I read once that you know you’re a mother when you think of going to the dentist as your special alone time, and that’s exactly how I think of my dentist appointments. In fact, I usually hope the office is running behind schedule so that I can sit and read for a while in the waiting room.
Once I’m actually at the dentist, though, I question why I was ever looking forward to the experience—because it really isn’t a quality break from parenting or working. Right away when I enter, I have to sign in, and when I’m on time, the computer registers “here on time” by my name. It’s a very life affirming experience. Except that it’s been about three years since I’ve seen that. When I’m even a minute late, the unforgiving computer just registers “here.” And I think everyone knows that means “shamefully inadequate.”
After I’ve received my electronic reprimand, I go to sit in the waiting room, where there’s a slideshow about the founder of the dental practice. He’s the equivalent of Dental Superman, as he has about 43 patents. Once, during a CPR training I attended, the instructor mentioned that a man he taught once used a defibrillator on an airplane to save the life of a passenger who had gone into cardiac arrest. And that life-saving hero was my dentist. He’s retired now, probably spending his time splitting the atom and tracking down Joseph Kony. So I often stare at the slideshow and reassess what I’ve really accomplished in my life, which never includes registering patents or saving lives. And I wonder if that means, philosophically, I really am just “here.” Maybe that condescending computer is deeper than I thought.
When I’m called in, the dental hygienist gives me a Sucky Thing (I think that’s the technical term) to spit into, and it sucks my spit in. I remember one visit I spit and forgot to turn it on, so I just spit all over myself. I thought the hygienist would say, “Oh, that happens all the time,” but she didn’t. She laughed. Pretty hard, actually, so that she couldn’t resume cleaning my teeth for a couple of minutes. Here’s the kicker. About ten minutes later, I did it again—just spit all over myself without flipping the stupid switch. She didn’t laugh the second time. She got mad at me, even though I was the one covered in phlegm and fluoride, and my Sucky Thing rights were revoked. After that, whenever I was drooling, she held it for me, flipped it on, and said, “Ok, spit.” And I have to say that she handled the situation well because my bib was pretty saturated by that point, and I didn’t want to be the first person in dental history to be issued a second bib.
Often, the hygienist remarks on how much plaque I have on my teeth, and I hate that. She usually says, “You should brush twice a day,” and I say, “I do!” “With an electric toothbrush,” she adds skeptically, and I answer, “Yes! I do!” Then, thinking she’s solved the mystery, she tells me, “Maybe you could floss too,” and I say, “I do! Every day!” And I hate it because I feel like a kid who always does my homework but still pulls C’s. What I want her to say is “ah, well, I guess it’s genetic. Don’t worry about it,” but she never does. So I say it. But it’s never received well. So then I have to spit on myself without turning on Sucky Thing just so we can change the subject.
Then the dentist enters. We have lots of meaningful conversations in which he looks deep into my eyes and asks me probing questions to which I respond, “Unghng” because his fingers are in my mouth. We also have long conversations about how I clench my teeth, and that’s when the dentist chair becomes a psychiatrist’s chair in which we have to probe into the deeper reasoning behind my clenching. Am I stressed? What’s causing my stress? And it’s all just so stressful that I clench my teeth for several nights after my appointment, worrying about it.
My dentist and hygienists actually do a phenomenal job— just in case they’re reading this. (All joking aside, they run an exceptional practice, and I’m very satisfied.) But by the end of the appointment, I realize that it isn’t really much of a relaxing break from my toddler or job. It’s like they think I’m going there to get my teeth cleaned instead of to read and relax in a neat chair that reclines in 97 different positions. If only they were more liberal with the laughing gas, like my children’s dentist used to be. Those were the days. I think it’d cure my clenching, even if, technically, I wouldn’t be all the way “here.”
Once I’m actually at the dentist, though, I question why I was ever looking forward to the experience—because it really isn’t a quality break from parenting or working. Right away when I enter, I have to sign in, and when I’m on time, the computer registers “here on time” by my name. It’s a very life affirming experience. Except that it’s been about three years since I’ve seen that. When I’m even a minute late, the unforgiving computer just registers “here.” And I think everyone knows that means “shamefully inadequate.”
After I’ve received my electronic reprimand, I go to sit in the waiting room, where there’s a slideshow about the founder of the dental practice. He’s the equivalent of Dental Superman, as he has about 43 patents. Once, during a CPR training I attended, the instructor mentioned that a man he taught once used a defibrillator on an airplane to save the life of a passenger who had gone into cardiac arrest. And that life-saving hero was my dentist. He’s retired now, probably spending his time splitting the atom and tracking down Joseph Kony. So I often stare at the slideshow and reassess what I’ve really accomplished in my life, which never includes registering patents or saving lives. And I wonder if that means, philosophically, I really am just “here.” Maybe that condescending computer is deeper than I thought.
When I’m called in, the dental hygienist gives me a Sucky Thing (I think that’s the technical term) to spit into, and it sucks my spit in. I remember one visit I spit and forgot to turn it on, so I just spit all over myself. I thought the hygienist would say, “Oh, that happens all the time,” but she didn’t. She laughed. Pretty hard, actually, so that she couldn’t resume cleaning my teeth for a couple of minutes. Here’s the kicker. About ten minutes later, I did it again—just spit all over myself without flipping the stupid switch. She didn’t laugh the second time. She got mad at me, even though I was the one covered in phlegm and fluoride, and my Sucky Thing rights were revoked. After that, whenever I was drooling, she held it for me, flipped it on, and said, “Ok, spit.” And I have to say that she handled the situation well because my bib was pretty saturated by that point, and I didn’t want to be the first person in dental history to be issued a second bib.
Often, the hygienist remarks on how much plaque I have on my teeth, and I hate that. She usually says, “You should brush twice a day,” and I say, “I do!” “With an electric toothbrush,” she adds skeptically, and I answer, “Yes! I do!” Then, thinking she’s solved the mystery, she tells me, “Maybe you could floss too,” and I say, “I do! Every day!” And I hate it because I feel like a kid who always does my homework but still pulls C’s. What I want her to say is “ah, well, I guess it’s genetic. Don’t worry about it,” but she never does. So I say it. But it’s never received well. So then I have to spit on myself without turning on Sucky Thing just so we can change the subject.
Then the dentist enters. We have lots of meaningful conversations in which he looks deep into my eyes and asks me probing questions to which I respond, “Unghng” because his fingers are in my mouth. We also have long conversations about how I clench my teeth, and that’s when the dentist chair becomes a psychiatrist’s chair in which we have to probe into the deeper reasoning behind my clenching. Am I stressed? What’s causing my stress? And it’s all just so stressful that I clench my teeth for several nights after my appointment, worrying about it.
My dentist and hygienists actually do a phenomenal job— just in case they’re reading this. (All joking aside, they run an exceptional practice, and I’m very satisfied.) But by the end of the appointment, I realize that it isn’t really much of a relaxing break from my toddler or job. It’s like they think I’m going there to get my teeth cleaned instead of to read and relax in a neat chair that reclines in 97 different positions. If only they were more liberal with the laughing gas, like my children’s dentist used to be. Those were the days. I think it’d cure my clenching, even if, technically, I wouldn’t be all the way “here.”
