At this point I would like to remind you that my daughter is obsessed with her teeth. To elucidate: she has asked me at least half a dozen times every day for the past year how many teeth she has; I then ask if any have fallen out since the last time she asked me; she replies “No”; and I tell her “That means you’ve still got 28.” Then it’s rinse and repeat.
Today, she arrived home happy after school, but then when I asked her how her day had been, she got that look. A potential meltdown was brewing, and I hadn’t spotted it beneath the surface.
Her eyes brimmed with tears as she recalled her conversation with Dr H. Lecter, or whatever his name was.
“The dentist said I might have to have a brace, Mum. But he might have to take four teeth out.” She looked horrified at the thought of her beloved figure of 28 being ruined.
And then, thankfully, her face changed again, like a warm wind had suddenly thawed her chilly thoughts. She looked at me, nonchalantly, and raised an eyebrow.
“I told him I wasn’t interested.”