When my daughter Australis was sixteen months old, she gave herself second-degree burns with scalding water.
This calamity, of course, followed some parental negligence. Our family was gathered with several others at a friend’s house — and when the host served me tea, neither Taylor nor I foresaw that our daughter would gravitate toward the *obviously dangerous* object.
[Note: These days, we are keenly aware that our daughter will always gravitate toward dangerous objects: the more *obviously dangerous*, the better.]
Taylor and I concurrently realized our joint mistake. We both lunged for the tea, but even Taylor — the nearer party — was a split-second too late. He grabbed the mug, but not before it spilled out its contents on our toddler.
My daughter’s thin pajamas did little against the heat. She emitted a horrific shriek as the skin on her forearms immediately blistered, then burst — leaving raw, seeping wounds just above both wrists. Her torso fared better, with merely a large patch of first-degree burn.
In the chaos of the moment, no one quite knew what to do. I rushed my daughter to the bathroom and attempted to douse her burns with cold water, but the sink was so small and her agony so great that I made little progress. I was thankful when one of the other guests, a nurse, joined me in the bathroom and immediately took charge.
Taylor, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. I found out later that he was trying to comfort Bo, who was really upset and scared by the kerfuffle. And, apparently, everyone else had assumed that Australis was screaming because she hadn’t gotten the tea — not because she had.
Long story short — we eventually resolved the miscommunication, and while Taylor shuttled Bo into his carseat, I carefully climbed into the trunk with my screaming baby. Aza was in so much pain, she couldn’t even nurse for most of the drive. It wasn’t until we were almost home that she calmed down enough to latch.
When we arrived at our house, Taylor cautiously opened the trunk liftgate and peered in at us. Taking a deep breath, I stonily forced out an absolution. “This was not your fault, and I forgive you.”
My husband’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Holly,” he said quietly. “I’m really sorry I didn’t protect her.”
After a quick conference, he closed the liftgate once again, leaving me and my weepy daughter in the trunk. She was still far too upset — and damaged — for a ride in her carseat. “Owwwwww, owwwwww, owwwwww,” she moaned while we waited.
Meanwhile, Taylor hurried Borealis inside and quickly put him to bed. This was back when we still had basement housemates — and thankfully, they agreed to “watch” our sleeping son while Taylor and I brought Aza to the emergency room.
We went to the place just up the road — although conveniently, we were actually admitted as “urgent care”, not “emergency”. (The latter is significantly more expensive.)
Our attending nurse struck just the right balance of sympathetic and no-nonsense. “You’re lucky that she only burned about five percent of her body,” he remarked after tending her wounds. “Any higher than that, and we’d consider sending her to a burn ward.”
I stifled a sob, feeling awful for having let my baby come to such harm. It was only weeks after I had miscarried Occidentalis, and I felt recklessly out-of-control — like, suddenly, I was incapable of caring for any of my kids.
Australis, in contrast, didn’t seem to be quite so burdened. She had calmed down as soon as her burns were bandaged, and she now pointed and chirruped at the animal decals dotting the clinic walls.
Taylor slid an arm around my shaking shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “Hey, she’s gonna be ok,” he said firmly. “Plus… aren’t you so glad it wasn’t Bo?”
I guffawed in surprise. To the nurse, I explained, “Our son is… not quite as tough. Like, he would still be screaming right now.”
Taylor poked Aza’s ribs, eliciting a squeal of laughter.
“Sad screams, not happy ones,” I clarified.
The nurse shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, every kid is different.”
“Wait, I didn’t say that right,” I backtracked hastily. “We’re not, like, happy that our daughter got hurt — just that, if it had to be one of them, I mean — ugh, I sound like such a bad mom right now.”
The nurse smiled and shook his head. “No, you don’t. I can tell that you’re a good mom, and this was just an accident. Your daughter’s going to heal up just fine.”
He watched Australis lurch drunkenly toward the side of the cot — stopping just short of its edge.
“But you know,” he added, “I have a feeling that we’ll see her here again.”
Fast-forward almost two years later.
These days, only Taylor and I remember exactly where our daughter was burned. As the nurse had promised, her skin healed perfectly: the frequent bandage changes were well worth the grief and hassle.
Unfortunately, however, Australis has only grown more reckless since that time — although, for the most part, her resilience has increased proportionately. While she’s constantly recovering from [mostly self-inflicted] bumps and bruises, we’ve managed to avoid any really serious injuries.
