Monthly Archives: September 2013
This is a story about how my husband is willing to risk his sanity for my vanity. There is quite a bit of preamble, but I haven’t blogged in awhile, so I figure I’m due for a long post.
When I was a little kid, I adored my dentist, Dr. Turk. I named various toys after him, including a lion with wings and a crown.
Dr. Turk’s office waiting room was literally a playground. (I am literally not misusing this word *snort*) There were towers and slides and hidey holes, all encased in brown shag carpet. His office was bright and open and you got to pick the flavor of floride, floss, and mouthwash used. There were at least three flavor options for each. On your way out, there was a gigantic white furniture wheel with dozens of compartments and drawers filled with stickers and little toys that you could choose as a parting gift. Going to the dentist was AWESOME, plus, on the way home, we usually stopped by Nathan’s for hotdogs and sometimes we were lucky enough for Mom to drive us through the carwash (the height of little kid entertainment). As you can imagine, while I have had some very nice dentists since then, none have really compared to Dr. Turk.
I remember one such appointment, in between obediently spitting out my apple candy-flavored toothpaste in a much-congratulated show of how well I knew how to brush my teeth, and skipping to the prize wheel to claim my door prize, when Dr. Turk mentioned to my mother how I had perfect teeth. Of course, thought I, digging through the stickers, of course I should have perfect teeth. I am the perfect child.
But,” said the kind, wise, and generous dentist, “because she has perfect teeth now, it means she may have some trouble when her adult teeth grow in.”
Fiddle dee dee! Cobbswoggle! Perposterosity! I gave it barely a thought and we went on our way to Nathan’s to ride the ascending rocketship 300 times while my poor mother counted the holes in the ceiling (this was before smartphones, remember). One cross-continental move, the rest of childhood, a harrowing teenage wasteland (as I watched others succumb to metal braces), and a rapidly disintegrating decade of being 20-something and useless, the chickens have come home to roost.
Dr. Turk, dear, dear Dr. Turk. Your counsel holds true to this day.