It’s not that I hate going to the dentist. It’s just that I’d rather be doing pretty much anything else than sitting in that chair while the world’s roughest dental hygienist rips up my mouth.
That’s a rash statement I know. Anything else? Really redhead? Well, fine. Not anything else. You know how much I hate being realistic on this blog. I guess I wouldn’t want to be on death row or have a pair of scissors stuck in my eyeball.
But in the moment, when I’ve got my mouth open to an uncomfortable width, the saliva is pooling up, I need to swallow but can’t, I have an incessant itch on my forehead that can’t be scratched, my claustrophobia sets in, and I start to worry that my mouth will get stuck in that grotesque position and they’ll need to crack my jaw to get it to relax, that’s the moment I start to think ANYTHING would be better than this. I’d rather be scooping up cow manure with my bare hands or getting one of those routine female examinations. You know the one. The one that cannot be named. Trust.
I guess the whole “cleaning” process would be almost bearable if it weren’t for this permanent retainer of mine, also known as a tartar magnet, and if I didn’t need to then endure the very same brute hygienist asking me how often I floss even though she knows very well the answer to that. She just wants to see me squirm. “Not as often as I should,” I say. When what I really want to tell her is, “Based on my personal experience, no matter how often I brush and floss, I will still get cavities. My teeth are programmed to decay even under the best of care.” She will inevitably think me a liar, even though I know for a fact I have generally the same routine as the Husband and he’s only had one measly cavity his entire life. Unfair. Yes.
But all this disdain will just have to sit and fester deep in my soul because I can’t let my son become privy to this information. I do not want him to dislike going to the dentist, especially when there are plenty of other things in life he can have temper tantrums over, like his milk being in the wrong cup.
I do believe I deserve bonus mommy points today because I hid all of my feelings and played up going to the dentist like is was the best thing since the invention of chocolate.
But here’s the kicker folks. I almost didn’t even need to. Bosco genuinely had FUN getting his teeth brushed, X-rays taken, and mouth examined. And he’s been pretending to be a dentist all day. I’m pretty positive I birthed this child, but after today’s display of pleasantness I’m thinking alien gestation?
I guess we’ll see how happy going to the dentist makes him after CAVITY! is declared for the first time. If he takes after me at all, he can expect to hear that over, and over, and over again. Sorry dear boy.