… until now.
It was January 10th — Bo’s first day back at pre-K. And let me tell you: while I love my son, it was positively glorious to have him out of the house. In between Christmas Break and lousy weather and various illnesses, he had fully metamorphosed into an irritable, stir-crazy belligerent. I wasn’t sure that pre-K would solve his pugnacity — but at the very least, it would now be someone else’s problem.
[Note: It didn’t help that I had *also* metamorphosed into an irritable, stir-crazy belligerent. Our relational friction was not one-sided.]
Similarly, while Aza loves her brothers, she was thrilled when Bo went off to pre-K — and even more so when Rhys took his morning nap. She jumped at the opportunity to do some of her favorite things — reading books, painting nails, playing dollies, etc.
And don’t get me wrong — I love all those things, too. But, I was even more excited for the chance to load up my car with boxes upon boxes of hand-me-downs. I had done a huge cleaning purge over the holidays, and now I was eager to bring that stuff to Once Upon A Child. There’s a franchise pretty close to my parents’ place in Colorado Springs, so I planned to knock out that errand during this week’s visit to their house.
By the time Rhys woke up from his nap, it was almost time to retrieve Bo — but first, I had to win the daily battle of wills against my daughter.
“Alright, time to get day clothes on!” I announced. “And you have to go potty, too!”
My daughter tilted her head to the side. “I already go potty.”
“Really? When?”
“I go potty last night!”
I chuckled. “Aza, people have to go potty every day. It’s not enough that you went last night.”
“No, Daddy say that I don’t have to go potty.”
“Australis, what have I told you about lying?”
She gave me a shrewd look, then finally guessed, “Don’t?”
“Exactly. Whether or not you have to go potty, you nevertheless must go potty.”
My daughter heaved a huge sigh. “Ohhhh-kayyy.”
I grinned in triumph. “Come on, let’s go pick out day clothes.”
Australis selected a pair of stockings and a tulle-y Elsa leotard. The outfit only works because she’s got an iron-clad bladder: if she had to pee as frequently as does her older brother, I would forswear leotards altogether.
Even so, it was a hassle to get her dressed after she peed — especially since I was simultaneously nursing Rhys. After a cursory pee wipe, I started pulling up her layers: first panties, then stockings, then finally the dreaded leotard.
“Alright, here we go—” I encouraged, then, “—wait, no, get your arm in — Rhysi, come on, stay latched — ok, yay! All dressed.”
And then I stood up and saw that — surprise, surprise! — my daughter had *actually* pooped.
I sighed heavily. That cursory wipe had fallen far short of “poopy butt” standards. For a second, I considered just moving on. Would it be so bad if I just left it…?
But, almost immediately, I realized that I had to rectify the situation. I didn’t want to irritate her eczema-prone skin, and I really didn’t want to give her a UTI or yeast infection.
So, I readjusted Rhysi — once again firmly latched — and grabbed another wad of toilet paper.
Now, let’s be clear. Best practice would have been to fully undress my daughter, have her bend over, and thoroughly wipe her poopy butt.
But… I was still nursing Rhys, and I had just gotten her dressed, and I was eager to conclude our bathroom ordeal.
And so, against my better judgment, I went for the quick option: reach down the stretchy leotard and wipe inside her panties.
I didn’t anticipate that the action would tickle my daughter — or that, once tickled, she would try to squirm away from me — or that, under her squirming, the plush bath mat would slip out from under her feet.
And because I didn’t anticipate all of that, I didn’t foresee that when I went to wipe my daughter, she would end up falling — face-first against the edge of the tub.
I instantly knew it was bad. Australis screamed her most pained cry — the one that I heard all those months ago, as the boiling water scalded her flesh. But this time, I was alone: no husband to hold my other child, and no nurse to help triage the situation.
My vision wavered as I realized that I had to inspect the damage. If Aza’s teeth had been knocked out, I needed to retrieve them immediately — lest she swallow or otherwise lose them.
I dropped to the edge of the tub and pulled my wailing daughter against me. Rhys was screaming now, too — and, I realized, so was I.
“Australis, Australis, Australis! Why did you do that!? Why did you pull away from me? Oh, I’m so sorry, baby. Oh, Aza — ok, come here, I need to look at your teeth.”
