I already had this nagging feeling I wasn’t doing enough to keep Seabass’ teeth clean. (Can we use toothpaste? How often do we brush? Is this just the practice round until he gets his real teeth?) But then I saw it: A brown, dead molar.
He was in the swing at the park, feet dangling and mouth open wide with glee. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. That couldn’t be a dead tooth, I thought, but then he swung forward again with his mouth open, and my certainty faded. Upon stopping his swing and prying his mouth open to look, I knew we were dealing with something serious.
A friend of mine once had to have her 20-month-old daughter’s tooth pulled because it already had a cavity. Thoughts of a dentist’s chair cradling a sedated Seabass entered my mind. And the expense. I called Jake at work.
“Jake, Seabass has a dead, brown tooth.” [Beat.] “Hello?!?!?”
“Yes I’m here.”
“Well? I mean, do we have dental insurance for him?”
“Uh, no. No we don’t. Are you sure there’s something wrong with his tooth?”
[Exasperated.] “Yes I’m sure!”
“Did you touch it?”
“No. Should I?”
“Yeah, touch it and see if he winces.”
I looked down at Seabass’ happy little face and asked him to sit still so I could touch his moss tooth. The instant my finger made contact, something brown and slimy slid off.
Banana. From breakfast.
No one has ever accused me of being easygoing.