On the one hand, I hied me off to the dentist today with suspicious eagerness for someone who suspected herself to be in for some unpleasant tartar-scraping (and YES, Dr. H, if you’re reading this, I know that flossing more than a couple times a week would eliminate some of this…I’m working on it, ’kay? :P). Why the spring in my step as I set off? My fellow mothers, you’ve doubtless already guessed: I was going all by my very own self. I calculated that I’d get at least 10 minutes of reading in the waiting room and another 20 or 30 minutes of lying quietly in a relatively comfy chair.
In my previous lives, I always dreaded dentist visits (sorry again, Dr. H! Nothing personal; mostly due to some early traumatic experiences). Now I wonder: why only every 6 months? Is there a way I could convince the insurance company to cover more frequent visits? In short, I’d rather spend an hour in a muzak-ed room having wicked-looking instruments wielded upon me by a fiendishly enthusiastic hygenist than in the company of my own children. Shame on me.
On the other hand, as I listened to the nice young hygienist (who happens to be D.I.N.K.) describe how her 40-minute commute gives her some needed “me time” and how their dogs (with the expected comparison to kids) get muddy when they play outside, I actually felt a little sad for her. Used to be I’d hear something like that and just feel sorry for me. :P Baby steps, people…baby steps.