2:30. Two thirty. Tooth-hurty.
That’s Matthew’s joke (that came from somewhere else), anyhow.
Yesterday, it was at 11:00. Not that I wanted to go. Not that I wanted to have a reason to go.
But I did. Rather, he did. Small Boy.
We’d gone outside and literally one minute after being out, he tried to step over a rock, didn’t make it, stumbled, and hit his tooth on a rock. Oh, I thought, I hope he didn’t cut his lip. He didn’t, or at least not much.
But what were these little white bits on his lip? What could he have fallen on? Tiny rocks, weird lint out here, what?
Bits of his teeth. *heart sinks, panic rises* BITS OF HIS TEETH! HIS TINY, PERFECT BABY TEETH!
Just the day before, on Girl’s birthday, I’d seen his seventh tooth, another bottom tooth, the one on his left of the two middle bottom ones. Just as I was celebrating his new tooth, he lost a chunk of an old one – and I use “old” in disbelief. He rarely even shows his teeth – no toothy smiles for this one – and now, his perfectly-imagined toothy grin is gone. There was much crying on his part, and I imagined all sorts of terrible things, the way parents do. (Why is it that parenting often leads to a worst-case-scenario imagination?)
In brief, the dentist said that the damage was limited and the tooth itself is OK (although trauma to teeth may, sooner or even years later, result in the blood supply being shut off to the tooth, resulting in a grey tooth). He said I didn’t need to worry; it’s not loose. The adult tooth wasn’t harmed. To me, it looks like a third of his tooth is gone. *shiver*
Today, he was eating a carrot. It seems to be OK. For now.
This parenting thing is not for the timid, as Matthew’s said before. Or the squeamish.