Like Pulling Teeth

I HATE going to the dentist. In fact, I wish there was a stronger word than "hate" so I could use that instead. A trip to the dentist effectively ruins my entire day, if not the remainder of the week.

Let me explain. Rachel was recently due for her second annual dentist visit. She did great, and I was very proud of her. The hygienist counted and cleaned her teeth; the dentist congratulated her on going a year without sucking her thumb (After last year's visit, we came straight home and duct taped mittens onto her hands every night for 2 weeks. It was so sad, but she knew it had to be done. She would even remind us to tape on her mittens if we forgot.); she received a Disney Princess flosser, a new pink toothbrush and a Gloria sticker (from Madagascar). Then it was my turn.

When it comes to physical features, there is nothing I'm more insecure about than my teeth. Which is why I try not to think about them EVER - even when I'm brushing, which I do on occasion. So 30 minutes spent focusing on nothing BUT my teeth adds up to my worst nightmare. The pointy metal instrument they love to use has to be some kind of torture device; it's like dragging a metal fork down a chalkboard, right there inside your mouth. Then there's the cardboard guards they shove halfway down your throat - 4 times - just to get some lousy pictures of you molars. Oh yes, and the best part is the "toothpaste" they use to clean your teeth, and the little dribble of water that never quite gets rid of the grittiness. When you ask for more water, you get another little dribble, then you clamp down on the suction device until your face turns inside out.

Another thing I've noticed: I believe it is the universal goal of dental hygienists to ensure that all patients leave the premises without one shred of self-respect. My hygienist (who was very friendly and chatty, and who I probably would have really liked had we met under ANY other circumstances) asked me whether I floss every day. I said no, and was about to explain that I do floss about twice a week, but I didn't have a chance to get that much out before I was reprimanded for my deplorable lack of dental hygiene. When the dentist came in, I heard her tell him I was "a bad flosser." So there you have it, folks - my new identity: I'm A BAD FLOSSER. The other thing is, they do this to you while your mouth is being pried open and excavated, so you can't even defend yourself. It's cruel and unfair.

For a good 20 minutes, I sat there and listened to words like "decalcification" and "discoloration" and "plaque." Worst of all, I was told my teeth will get darker WITH AGE. I guess it's all downhill for me. I heard these words as through a fog, because suddenly I was back in jr. high, standing naked in a busy hallway (For the record, I never actually did that in jr. high, but I'm pretty sure I dreamed it several times), a glaring spotlight revealing my imperfections to the world. I wanted nothing more than to go home and staple my mouth shut.

My dentist, who is very, very good at what he does, did hold out a faint ray of hope. Next week I get to go back and get fitted for molds for my teeth, so I can try bleaching the darn things. If that doesn't work, maybe I'll apply for "Extreme Makeover."