The Molar Incident

"I see his 7-year molars have come in."

It seemed such an innocent remark. Especially, you know, coming from a dentist. But with those words, my world was turned upside down.

"What do you mean he has his molars?!?!? Permanent, major teeth? He never complained once! When did this happen?" And why wasn't I informed?

Cutting molars isn't exactly a pain-free process, after all. If you don't have a great long-term memory, just look at dogs. Teething discomfort routinely drives them to eat large pieces of furniture. I can tell you right now, I'd have to be in a heck of a lot of pain before I'd eat an armoire.

But my son - MY SON - cut four (count 'em) molars with nary a whimper. This is the same kid who shrieked blue bloody murder when he discovered his first *pore. The same kid who has, on occasion, demanded massive quantities of morphine for scrapes so small, I needed an electron microscope to see them.

I don't know who this impostor is, but it can't be my son. *My son is a total unmitigated wuss when it comes to bodily discomfort of any variety. Sock molecule misalignment can send him into spasms. And I'm not even going to go into the grief that clothing labels have caused in our household. I'm telling you, his pain threshold is subterranean.

Was.
Was subterranean.
I'm losing my little boy. Sniff.

I suppose I should actually be jumping for joy at this turn of events. It tends to get a bit tiresome, responding every six seconds around the clock to mortal injuries such as elastic underwear marks. Emergency room interns routinely die under less-demanding circumstances.

I'm sure once I get past the shock, I'll carve another notch in my "door jamb of parental successes." But right now, I feel like I was asleep at the wheel.

Looking back, there may have been a few hints; clues that he was growing up, developing a more reasonable tolerance for life's mishaps. The skinned knee he brought home, crudely bandaged with a tube sock and a leaf while he continued playing. (Sure, it was a poison ivy leaf, but you have to give him credit for initiative.) His growing insistence on displaying his road-rash knees for maximum points on the classmate respect scale. Or his demonstrated an ability to voluntarily remove loose teeth, as long as money was involved.

I guess I've grown accustomed to audio stimulus rivaling our home smoke alarm when injury occurs. I've come to rely on it, really. Developed a whole decibel "concern" scale around it, even. Does this mean I'm going to have to start paying attention? After all, I can't have him growing teeth and breaking limbs without my input. I'm his mother!

"He's right on schedule with the molars, Ma'am. Why are you upset?" Asked Dr. Young Dentist Guy, with NO KIDS of his own. No seven years of maternal instinct shot to hell. No empire crumbling over a few grams of enamel.

Just hand over the laughing gas, and no one gets hurt.