About a year ago, my son Carson's smile was permanently altered at an elementary school playground near our house. Yesterday we stopped there for the first time since
the incident. As he tromped across the sway bridge in his size 6 stride-rite sneakers, I still cringed. I wondered if the other parents could see the PTSD on my face-- the pure parental guilt, and the hyper-vigilance with which I guard him while he plays. The poor kid surely thinks his other name is
Careful, since I say it so much.
Last year, when it happened, we'd stopped there on our way home from the gym. He was goofy and tired, his tiny toddler legs surely rubbery from running about the Kids Club at my gym. Barely walking a month, his run looked like someone constantly avoiding a fall-- his legs barely catching up with his torso in time to avoid catastrophe. But it was one of those gloriously warm spring days-- too warm to just go home for lunch and nap. I could not resist letting him try his new legs outside. The bright red, blue and yellow colored play equipment beckoned.
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| May 2010, Before The Incident: his baby teeth, perfect. |
We weren't there five minutes before he slipped on the sway bridge, his little Robeez leather bottomed shoe-clad feet sliding out from under him, and his two front teeth breaking the fall. In full grin as he fell, he landed them squarely on two giant metal rivets which held the sway bridge to the platform it connected. There was that moment of silence, and then the blood curdling wail. Not knowing he actually hit his teeth, I picked him up and dusted him off, minimizing the incident. Examined mouth. No blood. "You're ok, you're ok. Oh, you're so tired!" But I did notice some strange white stuff on his lips. It looked like wax. I brushed it off, hugged him, and suggested we go home for lunch.
He did the kind of sobbing he does when he's either terribly tired or (now we know) in a lot of pain. Barely able to grab a breath. Barely able to talk. Not that he had that many words yet anyway, he was only 15 months. I suspected he bumped his chin, so I finally succumbed and gave him ibuprofen. But later that night while we were giving him a bath and he smiled hugely at his daddy, I saw it.
Oh, God. Two. Giant. Chips. Out of my darling boy's front teeth. The natural tiny gap between his teeth had grown to a cavernous hole. He'd lost the inside edge of the left one, and the bottom of the right one. I was crushed. I'd ruined his smile. I'd only had this kid 15 months, and already had caused semi-permanent damage. If I'd only put something other than slippery shoes on him.
If I'd not stood right behind him and bounced the bridge when he was running across it. If I'd only caught him. He wouldn't look like a redneck. Matt and everyone else assured me it was cute. He looked tough, they said. I didn't want tough, I wanted my baby faced boy to hang onto his baby-ness as long as he could. Now he was more little boy, less baby.
There are not many photos of him in the weeks following
the incident. I mourned his teeth for nearly a month. I took him to a dentist, an experience I would not recommend with a 15 month old. After an exam that was similar to landing a 20 lb tuna on a rocking boat while deep sea fishing, the doctor assured me the root was not damaged, and that it was purely cosmetic. I should watch for discoloration in the tooth. And pay attention if he says it hurts later, because it could develop an abscess. But he didn't anticipate it would. And no, they don't do cosmetic repair on 15 month old babies. Damn. There goes the modeling career.
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| After, Sept 2010 (It took me several months to get a good picture of them) |
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| The offending Ottoman, and resulting teeth marks. |
On Easter Sunday this year, Carson was chasing a balloon across his playroom. He was laughing, as usual, and when he tripped and fell while looking up. He again led with his teeth. This time he smashed them squarely into one of our pleather ottomans. He hit it so hard it left teeth marks on the pleather. His mouth bled a little this time, and I'm pretty sure it was not only from the busted lip accompanying the fall, but also the gums. The extreme pain sobbing ensued, followed by ibuprofen for a whole day. The sobbing, of course, stopped within an hour. And he was totally himself as long as he had ibuprofen. On day 2, the gum surrounding his left front tooth was a bit blue and bruised. I knew from the last visit to the pediatrician that they could not do anything but wait to see if the tooth turned any colors, or caused him lasting pain. So far it's still white, but I examine it daily, ask him if his mouth hurts, and make him point to where. He usually points to that tooth, but when I push on it or wiggle it, it he just laughs at the look on my face.
Today the gaped-tooth grin he wears while beaming up at me fits him perfectly. He's spunky and mischievous. Square, straight, perfect teeth just would not have looked right on him. I'm no longer concerned about his look, only whether the sharp edges are the constant source of injuries to his bottom lip, or worse, that he'll never get that adult tooth to come in quite right. I am sure he will survive. No kid ever suffered lasting damage from a quirky smile.
But I still can't help but cringe as I watch him fall, leading with those teeth. And as he does, I call out his other name: Careful! And I feel like I finally totally understand what it's like to be a parent:
To hope they have fun, but pray they don't get hurt. To let them go and hope that your watchful eye and expertly muttered warnings will protect them. And to know that sometimes, chipped teeth are just what they need to make their cute little outsides match their silly little insides.
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| Today, my little snaggletooth. |
