Sam Goes to the Dentist

I admit, I was a little leery when my dentist's office suggested that I make a first appointment for Sam several months ago. "Just a first, preliminary visit to make sure his teeth are coming in alright and that he doesn't have any cavities. He's too young for a cleaning and the first visit is really just to get him used to the idea of going to see the dentist." And to bill your insurer for 15 minutes of your time, the receptionist's eyes said.

More concerning, was the scene playing out in my mind. Sam, uncooperative and squirming in the chair finally opening his mouth, followed by the dentist's sharp intake of breath behind her mask, the quick whirl of her swivel chair, eyes accusing: "What have you NOT been doing?"

Sigh. We were lax in making nightly brushing a consistent event in Sam's life. Too often, by the time the night time rituals (which, over the period of his short life, have included some combination of running a bath; coaxing our shrieking child through his hair getting shampooed; letting him streak naked from one end of the house to the other until air dry; dodging a tangle of arms and legs as we forced him into a diaper, pull-up, or pyjamas; negotiating books, drinks of water, top-ups on crackers; singing songs, and responding to sudden annoucements that pee was imminent) were over, it was only once we had one foot out the door that we would realize that we had once again forgotten tooth-brushing.

At this point, I would freeze, picturing all of my parenting peers, diligently attending to their child's oral health. Sam's head would pop up, sensing a reprieve. "Sam, do you want to brush your teeth?"

"Sure!" Sam would chirp, bounding into the bathroom. It's not like teeth-brushing would take that much longer, but on some evenings those extra five minutes seemed epic. And so, more often than not, we would pretend that missing just once wouldn't be that bad.

We tried a number of tricks to avoid making tooth-brushing the orphan of Sam's bedtime rituals. For awhile, we would give Sam his toothbrush while he was still in the bath, but this experiment ended after it became clear that Sam was only interested in licking off the toothpaste and dipping the brush into the bath to suck bathwater off the bristles. After he resisted having us brush his teeth for him, we decided to give him space to let him brush by himself. I walked into the bathroom to discover him fastidiously scrubbing the bathtub with his toothbrush. Lord knows what else he tried to clean in my absence.

Currently, we have a combo of independent and parent-led brushing.The latter is what I would imagine brushing a cat's teeth is like. And I can't possibly imagine any plaque or tartar is being removed while Sam is chewing on his brush.

Friends of mine -- who began tending to their son's oral health as early as possibly by carefully wiping down his toothless gums with a cloth -- told us once that their cousin, an orthodontist, had recommended that they begin flossing early as well. I instantly had a vision of me, floss wrapped around my fingers, reaching into Sam's mouth and Sam snapping down on my exposed finger like a baby pterodactyl. And then scrabbling up the wall, hissing, with my severed finger in his mouth.

I began prepping Sam for his first visit by informing him that we were going to visit a nice lady called a dentist named Dr. A who was going to look in his mouth at his teeth. Surly Husband yelled from the kitchen, "But she's not a real doctor, Sam! She probably failed out of medical school. Although she's step up from a PhD. Now THAT's a fake doctor!" Sam's interest was only piqued when I suggested that Dr. A. might give him a new toothbrush.

At the dentist's, Sam quickly became fixated on that staple of every medical office's kids' area, the...the...hell, I don't even know what it's called. The wooden toy with multi-coloured, twisty wires, where you push large beads from one end to another. No matter what age, little kids friggin' love them. Anyway, Sam was none too pleased to be pulled away from it and only submitted to be led to his chair when he was reminded he might get something for it. (Greed is a powerful parenting tool.)

Sam gamely sat through his introduction to the glasses, the bib, the dental tools, and was especially impressed with the hydraulic chair. However, Dr. A. only had enough time to count Sam's teeth and quickly check for any obvious spots before Sam decided he was no longer interested in participating and swung his feet over the edge of the chair, oblivious to the fact that he was about 4 ft off the ground. He quickly headed back to his toy, while I finished up with the dentist (who assured me that Sam had done pretty well for his age, which is probably what they say to all harried-looking mothers).

Upon my announcement that it was time to put on his coat, Sam looked up and matter-of-factly informed me that he did not want to leave. I took a step toward him with his coat. "Sorry buddy, time to go."

Sam responded in his best angry mom voice: "I. DON'T. WANT. TO. GO."

Anyone who is a parent knows this moment. You are in public. You are starting down the impending Public Tantrum. Other parents in the room look away sympathetically. The parentless smirk inwardly and think their kids will never do this.

I remembered all my Harvey Karp words of wisdom. I got down on his level, engage in eye contact. I put on an empathetic face, acknowledging his feelings, validating his frustration. "You don't want to go. You want to stay and play."

Sam looked up. His face said, "Fuck you, lady. Don't psychobabble me."

I made a move with the coat. The Tantrum reared its hideous countenance. It was on.

I carried Sam out using the tried-and-true football hold, my arms clasped around his waist, the weight of his body on my hip, his arms and legs waving furiously, his voice choked with rage. I wondered if this was what riot police felt like when they drag off G8 protesters.

At least they don't have to brush their teeth.