In 10 years of parenthood, I can think of only two things I could do without: 1) diapers (luckily long ago in our past) and 2) losing teeth (unfortunately still with us, and getting bigger. And badder. And more terrifying with every one that pops free.)
I think I’ve been a fairly good parent. I think I’ve met some obstacles and challenges that I handled well. But this teeth thing is testing me. It’s one of the few things about having a kid that gives me the squirms.
“Hey dad,” my daughter says, tapping me on the arm. “Is this tooth loose?”
“What’s that you … OH MY GOOSE-BILLED PLATYPUS, WHAT IS THAT?!?!”
I am met by the most horrible sight I have ever seen: a tooth seemingly dangling in mid-air as my daughter presses her wide-open mouth into my eyeball.
I scream. I clutch my head. On occasion I faint.
Losing teeth used to be easy. They were little baby looking things. More like Chiclets than actual teeth. Tiny, cute, no harm to anyone. They got a little loose and then they fell out. She put them under a pillow and money showed up!
But these days, my daughter is dropping boulders out of her mouth — the big boys. Molars and eye teeth. Maybe a small meteorite — possibly the one that got the dinosaurs.
They don’t just fall out. They’re dramatic about it. They bleed profusely. “Does this tooth have a little blood on it?” my daughter will ask, batting the wobbly thing like a cat playing with a toy. I can’t be sure. I’ve packed up and boarded a bus to Tulsa.
Sometimes she does this to hear my opinion, and other times it’s just to get a rise out of me. Because she thinks it’s funny. Only, it’s not funny. And based on her reaction to my reaction, I don’t think SHE thinks it’s funny anymore either. Because when I put a hand over my face and start screaming like I’ve seen an alien come out of her mouth, she freaks out and starts screaming, too: “OH MY GOSH, IS IT REALLY THAT BAD?!?”
“YES!” I tell her. “It is! Now go get the hammer and hit me on the head so I can’t remember seeing it.”
They hang on for dear life, these big monsters. They contort themselves into strange positions, defying the laws of physics. Of gravity. Of public decency. And they always show themselves at the dinner table, when I’m most vulnerable, usually holding a steak knife. When I regain consciousness, the paramedic tells me not to worry. The knife missed my aorta and at least I have a second lung.
Big teeth are no messing around. But when this last eye tooth came out, I think we turned a corner. Literally. Her cheeks cover up all the big ones left. The rest are deep in the recesses of her mouth, hidden from sight. It means I don’t have to wear a crash helmet to dinner anymore, and we can finally put away the smelling salts.