If you put me to the test, if you let me try.

I let a Baby Dentist drill a hole into my mouth and remove the nerve and pulp therein. Through the fog of nitrous oxide and Gungor piping though my earbuds, I considered this situation from several perspectives. Really. For real.

A) I considered the instinctive fear I felt having this dentist so fresh and new. Watching him explain terms like irreversible pulpitis to me was as looking into the face of my own child. As delighted as I am looking upon the faces of my sons, I would not welcome them into my mouth with an extremely large needle or an extremely large drill. Etc. Then again, I know his momma must feel so proud of him. Education, dental college, landing a sweet gig in the suburbs. Etc.

B) As I considered his mother, it was for the sake of her I purposed to place my trust in this infant of dentistry. While I'm certain his education is as excellent as his web bio claims, he no doubt lacks a huge component of excellence: Experience. Perhaps, I was even his first, as evidenced by his eagerness and availability. As a mother who frequently prays that some one or thing will chance to give my inexperienced offspring an opportunity to Prove and Be, my heart went out to his mother's. Someone need only give her baby dentist a chance for: Experience. Because, she just knows he's good for it.

C) It's considerably easier to relax when there's nitrous oxide and Gungor involved.

This is how I came to spend 3 and 1/2 hours in my own little shop of horrors where I was given a neck pillow and a blanket to soothe and distract me from the uncomfortable jabs and disorienting pokes, weird sensations and unidentifiable tastes, overuse of my jaw and, perhaps, worst of all, that horrid scraping sound.

Then I came home and took a long nap. Blind faith is exhausting.

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