The Dentist, Part Two

Two months ago, give or take a few days, I wrote about my most recent trip to the dentist and mentioned that one of the things I had always disliked about having my teeth worked on was the fact that the dentist and hygienist always gave me crap for not brushing more.

This is the sort of thing I don't like, obviously, but I can deal with it a couple times a year. Except now that I have a kid and am occasionally required to bring him to various appointments, the potential is there for me to spend even more time with the dentist.

That's what happened last Thursday. My wife was going out of town on Wednesday, to visit my parents. My mother asked if she would like to stay over so they could work on their sewing late into the night and go to the story the next day. My wife initially declined because our son had a dentist appointment on Thursday morning. Given recent events, though, I decided to man up.

"Don't worry about it," I said. "I can take him."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Of course," I said. "I take people to appointments at work all the time. I'm sure I can handle doing it for my own child."

So in the morning, I rolled out of bed around nine o'clock, showered, got us both dressed, and headed to the dentist. Like any three-year-old, he wanted no part of it, insisting that we had to go directly to the babysitter's house. I tried to take his mind off of it by playing our favorite game on the stairs, the one where I loudly say, "BOOM, BOOM, BOOM," with each successive step, like we're a couple of marauding giants.

It worked. He was all smiles by the time we got into the office, and even happier when he saw Finding Nemo on the TV, the big fish tank in the center of the room, and the video games in the corner (he has absolutely no idea how to play video games. He just likes pushing the buttons).

Daddy, unfortunately, was not off to such a good start. When we got inside, approached the desk, and told them who we were, the nice lady at first looked at me like I'm sure she looks at everyone, with her, "I'm here to help YOU," face. After consulting her computer, however, she replaced it with her, "I'm confused," face. I don't like that face. It never means anything good for me. Often, it means I'm about to be confused as well.

"I have him down for the 11th," she said, "A Friday."

Argh. The only thing I hate more than going to appointments is showing up for an appointment at the wrong date or time. Still, she was very nice about it, pulling his file and managing to squeeze him in, so it wasn't going to be a wasted trip.

We went to the waiting room, and all was well for about ten minutes...until the hygienist came out to collect my little person.

Right away, you could see the change in his face. He knew what it meant when she called his name and Daddy started leading him down the long hallway. He knew he had been tricked. I avoided eye contact as his little face looked up at me, pleading to not let this happen. It was his, "I'm really trying hard to hold my shit together, so throw me a bone here Dad," face. That face always makes me sad. It's the quivering lower lip that does it. How do they KNOW to do that?

But, we do what we must, and so we followed the young hygienist to a little area that was only loosely walled off from a number of other similar spaces. It had all the normal dentist stuff: stickers, a little desk, waiting room chairs, that really cool light that they can move all over the place, and a green reclining chair that made my kid completely lose his shit.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that little kids don't remember things. This kid saw that chair and something clicked in his brain. He immediately started to cry, wrapped his arms around my leg until I picked him up, and dug his head into my shoulder. I tried to talk some sense into him, but surprisingly, sobbing three-year-olds are not the easiest people to communicate with. He was all but shut down. The hygienist looked at me sympathetically and said that the dentist was with another patient. He would be a few more minutes, theoretically giving us some time to pull ourselves together and make this happen.

Nope. When the dentist got there, the tears were still flowing. He asked about brushing, I told him it happened sporadically, and he gave me a look that told me what was coming.

"You need to do that," he said. "This is very important."

Really? I had no idea. Thank you for making me feel like a shitty parent within three minutes of meeting you. That's exactly what I needed on this fine winter morning. God, I should've lied.

I mean, I know I'm a good parent in some ways, and not so good in others. I try to keep my kid happy and clean and clothed and fed. Those are the good things. I don't always get him to brush his teeth or fall asleep in his own bed or pick up after himself. Those are the bad things. What can I say, I'm only human.

The dentist, though, cared only about the boy's teeth, and in that respect we were off to a poor start. He directed me to put my son on the chair, which I did. I sat down next to him and tried to keep him still while the dentist got started. His tears were starting to escalate. Uh-oh. I knew this look. It only registered subconsciously at the time, but I think this was the moment I realized that we were pretty much done with the dentist's office for the day.

"Alright, we're going to count your teeth..." He began to wail and clench his teeth. "One, two, three..." I can't remember how far the dentist actually got. I'm pretty sure he didn't count them all. He asked the hygienist to hand him a mirror, and that's when it got REALLY fun. My son did not like the mirror in his mouth. Not at all. He just about shot himself off the top of the chair, despite the fact that I was holding on to both wrists and practically sitting on top of him. He's a slippery little bastard when he wants to be.

Finally, the dentist gave up without even attempting a cleaning. As my son immediately leaped off the chair into my arm, Daddy received a lecture.

"How did he do with brushing last night [We didn't brush last night] How did he do this morning? [Shaking my head, shrugging my shoulders] You need to start brushing more regularly. If you do, he'll do better in the chair here. You need to change your expectations."

And so on. I suppose it doesn't read so badly, but I guess it wasn't so much the words that bothered me. It was the tone. I've heard that tone for 25 years, and maybe it's my fault for not taking better care of myself and my child, but that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. Throw in the fact that I worry enough about my parenting as it is (and that he casually mixed in, "His teeth look pretty good"; THEN WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME?!) and I was ready to tell Dr. Dentist exactly what I thought of him.

The worst part, though, was when he decided to directly to address my son, who had his head on my shoulder, still crying.

"Next time, I don't want to see you act like that," he said. Then, when he didn't receive a reaction (other than, you know, tears), "Are you listening?"

That was the end of it. We were all but done anyway, and I didn't want to deal with him talking to my son like that right in front of me, so we took our tooth brush, floss, and sticker and left.

As we walked away from the evil chair, the little jerk's mood brightened. By the time we reached the waiting room, he was smiling again and hoping to watch Nemo, which obviously made me hate him a little bit. (I'm allowed to do that, he's my kid.)

Given a few days to consider things, it wasn't a bad visit. We showed up on the wrong day and they were nice enough to squeeze us in. My kid was a monster on the chair and the dentist didn't throw him through a wall. In the end, the thing that got me was the nagging, that same old nagging I've dealt with forever. I probably need to learn to deal with it better, at least where my son is concerned, but I hate that nagging with the fire of a thousand suns. Maybe we should just try to do better with brushing his teeth.

His next appointment is in September. I'm pretty sure his mother will be taking him.