Today my children have a dental appointment.
This is a stressful event. For me. Not for my children obviously. In these early halcyon days trips to the dentist are nothing more than a delightful opportunity to be picked up from school by mum and taken somewhere.
They get seated in a lovely relaxing chair, given a sticker and have their mouths examined briefly. All very nice.
Not for them the news of root canals, or injections the size of Texas, or horrible drills that leave your ears ringing for weeks afterwards.
For me however, the yearly dental check up for my offspring induces stomach churning anxiety for weeks in advance. Mainly because the dentist asks them the question how often they brush their teeth, not me. I of course would say twice a day. However their answer may differ.
So my stress was heightened when I asked my daughter in a faux causal voice yesterday: "How often do you brush your teeth sweetheart?"
She wrinkled her nose and gave the question some considered thought. "Um, not very often."
Seeing my horrified face she hastily amended with: "Well sometimes alot, especially when you're taking us to the dentist."
I took two deep cleansing breaths. "Sweetheart, you brush your teeth twice a day. Remember?"
"No mum, I don't. I forget. And you don't remind me all the time" was her reply.
It's been nearly EIGHT years of parenting.
EIGHT.
I thought I had some handle on the parenting routine.
Following on from the conversation I had a grave conversation with the offspring about dental hygiene and remembering to brush teeth twice a day.
So this morning teeth were brushed and I repeated my question.
She duly responded with "I brush twice a day mum, just like you told me to say."
The appointment is in an hour.
I'm stuffed aren't I?