Careful not to drop my son, I used both hands to carefully pull back her already-swollen top lip. There wasn’t much blood yet, but it was obvious that her two front-right teeth were knocked back into her mouth. Still attached, for now — which at least meant that I wouldn’t have to do the tooth-in-the-glass-of-milk trick.
[Note: Apparently that’s only for permanent teeth, anyway.]
For a moment, I had the bizarre urge to finish wiping my daughter. Well, better finish the job. Wouldn’t want her to lose her teeth *and* have a UTI!
But then I glanced at her mangled mouth again, and a wave of dizziness swept over me. Bathroom cleanup could come later — after we’d stabilized the dental situation.
I grimaced against my nausea. I could not succumb to squeamishness right now. If *I* didn’t help my daughter, who would?
Which reminded me — though he couldn’t provide timely assistance, Taylor needed to know about the situation.
But to call Taylor, I needed my phone.
A cursory glance showed that it wasn’t in the bathroom, which complicated things. I would have to go look for it, instead.
However, I clearly wouldn’t be going alone. A sobbing Aza had crawled onto the open part of my lap and showed no signs of wanting to leave. Rhys, of course, still whimpered in my other arm.
Meanwhile, my left boob hung out of my shirt-dress, now neglected. I had no immediate way of rectifying its piteous state, so I merely took hold of both kids and rose to my feet — boob gamely a-swingin’.
I shuffled quickly to the kitchen, where I often leave my phone — but not today, apparently. I became increasingly distressed as I stumbled through the dining room and living room, then down the hall to my bedroom. The combined sixty pounds of kid-weight quickly fatigued my low-tone mommy muscles.
After several minutes of looking, I had a realization. Oh my gosh, I’m going to have to bring her to the ER without my phone! This is what it must have been like back in the day — like when *my* mom brought *me* to the ER!
This was a nostalgic thought — if utterly unhelpful. I shook my head to clear it, then reassessed my mission.
The car — yes, that’s where we were going now. And to use the car, I needed…
Keys. Which, conveniently, were also missing.
“Are you actually kidding me,” I muttered.
Aza moaned piteously in response. “Blehhh, blehhh, blehhh.”
I glanced down and realized that she was using her tongue to wiggle her banged-up teeth.
“Aza, no!” I reprimanded. “Leave your teeth alone, baby!” And then, overwhelmed past the point of self-control, I snapped, “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried to run away from me!”
Aza slumped in my arms and muttered, “I’m sorry, Mommy.” It came out all garbled and mumbly, and it just broke my mommy heart.
As I returned to the kitchen — this time, to look for my keys — I responded, “I’m sorry too, baby.” Then, regrettably, I added, “And this is why you must obey me!”
I searched for what felt like hours, but it was probably only a minute or two more. My phone turned up on the piano — and, finally, my keys appeared from under a piece of mail on the countertop. That will show me to be disorganized.
I called Taylor as I shoved into my Sperrys. He didn’t answer — so as I pushed out through the door, I barked at Siri again. “Call Taylor on speakerphone!”
“Let me confirm — you’d like to call Zayla?” Siri responded calmly.
“No! Call TAAAYYYLLLOOORRR!” I repeated, over-enunciating the name. The phone almost slipped from my hand as I pulled open the car door. I wrestled a still-crying Rhys into his carseat — all the while, pleading, “Taylor, Taylor please, Taylor please pick up.”
But, he didn’t.
Rhys wasn’t yet buckled in, but I needed a moment to recalibrate. I tucked my boob back into my bra and shifted Aza into both arms.
I nuzzled her cheek and murmured, “Hey, I need to put you in the car now, ok?”
She gave a drunken nod. “Blehhh, blehhh, blehhh.”
I checked her forehead. Maybe she’s concussed? No, I guess she’s just like this.
I kissed her softly and pleaded, “Please be ok, Aza Baby. I’m going to bring you to a doctor, and he’s going to help you feel better, ok?”
“Blehhh, blehhh, ok Mommy.”
I carefully propelled my daughter into the third row — at which point, my phone began to ring.
It was Taylor, obviously — and while I desperately needed to talk to him, I was nevertheless annoyed at his timing. Really? It couldn’t have been one minute ago? Or, like, one minute from now?
Keeping a hand on Aza, I used the other to readjust Rhys to a safer position in his carseat. Then, finally, I swiped open the call.
“Yeah!?” I barked — which was, admittedly, not the best conversation starter.
“What’s going on?” Taylor shouted over Rhys’s wails.
