So my daughter had recently acquired a couple cavities in her precious mouth hole.
I give her a meticulously 3-point inspection on the regular so I was already aware of their presence.
I am a picker.
I offer up no apologies for this trait of mine and rather refer to it as monkey love.
It is not gross it is me loving you.
My personal brand of love includes habitual examination and scrutiny of basically your entire person.
It is easier for both of us if you don’t try to fight me.
Just lie there and let all this happen to you.
My husband in particular absolutely loves being examined.
It is truly the only time we fight.
I am particularly thrilled if I happen upon a zit or some kind of blackhead type situation that it is truly my fucking calling to attend to.
So much so that every night once I have finished reading Matt ‘I Love You Forever’ and that big boy is truly, really asleep I apply a thin layer of butter to his entire face and while I do this I sing,
‘I love you forever, I like you for always, as long as I’m living your monkey I’ll be.’
But seriously it can get ugly.
I have this awesome system that includes a blindingly bright desktop lamp, tweezers, a pin, toner and various bloodied cotton swabs.
Occasionally I will hold out my hand to no one in particular and demand in my best mid surgical tone, SCALPEL.
My husband’s personal pain threshold is what we in the picking biz refer to as that of a total pussy.
This can be enormously irritating for a go-getter such as myself.
So what if your face is a bit swollen now?
Maybe you’re bleeding a little bit in a couple spots?
What’s the problem Giselle, you have a fucking photo shoot tomorrow?
In truth I may be sort of…perhaps slightly… totally out of fucking control.
I may have even tackled him a couple times and wrestled him to the ground to thwart his attempts at escape.
I am surprisingly strong and also sort of terrifying.
Apparently I am the only person who thinks this is totally hilarious.
It comes from a good place, you fucking pansy.
I just want all of us to be really clean.
So anylunetic, the female child creature has a dentist appointment at a centre that specializes in children.
When I was a kid there was no such thing as a Children’s Oral Health Centre and rather we just raw dogged that shit without so much as a television all medieval like.
Dentists and their assistants had absolutely no problem pinning down a screaming, writhing child who is basically fighting for their lives and just getting shit done.
Such is not that case in these the amazing days in a brave new world.
Apparently it is no longer acceptable to engage a child in any discomfort of the dental variety without getting them cranked out of their little minds first.
I wasn’t looking forward to this either so the prospect of my kid being all Courtney Love for the event seemed like an excellent option.
This is how it works.
The day before the appointment which is generally first thing in the morning the kid cannot consume any substance whatsoever from midnight on.
You arrive and they set you up in a little room with a couch and a dvd player and they are then fed a little glass of ‘orange juice’ and then you wait.
Once they are sufficiently out of their minds they are taken into the actual dental chair and tied down so the dentist can go about her business with minimal fanfare.
The kid is not supposed to remember anything at all therefore forgoing that whole fear of dentist’s thing that so many adults suffer from.
I am an anxious mess on my best days so I figured this would all be totally fantastic.
That is when I read the compulsory sign off list of shit that could happen to my kid were she to have a bad reaction to the medication.
This was something I clearly should not have done.
So the morning of said appointment I am a fucking disaster. I am playing it all cool and shit for the sake of the kid who has absolutely no idea what we have in store for her.
My ex-husband arrives who I have enlisted in co-piloting this whole operation as a contingency plan should I land myself having an excellent panic attack and throwing up in the parking lot.
I never actually fall apart and shit the bed, particularly on my children, but I do enjoy the comfort of a solid contingency plan.
So we arrive at the dental office and are ushered into a little room where my sweet, precious baby is given the Kool-Aid.
Within about 15 minutes she becomes totally hilarious and starts yelling shit like,
‘Who dialed up my voice? I am the loudest person you ever met!’
‘This room is sooooooo much better than it was a couple minutes ago. I could totally stay here for… like.. the rest of my life.’
Seeing your 5 year old cranked out of their fucking head is a bit of double-edged sword. Sure it was funny at times but that whole ‘Danny After the Dentist’ shit is only truly enjoyable when the brain it is happening to resides within the head of someone else’s kid.
So they come to get her and they’re all like ‘It’s time to go for a ride in a rocket ship to the magical kingdom!’ and she’s all like ‘Yessssss!’ and I’m all like ‘fuck no where is my clonazepam?’
So she gets the work done and is totally fine.
I read about 14 shitty magazines and age roughly 25 years.
Once she was done we are brought back into the recovery room to hang out with her until she woke up.
Neither of us was prepared at all for what was in store for us once that happened.
It was like being the mother of a three foot Robert Downey Jr. circa 1995.
When she came to she was the most belligerent asshole I have ever met.
The only thing I could appropriately quantify it against would be dealing with a blindly drunk chick that is pissed off about something that doesn’t even really exist and is insisting on driving home.
Everyone has been there at one point or another in their misspent youth.
What was at one point in her life your totally normal friend becomes this sloppy inebriated disaster who gets it into her head that everyone is pissed off at her – because they are – because she is ruining the entire night through the drunken spectacle she is creating and then decides that she is going home and is probably going to take out a couple innocent families in the process.
Then you are forced into a situation of coercing her to stay – because everyone loves her and thinks she is the bomb diggity – but inside your own head you are just wishing she will fucking pass out already because she really taking a big dump on you trying to get some on a Friday night.
It was sort of like that but with your own daughter.
And she is 5.
She was all ‘I’m out of here’ while getting up and spilling her little loaded self on to the floor.
The office assistant tried giving her a little plastic toy frog to play with to keep her busy of which she immediately ripped off the leg and then looked at us with utter disdain and slurred ‘what the hell am I supposed to do with a three-legged frog?’
That was all before she pissed her pants which according to her was totally hilarious.
They gave us a pull-up to put on her but that wasn’t before she traumatized us both while insisting on showing us her new yoga moves, namely the downward dog, while we attempted to wrestle her back onto the couch.
There was a lot of unhappy eye contact with the brown eye.
Once she had the diaper on she really upped the ante by threatening to shit her pants before spending the next 15 minutes barking like a dog.
It was an epic nightmare.
The scariest part of the whole thing was – and I’m pretty sure I can count on numerous ex-boyfriend accounts of my own personal nights of shame – that I have done all of this exact same shit at various points of my early twenties.
She is a tiny me.
So obviously I have that to look forward to.
But seriously what the fuck can you do with a three-legged frog?