Monday, 9 August 2010

Some information, I do not share

I take Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to the dentist.

Of course I do not tell them they are going. This is a strategy I have. It is the only strategy I have.

Forewarning them - trying to make a routine dental check-up sound like a normal thing to do - well, let's just say I tried already. I tried for their previous six-month check up.

Announcing Tra la lalala! Nothing to bother about! Just made you an appointment with the dentist! To a pair of my child ears those words are exactly the same as: I know you thought you could trust me - your mother! - but I just sold you to an international body parts smuggler who wants to extract your liver while you are alive. Oh yes, while he does it, he wants to see you roast over a fire.

That sounds exactly the same, doesn't it? Which is why I no longer announce the terrible fate that awaits. Because the child who hears that information must writhe down the walk of terror, (also known at Constable Street), towards the dreaded circle of hell (also known as the dental surgery), into the clutches of the foul-faced knife-stabbing liver-trading demon who dwells there (also known as Mrs Boscovitch, age 53) and yet they have a whole six weeks to contemplate that dreadful end.

The reality doesn't intrude one bit on their brains in this whole six weeks of anticipation. That Mrs Boscovitch is so sweet and kind and gentle, that I have asked her to be my mum. That she's not even dressed up as a demon or a witch! How kind can these dentists be? She'll make the dental chair go bumpety bump to make you laugh. And then she'll twirl that tiny mirror round so smooth and gentle you may be in danger of crunching on it, thinking it is dinner. Afterwards, she will declare your teeth tiptopticketyboo and recommend an electric tooth brush.

There is no point telling them anything. So five minutes before we depart I let them in on the reason why they must wear knickers and shoes this morning. Before the horror hits their sound box I promise them a detour past the bookshop on the way home. Then I only have to deal with four minutes fifty five seconds of banister hanging and a bit of howling on Constable Street.



Rachel M. said...

Now if someone could just do the same for me! I hate going to the dentist!!! They always lecture me and order me to buy an electric toothbrush, which I did last year and it's gone unused for a year because I hate that too. Stupid waste of money.

Big mamma frog said...

Having not seen a dentist for years, I got persuaded to have an appt with dh's fangbuster bloke. He asked when I'd last had a checkup...ughhum-er..11 years..?

a) he didnt' fall over in horrified shock

and b) He said 'oh it doesn't matter,don't worry, we're not judgmental here.'

Then he proceeded to scrape 11 years worth of concrete detritus off the back of my teeth without even a comment.

No sarcasm. No lecturing. No overcharging.

Might even go back and see him again some time.

Katherine said...

Ah. We used to call it the 'Murder House'. Just been. I like the way my dentist has a little telly and you can watch Attenborough talking about giant man-eating flowers and watch him being sat on by gorillas while the drill drills.

Retiredandcrazy said...

Are dentists the most hated people on this earth? I think they must be. You are lucky that the children co-operate when they arrive. Mine didn't, resulting in mahem!

Kestrel said...

My children love their dentist - he gives them helium balloons, drugs and tv over their heads, to say nothing of funky sunglasses to wear and even better the opportunity to watch the inside of their mouths with his cool fibre optic camera.

I love him too :)