I took the kids to the dentist yesterday. Dental appointments don’t usually provide positive feedback on my job performance as the head mama around here.I suppose we’re allowed to drop the ball on a few things although helping your kids brush their teeth is actually pretty important. Also pretty basic. The thing is I’m just so wiped out at the end of the day that I just hope the kids find their way to their beds. (So yeah, I also get a thumbs down on tucking them in too.)
Sometimes after I’m in bed, I get up to check on them just to make sure that they are all there. Usually they are. Sometimes we find a straggler hiding in the computer room which means we’re also flunking internet safety 101.
Anyway, getting back to this whole teeth brushing thing. I think I should get some credit for making sure that we have toothpaste and fluoride and dental floss and all that stuff in the house. What they choose to do (or not do) with the dental hygiene supplies is their business.
Still, I was pretty upset when the dentist told me that my seven-year-old has four cavities. Not only that, but they were in the same place that the cavities were last time which means our insurance won’t cover it. (So no, we didn’t learn our lesson nor do I appreciate our insurance company acting like they have the moral high ground here.)
My eleven-year-old also has four cavities. I’m the kind of parent that believes in doling out harsh (and frequently unenforced) consequences more than I believe in helping my kids do things they are perfectly capable of doing on their own. So we’re calling a moratorium on candy until the next dental visit or until some Wiley Wallaby Watermelon licorice finds it ways into our house. We also have a reliable Cub Scout den leader, and I’m thinking about paying him $10 a week to brush and floss Ricky’s teeth every night. And while he’s at it, he can put him in his pajamas.
So now that I’ve got that confession off my chest, I should let you know that I also drag my feet at picking up my fifteen-year-old from basketball practice. He’s used to hearing, “Can’t you walk?” or “Isn’t there anybody else that can drive you home?” or even worse, “Sure, I’m just finishing up something. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Oh, and also, I don’t recycle.
Let the becky bashing begin!
What confession do you want to make? Don’t worry. I’m very understanding.