I hate seeing my children in pain. I hate it even worse when it’s pain that I (more or less) inflict on them. No, don’t go calling DCFS. I don’t beat my children. I don’t remember the last time either of them received so much as a swat on the butt, but I’m sure that said butts were diaper-clad at the time.
Today I took my second son to the dentist.
Neither my wife nor I needed braces when we were younger. Both of us have straight teeth. The problem is the combination of her jaw and my teeth or vice versa. The combination of our genes produces children with crowded (and therefore crooked) teeth.
With our offspring, the primary teeth come in just fine. The adult teeth don’t like to cooperate with the way God designed things. In my second son’s case, it means that he has now lost twelve teeth, all twelve to dental forceps. He has never, EVER, not even ONCE lost a tooth in a natural way.
Four were extracted back in 2004. Six more followed in late 2005. None of those were very problematic. The two that were removed today had deeper roots that had not yet been eroded much by adult teeth. By the time we got home, his mouth had started to hurt.
Beat me up. Smack me around. Extract MY teeth! Abuse me in any way you see fit. But please don’t make me watch my children go through anything similar, because it tears my heart out.
The only small thing I have to console myself with is the fact that, in the long run, this pain will be forgotten and the end result will be a beautiful, functional smile. This whole process really is in his best interest.
But I still feel like crap.