A sentence that I never would have dreamed I'd need to say, and I quote:
"Yes, we are going to the grocery store. But first we have to go home and get you some clothes that don't have throw up on them."
"Yes, we are going to the grocery store. But first we have to go home and get you some clothes that don't have throw up on them."
Last week, Maya had a dentist appointment. It was going to be her first complete cleaning, and she was a little nervous about it.
(Rather unlike her sister, by the way, who actually cheers when we tell her she has a dentist appointment and enjoys the experience so much that she says she wants to be a dentist when she grows up. I used to think this was the result of my exceptional parenting skills which had so thoroughly prepared her and convinced her that the dentist was great fun. But the same tactics obviously did not work on Maya, so I guess my theory is out the window.)
So on this particular day, I had my teeth cleaned first while Maya watched, and then it was her turn in the chair.
She obediently (but silently) climbed into the chair, laid back, opened her mouth, and didn't move. She was completely stone faced as she laid there with her mouth open, as if she was resigned to the torture that she knew was coming. Frankly, I was relieved that she wasn't screaming or refusing to open her mouth, but her behavior was so odd -- especially for her and especially considering that the hygienist hadn't even sat down on her stool yet.
So there was Maya, laying perfectly still with her mouth open while the hygienist was moving all around the room looking over Maya's chart and preparing her instruments.
The cleaning proceeded uneventfully from that point. Maya cooperated with everything she was asked to do, although she would not say a single word...
"How old are you Maya?"
(Maya holds up 4 fingers)
Do you go to preschool?
(Maya nods her head)
Are you going to go to kindergarten next year?
(Another nod of the head)
Are you excited?
(nod)
Question, nod, question, nod, question, nod--I so wished I could have shown the hygienist a video of a typical car ride with this child. Perhaps if we put a tray of dental instruments between the girls' car seats...hmmm.
After about 5 minutes of this, I started to relax and let my guard down. I had hijacked the brand new Martha Stewart magazine from the waiting room, and it doesn't take too much arm twisting to get me to crack open one of those. Soon, my head was swirling with thoughts of the crafts I could make, the recipes I might try, and the "good things" I couldn't live without.
I glanced up and nodded my permission for the hygienist to put fluoride on Maya's teeth and smiled as Maya chose marshmallow flavor. "Gross," I thought, "but I'm sure she'll like it." And I went back to my magazine until the hygienist said, "Ok Maya, you're all done."
But when I looked at Maya, something didn't seem right. She looked like she had something in her mouth that she wasn't expecting and didn't like. I said, "I think she needs to spit again."
The hygienist stuck the little sucky hose thing back in her mouth, but something was still not right.
Maya opened her mouth a little, and it kind of overflowed.
I had just enough time to think, "How in the world is there so much fluoride in her mouth?" before Maya coughed and gagged. That sound was all it took to instantly snap me fully out of Martha Stewart la-la land and into the land of find-an-appropriate-container-right-this-second.
But there was nothing!
No spit bowl near the chair (they have those little sucky hose things now).
No trash can.
No cup, bag or starbucks cup.
Nothing.
Another cough, another gag, and a full breakfast volcano erupted out of my daughter with nothing to contain it.
The sweet hygienist, being a young mommy herself, followed the instinct that many young mommies learn by experience to ignore--the instinct that tells you to stick whatever you have under the flow, even if what you have guarantees that you are going to catch vomit in your bare hands. I appreciate that she made a valiant effort to use the paper bib clipped on to Maya's shirt to it's full capacity, but it's full capacity just wasn't enough.
And as the hygienist and I worked to remove all traces of flouride-coated scrambled eggs from Maya's shirt and pants, the dentist chair, and the floor, Maya put together the first complete sentence she had uttered the whole time:
"Mommy, I just didn't like the taste."
To be honest, I'm not sure she wasn't planning it all along.
(Rather unlike her sister, by the way, who actually cheers when we tell her she has a dentist appointment and enjoys the experience so much that she says she wants to be a dentist when she grows up. I used to think this was the result of my exceptional parenting skills which had so thoroughly prepared her and convinced her that the dentist was great fun. But the same tactics obviously did not work on Maya, so I guess my theory is out the window.)
So on this particular day, I had my teeth cleaned first while Maya watched, and then it was her turn in the chair.
She obediently (but silently) climbed into the chair, laid back, opened her mouth, and didn't move. She was completely stone faced as she laid there with her mouth open, as if she was resigned to the torture that she knew was coming. Frankly, I was relieved that she wasn't screaming or refusing to open her mouth, but her behavior was so odd -- especially for her and especially considering that the hygienist hadn't even sat down on her stool yet.
So there was Maya, laying perfectly still with her mouth open while the hygienist was moving all around the room looking over Maya's chart and preparing her instruments.
The cleaning proceeded uneventfully from that point. Maya cooperated with everything she was asked to do, although she would not say a single word...
"How old are you Maya?"
(Maya holds up 4 fingers)
Do you go to preschool?
(Maya nods her head)
Are you going to go to kindergarten next year?
(Another nod of the head)
Are you excited?
(nod)
Question, nod, question, nod, question, nod--I so wished I could have shown the hygienist a video of a typical car ride with this child. Perhaps if we put a tray of dental instruments between the girls' car seats...hmmm.
After about 5 minutes of this, I started to relax and let my guard down. I had hijacked the brand new Martha Stewart magazine from the waiting room, and it doesn't take too much arm twisting to get me to crack open one of those. Soon, my head was swirling with thoughts of the crafts I could make, the recipes I might try, and the "good things" I couldn't live without.
I glanced up and nodded my permission for the hygienist to put fluoride on Maya's teeth and smiled as Maya chose marshmallow flavor. "Gross," I thought, "but I'm sure she'll like it." And I went back to my magazine until the hygienist said, "Ok Maya, you're all done."
But when I looked at Maya, something didn't seem right. She looked like she had something in her mouth that she wasn't expecting and didn't like. I said, "I think she needs to spit again."
The hygienist stuck the little sucky hose thing back in her mouth, but something was still not right.
Maya opened her mouth a little, and it kind of overflowed.
I had just enough time to think, "How in the world is there so much fluoride in her mouth?" before Maya coughed and gagged. That sound was all it took to instantly snap me fully out of Martha Stewart la-la land and into the land of find-an-appropriate-container-right-this-second.
But there was nothing!
No spit bowl near the chair (they have those little sucky hose things now).
No trash can.
No cup, bag or starbucks cup.
Nothing.
Another cough, another gag, and a full breakfast volcano erupted out of my daughter with nothing to contain it.
The sweet hygienist, being a young mommy herself, followed the instinct that many young mommies learn by experience to ignore--the instinct that tells you to stick whatever you have under the flow, even if what you have guarantees that you are going to catch vomit in your bare hands. I appreciate that she made a valiant effort to use the paper bib clipped on to Maya's shirt to it's full capacity, but it's full capacity just wasn't enough.
And as the hygienist and I worked to remove all traces of flouride-coated scrambled eggs from Maya's shirt and pants, the dentist chair, and the floor, Maya put together the first complete sentence she had uttered the whole time:
"Mommy, I just didn't like the taste."
To be honest, I'm not sure she wasn't planning it all along.
1 comment:
Oh Maya, that brought back many memories of my experiences at the dentist. I never lost my breakfast, but there were many times I thought I would. Back then they only had orange flavored fluoride. I shudder just thinking about it. Can't say marsh mellow sounds much better! HA! Hilarious!
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