My husband is an amazing hands-on Dad. He brings the kids alongside him to mow the lawn, organize the garage or sort closets by colour. But to do an actual errand with a child in tow? He breaks out in a cold sweat….
- Going for a haircut? No way I can supervise a toddler while I’m in the chair.
- Groceries? I don’t want a baby to slow me down.
- Getting an oil change? I can’t take the kids – what will they do in the waiting area?
But Moms. We do all things with the little ones by our side. ALL THE THINGS.
Including annual physical exams, appendectomies and dental procedures. Amiright?
So because I’m the Mom, I brought our youngest along to have my wisdom tooth filled. I simply had to be on my game before I inhaled happy gas and drifted [ahem] off my game….So I prepared well and sauntered in, confident this would be a breeze.
I set out my little guy’s healthy snack and water bottle-gotta look good to the mouth care professionals, especially since I had already failed by having a cavity.
Placing Lego near my chair, I encouraged my son to build a tower, while I “took a nap.”
If there were badges for rocking parenthood, this multi-tasking Mama would get one. Probably two.
Settling into the chair, I strapped on my mask, inhaled the gas and began to fade away. Foolishly, I started reviewing everything I had done to prepare. Kind of like like double checking you brought your passport when you’re already at the airport.
Water for child? Check. Toys to keep him busy? Check.
A few breaths away from a mom’s version of a spa day, I realized my error. The blunder that could cause me to forfeit any Prepared Mama badge and possibly my free toothbrush.
A wee voice by my feet confirmed my fear: “Mommy. I have to go to the bathroom.”
Already drifting, I was just coherent enough to hear muffled words.
The sweet assistant asked, “Um. Is he independent? If I show him where the bathroom is, can he do everything himself?”
My brain pondered, “Nooooooooo….if he poops he will definitely sit and melodically proclaim, ‘I’m d-o-o-o-o-o-o-n-n-n-e’, until a bum wiper arrives.” But my mouth mumbled, quite cheerfully, “Mmmm-hmmmm.”
Later, the same assistant reported, “He is perched on the throne but doesn’t seem to want to come off. Does it usually take him a while?”
My mind raced, “Oh no! He’ll stay there until someone rescues him. I know you can’t wipe his bum but boy I am warm and tingly and hardly care.” My mouth just said, “Yep.”
After three more Michael Bublé songs (the only way I could measure time in my current state) the little pooper reappeared by my side.
When he started tickling my feet my dentist dryly stated, “I think Mommy’s happy enough right now.” Note to self: tell him that was a good one when my mouth can form words again.
When I came to, we all pretended the whole bathroom incident didn’t happen. I will be forever indebted to the lady in the purple scrubs for rescuing my throne-sitting toddler and never bringing it up again.
Next time I’m going to be high on Nitrous? I’m NOT bringing the wee lad. He’s going with my husband to his board meeting. Or to shingle our roof.
Just me and Bublé singing our happy tunes.
And a very relieved lady in purple.
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