Parents are not supposed to determine their children’s career path. Children are supposed to grow up to be whatever they choose. A parent’s role is merely to guide and support. I get that, but I didn’t want to leave it to chance. After this week’s costly dentist appointment, I have decided to register my kids in dentistry school.
Call it pay back, literally, because that’s the first thing they’re going to do: pay me back for the thousands of dollars they’re going to owe me in orthodontics by college.
That means, of course, I’ll have to let go of some of me pre-conceived notions of what my children were to become. When my daughter was born, her birth announcement proudly proclaimed her future Prime Minister of Canada. I see now that might have been wrong. I think she’d make a far better Governor General. My daughter loves high fashion, good décor, and fancy parties. Mind you, if she understood the power to prorogue parliament, (read: extend vacations) and still make lots of loot to buy expensive clothes, plus get to have temper tantrums and debate every issue ever raised, she’d be in the next election. Stubborn as the day is long, she’d love the power of it all.
My son arrived a few years later and I knew immediately he was destined for a different career path. His birth announcement read like a press release from Gary Bettman, (only with far more Canadian personality), stating that the newest NHL hockey player had entered the world. I didn’t think about the possibility that my son might not be Gretzky (because naturally, he would be), so it didn’t dawn on me that he could have the temper of Tie Domi or the brutality of Bob Probert. Not my boy. He’d be too fast to get hurt and too smart to strike first, always protected by the biggest, meanest defencemen in the game. And he would have all his own perfectly protected teeth. That was my vision. He now plays defence. Be careful what you wish for.
This week’s dentist appointment changed everything. Two appointments for two children in two hours came to a bill just shy of the total worth of our first two homes. I don’t even remember writing the cheque because I felt as numb as the left side of my daughter’s recently frozen face. Slack-jawed. Broke.
I didn’t dare complain. Surely it was my fault they are genetically predisposed to soft plaque. I clearly do not stand over them and monitor their tooth brush strokes or flossing regimens, or sing Happy Birthday to ensure a complete two hours of foam has graced their teeth. I must be busy making lunches, barking orders, writing in agendas, filling out book orders and permission slips and finding the cool pants to go with the cool sweater I forgot to wash. What about their candy-coded holidays? My fault, ’cause who ever blames Santa, Halloween, or the Easter Bunny? Somehow I had failed my children and I was going to have to pay for it. As for the braces yet to come, we can blame the Carpenter for that one.
You can see my point. Dentistry College is clearly profitable. At this rate, I cannot afford varsity tuition, much less my future-politician’s law school. Who am I kidding? I wasn’t really saving for it. Time for a paper route and we all know who would do that job. Me.