We abandoned Camp Stimey just for the day today because we were too busy. The dudes all had preschool camp and then Sam had a dentist appointment. Because he has two “holes” in his “permanent molars.”
Well, fuck and double fuck. I couldn’t quite believe it when the dentist gave me this information a couple of weeks ago at his checkup. I also thought it strange that she didn’t use the word “cavity.”
Sam was a champ. Although apparently his tongue was a bit mischievous. The dentist had to chastise it a couple of times for moving around too much. She also had to chastise me for staring at the blue light she shone in his mouth. Something about going blind if I looked at it too much.
But I just couldn’t help it. I felt that I needed to watch Sam super closely in hopes that I could absorb any discomfort he felt. Because those “holes”? Those were my fault, not his. He’s six. He’s not yet the one responsible for checking to make sure he’s sufficiently brushed.
I had one of those acute “I wish it were me in the chair” parenting moments.
But I don’t think it hurt him, and the dentist was the coolest. She showed him all the tools before she started, and let him touch them. She warned him what he was going to feel before she did anything. And she gave him a rest between holes.
And then, after I paid and was getting ready to leave, she said, “If you get a notice from your insurance company that you owe more money, disregard it. We’re not going to bill you more.” Gah?
Anyone need a dentist? ‘Cause mine rocks. You may even run into us because we’re going to be there a lot—every six months for the rest of our lives. I’ve been scared straight. No more cavities! Or holes.
And then I took Sam out for ice cream. (Guilty much?)