I Hate You, Mom

We made a trip to see Dr. Mike, the silver fox with a DDS, yesterday. Erik and I arrived early, of course, as I am pathologically early to everything, and he amused himself with the spinning wheels of a giant wooden bus in the matchbox-sized waiting room. Two female assistants who seemed to despise each other led us back through a short maze of tiny hallways to an open room containing two reclining examination chairs, a few matching chairs on caster wheels, and a craptastic collection of dolls, stuffed animals, balls, books, and Magnadoodles. One assistant closed a nearby examining room door to prevent any shrill noises from upsetting Erik following the short version of my speech regarding hyperacusis. They asked me questions, which I answered halfassedly as I chased my crawling son, who found a metal cart of dental tools and suctioning equipment much more enticing than any toy or book available. As I maneuvered around the brightly colored clutter in the office pursuing Erik, I caught the tip of my pointy-toed boot on a large wooden play center that was apparently screwed to the floor at a jaunty angle. I tripped, of course, and recovered by following up with a spectacular hop-hop-hop-hop-hop type of maneuver on one leg while one assistant looked up from Erik's chart with a dryly amused look on her face. As I was on edge anyway, I only narrowly avoided screaming, "There's your lawsuit, bitches!" I regained my balance and composure and sat with Erik in my lap as Dr. Mike emerged from his work on a small patient with a rather impressive, bass-like gape.

Dr. Mike's routine makes my skin crawl. He is kind but barks sharp yet barely audible orders through a wall of white teeth to his assistants, and they obey, jumping as if the floor is suddenly one thousand degrees. Dr. Mike began by examining a doughy-faced Cabbage Patch-type doll with a small, plastic mirror. He then announced to Erik that he was going to examine my "pretty finger" and, to my horror, took one of my man hands in his own, making it readily apparent to all I am in desperate need of a manicure. Nice. He then asked me to hold Erik down as he forced his mouth open and examined Erik's teeth, never letting his own wide smile falter in the slightest. Tears squirted from Erik's eyes, and his face became a deep scarlet. His strange infant cry began and intensified, breaking my heart into a million pieces. Thankfully, as I am a veteran parent of many of these types of pediatric examinations, I smiled my own plastic smile and cooed reassuringly, knowing Erik was far away in that place where he can no longer hear my voice. I went through the motions, anyway, like any good parent should.

The exam was over before I knew it. Dr. Mike said no lacquer was necessary, despite the fact the assistants had it ready and insisted Erik received it before (he has not). Dr. Mike made it quite clear I was taking perfect care of Erik's choppers, and, amazingly, his permasmile widened a little as he patted me firmly on the shoulder and made his exit. We were handed a bright blue balloon with the name of the office printed on it and asked to schedule our next appointment for the summer. The girl at the desk, obviously a meteorologist in her spare time, informed me it would be warm and sunny the next time we came to see Dr. Mike in July. I said that I hoped it would, giggled vapidly along with her, and led Erik out into the main lobby. He smiled at everyone as we left and charmed them all.

Seconds later, Erik's smile faded completely. He glared up at me and began to demonstrate the strange hand flapping I have read about in all of my WS literature but had never witnessed. His face reddened once again, and angry, hurt noises came out of his mouth and throat. Words were no longer adequate or necessary.

No doubt about it. He was PISSED.

It was quite apparent that he was angry at me and me alone for bringing him to this awful place of Nazi medical techniques festooned in primary colors and bobbing helium balloons. My boy may have his challenges, but he's far from an idiot. He knows a medical facility when he sees one. I next attempted to coax him out the door into the parking lot, but he stood there raging at me, hands flapping wildly as if he was planning on taking off into the air. When I approached him, his hands began slapping against any part of me he could get his hands on. He continued his miniature slap assault, some of which actually hurt, as I stooped down to his level to whisper that he needed to calm down. Instead, he shoved me and actually growled. I freed the helium balloon from my sweaty palm to settle against a scratchy panel of acoustical tile in the ceiling and picked him up under one arm, attempting to balance my purse and the ridiculous, Barbie-sized bag of crap pediatric dentists hand out in my other arm, readying my car keys. I very calmly carried the screaming, kicking 35-plus pounds of livid boy into the slushy parking lot, where I held him down to strap him into his seat and made it to my place behind the steering wheel without spilling a tear, even though my heart was injured. I found my iPod and pressed play, turning up the volume and trying to ignore the flailing soles of the little tennis shoes behind me wreaking havoc on the seat in front of them.

By the time we completed our five-minute drive to his grandparents' house, he was a singing, giggling, delighted angel, ready to charm the world again.