A mom's journey through chaos, cavities, and questionable sanity
This morning started like any other holiday day: pure, unfiltered madness.
First, I was jolted awake at 6:12 a.m. by the sound of our youngest son—Sebastian, age 3—declaring war on the living room curtains with a pair of safety scissors. Not to be outdone, our 7-year-old daughter, Miné, was using the blender with no lid. For what purpose? Unknown. I suspect sorcery.
Meanwhile, I had work emails piling up like laundry. Speaking of laundry, I had a sewing machine whirring away with half-finished pajama pants under the needle, because of course I promised handmade PJs for all three children by the end of the week. Past Me is a lying overachiever and I’d like to speak to her manager.
Now, let’s talk about the star of today’s epic: my 10-year-old son, Reinhardt, who woke up looking like a chipmunk smuggling acorns. Three of his baby teeth had flat-out refused to leave the building, and the permanent teeth were crashing the party like they owned the place. So naturally, we had to drive 80 kilometers into the city to see the one dentist available during school holidays—Dr. Fang (not her real name, but appropriate).
The drive? A beautiful blend of crying (some of it mine), snack wrappers flying, and Miné somehow smuggling a frog into the car, which jumped into my lap at 120km/h. I nearly veered into a truck and questioned my life choices.
We arrived 8 minutes late, which, according to the receptionist's eyebrows, was the equivalent of arriving 3 days late. The waiting room smelled like fluoride and expired bubble gum. Reinhardt, pale as greek yogurt, sat clutching his cheek while whispering, “I don’t want to die, Mom.” I reassured him with that classic lie: “It won’t hurt.”
Inside the dental chamber of doom, Dr. Fang looked like she enjoyed her job too much. She showed Reinhardt the needle and said, “Just a little pinch, like a bee sting!” Reinhardt looked at me with betrayal in his eyes as if I had sold him to pirates.
The teeth came out one by one—pop, wiggle, yank—like horrible little party favors. Reinhardt whimpered, drooled, and asked in the thickest chipmunk voice, “Ishh mah fasheh forever?” (Translation: Is my face like this forever?). I said no, and he asked if we could have ice cream before heading home. I said yes. I’m not heartless.
Post-dentist, we drove home through traffic while Reinhardt drooled blood onto his shirt, Miné asked if we could get a pet frog, and Sebastian announced, “I farted bad!” from his car seat.
Back home, I logged into work only to find my boss had “gently” reminded me that deadlines exist.
Meanwhile, the sewing machine ate my last spool of thread, Reinhardt in pain and struggling to bite, and Miné tried to glue sequins to the actual cat.
I’m now writing this from the kitchen floor, sipping cold coffee, covered in dental appointment receipts, thread, and mystery slime. But we survived. Reinhardt is three teeth lighter, my mental health is two hairs from unraveling, and I think that counts as a win.
Tomorrow? I’m booking a spa day. Or at least locking myself in the laundry room with chocolate and pretending I’m in Fiji.
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