Actually, let me backtrack. This was the second time I took her to the dentist— the first time there was some sort of location snafu (apparently, I made an appointment at the Manhattan location on a day when my traveling pediatric dentist is in Brooklyn) which resulted in Mazzy crying at the foot of the locked dentist’s door screaming, “But I WANT to go to the DENTIST!!!!”
“No, you do not, Mazzy. No you do not,” I said to quietly to myself.
There are few things I hate more than the dentist. (Maybe vegemite? Or shark attacks?) Every time I go, I convince myself that it is not as bad as I remember and then while I am sitting in the chair, all I can think is, “IT IS!!! IT’S JUST AS BAD AS I REMEMBER!!! IT’S EVEN WORSE THAN I REMEMBER!!! IF THIS ISN’T OVER IN FIVE MINUTES, I MAY HAVE TO RIP THE BIB OFF, APOLOGIZE AND GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!!!!!!”
Mazzy’s excitement leading up to her first dentist appointment made me feel sad for her. She clearly had no idea what was going to happen there. I braced myself and prepared for the worst.
But through some miracle of pedatric dentistry, the worst never happened.
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