When Sammy was a wee little thing and I was asking anyone I could corner dozens of child-rearing questions (only 1 of these 2 things has changed), one nugget of guidance I received was that I didn’t really need to worry about going to the dentist for awhile. Until her was 4 or 5, to be exact. And this was no single-source, passing comment of a suggestion, it seemed to be the rule of thumb. So I went about the business of making sure each tooth that popped up was properly brushed on a routine basis - a fairly easy chore, seeing as the kid LOVES to brush his teeth (and swallowing the toothpaste, but I’ll choose to think his stomach lining is thus minty fresh) – and didn’t worry (per counsel).
Fast forward to the weeks approaching Sammy’s fifth birthday, and I was pondering his first dentist visit. I made sure he was covered under our dental policy this year, and inquired at my own dentist’s office at what age they start their patients. 5, they said, and I sat back with a self-satisfied smirk. But you really should take a child to a pediatric dentist long before then. Oh crap.
In the time it took Sammy to go from 0 to 5, that rule of thumb decided to shift dramatically. Now, I should have taken him a 2 or maybe 3 at the latest. OK, I cannot retroactively enforce a directive that hasn’t been set until the future. It’s a whole space time continuum thing, and I’m not on Heroes. I realize this rationally, but, as with so many other mothers before me and many more to come after, I felt the sting of guilt in the light of possibly not having done right by my child, despite the fact that I couldn’t do anything without a flux capacitor.
And let’s just say trying to find a pediatric dentist that took our insurance within a 60 mile radius available in the next 5 months was akin to sifting through an entire beach looking for 1 red pebble.
So, I fell back on the first statement my dentist gave me, and signed my boy up for a cleaning once he blew out all 5 candles. Better late (early?) than never.
That appointment was this week. Given the fact that Sammy can turn from charming moppet to shrieking mental patient in the time it takes to say, “We’re going to see Doctor,” (that’s as far as I ever get), I was really concerned that this experience would be, as you say, of the negative variety. When I was in for my last cleaning a few weeks ago, I quizzed the staff about how to handle my powder keg of a boy. They told me they wouldn’t push him too hard and if it didn’t happen, no big deal. (Except that I’d have to bring him back for round 2 later when he then would have a working knowledge and a preconceived level of hysteria, but that’s neither here nor there, apparently.) They did offer prizes for good kids, so that’s the tactic I decided to use. Sammy, dear, you’re lucky you get to go to the dentist, get your teeth all clean and sparkly, and score a prize. Ain’t bribery grand?
Here’s the part where I go all blubbery proud mama bear on you. My boy was fabulous. From the minute he sat down in the lobby, all the way through X-raying, polishing, scraping (hey Kid, you had a couple of hairy moments there, but that part gets the best of just about every human being who sits in that chair), flossing, flouriding, and the spit sucker, he followed instructions, held relatively still, and didn’t even begin to freak out. What a champ. In fact, the hardest part was keeping him from drowning in his own boredom during the 40 minutes between the cleaning and the final 30 second checkup from the dentist himself (note to Dr. Slackjaw: it’s half a minute, just pop in and let the kid go before he takes a shine to your fancy mouth statues and goes all King Kong on them). Teeth were pronounced perfect.
And to that, I say a big neener, neener to the guilt I laid on myself.
We walked out with a set of shiny choppers, a balsa wood airplane, and Halloween candy (a debate for another time: is that just plain strange or a genius move to guarantee repeat business?), both relieved and glad we have a 6 month pass until the next time.
Fast forward to the weeks approaching Sammy’s fifth birthday, and I was pondering his first dentist visit. I made sure he was covered under our dental policy this year, and inquired at my own dentist’s office at what age they start their patients. 5, they said, and I sat back with a self-satisfied smirk. But you really should take a child to a pediatric dentist long before then. Oh crap.
In the time it took Sammy to go from 0 to 5, that rule of thumb decided to shift dramatically. Now, I should have taken him a 2 or maybe 3 at the latest. OK, I cannot retroactively enforce a directive that hasn’t been set until the future. It’s a whole space time continuum thing, and I’m not on Heroes. I realize this rationally, but, as with so many other mothers before me and many more to come after, I felt the sting of guilt in the light of possibly not having done right by my child, despite the fact that I couldn’t do anything without a flux capacitor.
And let’s just say trying to find a pediatric dentist that took our insurance within a 60 mile radius available in the next 5 months was akin to sifting through an entire beach looking for 1 red pebble.
So, I fell back on the first statement my dentist gave me, and signed my boy up for a cleaning once he blew out all 5 candles. Better late (early?) than never.
That appointment was this week. Given the fact that Sammy can turn from charming moppet to shrieking mental patient in the time it takes to say, “We’re going to see Doctor,” (that’s as far as I ever get), I was really concerned that this experience would be, as you say, of the negative variety. When I was in for my last cleaning a few weeks ago, I quizzed the staff about how to handle my powder keg of a boy. They told me they wouldn’t push him too hard and if it didn’t happen, no big deal. (Except that I’d have to bring him back for round 2 later when he then would have a working knowledge and a preconceived level of hysteria, but that’s neither here nor there, apparently.) They did offer prizes for good kids, so that’s the tactic I decided to use. Sammy, dear, you’re lucky you get to go to the dentist, get your teeth all clean and sparkly, and score a prize. Ain’t bribery grand?
Here’s the part where I go all blubbery proud mama bear on you. My boy was fabulous. From the minute he sat down in the lobby, all the way through X-raying, polishing, scraping (hey Kid, you had a couple of hairy moments there, but that part gets the best of just about every human being who sits in that chair), flossing, flouriding, and the spit sucker, he followed instructions, held relatively still, and didn’t even begin to freak out. What a champ. In fact, the hardest part was keeping him from drowning in his own boredom during the 40 minutes between the cleaning and the final 30 second checkup from the dentist himself (note to Dr. Slackjaw: it’s half a minute, just pop in and let the kid go before he takes a shine to your fancy mouth statues and goes all King Kong on them). Teeth were pronounced perfect.
And to that, I say a big neener, neener to the guilt I laid on myself.
We walked out with a set of shiny choppers, a balsa wood airplane, and Halloween candy (a debate for another time: is that just plain strange or a genius move to guarantee repeat business?), both relieved and glad we have a 6 month pass until the next time.
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