The jinx

Not long after the woman at the reception desk checked us in, she offered to schedule the boy’s sixth-month cleaning.

I hesitated. The moment elongated as my mind scanned through a litany of concerns I was compelled to tick off on an imaginary punch list, which, I’m not too proud to admit, not only includes worries about potential scheduling conflicts and also a host of involuntary superstitions.

This preemptive searching for open calendar entries ahead of the appointment at hand - which was just the routine x-rays and cleaning, scheduled six months earlier … at check-out.

As I scrolled through my phone’s calendar, my hands felt a little clammy, it seemed altogether possible that this might be THE THING that jinxes his 17-year record of being cavity-free.

It was a thought I suppressed using past history and hopeful thinking (his doctor has ALWAYS joked with us about the evenness of the terrain of his teeth, and how that means it’s unlikely the boy would ever need sealants or have trouble with the areas of the mouth in other mere mortals would find to be the cavity-prone zones.

I took deep breaths as I scrolled through my calendar, and swallowed as I accepted a day and time similar to the here and now.

“You can go back with him if you want.”

I have never enjoyed this part of parenting. Sitting in a corner chair of an exam room, holding my breath and waiting for the let-down while I listen to dialogue somewhere in the middle of a familiar animated movie, but neither of us has committed to memory.

I listen to the questions about the number and duration of daily brushings, and the half-truth he tells about the consistency of his morning brush and the evening floss.

“Does he still wear his retainer?”

Oh, I hope so. 

He receives the same advice as last time, and time before that: “Take extra time at the gum line. Close your mouth a little when you are scrubbing the molars.”

Honestly, I feel pretty good as the hygienist collects the tools and heads for the door. You are ready for the doctor, she almost sings as she exits. 

I have stopped trying to gauge her expressions. I couldn’t see a furrowed brow under the mask and cap unless I were obnoxiously close. My heart rate has returned to normal. My shoulders are substantially lower than my ears and I have stopped bouncing my knees to my mind’s playlist of atonal jazz.

When the doctor strides in with the practiced ease, my smile is genuine. Nothing in his voice worries me as he dictates letters and classes and occlusions and eruptions to the assistant.

“But unfortunately .…  it does look like he has a very tiny cavity in the back molar. Nothing to worry about, but it will need to be filled. We’ll get you back here in a week or two. No problem.”

“Is this your first adult cavity?”

“Well, it was a good run.”

I am relieved no one sounds too disappointed. 

Especially as I think - but don’t list - any of his recent dietary changes, particularly his newfound adoration of Arizona Arnold Palmer’s may be the culprit. 

That’s a conversation for later.