O lost his front tooth this weekend. This was not one of those tooth fairy glory moments. No wiggling the tooth in the bathroom. No anticipation. No stuffing of dollar bills under the pillow. O is 23 months old, so losing a tooth right now is not only precocious, it’s 5 years premature.
Every time I think of it, I get a pit in my stomach. Maybe it’s my memory of the scream (mid-tooth-flying) or the fact that I was planning on calling the dentist this week for an opinion on how to preserve the tooth. O had fallen a number of times (while learning to walk on planet earth), rendering his front tooth dangerously loose. Sunday night the tooth got caught on a T-shirt as it was being pulled over his head. You can imagine the rest of the story.
Feels like a #mommyfail on some level. I should of made that call.
I was upstairs getting ready for a dinner to celebrate my father-in-law’s 75th birthday when it happened. Last time we tried to celebrate a birthday (mine) with my in-laws, O broke his leg. Doing my best not to read into this.
When the tooth fell out, we didn’t go to the ER. Dentists don’t put primary (baby) teeth back in when they fall out traumatically. And although dentists recommend you bring your child in for follow up after this sort of thing, if there is no other injury to the mouth or gums, there is no need to head to the ER.
Heart in my hand and the tooth on the counter, we celebrated my FIL’s birthday out for dinner. But I remained distracted throughout the night. My boy’s smile altered for 1/2 of a decade and that audiofile of the scream playing and re-playing in my head. Although O doesn’t show any signs of missing that tooth, I do.
There is nothing comparable to the heart-pull-tug-shread we feel when our babies get hurt. We are connected in inseparable ways. And pain travels faster than anything I know.