My vanity, my child

By Gretchen

My five-year-old son has a very small cosmetic flaw. One of his upper center baby teeth is coffee brown. He’d prefer to call it chocolate or even dirt. When I consider the little sliver of trouble in his sweet mouth, I can’t help but think of a careless stain on the front of a crisp white cotton shirt.

The tooth’s condition is the result of a violent and bloody meeting between his mouth and the edge of a sidewalk. It happened during a walk we took on a glorious young-Spring day when he was three. The extent of the damage wasn’t realized for a few weeks because of the incredible swelling and bruising in his mouth and face. Trips to the doctor and dentist were encouraging. There was no serious damage, and he would get to keep all his teeth.

Unfortunately, one of the traumatized teeth was dead. It filled with blood upon impact, staining the enamel from inside-out. At first, the tooth was purple. Over the past two years, it has settled into the warm shade of a light French roast. It will stay that way until he loses it in a couple of years.

One cure for Coffeetooth is early extraction. That option doesn’t seem fair or reasonable. The tooth works, cutting carrot sticks and candy with skill and without prejudice. He needs it, so we will leave it in place. If his permanent tooth were formed and ready to roll down into his mouth like a little pearly white wave, we’d consider that route.

Another option presented to us was to perform a root canal. That seemed needless and extreme. No infection was or is present, so we wanted to spare him that particular experience. He can find out how fun it is when he is 35 years old and he breaks a molar chewing a slice of homemade bread crust.

The tooth is anchored in my son’s mouth. I see it when he chirps good morning, when he laughs at a chihuahua on TV, when he explains how green Moon Sand got ground into the carpet. I think nothing of it.

The tooth is anchored in my son’s mouth. I see it when he talks to the checker at the grocery store, the Sunday School teacher, the UPS guy, the friend. I think everything of it.

My vanity rudely rises. I’m embarrassed it lives in my heart. Aren’t I above all that? I worry the person listening intently to my son or watching him laugh thinks he is a boy with an ugly, rotten tooth. He hasn’t been cared for. He never learned to care for himself. How could a loving parent let it get that far? What garbage must he eat!

It’s hard to admit even a small kernal of personal pride hinges on something so tiny and impermanent. It shouldn’t, but it does.

My son isn’t self-conscious about his tooth, thankfully. In fact, when the accident first happened he seemed very proud of his colorful tooth. It set him apart and he had a harrowing tale all his own to tell. I’d nod and listen to him recount the very bad day, the big huge lips, the dentist’s fun chair that moved up and down and up and down and then at the end? Guess what? A toy!

The little things we worry about are often the greatest things we miss when resolved. Someday, that little brown tooth will be wiggled out of his mouth and placed under his pillow.

The toothfairy will scoop it into her palm and quietly consider her new treasure. She loves the little brown tooth and has all along.

She just didn’t know it until it was gone.

Gretchen can also be found blogging at Lifenut.