Yesterday Annie's dentist appointment was scheduled too early, which meant that all of our normally slow and methodical routine had to be accelerated, so that by the time I had her dressed and ready to go, she was a basket case. Like a few of my other children, she has one speed, and if you try to push her into overdrive, she'll reward you with another look at her last meal. Somehow, I got her into the van with her breakfast on the inside of her body. I turned on a kid's Bible CD that helped us both calm down, and then made our way to the the clinic.

After we got settled in the treatment room, the dentist came in, sat down and asked us how we've been doing in the teeth-brushing arena. I suddenly remembered how I felt when my math teacher asked me to turn in my homework on any given day--inadequate, bordering on failure. "Look," I thought, "I am a zero when it comes to dental hygiene with my combative little angel here. That's why we're HERE. So YOU can power wash the inside of her mouth and I can reward myself with a latte on the way home."

Before the dentist actually got inside her mouth, I asked about sedation. The dentist said that wouldn't be a good idea. I pressed her. "Then how about for Annie?"

"Oh," she said, "she can't have it either. She's got a load of medicine already on board, and if we add any kind of sedation to the mix, and she had any difficulties, it wouldn't be good."

I figured that might be the case. So I sat down in the exam chair, hoisted Annie up from her wheelchair and sat her on my lap, crossed my legs over hers, wrapped her in a bear hug and told the dentist to go for it.

After about 10 minutes of yelling, squirming and tears, her teeth were clean. The dentist said we're doing a good job--no cavities--and then she gave me two toothbrushes for Annie: one to put between her teeth and one to brush with.

By the time we got to the van, Annie was giggling. I was ready to take a nap. Glad we only have to do this twice a year.

Jean