I loathe going to the dentist. As a child, I spent hours in that chair. I endured drilling, needles, pulled teeth, rounds of novocaine, and likely more nitrous oxide than I should recount. And after each trip I was down and out.
Having work done on my mouth is the equivalent of minor surgery. And I’ve always believed I have a relatively high pain tolerance. Until I met these two.
These past two days have proven to me, once again, that they, my small people, are my very best teachers.
The small girl had three cavities filled. One that *almost* turned itself into a baby root canal. She squeaked once as the novocaine needle made its way into her mouth. But her grip on my hand never tightened. Since she didn’t scream as the dentist actually drilled her teeth, I know he did use the needle, but how is it possible she didn’t react? The needle is 12 inches long!
And this guy right here? Well, he is my hero. A baby root canal yesterday, a suspected latex allergy that made him itch like crazy when we got home, and left his sweet little face swelling instead of healing… and then? The kicker.
This morning, we found lesions inside his mouth – the size of quarters. I can’t handle a canker sore the size of a rain drop. These? Are QUARTER SIZED. A second trip to the dentist gave us the diagnosis of ‘traumatic ulcers’. I would be curled up in the fetal position on the floor. And probably moaning. The small dude is hitting line drives and bunting. And asking for FOOD. I would consider food the DEVIL. He ate an entire orange. The thought makes me want to cry. CRY, I tell you. It is likely these ulcers developed because he bit his cheek and his lip when he was still numb and unable to feel anything. And then bit them again. And again. Persistent little bugger.
And yet, he isn’t complaining.
He has a mega-dose of antibiotics to make the nasty go away.
Clearly, I need tough lessons from my small people.
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