Dental Professionals

Dear Dr. Z and Dental Assistant C.,

I am slightly at-odds with how to start this letter, as I am torn between feeling exceedingly grateful for the work that you perform and being mildly concerned over how you perform it. It may seem petty, but I generally appreciate walking away from a health care professional feeling secure instead of like I have been forced to down a pill comprised of Nerves, Fear, Condescension, and An Urge To Punch You In The Face.

The last I checked, the following are frowned-upon in dental care, whether in terms of practice or patient-relations:
1. Telling your patient something is going to hurt very, very badly.
2. Admonishing your patient for showing nerves and/or flat-out refusing said procedure.
3. Ignoring your patient's history with Novocaine.
4. Comparing dental work to a PAP-smear.
5. Referring your patient to a dental student, after telling the patient that the procedure is going to hurt very, very badly.

Because I am not one to point out flaws and jab at them with tiny, little periodontal instruments and make small noises of glee while the patient, er, reader twitches in pain - whoops, see, there's that 'Punch You In The Face' feeling I was mentioning earlier.
*Ahem*

Here are a few suggestions to help make our relationship a more pleasing, beneficial one, instead of one that is dreaded nearly as much as that PAP that you so strangely pointed out.

1. Lie to your patient, especially when it regards something that will be hurting them very, very badly.
(This will be of many, many benefits to you... first and foremost, it will bring you more money. The more comfortable I feel about a procedure you are about to perform, the more likely I am to allow it, and less likely I am to ignore the bill that you send me after the measly insurance coverage has kicked-in. Second, it will decrease my anxiety, which should have a positive effect on my already rampaging heart rate.) Which brings me to:

2. Lie to your patient, especially when you think they are being extraordinarily wimpy, child-like, or otherwise stupid.
(Sure, I may cry, moan, and blabber on and on about some dental procedure that scarred me for life, but if you can swallow that down (and maybe take it out on the next patient on your list) and tell me that being afraid to even open my mouth for you to look inside is completely normal, you'll have one happy Me on your hands. Oh, and 'happy Me' is, again, more likely to pay my bill. Just sayin'.)

3. Lying to your patient won't work here, so just freaking listen to them when they have something that seriously concerns them.
(I have a messed-up metabolism. My thyroid is under-active, practically to the point of being extinct. Have you ever seen "Office Space"? I'll assume that you have, as all of your side-bar conversations about your iPhone and Twitter account lead me to believe you consider yourself to be a trendy, culturally up-to-date person. (So what if it comes off a little douche-y? Not the point right now. You're safe.) Consider my thyroid to be like Milton Waddams in "Office Space"; the mumbling guy that no one really pays attention to... laid off years ago and never received the notice... who finally burns the place down after being messed with one too many times. The ol' thyroid likes to laze along, until something like, oh, Novocaine enters my system, and then it burns through it like a madman seeking revenge for his Swingline being stolen one too many times. The point to this rambling? What takes most people one or two shots of Novocaine to get through takes me SEVEN.)

4. Don't ever, ever again, tell me that a human mouth is as sensitive - if not more so - than a female's vagina, and then ask me to imagine having a Novocaine injection in Little Krystal.
(NOT. SOMETHING. I. WANT. IN. MY. HEAD.)

5. Lie to your patient, and tell them that the dental student is really a super-secret Dental Master with amazing pain-blocking powers from the planet 'Perfection'.
(That way, I won't be inclined to bring a cattle prod with me to the appointment with said dental student, with the point being to shock the hell out of them each time I feel they've screwed up.)

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the amazing Dental Professional that I know you have inside of you.

In all seriousness, I am grateful to have dental coverage. I understand that so many people in this world aren't nearly as fortunate as I am in this instance, and that is not something that I take for granted. I plan on taking better care of my teeth, and providing a healthy example for my son as he grows and learns what it means to be responsible for his own health.

Now, that being said, if you touch my tooth with the damn nitrous solution one more time, I'm shoving it in your eye.

Remember to floss,

Krystal

My Sweet Son (v.1)

Dear Bruce,

While I'm sure you have a very valid reason for standing up in your crib in the middle of the night, shaking the bars and screaming in a way to cause the cats to hide in fear, I simply do not get it.

The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You do not work in a sweat shop in Taiwan.
2. Your diapers are changed regularly.
3. Your food is not only non-toxic, it is not found in a trash can or other such receptacle, nor is it comprised of feces, the flesh of other babies, or anything containing olives (which are equally as disturbing to your dear Mother).
4. You have ready and immediate supply to Infant's Motrin for your teething concerns... which appear to be many.
5. Your bed is not made of rock, nor is it outside in the elements.
6. Your clothes are made from comfy things, such as 'cotton'... not 'barbed wire'.

I fail, then, to understand why screams of terror and perceived abandonment were flowing from your sweet, little toddler-sized mouth.

However, since I am a loving Mother, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.

1. Go work in Taiwan.
(That way, your screams of mistreatment will be justified.)
(Mommy and Daddy could also use even a fraction of the money spent on your diapers back, thankyouverymuch...) Which brings me to:

2. Potty-train yourself.
(That way, your diaper will not only NEVER be of concern again (and, believe me, my son... your diapers produce a stench that is of considerable concern)).

3. EAT. MORE.
(That way, you will stay full longer... and not feel the need to suck down more milk than a freaking newborn at 3:22 in the morning.)

4. I really do feel sorry for you about all those sharp little teeth pushing their way through your gums. I do. Could you just find some way of communicating that that is the cause of your tantrum?
(You've mastered the 'feed me' sound of smacking your lips... you have a great handle on the sign for 'please' and can even say the actual word from time-to-time (even if it does sound more like 'mezz')... so is pointing to your mouth while you scream really that hard?)

5. Consider using that nice crib of yours for something other than a podium from which to spout your shrieking monologues.
(That way, Mommy and Daddy will have had the chance to do one (or more) of the following - sleep, have sex for only the third time this year, and/or have conversations that don't necessarily revolve around how ketchup somehow got in our hair after your lunch, the consistency of your diapers, or our rapidly depleting bank account thanks primarily to your rapidly depleting wardrobe. Which brings me to:

6. Consider the fact that Mommy had two older brothers as well as an older sister, meaning that she got boy hand-me-downs as well as girl hand-me-downs... which means, ultimately, that Mommy had to freaking cross-dress for a couple of years. You, my sweet son, are so, so lucky you don't have an older sister.
(This does, however, pose a budgetary dilemma. The rate at which you are growing - lack of sleep and erratic eating habits apparently aside - is freaking us out. You're only 15 months old, and yet you're about one french fry away from 24 month old sizing. Easter is next weekend, and I'm starting to worry that you won't be able to fit into the nice Easter shirt that I bought you last month... even though I bought a bigger size than you currently were.)

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were able to read, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the shining Beacon of Babyhood that I know you have inside of you.

In all seriousness, I love you with all that I am and then some. You are the most amazing creature I have ever met, and I would gladly spend the rest of my life (and have a strong suspicion that I WILL...) looking after you in any way I can. You are the best son a Mommy could ever have, and I love you now and always.

Now, sleep through the night again or Mama is going to lose her damn mind.

Hugs and Lovies,

Your Mommy