The Young And The Toothless

The saga continues ...

The other day, La was on the phone with her dad while I busied myself on my computer. She stood next to me, pleasantly chatting with her pops. Suddenly she became very silent and pale, her eyes growing to the size of golf balls and her mouth dropping open in utter horror. 

Now, keep in mind that it does not take much to get this reaction out of La. For example, she exhibited the same behavior when I told her that Hannah Montana is really just Miley Cyrus in disguise. She also responds this way every time I venture toward her with a hairbrush.

I took the phone from La to find out what SHOCKING THING her father had said. I found that he had simply (and harmlessly) informed her that he was going to have his wisdom teeth removed in a few days. He stated that the dentist was going to extract a few teeth, not knowing the shade of green La was turning on the other end of the line. Turns out you just never know what's going to freak La out. And that did it.

For the next day or two, she would be playing with her barbies or watching a movie or licking a cookie batter spoon, and she would turn to me with those wide, worried eyes and loudly proclaim, "I just don't want to talk about daddy's teeth!" And I would be like, "Dude. I didn't say anything about your daddy OR his teeth, so let's just take a chill pill por favor."

As you may recall, La has had more than her share of mouth trauma in her almost-five-years of life, which may account for her tremendous fear of anything involving a tooth. 

WELL!

Last night, I noticed a puss-filled pimple-thing on her bottom gum. The sirens sounded in my head, but I remained calm and asked La to pull her bottom lip down (you would think she would let me touch her lip, but NO WAY JOSÉ) so that I could thoroughly examine The Monster Boil up-close. She reluctantly tugged on her bottom lip, revealing a huge red bump with a yellow center. I smiled and assured La that everything was hunky-dory and then dashed to my computer to Google the bejeebees out of the mysterious bump. And lo, as I feared, a pimple on the gum indicates an infection in the root of the tooth. 

So, I dressed La up in her Oompa-Loompa snowsuit this morning and walked five blocks in two-degree weather to make a surprise visit to the dentist. (that's one of the working mother's dilemmas that I have conquered. When La needs to go to the doctor — rather than sitting around until 9:00 a.m. when the doctor's office finally starts answering the phone, scheduling an appointment for later in the day and then sitting around waiting to go to the appointment — I just show up at the practice the minute they open the doors and insist that they see her ASAP. I usually throw in gruesome details using words like boil, rash, puss, or seepage. Those usually do the trick. Today, all I had to say was "pimple" and they squeezed us right in.)

La, of course, was less than thrilled to be at the dentist for the third time in six months. She kept saying, "Will it hurt mama?" and I kept replying with things like, "No way! They are so gentle here! The dentist is our friend!"

She had an X-ray taken, which she handled very maturely. This was partly because the technician let her sit on my lap while they took the picture. Before we entered the room, the nice lady asked me if I was pregnant (I was either looking a bit round today or this is standard protocol when radiation is involved), and La answered for me by saying, "Nope, my mama is all done being pregnant." I couldn't have said it better myself.

The X-ray indicated that her two bottom front teeth are dead at the root and need to be "extracted." That word was never audibly spoken by the dentist, only mouthed expressively behind La's back, while he simultaneously made a yanking motion in the air. I figure he took one look at La and knew that if she heard a word like that, IT WOULD BE ALL OVER. 

Upon hearing seeing this news, I chuckled. Yes, I laughed. In the horror of the moment, it was the only thing I could do. The doctor went on to explain that they would give her a local anesthetic (LOCAL. As in needle-to-the-gums) and that it would only take one minute to complete the procedure. Little did he know that the last time La had to get her throat cultured for strep, it took an entire 10 minutes and two full-grown adults restraining her to accomplish the feat.

After the appointment, I dropped her off at school and climbed aboard a bus, heading to work. On the bus, I began to panic. I called my mom. Bad idea. She panicked. She said something akin to "Of course! This procedure will take two minutes, but will ruin her entire life KARI!" I think I hung up on her.

I understand my mom's point though. If she's getting a local anesthetic, she will see everything that's going on. She will see the needle, and she will see the pliers as they enter her mouth. It will be traumatic. I'm going to call the office tomorrow and see if they'll give her some sort of tranquilizer or laughing gas or something that will make her less of a complete spaz.

I was instructed by the dentist not to warn her or even mention needles, bright lights or anything related to the upcoming tooth-pulling. That I should just let them handle the prep-talk and the restraining that day. So, I'm not mentioning it at all in front of La.

The procedure is taking place on Friday, the 13th. (Yes. Friday the freaking 13th) I figure we have 9 full days to extract those puppies on our own. They're already loose as it is, and I keep reminding La to wiggle them as much as she can and if she gets the urge, to go ahead and yank on them a little. She asks me why on earth she would do this, and I respond with, "Trust me. You will thank me if you can get those teeth out. And you'll thank the tooth fairy who will undoubtedly leave a crisp 20-dollar bill underneath your pillow if you succeed in this task."

She's finally asleep, so I think I'll creep in her room and see if I can loosen them up some more while she sleeps.