The Boy had a tooth pulled today. A tooth. Pulled. From his head.
It is my fault. I have horrible teeth and have passed that wonderful trait on to him. He had some work done on that tooth, a lower molar, and its roots a few months ago. The day we were leaving to go up to Iowa to close on our house he told me it was hurting. I took a peek and the dang thing was gray. Not good. The dentist (lurve him) squeezed him in and said the tooth wasn’t looking good and put him on antibiotics to see if the infection would clear up. Fast forward one month later. “Mom, my tooth is hurting again.” Off we go again with the knowledge that the tooth may get pulled. The Boy was very, very nervous about the prospect of it getting pulled. I kept reassuring him that it was no big deal and I have had teeth pulled and lived to tell the tale.
So this afternoon I’m chatting with the dentist about this and that and what-have-you when he reached over and grabbed the pliers (Or whatever the technical term is, but between you and me? Pliers.). WHOA NELLIE! LOOK AT THAT FLOORING! TERRAZZO? TRAVERTINE? PEEL AND STICK? I couldn’t look.
When The Boy was one year old and had to get stitches in his eyelid? “I’ll be in the waiting room. Call me when you are done.” When he got his foot stuck in his battery operated jeep-type thing and HIS FOOT turned around TOTALLY BACKWARD? Well, since I was the only one here, I dealt with it, but real woozy like.
So he is down one tooth (a very grey tooth with some n.a.s.t.y. roots still attached to it), but got a cool little container to keep it in. He wants to wait until he is eight to put it under his pillow so he will get one more quarter. I want him to throw his tooth on the roof, but I don’t think he will go for it.