Bless me, Doctor

Tuesday, Mama Duck and the 3 biggest little ducks went to the dentist (if that doesn’t sound like the first line to a children’s book, I don’t know what does). It was a spectacular day—the kind of breezy, warm, sunshiney spring day that makes you think God feels the need to show off every once in awhile (or at least remind us that Iowa really might just be heaven). So we really didn’t want to be there in the first place. That inclination got stronger as the visit progressed.

Our dental history is not stellar. One of my strongest memories of maternal failure is the miserable snowy day when we had to leave a school trip to Grand Harbor indoor water park to get cavities filled. As we were slipping and sliding our way up Highway 20 from downtown, Grace and I were both in tears over the terrible injustice of having to leave a water park to have dental work done. (There is also some commentary here on our jam packed schedule and our dentist office's availability issues, but that’s another post).

For this week’s visit, I finally made the good choice of leaving Lucy with Theresa (her daycare provider). At our last visit I added the incremental stress of trying to keep an active toddler settled on my lap while I was completely incapacitated by hands and metal instruments in my mouth, or satisfied in the lobby with no supervision beyond her harried six year old sister and completely indifferent 5 year old brother. What was I thinking? I thought better this time.

Now it is confession time—I am a sporadic flosser, at best. I once saw a comedian who said that visiting the dentist is like visiting confession. (“Bless me Doctor, for I have sinned. My last flossing was 6 weeks ago…”) And it’s not like you can lie to them. My stupid gums bleed the truth from the moment the hygienist approaches my mouth with floss dangling from her fingers. I have this vision of those big lights they shine into your mouth being the equivalent of my gums in some sort of terrorist interrogation. My wimpy mouth immediately spits out the truth and then some. “She hardly ever flosses,” they begin, then continue rambling confessions “she’s late for everything, she makes up how many minutes she reads to her kids, she pretends ketchup is a vegetable.” And meanwhile there are three other little mouths spouting confessions (and blood) when confronted with the light and the floss. I tell myself that the fact that we visit the dentist every 6 months is at least a good thing. I mean, I’m not completely derelict in my duties as mouth mother. And we brush. Every night (almost) and every morning (mostly). And I almost always help with the brushing, especially for the littlest ducks.

But I could do so so much better. Every 6 months, after our visit to the dentist, I re-vow to be better about dental care, especially flossing. Grace and Claire both had two cavities. Sam, Lucy and I came through okay this time around (I know I shouldn’t count Lucy—since she wasn’t with us, hasn’t even been eating solids for a year yet, and only has 6 teeth—but it improves my percentage so much that I’m inclined to include her). I have lots of excuses for why flossing is so sporadic at our house:
1. I’ve spent basically the entire last 8 years accomplishing most tasks of basic hygiene and housekeeping with just one hand (the other continually occupied by the baby on my hip). Have you ever tried to floss one handed? Have you ever tried to floss the small mouth of one wriggling child while holding another wriggling child on your hip? Starting to sound like a reality survival show, isn’t it?
2. My little ducks do not always exactly welcome my attempts at flossing. They aren’t completely resistant, don’t get me wrong, but they don’t exactly flock to my side when I call them to be flossed. Chasing them down to floss when I’m not even inclined to be vigilant on my own teeth just doesn’t happen all that often.
3. And finally, I’m really, really freaking tired by bedtime. The colossal task of tucking 4 little ducks into their respective nests at the end of every day is so monumental that most nights it is all I can do just to survive it. I know I had all these babies, and each and every duck deserves clean feathers, a brushed and flossed beak, a Bible story, a prayer, a story story, a kiss and a partridge in a pear tree. Heck, they also deserve all organic meals, a live in tutor, and clean, designer clothes. But I’m only human. (You hear the guilt seeping in?)

And I know that there is a Papa Duck who could relieve some of the flossing responsibilities. The problem there is that he is one, less likely to demand flossing than even I, and two, more inclined when tired to just plop every duck into bed without so much as a peck goodnight (much less a story, a bath, a prayer etc. etc.). Bedtime (and most medical care for that matter) are Mama Duck’s jobs at our house—for better or worse.

And, the truth is, I’m really okay with my mothering, even at bedtime. In general, I’m not inclined to beat myself up or feel too guilty (at least on the mommy scale, which we all know is a wee bit biased to the side of self flagellation). But I’m not okay with my attention to dental detail. I mean, seriously, flossing is not exactly the equivalent of insane pampering or even over parenting. It’s just basic hygiene, right? So, we’re doing it. I am resolved. Tired, one handed, unwelcome though I may be. We’re doing it. Bless me doctor, for I have sinned…