I took the boys to the dentist this morning. Because that's what you do, right? You have children. You take them to the dentist.
And then afterwards you come home and lie down in bed and stare at the ceiling, utterly exhausted, brutally aware of every stressed-out muscle and amped-up nerve running through your core. All because you took your children to the dentist.
Or maybe that's just me.
Everybody's teeth are just fine, though I have passed on BOTH of my own mouth weirdness issues to the boys -- one issue for each kid. Ezra's got the overbite, Noah's got the insanely crowded mouth with teeth wedged up next to each *likethis.* Perhaps the new baby will get my special trick of growing adult teeth underneath my gums, completely sideways.
YOU'RE WELCOME, KIDS.
But still. I am beat. We were late! There were forms! Then more forms! A misplaced insurance card! Wrangling in the waiting room! All this AND MORE, before we even got into the exam room where there was honest-to-God potential for BITING.
Ezra was a dream, as usual, once we acquiesced to his raging dislike of the paper-towel bib, anyway. He chose a dinosaur finger puppet and a Spiderman tattoo as a prize and that was that.
Taking a kid like Noah to the dentist -- a kid who is still generally flip-outty sensitive about his mouth, and wary of the world at large, particularly parts of the world involving adults asking him to do things he does not want to do -- is a total crapshoot. Will he cooperate? Refuse to open his mouth? Cry? Panic? Knock over several thousand dollars worth of medical equipment on his way over to the windowsill in a desperate bid to escape?
(For the record, yes, we take them to a pediatric dentist office that regularly sees special-needs kids. So they're used to it. Probably more so than I am, because OHMYGODIHATEIT.)
All things considered, he did pretty good today. I had to hold his body sideways and pry his fingers off the doorframe at one point, and then he figured out how to work the little water sprayer instrument and VERY NEARLY ALMOST doused the dentist's computer with it, and yes, he cried, and begged for us to stop touching him and and to just plain stop stop stop. He was utterly convinced that someone was going to give him a shot and no amount of reassurance from anyone in the room would change his mind about all of us secretly packing giant needles in our pockets, waiting until he let his guard down before poking at him like a soft, baby-skinned pincushion.
But he did it. We did it. Teeth cleaned, polished, flossed and flouride...ed. He picked an Iron Man tattoo.
I came home and picked out an entire box of Girl Scout cookies, because compared to my kids, I am a giant-ass wuss.
Absolutely unrelated to anything else in this post.