched wail that I'm sure carried throughout the entire office. I crawled over the equipment and sat beside her on the chair, stroking her arm. It got worse. Before long she was flailing and I had to physically restrain her while they worked as quickly as possible to finish the cap. While I've had to restrain my children for shots before, I've never had to do it for a 20-excruciating-minute procedure. By the end of it we were both crying.

When it was done they plied her with stickers and gifts, gave her a popsicle and I carefully led her, wobbly and tear-stained, to the car.

You may be wondering why I would include something like this in Brenda's meme.

Well, here is why.

Near the end of the procedure, just when I thought I would sell my own soul to the devil in exchange for a good set of teeth for my daughter, the dental assistant leaned over and said to me: “She's not going to remember any of this. So tell her she did really well.”

After Anna had been home for a few hours and the drugs had worn off and she could walk from the couch to the kitchen without doing a face plant, she took to admiring her new silver cap. I asked if she remembered having it put on. She scrunched up her face a bit. “Not really,” she said, “do you?”

“Yes,” I said, “and you did great.  I'm really proud of you.”

She smiles a bit here, and I'm glad to see it. Because bless her little butter-soft teeth, she's going to be making many more trips back to the dentist. What I want her to remember is that when she walks out of there, she takes with her an armload of kid booty and the knowledge that she shored up well under pressure.

I, on the other hand, may need a good, stiff drink when I get home.