worst case scenario need not apply

I’ve thought about how I’d write up the big post on how Luca did at his tooth extraction. Let’s just sum it up, shall we?

Luca’s a freaking champ.

He did everything perfectly. He didn’t eat or drink past midnight. He didn’t complain when I said he wouldn’t get breakfast until after his tooth pull. He didn’t get nervous. He drank the versed without hesitation and he did everything the doctor said to do.

Now let me say what I think about the dentist who did it.

He was amazing. I don’t understand how someone can be so patient with a kid high on versed and nitrous oxide. Seriously. When we brought Luca back to the treatment room, he was noodle legs and full of giggles. When he went to put the nitrous on his face, Luca was smiling so big and uncontrollably giggling. And then he kept trying to grab at the mask.

I had been standing in the doorway at the time, but Matt looked at me, who was sitting on half of the only chair in the room and said, “Why don’t you sit?”

Apparently I looked nervous.

I stayed calm for Luca and Matt of course was fine. I was mostly glad they let us both go back into the room. I know I would have been fine and calm, but my issue is that I feel that I need to help, forgetting that the dental hygienist and the dentist know what they’re doing and if I didn’t go back to the treatment room, they’d STILL do their job. That Luca would be fine. So when Matt asked me to sit down, he was basically saying, “Woman, sit on your damn hands.”

So how did the day go?

We were out the door by 7 AM and at the hospital by 7:20. We got Luca checked in and he had about 10 minutes of wait time that he spent wisely playing on the provided iPads.

When it was his turn to go back, we were immediately greeted by a super nice dental hygienist who walked us back to a nice dim room where Luca got to pick out any chair he wanted to sit in. He, of course, chose the orange recliner and then got to watch his very own TV.

I mean, they think of everything there. Everything. They have aquariums and iPads and games and interactive trains all in the waiting area. They use a pager system so you know when it’s alright to go back to your respective office area so that the rooms aren’t inundated with people waiting. They have personal TVs! Personal. TVs. I mean, wow. Even though the kid in the recliner next to Luca had Sponge Bob up loud enough for the entire hospital, whatever. Luca, at that point, was in happy land.

Now what does versed do to a four year old, you ask?

It’s awesome.

Within about 10 minutes he looked stoned. He was playing with Claire’s Innotab that she lent him and he went from finding treasure to having no idea what end was north or south and then it slowly slipped from his hands.

Fifteen minutes was the magic number and the doctor walked us back to the treatment room.

When I first picked him up he had a case of the Audreys. Read: bobble head. I had to remind him to keep his head on my shoulder over and over when his head would fall all the way back and he’d snap it back up.

So just imagine a drunk four year old. That’s about right.

Everything was funny. When I sat him down on the dentist chair, he started giggling. And then he quickly slumped to the side and laughed at the arm rest. And then the dental hygienist got close to his face and smiled and he smiled so wide and then giggled. Then his head fell over.

When Dr. Lustman came in and sat on his right, he was looking to his left. Dr. Lustman said, “Luca, can you look over here?” Then he, in super slow motion, moved his head, looked at the doctor and started giggling.

So then he sniffed vanilla ice cream (nitrous oxide) and got multiple shots of Novocaine which he didn’t even feel and then when I thought he was just looking at his mouth one last time, his tooth was out.

Best. Dentist. Ever.

When I first made the appointment, I said, “I want Luca to remember nothing. You hear me? Nothing. I want the best mind erasers you have in this joint.”

Dude doesn’t remember anything. Not a thing.

He got to pick out a pencil and a sticker that he proudly wore for two days and Matt carried him out of there.

He did cry a little, because versed makes one emotional. Elevators are a very emotional experience, people.

I stifled as many laughs as I could. I really did.

When we got home, he was hungry, so we fed him oatmeal, eggs and yogurt. He watched old episodes of Superman from the 1940’s and he took a 4 1/2 hour long nap. When he woke up, I had a tent waiting for him made with three full sized blankets.

Because that’s what moms do.

(Watching Mulan while in the tent. Claire takes it seriously.)

Last night he was petrified at the thought of the tooth fairy. So we let his bedroom door stay cracked open and this morning when he woke up and found a ten dollar bill in his tooth fairy pouch, he was over the fear. (Ten bucks is the least we could give him after the trauma of losing a tooth that way. Claire was only minorly jealous.)

This morning, exactly 24 hours from his procedure, he decided he wanted to do taekwondo again. Apparently his fear was in his tooth, because he said he wanted to take class, took class and did great at class. And wants to go again next week.

Whatever, I say. Go on with your bad self, dude.

So along with having a nice big gap in his mouth, he has the cutest lisp ever now.

Before.

After.

I don’t even know what more to say. I’m so seriously impressed with him and how brave he was. I am the definition of a proud mom. So proud.