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.