I started buckling my daughter into her seat — and uncharacteristically, I went for the ultra-condensed story summary. “Aza fell against the edge of the tub and knocked her teeth out.”
“Oh, shoot!” Taylor responded. I was somewhat gratified by his alarm. (Proof that I wasn’t just overreacting, right?) After a few seconds, he asked, “Ok, um, can you pick them up?”
“Uh, knocked her teeth back,” I amended. “They didn’t actually fall out.”
“Ok, well, that’s good,” he said — now slightly less alarmed. “Are you bringing her to the emergency room?”
I finished with Aza’s carseat and shifted to Rhys’s — at which point, I realized that his pajamas were still entirely unsnapped. I vaguely recalled intending to change his diaper — although, judging from its swollen appearance, I hadn’t succeeded.
“Uhhhhh, yeah,” I finally answered, “but I need you to get Bo from pre-K.”
“Ok, I can do that. I’ll leave now so I can come to the ER with you first. Just the one up the road?”
“Yeah — like when she got burned.”
“Alright, I’ll see you soon.”
I finished with Rhys’s carseat and got shakily into the driver’s seat. As I pulled out of our neighborhood, I called my mother and updated her on the situation.
“So… stay tuned, I guess,” I concluded. “Because we might not be coming down to the Springs, after all.”
“Oh my gosh, I’ll be praying!” she responded. “It’s all good if you have to cancel. I hope she’s ok.”
I hoped so too — with good reason. Amazingly, Aza already seemed well on her way to being “ok”. She had stopped crying altogether and was now engaged solely in her weird mantra: “Blehhh, blehhh, blehhh.”
“Are you ok, baby?” I called back — then immediately hated myself. Of course she wasn’t ok. I just hoped that she wasn’t, like, brain damaged.
As we turned off the main road, I glanced down and realized that my shirt-dress was unbuttoned to my navel. Awesome, I thought. The nurses will love that.
I attempted to button the dress one-handed, but I mismatched the buttons and promptly ended up back where I started. (That is, practically naked.)
By the time we turned into the parking lot, I had only correctly matched two or three buttons. I figured the rest of my chest would be covered by my front-carrier — which, thankfully, I was still wearing from earlier.
Unfortunately, while I was equipped with a front carrier, I was not equipped with a face mask — which, I was certain, would be required in the medical facility. Conveniently, of course, my extra masks were currently inaccessible. I glanced at the glove box and found it as I expected: wedged shut by boxes upon boxes of kid stuff.
Well, hopefully they have extras, I thought. Then, swallowing against the tickle in my throat, I added, And hopefully they don’t ask whether I’m currently recovering from my third bout of Covid.
I mentally brushed aside my mask concerns and surveyed the parking lot instead. Not surprisingly, all the close spots were either taken or reserved. Instead, I drove to an empty row — well away from the other cars — and backed into a spot. (Because safety culture.)
[Note: I am actually a near-purist on backing into parking spots. My time in the petroleum industry convinced me of its superior safety, as did this scientific study.]
I slid my phone into the front-carrier zipper pocket and my key ring over my wrist. Then, I hopped out of my car, ran around to the other side, and opened the back door. I unbuckled Rhys and briefly considered snapping his pajamas — but then I remembered that I hadn’t yet changed his diaper, so any snapping action seemed counterproductive. Instead, I tugged the pajama fabric together and stuffed Rhys back into the front carrier.
Then, I assessed my daughter. She looked… a bit rough. Her swollen top lip gave her the jarring appearance of an unlucky camel. A bit of blood oozed from one corner of her mouth. She canted her head to one side and gazed at me distantly.
Oh my gosh, she’s totally concussed, I thought. Out loud, I said, “Ok, I’m gonna get you out of your carseat — and you don’t have shoes, so I’m going to carry you in.”
Aza gave me an eery nod and mumbled, “Ok, Mommy.”
I carefully pulled her out of the car, propped her on a hip, and trotted across the parking lot, avoiding the snow as best I could.
I pushed into the lobby — past the “Masks Required” sign — and blurted, “I-don’t-have-a-mask-do-you-have-an-extra!?”
The receptionist handed me a mask, saw the frenzy in my gaze, and cut straight to the chase. “What brings you in?”
I looked at her and felt tears flood my eyes — which, admittedly, was not totally unexpected.
