Most of my visits to the dentist are blissfully uneventful. In a strange way, I actually even enjoy them. A little. The office is staffed entirely by pleasant, attractive women. They hover around me, tending to my needs, caring for me. I guess I'm revealing a sexist bent, but I'm pretty sure women have an extra gene devoted solely to nurturing. (This, in a nutshell, is why I'm actively pestering my husband to let us get a sister wife.)
Twice a year, Misty cleans my teeth, chatting affably as she goes. I softly grunt my end of the conversation, relying on my eyes to express the appropriate emotion. The doctor makes a cameo appearance, staying just long enough to deliver the good news that diligent brushing and flossing have paid off again.
Except for this time.
This time, she actually had some work to do. One of my old fillings had given up the ghost and needed to be replaced by a crown. I wouldn't say I was scared exactly, but I did have to steel myself a bit as she headed into my mouth with a series of disconcerting objects. As the first needle pierced my gum, delivering its sting of Novocaine, I pictured my six-year-old.
And I thought — Just be as brave as him.
I wonder what he'll teach me next.
.
.
Posts
2 comments:
he is too stinkin' cute. - chula
Maybe he'll teach you to ask for gas along with the Novacaine. And I agree with anonymous: he is way too stinkin' cute.
Post a Comment