Teeth

I was sharing pictures with my boss last Wednesday and we came across one with G and her first missing tooth. (She lost it on July 1—and, acknowledging how far behind I am in my scrapbooking, I made her hold a piece of paper with the date on it in one of the pictures, so when I get around to putting it in an album I’ll look like I’m on top of things since I’ll know the exact date it happened.) Anyway, the picture was the classic one tooth missing smile and it reminded my boss of the day her daughter lost her first tooth. The story goes like this: Jenny was downstairs playing with her siblings and some family friends, while the adults were upstairs getting dinner ready. Jenny’s sister came running upstairs and said, “Mom, come quick Jenny just lost her tooth!” Mom replied, “Great! Have her bring it upstairs and we can all take a look! I’ll find something to put the tooth in so she can give it to the tooth fairy.” Jenny’s sister, “Um mom, I think there’s more than one tooth missing. And she’s kind of bleeding…” As if on cue Jenny begins screaming and crying. It seems there were 5 kids sitting on the back of the couch, someone leaned too far and the couch slipped backwards into the wall. But it didn’t hit the wall because Jenny’s head was between the couch and the wall. Or, more precisely, her mouth was between the couch and the wall. That was the day Jenny lost her first tooth, and her second, and her third, and her fourth and her fifth.

Even 15 years after it happened, I could still hear the fear of the moment as the story was being retold. As my boss was describing this to me I could feel myself getting more and more pale and starting to sweat a bit. (I do NOT handle blood well). Luckily, they were her baby teeth, and after lots and lots of orthodontic care (we’re talking years here people) her mouth recovered and today she has a lovely set of front teeth. It is stories like these that always make me catch my breath. How your life can change in the blink of an eye. How one minute you can be having dinner with friends and the next covered in the blood of your child. Trying to keep it together, reminding yourself to breathe because she needs you to be calm. Trying to think, “This could be worse, we’re OK, we’ll be OK.” Saying these things to soothe your child in a voice that is just a bit off. A bit too forceful, too convincing, a voice that so clearly shouts “WE ARE NOT OK” despite the avalanche of “we’re OK, you’re OK” statements tumbling out of your mouth. It’s too much to think about sometimes.

So this was Wednesday. Thursday the boys headed off to Cub Scout camp and the girls when to Seattle to visit friends and family. Thursday night I told G and her cousins she had 6 minutes before shower time (no, not 3 minutes, not 5 minutes, 6.—It was 8:54 and I like my math to be easy.) I sat back down while chatting with my sister when the following was shouted to me: “N just pushed G off the trampoline and she fell and now her mouth is bleeding and she’s crying!!” And then the wailing began. I ran outside to see my girl flat out on the concrete, blood pouring from her mouth, hands scratched from trying to break her fall, screaming and crying and panicking. At first all I could think of was Jenny’s mouth with a gaping hole where five teeth should have been. Then I remembered it could be worse, was she moving?? Then rage at the cousin who pushed her. And “wow, that’s a lot of blood.” All of this flashed through my mind in the seconds it took me to cross the deck and get to her. (All of the mommy guilt came later.)

She was moving around so I breathed a sigh of relief that her bones and/or her spine weren’t broken, and took her inside to see where she was hurt. A quick assessment of her mouth at least let me know she still had her teeth, but the mouth was also the source of the blood. She had somehow split her bottom gum right between two teeth. And it was bleeding. Heavily. Down her shirt, on her pants, into the white, white sink in the bathroom where we tried to get her to rinse her mouth out. On the paper towels we used to try to stop the bleeding. On the ice pack we tried to use to stop the bleeding. On the popsicle we tried after the ice pack didn’t work. On her hands as she fought me while I tried to shove my hand into her mouth to apply pressure to make. it. stop. Did I mention the whole not good with blood? My voice kept saying “we’re OK” while my mind was waiting to be convinced it was true. All the while she was crying. First just cries of pain, then cries of “IIIIIIIIII. waaaaa--nnnnnnnnt. daaaaaaaa----dddddd--ddddddy.” He was all I wanted also. MD is calm in a crisis, MD knows what to do, MD doesn’t get weak in the knees or turn white when blood is visible. But MD was 6 hours away. So I kept it together. I held her, I washed the blood off her hands so it wouldn’t upset her every time she looked down. I called the pediatrician with one hand while soothing with the other. I got her to open her mouth and applied the pressure to finally, thankfully, make the bleeding stop. Then I carried her upstairs and read to her until she went to sleep in my arms.

While I was reading to her, my brain turned on me. “You should have been watching more closely.” “She shouldn’t have been out there with the bigger kids.” “You only let her on the trampoline because you didn’t want to listen to the ‘…but everyone else is allowed to play on it.’” And while those statements have some merit, I also realize that guilt is a part of my personal parenting make-up. It’s in my DNA as a mother. However, just as I can’t turn off the worry, I also can’t make my kids live in a bubble. (Knowing me I’d be worried that the bubble was made with plastic containing BPA. Or how would we ever be able to recycle that much plastic?) So instead I focused on the fact that we were OK. Shaken up? Certainly. But OK. Then I had a little moment when I realized I had remained calm for the most part. And that I didn’t pass out at the sight of the blood. And the next thing I remember was waking up 10 hours later wearing the same clothes as the night before.