Thus far, I had forcibly maintained a veneer of composure. My daughter hadn’t needed a distraught mother: she had needed a tough mother. Someone had to be the “grown up” — and, as absurd as it felt, that “grown up” was apparently me.
But now, someone else would be the responsible party — and hopefully, they’d be more equipped than I felt in that moment. At this point, I could stop being tough and start being distraught.
I set Aza down on the counter and sucked in a shuddering breath. (Through my new mask, of course.)
“My daughter hit her teeth on the bathtub,” I summarized.
“Are they broken?” the receptionist asked.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Time to look — again.
“Aza Baby? I need to check your teeth again. I’ll be gentle.”
My daughter gave me another distant look and opened her mouth a tiny bit. I carefully slipped a finger under her top lip and exposed her gums.
And what I saw made my stomach churn.
The tops of her affected teeth — right at the gum-line — ended in jagged white lines, smeared with blood.
I tried to smother a keening wail. My daughter had broken her teeth, and I hadn’t prevented it.
“I think so,” I finally choked out. “It’s two of her baby teeth — D and E.”
[Note: Baby teeth are lettered; permanent teeth are numbered. Reference here.]
The receptionist gave my daughter an odd look. “Was she crying… like, earlier?”
I managed a tiny smirk, because I could tell how we looked. Aza sat calmly on the counter — but I barely supported myself against it.
“Yeah,” I answered breathily. “She stopped crying in the car, but she was really upset when it happened. But, she’s also really tough.”
The receptionist nodded, but I could tell that she thought my diagnosis was overblown. My further assurances of Aza’s resilience had little effect on her incredulity.
Thus, we were admitted for “urgent care” — and after a slew of signatures and an interminable three-minute wait, we were summoned back by a bored-looking male nurse.
I immediately disliked him — and my opinion didn’t improve when he haltingly asked, “Uh, are you… ok?”
“Ha!” I squawked. “Do I look ok?”
He briefly surveyed my general appearance — red-eyed and makeup-less, with a tear-soaked disposal mask and a few buttons still undone. I don’t know exactly what I looked like — but it wasn’t “ok”.
So, instead, the nurse asked, “Um, can I, uh, help you with something…?”
Still holding Aza and front-carrying Rhys, I gestured wildly with my free hand. “Just please lead the way, sir!”
To his credit, he didn’t argue. He led us back into the clinic area and measured Aza’s height and weight.
His leisurely pace galled me as nothing else yet had. I wanted to scream, Could you *please* act like my daughter’s about to lose her teeth!? I thought this was an “urgent care”, not a “whenever-I-get-around-to-it care”!?
But, I kept my mouth shut — mostly because I felt sure that my complaints would afford us no better treatment.
The nurse led us into a room indistinguishable from the one we had occupied nearly two years before. I drummed my fingers on the chair arm as I balanced Aza and Rhys on my lap.
The nurse lethargically took Aza’s temperature, then glacially inquired, “So, what’s the matter today?”
I took a deep breath and said, “We were in the bathroom, I was trying to wipe her, she slipped and hit her teeth on the edge of the tub.”
He looked at Aza, who was once again whimpering — but only just. “And… this was, like, this morning?” he queried.
“Yes, like just now!” I shouted. “Can’t you see how upset I am!? Isn’t it obvious that this just happened?”
The nurse [somewhat reasonably] answered, “I’m just asking. Do you know what time…?”
I nodded, “Yeah, I can figure it out.” I managed to extract my phone from the zipper pocket, then back-calculated from my first call to Taylor. “Um, like maybe 11:32?” I glanced at the current time. “So, exactly twenty minutes ago.”
Only twenty minutes? I marveled. It feels like it’s been hours. I wonder how long it’ll take for Taylor to get here. I can’t exactly text him until this dummy-head wraps up.
At which point, my husband burst into the exam room, to the immense relief of Australis and me — and probably the nurse, too.
“What can I do to help?” Taylor asked.
I nodded to Aza. “She’ll wanna snuggle with you. She’s scared and needs her daddy.”
Taylor knelt down and murmured, “Hey, sweet girl. Do you want some Daddy snuggles?”
Aza nodded and reached for his embrace. My husband took his only daughter into his arms and sank into the chair next to mine.
The nurse took a few more notes, then prepared to leave the room. “The doctor will be with you shortly,” he said in farewell.
