While Waiting at the Dentist's Office

The other week I found myself sitting in the waiting room of my dentist's clinic. It was a tiny space so any kind of conversation that went on between the receptionist and the assistants or between a patient and a companion was an eavesdropper's delight. Except for the decor, it was almost like being in an elevator.

I sat on the closest chair I saw (which was right next to the door). I realized I had forgotten to bring a book to read and none of the magazines stacked precariously under the tiny corner table caught my interest. Instead, I was forced to stare into space and take in the rest of the room surreptitiously.

The sofa was occupied by a mother and her son. Within minutes, I learned that the boy was 8, that he was very bright, and that he was bored to death. The gold cat waving at the receptionist's counter caught his eye so having been told by his mother not to touch the "expensive" decor on the corner table, he decided to study the cat instead.

The waving cat is something one sees in most Chinese establishments. I think it's something that's supposed to invite prosperity. I didn't expect to see one at my dentist's office, but there it was, tirelessly waving at everyone who came in.

The little boy, whose name was Kyle (that didn't take long to find out either) went up to the cat and held the waving arm. I suppose he wanted to find out if it could wave faster because that's what he was trying to make it do.

The arm stopped moving.

That worried him a little so he put the cat back.

The arm kept still.

Then he gave it a little nudge and it went right back to waving. It took me a moment to realize that up until that point, everyone in that little room had waited with bated breath to see if the cat would wave again. If we were in a comic strip, there would've been all those thought balloons floating above our heads. It would've made an interesting read.

After a few more exchanges between mother and son (including his innocent remark about the Roman numerals on his mother's watch being incorrect), I found myself profiling mother and child: maybe he's the only child, or he's the eldest. He's obviously very smart and she probably drills him every single day to make sure he's ready for school and that he gets perfect scores in all his tests. He probably gets a reward for everything he does or has to do (later on, his mother would ask the dentist if Kyle can have ice cream afterwards because she promised him he could if he went and had his cavities fixed).

And then inwardly, I breathed out a little sigh of relief. My sons are 15 and 25. Been there, done that. I remember how trips to the doctor or the dentist meant bringing a whole bag of mommy ammo: books, small toys (for years, I was lugging along all kinds of dinosaurs), disposable baby bottles and extra diapers when they were babies, sippy cups when they were toddlers, wipes, music tapes, extra shirts. As they got older, the bag got smaller until all it took for them to wait patiently was the right book and they had to carry it along themselves. Mommy's bag was now just for mommy's things (which is why mommy's bag is never small).

Nowadays I send them off to see the doctor or the dentist by themselves. Do I miss taking them? Not in the least! That whole exercise of being well prepared so my children don't act like brats in a waiting room was exhausting! It wasn't just a matter of packing all the right things, it also meant having to remember where you put each item. A distressed child is a child seconds away from becoming a mean crying machine.

Nope, I don't miss that at all. Nowadays, I find crying children amusing and sometimes cute and I know it's because they're not mine. Not to say I don't miss anything about taking my children to their doctors and dentists, because I find that I do miss a few things.

I miss having them sit on my lap while we wait for our turn. I miss watching my older son, then about two years old, confidently marching towards the doctor's office then doing a quick about face as soon as he realizes what a visit there could mean. I miss the way both of them never actually cried after a shot--their eyes would tear up a bit, then they'd give the pediatrician a brave smile.

And once we've returned home, I miss being able to wipe away the vestiges of a bad day (read: a painful shot) with a Peanuts video. I miss being able to choose their clothes and sending them off knowing they look like human beings. I miss watching them play in the garden, setting up little action figures among the plants or playing in the turtle pool that's been filled with bubble bath or creating their own little worlds in a sandbox.

Do I wish I could go back to that time? Not at all. I think that we're given only as much of all kinds of memories as we can handle. Enough so we experience nostalgia, enough so we can look back with fondness, enough so we learn how to navigate the paths we have yet to take. At the very least, I have enough of them to keep me entertained every time I find myself in a waiting room with no book to read.