Like Pulling Teeth

Here's what I learned last week, aside from the fact that 38 is a boring birthday: taking your three-year-old son to the dentist is worse than going to the dentist yourself. And lest you think that's because he was difficult, allow me to clarify: he didn't mind in the least. Now, he wasn't as excited this time as he was the first time we went, when he spent the next two weeks begging me to take him back to the dentist so he could play with their toys, but he still didn't bat an eye. He was cool as a cucumber, following everyone's instructions and never once complaining or crying.

I - on the other hand - was freaking out. Just watching the incredibly nice hygienist lady move in with her torture tools had me squeezing Finn's hand more for my benefit than his (see: white-knuckled hand in accompanying picture).

I suppose this is my karmic payback for taunting my parents' dentist friend by calling Finn's baby teeth "training teeth" and telling him that brushing isn't important because they're going to fall out anyway, as I fed him another lemon.

Despite my utter disregard for my son's oral health, his teeth are fine. All screwed up alignment-wise, just like his daddy's, but take it from me that a lifetime of orthodontia leaves one with a comforting humility and healthy sense of humor. You never take yourself very seriously again after you've had to wear the Frankel:

Of course, I can imagine that the only worse than wearing the Frankel is paying for the Frankel. I wonder if I've still got my old one laying around...