With a few minutes to wait, I finally had the opportunity to change Rhys’s overfull pee-pee diaper and re-snap his pajamas. I stuck him back into the front carrier, then sat up and leaned hard against Taylor’s shoulder. My husband looked at me with a mix of concern and amusement.
“Hey. She’s gonna be ok,” he assured me. “Look, she’s not even upset anymore.”
“Yes, because she’s Australis! Do you think *Bo* would be this calm right now?”
“Oh, no chance.”
I stifled another sob and carefully stroked her corn-silk hair.
At my touch, she unburied her face from Taylor’s chest and mumbled, “I’m sorry for hurting my teeth.”
— which, of course, made me sob even harder.
“Great,” I finally managed. “I let her bash her face on the tub, and now I’ve damaged her psychologically, as well.”
Australis [understandably] ignored me and instead went back to tonguing her teeth. “Blehhh, blehhh, blehhh.”
Taylor started to answer, but a sudden knock sounded on the inner door of the exam room, followed by the appearance of a burly middle-aged man.
“I hear you had a tangle with the tub,” the doctor began, addressing Australis. She turned her glassy-eyed stare toward him and nestled closer against her daddy.
“You could say that,” I agreed, then recounted the details of the incident.
After my story, the doctor nodded sagely, then asked Aza, “Will you allow me to look in your mouth?”
My daughter’s gaze turned suspicious, and she peeped a miniscule, “No.”
Taylor rubbed her back and encouraged, “The doctor has to look in your mouth to see what’s going on with your teeth. Will you let him?”
Aza still looked suspicious, but she opened her mouth — just the tiniest bit.
“Will you sit up here on the exam table?” the doctor quickly added.
While the men cajoled Aza’s compliance — then examined the damage to her face — I sat in my chair, arms wrapped around my baby son and tears gushing out between squeezed-shut eyelids.
I felt horrible for letting my daughter break her teeth — but perhaps even more, for making her think that the injury was exclusively her fault.
Now, our family is super big on responsibility: It’s your responsibility to clean up your toys. It’s my responsibility to pick you up from school. You must be responsible with your tools. A good man is responsible for his own actions. — you get the idea.
But, while I’m a huge believer in personal accountability, I don’t want to raise my kids to perpetually take responsibility for things that aren’t their fault. Yes, she should have obeyed me — but I shouldn’t have wiped in such a slapdash manner. We both contributed to the accident, and I hadn’t done a great job of conveying that fact. However, this present moment wasn’t exactly the optimal time for a mother-daughter heart-to-heart.
Heedless of my soulful turmoil, the doctor turned back to me with a small smile. “I have some good news. She only sustained soft-tissue damage.”
I thought I must have misheard. “What? Besides the broken teeth, you mean?”
He shook his head. “Her teeth are pretty banged-up, but they aren’t broken.”
“But what about the apparent fracture at the gum-line?”
“Yeah, that looks pretty bad,” he admitted. “But no, that’s actually just the gums. The impact left them pretty ragged, and that’s what makes them look white. Come and see.”
With trepidation, I once again examined my daughter’s teeth. Sure enough, the jagged white line that I had initially mistaken for fractured enamel was actually just shredded gum tissue. The baby teeth were still canted inward at an alarming angle, but they were no longer bleeding. I guess that’s why she had stopped crying so quickly: amazingly, things weren’t actually as bad as they had seemed.
[Note: So I guess that’s why the receptionist and nurse didn’t take me seriously.]
The doctor explained, “As far as I can tell, the roots are still intact and attached — otherwise, the teeth would have shifted out of their gum-line. That is, they would visually appear longer.”
“So…?”
“So, I’m fairly confident that both teeth will recover with time and caution. You know: no solid foods, no rough play — that sort of thing.”
I nodded. “But…?”
“But, there is a non-zero chance that this tooth won’t recover, and she’ll lose it early,” he said, indicating tooth D. “There’s no way to know right now — only time will tell.”
“Ok, that makes sense,” I answered. “I guess we’ll see!”
“Yes — but, in the meantime, you should go see a pediatric dentist.”
I agreed, and we said our farewells — but as he made ready to leave, I called, “Oh, one more thing — you don’t think she’s concussed, do you?”
The doctor shook his head. “No. She’s just upset. I suspect her behavior will return to normal soon enough.”
And with that, he exchanged places with the bored nurse, who limply guided us through the discharge process. I sighed loudly at his unhurried pace — but, as predicted, my frustration did little to speed his progress.
