So my little Gianni-Be-Good, my Moose, my Pooky Head, my four year old whoIbirthedwithouttheuseofdrugsthankyouverymuchcanIgetanamen? had his teeth pulled yesterday. Those teeth. Those FREAKING teeth that have been plaguing us for two years finally had to go.
There were sobs and tears and yelling and hitting.
Cuz I didn't go.
I left that to the Daddy because I figured I gestated him and birthed him (withouttheuseofdrugsthankyouverymuchcanIgetanamen?) so Daddy could do the dentist thing and we'd pretty much be even. More or less.
When he came home he was puffy eyed and sniffly and seemed out of it due to the drugs and wanted ice cream.
Daddy I mean.
Gianni looked like a rugby playing hockey pro.
And he had a blood mustache.
A BLOOD MUSTACHE.
He looked like a four year old vampire.
Not pretty. Not right. Very, very wrong on every level.
Remember the wee vampire in Lost Boys, Laddie, the one that comes crashing up through the bed and Star shouts, "He's just a little boy!" even though he looks like he's going to feast on everyone's throat, or maybe he just looks like any typical small child who doesn't want to go to bed? Yeah, that one. My baby looked like him. Except his parents don't look like Star or Michael and we don't turn spaghetti into maggots and we don't fly and we don't hang out with Keifer at least not outside our minds and I really REALLY miss Corey Haim now. Curses.
What was I talking about?
Oh, yes. The guilt we feel as parents for the loss of my baby's baby teeth. If you were hoping to get Parent of the Year Awards this year, you're welcome for narrowing down the competition. Mike and I have officially dropped out of the running.
So we did what every self respecting parent does when they realize they've totally messed up their kid and want to redeem themselves: they leave $10 from the tooth fairy instead of the usual fifty cents.
Parenting by Bribes - it's how we roll. If you give Mommy a kiss, I'll give you cake. If you snuggle Daddy, he'll buy you some Legos. If you don't ever leave me and go to college, I'll buy you a pony. Things like that.
So now poor Pooky Head has no front teeth (no corn on the cob! no honeycrisp apples! no ribs! no fruitcake! no taffy! no defending himself against rabid wolverines!) and he will be wasting the afternoon at the dollar store spending like a drunken sailor, lighting cigars for fellow toddlers with his greenbacks, and buying toys that will break the second we get them in the car.
And hopefully we will get used to the gummy-I-look-like-a-hundred-year-old-man-without-his-dentures-in look. Also the dried-shrunken-apple-head look.
After all we have a good two years to get used to it.
And maybe the last Twilight movie will be casting small vampires.