The Last of the Baby
He's done it before. Five times. But it's still nothing to look forward to.
Today they pulled the last of Flash's baby teeth. For a boy that's always been more of an adult than a child, his baby teeth have always stubbornly refused to leave his mouth. Today we coerced the last two to leave. The dentist was the nicest we've ever had and beautiful to boot. With an office decked out with a TV that Flash can control and decor that makes you wonder exactly what your insurance money is paying, it gave the impression he was in for a spa treatment, not an extraction of two molars.
But my boy? Refuses the laughing gas because he likes his air "unmessed-around-with" he says. So he endures the needles and the pressure and takes it like a man. And I sit in the corner and wish they would offer me the laughing gas he's refusing. Because watching seems worse than enduring to me.
And when we leave, his mouth all full of gauze, we talk about what to have for dinner, well, I talk and he gestures, finally agreeing that pancakes are soft and delish and the perfect idea for tonight. And I hand him $20 - he's never believed in a tooth fairy, but I've always been generous with gifts after legalized torture, and so we smile at each other and for a moment, on this side of the procedure, he agrees that it's not so bad afterall.
But in a little blue plastic treasure chest the size of a thimble, the dentist has just handed me what feels like the last of Flash's childhood. He'll turn 13 soon, and there's not much boyishness left to my boy.
He might not tuck the treasure chest full of teeth under his pillow tonight, but I might sneak it into my drawer to remind myself that he was once my little boy. My very brave, taller-than-me, boy.
Today they pulled the last of Flash's baby teeth. For a boy that's always been more of an adult than a child, his baby teeth have always stubbornly refused to leave his mouth. Today we coerced the last two to leave. The dentist was the nicest we've ever had and beautiful to boot. With an office decked out with a TV that Flash can control and decor that makes you wonder exactly what your insurance money is paying, it gave the impression he was in for a spa treatment, not an extraction of two molars.
But my boy? Refuses the laughing gas because he likes his air "unmessed-around-with" he says. So he endures the needles and the pressure and takes it like a man. And I sit in the corner and wish they would offer me the laughing gas he's refusing. Because watching seems worse than enduring to me.
And when we leave, his mouth all full of gauze, we talk about what to have for dinner, well, I talk and he gestures, finally agreeing that pancakes are soft and delish and the perfect idea for tonight. And I hand him $20 - he's never believed in a tooth fairy, but I've always been generous with gifts after legalized torture, and so we smile at each other and for a moment, on this side of the procedure, he agrees that it's not so bad afterall.
But in a little blue plastic treasure chest the size of a thimble, the dentist has just handed me what feels like the last of Flash's childhood. He'll turn 13 soon, and there's not much boyishness left to my boy.
He might not tuck the treasure chest full of teeth under his pillow tonight, but I might sneak it into my drawer to remind myself that he was once my little boy. My very brave, taller-than-me, boy.
Comments