Ashamed, I am, when the dentist sees Eldest for the first time. He is four. Apparently, that is too late to see a dentist. You need to see one, I end up believing, in utero. But he is my Eldest, that kid, and so I go to take him to the dentist when I think he should.
The dentist wonders if he was bottle-fed. Nope. Left with a bottle to sleep at night? Nope. Hanging on your breast whilst you sleep? Yes. Ah-ha! That explains the cavities.
It also, not coincidentally, explains why I am still sane after all those years.
So I bring Girlie when she is less than 3. It is a mistake. Girlie needs more time. In time, we will all know why she needs more time, and that gentle ogre of a dentist plays the part. Sing-songing to Daughter because she hates deep voices.
I want to marry the dentist then. But I don't because, hey, I've got the best husband anyone can find. I still do have him.
When demon-spawn comes along and projectile vomits on everyone his first couple of visits, they re-huddle. The next time, they have me don a gown and hook us up with the dental hygienist who will be there. Every. Single. Time.
Years pass. Dental insurance lapses. We still go there. We still go there because that dentist and his staff have wormed their way into our hearts.
Time marches on. The kids can use adult dentists now.
But my heart stays with them.