[Note: Ok, so I do feel a little bad for having been so rude to this man.]
In a few minutes, our family was back out in the parking lot. Taylor had backed into the spot next to mine, so we walked together to our cars.
I glanced at the time. “Do you want to take her home? Or go get Bobhi?”
[Note: This is my take on the popular boys’ name “Bodhi”. While that name (with a “d”) means “awakening” or “enlightenment”, my version of the name (with a “b”) means something quite different — something like, “I know you’re almost five, but please let me keep at least one pet name for you!”.]
Taylor nuzzled Australis, whom he was still holding. “I’ll take her home. You haven’t given her Tylenol yet, right?”
I grimaced. “Uh, no. I should have grabbed it on the way out.”
“It’s ok. There was a lot going on.”
I gestured to my car. The profusion of boxes and bags — visible even from outside — sent another jolt of anxiety through me. “Well,” I sighed. “I guess I’ll go get Bobhi in this homeless camper van.”
Taylor let out a peal of laughter, then began the process of getting Australis situated the backseat of his little Tiburon. He drove away as I was tightening Rhys’s carseat.
I made a few quick calls on the way to Bo’s pre-K — and by the time I arrived, I had a general plan for the rest of our day.
I rushed inside the school as though — well, as though my daughter had bashed in her teeth on the edge of a tub. The parents and teachers gave me [understandably] startled looks — especially since I still hadn’t gotten around to putting on makeup. (Or fully buttoning my shirt-dress.)
When Borealis greeted me at the classroom door, I knelt down and forced eye contact. “Listen. I have to tell you something,” I said. “Aza fell and hit her teeth on the bathtub. She has a really bad boo-boo, and I need you to be super careful with her, or else her teeth might fall out.”
Bo gave me a shocked look.
I sighed. “Look, she’s probably going to be ok. But how are you going be with her?”
“Careful,” he parroted, then added, “Was she being reckless?”
I clenched my teeth in shame. “Uh… sort of, Bo, but it was also me. Like, it was a true accident. It wasn’t, like, just one of our faults.”
“Are we still going to Amma’s house?”
I stood and tugged my son toward the exit. Rhys had remained in the [idling and locked] car, so I wanted to be mindful of time. “Yeah,” I answered Bo, “but we have to go to the dentist first. Not our normal one — do you remember the one with the crocodile tooth game?”
“Oh yeah!” Bo answered enthusiastically. “I loved that game!”
I rolled my eyes. Leave it to my son to be so peppy at a time like this. “Yes, well, we’re going to see another dentist there — not the boy dentist, but a girl dentist.”
My son’s eyebrows shot together. “But, do you think she will still have fun games?”
I laughed. “I don’t know, Bo — I mean, probably?”
We arrived home barely an hour after Aza’s “tangle with the tub” — and not surprisingly, we found her cuddled with Taylor on the couch, an episode of Bluey playing on the TV.
“Aza!” Bo bellowed. “You got a boo-boo!”
“Bo, calm!” I urged — to no effect. At least he kept his distance.
Rhys had fallen asleep in the car, so I went to lay him down in his playard. Finally, I settled onto the couch next to my daughter and took her hand in mine.
Her eyes, of course, remained glued on the television. I grabbed the remote and clicked off the screen.
Aza and Bo released twin indignant squawks.
“But I wanted to watch Bluey!” Bo exclaimed.
“Yes, I know,” I said flatly. “And I’ll turn it on again once we’re done having a conversation, ok?”
Bo grumbled, but Aza turned toward me. I was glad to see that, while she still looked sleepy, her gaze no longer appeared vacant. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” she whimpered.
I wrapped her in a hug. “Baby, why are you saying sorry?”
“I’m sorry for hurting my teeth.”
A fresh tear streaked down my cheek. I sighed deeply, then said, “No, I’m sorry, Aza. You don’t have to be sorry. I told you that this was your fault, but I was wrong to say that. It… it sort of wasn’t anyone’s fault. So I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
Aza nodded and stroked my hair. And then she said, “Mommy, I’m sorry for hurting my teeth.”
Taylor bit back an ironic laugh. I sighed. Parenthood is always a work in progress.
So, I answered, “Ok, baby. I forgive you, too.”
[Author’s Note: Australis was cleared by the pediatric dentist, and she has yet to lose either tooth — although they’ve both turned gray. We’ll see if they recover.
Oh, and I did eventually wipe her butt again.]