Son #1 hates his chompers. He's 13 years old and has only lost eight of his baby teeth...four on the top and four on the bottom, directly in the center of his mouth. The permanent ones came in no problem, but now his smile looks like a mix of huge hominy kernels in the front, backed up by rows of tiny chicklets. As I said, he hates his teeth. Understandable.
Much to his delight, his recent six-month dental lookie-loo brought great news. The dentist said, "Son, you're sporting the mouth of a nine year old (waaay not cool to tell a teenager that) and since the toddler-teeth aren't letting go on their own, it's time to get a-pullin. Six of 'em while we're at it." Son #1's face lit up like a Manhattan power surge and he couldn't stop smiling. Chicklets and all.
When we came back for the oral yank-fest(bad choice of words here?), I could tell there was a bit of anticipation, but not hesitation. "Do you think they'll knock me out? Dad, did they knock you out when you had a tooth pulled? How many numbers did you get to when you counted backwards? Was it like 10-9-8-7-6-5 or was it like 10-9-888888 and then you were asleep?" All of those questions really kind of ran into one loooong question, sans any pause in between, thanks to the fight or flight response that was now giving my oldest an adrenaline-rickey. Breathe, honey, breathe.
They prepare to take Son #1 back to the tourture chamber - I mean dentist chair - and I'm surprised to see that it's in a small, separate room, right off of the waiting area, with a sliding pocket-door that they don't feel compelled to close. The novocaine needles come out, shots in the mouth ensue (hate hate hate those) and we all get a front-row seat to the scream-a-palooza that is now taking place. It continues. And continues. Do they not hear him??? I realize that it may SOUND like giggles coming out of his cakewad, but it is actually staccato shock and awe at the pain of it all. My mama bear claws come out, and tears sting my eyes as if I'm wearing an onion eye-patch. I can't take it any more.
"Excuse me, but could you PLEASE give him the Nitrous, you Mother F-ers!!!" Ok, I was a bit more composed when I actually said it, but I was cussing all over their dead bodies with my inside-myself voice.
"We're almost done. Last one! Okay, good, all done, sport!" Sadistic bastards... "Now we're ready to start the extractions."
WHAT??? You mean you haven't even pulled on his tusks yet?? There's still more screaming to come? Oh jeez, mama needs a martini, make it a triple. I'm either gonna go postal or pass-out if I have to listen to my cub make those noises again.
Minutes drag by. Husband pats my knee and gives me the "Calm down, pain is good for him" look. I'm going to rip his face off. Right after I finish with the dentist and his little assistant Toto, too.
Lucky for us all, I hear laughter. Glorious, juicy, drooly laughter, and it's coming from Son #1.
Out walks my brave boy, biting on gooey, pink gauze, tilting his head back so he doesn't slob on the waiting room floor. Such a kind, polite soul my son is. He even mumbles a "thank you" to the dentist as we walk out the door.
I also choke out my appreciation, then as soon as everyone has their backs turned, I flip them all the bird with double power. That'll learn 'em.
Much to his delight, his recent six-month dental lookie-loo brought great news. The dentist said, "Son, you're sporting the mouth of a nine year old (waaay not cool to tell a teenager that) and since the toddler-teeth aren't letting go on their own, it's time to get a-pullin. Six of 'em while we're at it." Son #1's face lit up like a Manhattan power surge and he couldn't stop smiling. Chicklets and all.
When we came back for the oral yank-fest(bad choice of words here?), I could tell there was a bit of anticipation, but not hesitation. "Do you think they'll knock me out? Dad, did they knock you out when you had a tooth pulled? How many numbers did you get to when you counted backwards? Was it like 10-9-8-7-6-5 or was it like 10-9-888888 and then you were asleep?" All of those questions really kind of ran into one loooong question, sans any pause in between, thanks to the fight or flight response that was now giving my oldest an adrenaline-rickey. Breathe, honey, breathe.
They prepare to take Son #1 back to the tourture chamber - I mean dentist chair - and I'm surprised to see that it's in a small, separate room, right off of the waiting area, with a sliding pocket-door that they don't feel compelled to close. The novocaine needles come out, shots in the mouth ensue (hate hate hate those) and we all get a front-row seat to the scream-a-palooza that is now taking place. It continues. And continues. Do they not hear him??? I realize that it may SOUND like giggles coming out of his cakewad, but it is actually staccato shock and awe at the pain of it all. My mama bear claws come out, and tears sting my eyes as if I'm wearing an onion eye-patch. I can't take it any more.
"Excuse me, but could you PLEASE give him the Nitrous, you Mother F-ers!!!" Ok, I was a bit more composed when I actually said it, but I was cussing all over their dead bodies with my inside-myself voice.
"We're almost done. Last one! Okay, good, all done, sport!" Sadistic bastards... "Now we're ready to start the extractions."
WHAT??? You mean you haven't even pulled on his tusks yet?? There's still more screaming to come? Oh jeez, mama needs a martini, make it a triple. I'm either gonna go postal or pass-out if I have to listen to my cub make those noises again.
Minutes drag by. Husband pats my knee and gives me the "Calm down, pain is good for him" look. I'm going to rip his face off. Right after I finish with the dentist and his little assistant Toto, too.
Lucky for us all, I hear laughter. Glorious, juicy, drooly laughter, and it's coming from Son #1.
Out walks my brave boy, biting on gooey, pink gauze, tilting his head back so he doesn't slob on the waiting room floor. Such a kind, polite soul my son is. He even mumbles a "thank you" to the dentist as we walk out the door.
I also choke out my appreciation, then as soon as everyone has their backs turned, I flip them all the bird with double power. That'll learn 'em.
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He's not the only one to have late teeth. My daughter had her last baby tooth pulled at 14. She had been BEGGING for braces. Her teeth look gorgeous now. Be patient!
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