Lately, I’ve been seeing a lot of pediatric patients. I didn’t ask for it, nor did I manifest it, but somehow, my chair has become a magnet for little humans with big emotions—and even bigger lungs.
Maybe it’s fate.
Maybe it’s karma.
Or maybe I accidentally offended the pediatric gods in a past life—because suddenly, every child in town has ended up in my chair.
Now, not every kid is a handful. Some smile, open wide, and even say “thank you.” But then there are the others. The ones who start crying the second they step in.
They walk in, I smile (nicely!), say “hello,” and boom! It’s like I’ve triggered a full-on scream fest.
One little one, tiny and full of energy, looked at me like I was the Grim Reaper. She clung to her mother like I was holding a chainsaw. No tools in hand. Just me in full PPE. Existing.
And then, mid-meltdown, she stopped, took a deep breath, and—mouth open.
A golden moment. A tiny window of opportunity.
“NOW. GO. CHART.”
I dove in like I was defusing a bomb. 51, 61, quick glance—charting while chaos unfolded around me. She was crying, but that mouth was open, and I wasn’t wasting it.
I’d throw in the mirror occasionally (barely) and pretend I have microscopic vision. Fluoride applied. Exit with pride.
“This isn’t revenge. This is resourcefulness.”
I really wanted to comfort her. I did. But there was a timer ticking, and I was working between gasps, dodging tears, all while trying to chart with one hand and survive emotionally with the other.
Now, simple charting and fluoride are all fine and dandy, but when it’s time for an extraction? That’s when the horror soundtrack starts playing—for both of us.
She’s screaming.
I’m smiling calmly on the outside.
But on the inside?
“I am also screaming, sweet child. We are one.”
I hold the forceps, heart pounding like I’m in some reality show challenge:
“Extract this tooth before the next emotional breakdown—GO.”
She’s thrashing. The nurse is holding her steady. I’m sweating through my gloves.
And in that moment, I start asking myself life’s deeper questions:
“Is this really how I imagined my Tuesday?”
Eventually, the procedure ends. I hand over a sticker. She refuses it. Fine. She stomps off with that siren cry, and I sit back like a gladiator who just survived the Colosseum.I know she left thinking,
“That dentist was an evil witch who stole my tooth!”
And honestly? Huh. Whatever. I just really, really hope the next patient isn’t pediatric. Please.
