Like many other parents, I spend the day wondering, What would Barack Obama do? He always seems so unflappable. When little Malia needed to see the dentist, and there were no community-organizer duties on Barack's calendar, we can imagine that there was a father-daughter outing. And this wasn't stress-free.
I have decided that Barack packed a novel for these obligations; he seems to enjoy books.
And so--for my most recent trip to the Marigold Pediatric Dental Group--I brought along a book about Hannibal Lecter. People see you reading a scholarly essay about cannibalism--and they're not eager to make chit-chat. They do not breathlessly narrate the story of your daughter's teeth. They do not tell you about the "sugar bugs" on the top front tooth--and so you do not have to pretend to be interested in the sugar bugs. (Our culture wants you to pretend--and our culture wants you to feel bad about *not* actually being interested.)
But this is the only advice I have to offer. I don't know how to handle the pre-dentist tantrum--and I'm not sure that Barack knows. I think of Liam Neeson in "The Grey"--when his panicky lieutenant seeks comfort, Neeson says, "Listen to me. Your death is imminent. You have one minute to live." And this moment of honesty seems helpful.
I will say that there are few things greater than *leaving* the pediatric dentist. The sun is shining. The instruments of torture are receding, receding in the rearview mirror. Your daughter has some shitty "good behavior" prize--a plastic tiara--and she talks excitedly about her royal duties.
In this moment, even a dinner of leftovers is something exotic. Something to contemplate. It's a reward--because you have slayed a dragon.
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