Teeth I removed from a child yesterday: 1
Adrenaline released during removal of huge molar: 7 million units
Teeth I ever want to remove again: 0
So, an update on one of my recent posts, Teeth and the Foreseeable Future: my nemesis returned. I tried to create an artistic still life with the image above. That is so I don’t get so creeped out I can’t type.
My son was eating snack yesterday afternoon. Something crunchy. Then there was running to the bathroom and keening. I had never actually heard keening, but now I have.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” (Drama occurs daily in our house, so I have to measure my responses.)
“My tooth! My tooooooth!”
That was the wrong thing to say. He’s read my blog post about teeth.
“Aaaaaaah! My toooooooooth! It’s not coming ouuuuuuutt!”
We’re not talking about a tiny front bottom tooth. He’s on to the huge, honking molar ones that look like arctic boulders.
“I’m sure you’ll get it. A paper towel and a quick pull. You’re strong. And brave!” And then I plugged my ears some more.
More screaming. More keening. Spitting. Ickiness.
“I’m coming in!” I yelled, bursting into the powder room. (Except that the door was already open, so it was less dramatic.)
The bravery I displayed was akin to a Navy Seal taking down a bad guy. Me: paper towel. Him: partially open mouth, tears, pain, fear of my ineptitude. Both: screaming and keening.
Yank. Tooth tumbling down onto his shirt. Disbelief.
I swear I’m like a superhero to him now. I mean, I’ve run a marathon and birthed two babies, but really? A molar. That’s the real deal.