I finally got Annie to the dentist this weekend, after
canceling two appointments for illness and over scheduling. She walked through the doors geared up for
the worst. Sunglasses (for the bright
light)…check. Bob…check. Little sister to push when I’m upset…check. I was nervous about how she would react to a
stranger poking around in her mouth, because she’s Annie, and Annie doesn’t
always roll the way other children do.
She is also my wife’s daughter who, when she was younger, got banned
from her family dentist due to poor behavior.
More than 20 years later, when I was looking for a new dentist, my
mother-in-law sent me to the same practice—the secretary still remembered the
day of the ban.
Needless to say, I was prepared for the worst as well. Annie went back to the examination room with
her mother and an incredibly positive hygienist, who never let Annie remember
for a second where she was. Tilda and I
stayed in the lobby and played with an abacus.
There were a few cries in the beginning, but when the dentist let Annie
lay on top of my wife in the chair, her tension eased. Ten minutes later, Annie emerged smiling,
with a two stuffed animals (one for her and her sister—this dentist
didn’t play) and my wife came out looking like she was headed for the gallows.
There was bad news.
The worst news. Annie had to give
up her beloved pacifier, Bob. Her front
teeth were starting to push forward, and down the road this could jeopardize
the positioning of her adult teeth.
After some serious soul-searching, we decided on cold turkey. Both Annie and Tilda would give up their Bobs
just before noon on Saturday, November 7th, 2009.
Our thought process for cutting them both off simultaneously
was that Tilda’s teeth would be in the same position next year at her first
dentist appointment, and that Annie would simply steal Tilda’s bobs any chance
she got.
Strangely, the day went really well without them. I’m not sure Tilda even noticed (of
course). And Annie asked us where they
were, but seemed satisfied that the dentist told us that she could no longer
use them. She’ll hate that guy one day,
and neither of them will ever know why.
I was apprehensive about bedtime. It’s one thing to go without a pacifier
during the day, it’s something else entirely to sleep without one all
night. After a double read of Ferdinand—I
just couldn’t leave them—I put Tilda down first and brought Annie into her
room. I never heard from T again, but
Annie started asking questions when she saw her empty crib. Oh sorry, she used to have ten pacifiers in
there. A friend suggested this to me
when Annie wasn’t sleeping around her first birthday and it’s done the trick
ever since. Trust me; let them sleep on
a bed made of pacifiers if it gets you some peace.
My wife and I explained to her a few times during the day
where her bobs were—our choice of putting them in the garbage seemed suddenly
crass when a neighbor told us they used the “pacifier fairy”—and we went
through it one more time right before the lights went out. And wouldn’t you know it; Annie took the
explanation for what it was worth and went to bed.
Just after ten, she erupted in the kind of screaming that
makes the hair on your arms stand up. I
was great when dealing with a baby’s cries, but toddler cries unnerve me. They are too adult sounding and
desperate. When you couple them with the
ability to say, “Daad, pleease,” then I’m usually defeated. However, like the stern sleep taskmaster that
I am, I let Annie cry for ten minutes before going up to her. When I opened her door she was standing and
jerking back and forth on the bars of her crib.
She smelled different. Sort of
like our dog when she knows she just entered the vet’s office. And her pupils were so dilated it was like
looking into two big saucers. It was
when I picked her up that I smelled the vomit.
And when she choked through her tears, “The doctor said no more
bobs? Threw them in the garbage? What haappened?” I caved.
What is one more night of crooked teeth? How much could braces cost anyway? So what if I permanently undermined my
authority, right? In the end it’s
simple: I draw the line at vomiting from crying. You read about that possibility when
researching The Ferber Method, and it seems cold, calculating, and mean. So, like yesterday, I will continue
explaining to Annie why she can’t have her bobs anymore, and I will continue
putting her to bed without them. It’s
important to keep trying, isn’t it?
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