Listerine, on the rocks, please.

Jay had his first dental appointment yesterday. And I will stick steaming hot cocktail forks into my eyeballs before I do that again.

There was the absolute refusal to open his mouth for the dentist. His hands clamped over his mouth, chin tucked into his chest, face turned to the side as he curled into a ball on the dentist chair episode. The pleading I had to do to get him to let the dental hygienist even glance into his mouth, the mental exhaustion of trying every, single, effing parent trick I had in my bag.

Distraction: Want to watch Sesame Street while the dentist looks at your teeth? (No).

Bribery: If you let the hygienist look at your teeth, I’ll give you these super cool sun glasses! (No).

Appealing to his sense of adventure: Want to ride on this really fun chair? See??!! Like a roller coaster! (No).

Setting the example: Look! Mama is having her teeth cleaned! See! It doesn’t hurt a bit! Oh! I loooooove getting my teeth cleaned! (No).

Letting him participate in the process: Do you want to hold the spit sucky thing? (Yes) Do you want to put the spit sucky thing in your mouth? (No).

Praise: Can you open your mouth just a little so we can show Dr. Fick WHAT a GOOD job you do brushing your teeth? (No).

Commanding: OpenyourmouthrightnowrightnowrightNOW.

No, no, no and no.

And no.

In the end, the dental hygienist was able to confirm, that yes indeed, Jay has… some teeth. At least four, judging from the bite marks on her (probably very expensive) cleaning instrument.

And for that joyous experience, we got to pay them fifty damn dollars.

I have no doubt that our hygienist went out and had a good stiff drink after we left. Or possibly just lunged right for the Listerine bottle upon hearing the door slam behind our screaming, flailing selves. I think this is one of those moments where I am supposed to remind myself that “This too, shall pass”.

But instead I will rifle through my desk drawer for some Listerine.