One tooth at a time

I was chatting. I'm always chatting at football games. I always pledge to pay attention, but after the first few plays, I just can't help myself. So Sunday afternoon I was chatting, and not watching the action on the field, when I heard my name being called. "We need you..." the coach said as he trotted over to me.

I, of course, assumed the worst. Perhaps my child was unconscious on the field? Paralyzed in flag football? A brief sinking feeling settled in my stomach. (He had taken a cleat to the head a week earlier. These games can be rough.)

The coach opened his hand and handed me a bloody tooth. Jensen lost a tooth.

All the parents on the sidelines applauded and Jensen gave me a proud wave and flashed a slightly bloody smile before he got back in formation. I held the tooth carefully and allowed myself only brief memories of when he had gotten it as a baby, how much he had cried about it, how I had marked the event on the calendar. Now I held the precious tooth in my hand and felt happy and sad at the same time.

He's growing up, and has the great big crooked teeth to prove it. Sunday night he got out his Tooth Fairy pillow and tucked away the lost tooth and placed it on his bed. And very slyly asked if maybe I wasn't the Tooth Fairy. I very truthfully told him no (I'm not, but that's not saying anything about Jeff) and waited for more questions about it. None came, but they aren't far off. I don't think Santa will survive this Christmas.

He's growing up, playing football, needing braces on his new big-kid teeth, his world becoming a little less magical. I love this kid.

At least he had a designated driver

Jensen flopped forward in his chair and giggled. I hauled him back up and wiped the drool off his chin. He flopped forward again. And he found this to be very funny. Lots of giggling. Followed by more flopping. While he was hanging limply forward, he noticed that the floor was actually moving. "Mom, the carpet's rolling." At least that's what I think he said. He was slurring. Badly.

My kid (age seven) was wasted. Loaded. Blotto. We were having a great time.

Not very often a parent says that, huh?

But before anybody calls child protective services, Jensen had some dental work (crowns) done yesterday. Under general anesthesia. Yuck. Oh, and before anybody else calls child protective services, I feel like I should point out that these crowns were NOT the result of us putting him to bed with a baby bottle full of Mountain Dew every night until he was five. Not that there's anything wrong with that... well, yes there is. Anyway, the dental problems had something to do with medication that he got at birth that interfered with tooth development. Not bad hygiene.

And, if you've read what I've written about my kids' teeth before, it might strike you that, on a symbolic level, this could send me into overdrive. I'm proud to report that I stayed sane, steadfastly refusing to overanalyze this.

But I digress.

In the waiting room, about 20 minutes before his procedure, they gave him a "kiddie cocktail" (as the perky nurse called it) consisting of benzodiazapines to "relax" him. It worked, emphatically. (And if this is a "kiddie cocktail," I do not want to know what's in the adult version.)

My first indication that he was in trouble was when I looked at the picture he was drawing. It was a borderline-psychedelic scribble of red lines. He told me it was something about a cannon and his name. Okay, then.

Then the giggling started. And would not stop. Except he had no muscle tone, so instead of sounding like laughter, it was just a fuzzy "eh eh eh eh eh...."

After he repeatedly slid out of his chair, I pulled him onto my lap (god, he's getting big) and restrained him with both of my arms. That's when he noticed the tv. Rachael Ray was on. He was transfixed. After several seconds of open-mouthed staring, he whispered/slurred conspiratorily, "Mom, don't tell anyone, but there are two Rachaels on tv." I became a little worried we were headed into bad-trip-land, because she is like fingernails on a chalkboard to me. But he was okay with it. It made him giggle. Even more.

I had laughed until tears spilled down my cheeks, which made him giggle even more. Everyone in the waiting room was laughing. Office staff had come out to watch. He was sloppy. Then the anesthesiologist had to carry him back to the OR. Jensen certainly wasn't walking anywhere, and I wasn't up to carrying a 60-pound octopus. The doctor just laughed and said, "Buddy, you're trashed." He put Jensen in the dentist's chair, where the kid promptly passed out cold. Done.

He doesn't remember any of it. I daresay this is good. And I'll tell you that if he's ever in this condition of his own volition, I certainly don't want to know about it (maybe). And, because my parents will probably read this, I will also never ever admit to ever having been this way myself. Ever. Not even that one time at my cousin Chris's wedding.

I'm just grateful Jensen didn't puke in the van on the way home.

Bitten. Again.

So I mentioned on Saturday that Caleb was getting another tooth.

I was wrong.

He's getting three.

His poor top gum looks like he's been chewing on barbed wired. (Which he probably would right about now, come to think of it. Poor baby's chewing on everything that doesn't run away from him.)

You remember when I said that I cried when Jensen got his first tooth? It took a few of Caleb's teeth to bring me to tears, but I'm feeling that way again. He's growing up. I love it, but it still makes me a little wistful now and then.

I know more this time around, Caleb being my third, and that knowledge is a mixed blessing. For instance, I know that his fussiness will be over soon enough. I know that he will, most likely, not break anyone's skin with his new dentition. I know that the sleepless nights are short-lived, and that we will survive... that in a few years, or maybe in a few short months, I won't remember how tired I am or how frazzled I feel. Which is good.

But... this is where it gets a little tricky....

I also won't remember a lot of other things. Maybe I'll forget his cute little squeals of delight when I get him after his nap. Or maybe the yummy smell of his skin, or how addictively soft he is. Perhaps I'll lose the memory of how hard he has to work to move just a few feet across the floor. Or maybe how he just gazes into my eyes when he's tired.

No need to make a long list of what I adore about right now. My point is that I take all of these things for granted, because they just are. They are integral parts of every moment of every day. But before long they will be the invisible foundation of our mtutally-forgotten past. I know this, because it's already happened to me twice now. Memory is slippery.

I don't really keep baby books. My kids get teeth, they walk, they talk....The way I know that all of these things happened is by looking at the boys, at them just being themselves. Sure, I scrapbook, I jot notes on the calendar from time to time... but mostly, the product of these times will be the people my children grow into. The details will not matter.

But sometimes. Sometimes it strikes me how fleeting all of this is.

So I'm going to take a good long look at this photo. The days of the goofy, toothless grin are quickly coming to an end. How much do you think I will remember?