“He’s a jerk,” I muttered in disgust.
Thorin nodded yes.
We had countless appointments with other specialists for various conditions and symptoms: a nutritionist, a geneticist, an eye doctor, a urologist, and the worst dentist, ever. Thorin had come to us with bad teeth. He had three root canals, and two of his teeth had been capped in silver while with Sherry. His front two teeth were deteriorating. I took him for a cleaning, and the hygienist went at his teeth manically. Thorin was lying on his back with his eyes shut tightly.
“Can you be more gentle, please. Those teeth are so fragile.”
“I have to do this.”
I laughed at the absurdity of her answer.
“You don’t have to do it that hard.”
After she finished, the dentist came in, examined Thorin’s teeth, and sent us home. The next morning, Thorin walked into the kitchen, smiling at me. I saw both front teeth had broken off during the night. All that remained were little jagged stubs. I silently congratulated myself on not screaming. Ward and I were both concerned he could cut the inside of his mouth, so I called the answering service for the dentist.
“That happened sooner than we thought,” the dentist said when he called back.
I ignored his blasé attitude.
“Okay, but it’s still concerning even if it was anticipated by you.”
“What do you want me to do, it’s Saturday?”
“I want you to meet us at your office this morning.”
I heard an exaggerated sigh from the dentist.
“I’ll see you in forty-five minutes.”
At the clinic, he assured us Thorin would not cut his mouth. Then, I followed up on the comment he made during our phone call.
“If you knew this was going to happen, why didn’t you recommend pulling the teeth yesterday?”
“Pulling teeth can be traumatizing for a three-year-old,” he said authoritatively.
How could he possibly think having Thorin’s teeth break off during the night would be less traumatizing? There was no further discussion or apology; the dentist quickly scheduled an appointment for that Monday to pull what remained of Thorin’s teeth and sent us home.
Before we went back to the dentist, two days later, I told Thorin, “We’re going to the dentist. He’ll give you a shot that might sting for a second. It will make your mouth numb so it won’t hurt when he pulls out your teeth. We can go to Target after, and you can pick out a toy.”
Thorin nodded. I asked if he had questions. He shook his head no. This procedure must have seemed like small potatoes to him after having dental surgery in the hospital.
When we walked into the small bay, the dentist was waiting. Thorin pointed to the screen on the ceiling above the examination chair and said “on” as he signed “please.” The hygienist had him make a selection. He chose SpongeBob and settled in the chair to watch. I proudly told the doctor how I prepared Thorin for the procedure.
“You told him I was going to hurt him?” He sounded wounded.
“No. I said the shot might sting,” in an upbeat way.
“Why, why? Now he’s going to hate me!”
That seemed like a dramatic response, even to me. Thorin looked up for a second and went back to SpongeBob.
“Oh, he won’t hate you,” I said reassuringly. “So the shot won’t sting?” I said, asking for clarification.
“Stop saying that!”
Thorin looked up at me. I shrugged my shoulders. It took everything not to cross my eyes.
“Okay, sorry, maybe we should just get going,” I said soothingly.
“I’m the dentist! I say when!” By now, he sounded a little hysterical.
I wanted to say, “Good grief, man, pull it together!” But I feared I would make him cry. When he was ready, he turned to Thorin and began.
“I’m putting some magic sauce on your gums.”
Thorin looked at me with a wrinkled brow. As he injected the shot of Novocain, Thorin did buck a little in the chair.
The dentist shot me a dirty look. “That’s your doing!”
After he pulled the second tooth, Thorin sat up, made the sign for “done,” and started to get out of the chair.
“I’ll tell you when to get out the chair, young man,” admonished the dentist.
The dentist soon left, and the hygienist cleaned up Thorin. We left and, as promised, headed to Target. In the car, I told Thorin he looked like a really cool vampire, which made him happy.
When Ward got home that evening, I told him we needed a new dentist.
“Okay, so we’re up to three professionals you want to axe, is that right? The doctor, maybe the speech therapist, and now the dentist.”
“I think that’s right.”
“How about the dentist first and wait on the others? People say ignorant things. I agree we can’t overlook the whole broken teeth, high-strung dentist situation.”
“The other two are on thin ice, though.”
“Fine,” he said patting my shoulder.
Parenting is about discovery. I discovered I loved picking out clothes for Thorin. I loved putting together outfits for him that made a statement. I knew this was going to be a short-term passion, and Thorin would develop his own style at some point.
I realized I was obsessed with his look the day I dressed him in blue jeans, a yellow, cotton, long-sleeve shirt untucked under a blue vest that had black, blue, and mustard stripes across the chest. The look that day was 1966 British schoolboy. Thorin’s hair was long and shaggy, very Brian Jones, the original founder of The Rolling Stones. When I picked him up from school, his yellow shirt was tucked in. How had that happened? Whoever tucked in his shirt had no sense of style.
Once we got in the car, I asked, “Thorin, who tucked in your shirt?
Thorin shook his head no.
“Is that hard to explain to me?”
“Yesith.”
“Thorin, this is very important. If anyone tries to tuck in your shirt next time you wear this outfit, I want you to untuck it. Be polite but make it clear you want it out. Okay?”
He gave me a thumbs-up. The next time
