Ever have those moments? That sinking feeling that occurs when you've realized that what you've just done can't be undone and that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn't have even gone there? When you think to yourself, "Oh man, what the &@%! was I thinking?"
As I sit contemplating the $2k bill for the beautiful set of new silver teeth Kellen is now sporting, knowing that the bills for the general anesthesia they used to knock him out with so as to repair every single non-loose baby tooth in his head (ok, except the one they pulled because it was beyond saving) have not even yet arrived, making me rue every single day of the 4 years that he sat with lips clenched stubbornly shut refusing to let them be brushed due to that inhuman gag reflex of his (thank YOU mr. sensory integration disorder), my beautiful, temporarily disfigured nine-year-old daughter Elke sleeps restlessly upstairs, every now and then moaning in her sleep. (Holy cow, that was a mouthful, but i'm frankly too damn tired to go back and fix it. Sorry.)
And I know that part of those moans are because what was once a beautiful upper lip is now a grape-sized lump of swollen flesh stuck to the front of her mouth and I know that even the Arnica and the ibuprofen aren't going to make all that hurt go away. But the other part of those moans are because I know that she's REALLY wishing she'd not decided to Heely down that steep concrete drive, even after I told her repeatedly NOT to do it as I rushed out of one pool's swim lessons on my way to the next pool where my team was anxiously awaiting my arrival to coach them to their next great swim victory. Of course, being nine, and being my strong-willed, strong-armed, spontaneous, devil-may-care child, my words went unheeded and she took off, alone and defiantly courageous. Just a girl, her Heely's and a concrete slope of doom.
He of the new silver mouth and dual six-shooters and I set off down the path most travelers out of that particular center take... the stairs from hell... whilst Braveheart stood at the top of the hill, arguing her case to my retreating back. I had not even made it to the bottom of the hill before I heard her screams and knew that my fears had not been without merit. I saw two college boys standing huddled around, looking at what I assumed was my broken daughter, though I could not see her. The car was closer, the silvertoothed cowboy and his sideshooters were already standing beside it, ready to mount our semi-trusty Subaru steed, so I made a snap decision and hopped in the car to gather my screaming, fool child.
Now, what happened next I cannot say I'm proud to recount. I will not lie and say that I rushed to her aide, and consoled her in her time of great need. No. I was PISSED. I knew from the screams that it wasn't life threatening and I didn't fear for her permanent disability or disfigurement. I know that the people who had gathered and stopped to help must have thought I was the mother from hell as I dashed out of my car to grab her and stuff her, bloody and screaming, into the car, late for one of my team's final practices before State Finals. I was late and she had expressly disobeyed me and, in doing so, had risked life, limb and tooth. I was NOT at my pinnacle of parental sympathy.
I won't go into the gory details, but suffice it to say that my daughter may have heard a couple (ok, a few) variations on the "I told you so" theme. Once I'd exhausted all possible ways to let her know that she should have listened to me, and she'd finally calmed down, we surveyed the damage. Beneath the grape sized, bloody lump that her lip had quickly become, her fate as a snaggle-toothed princess was revealed. Yes, she'd managed to not only eat the pavement, but when she spit it out, she'd spit out a quarter of her top front (permanent) tooth, too.
On the ride home tonight, as she gazed in the passenger-side mirror and broke down in tears of regret contemplating what that decision has cost her, fearing that she will have to get false teeth, Elke had, without a doubt, one of those moments. And knowing how that feels - to wish more than anything that you could turn back the clock and undo that one fateful thing - I could finally let my frustration at her go and hold her hand and tell her that her false teeth will look just fine. But now that I'm sitting here, contemplating that $2k dentist bill of my sleeping Pecos Bill and his silver crowns, I'm thinking that maybe we should go back, do some digging in the dirt tomorrow, and see what a little Superglue and Duct Tape will do for a tooth.
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