Lucy is dentally challenged. Most babies her age have eight to twelve teeth. She's got four. Four tiny little teeth. The little gnaw-y beaver teeth. Yeah, yeah, some kids are slow teethers. I'm still inclined to make an appointment to get her fitted for some dentures. Can't you see it? "C'mon, Lu. Spit 'em out. Time to soak your teeth."
I mean, it would just be so convenient not to have cook the bejebers out of everything just so that Lucy can eat some. Call me practical. Lucy's been eating solid food for over half her life. You'd think nature or evolution or someone "up there" would be generous enough to allow her some tools with which to chew it.
Do you remember last week when I was all, "Thank you, Lucy, for giving me no qualms whatsoever about leaving you for an entire lifetime weekend." Remember that? I have two words for you.
That's right. The big fat ones. In the back. The ones that are supposed to be the most painful. Three of them have just cut. The fourth one is just hanging out causing general havoc beneath the bulging gums. Of COURSE Lucy would skip the four other teeth she was supposed to get in between then and now.
When she'd be all crabby and not sleeping and I would want to blame the bane of baby-hood, I would look in her mouth and not see anything going on. Of course I was looking beside the four teeth that she already had for the ones that were supposed to come next. It's like those "I didn't know I was pregnant" shows where the girl goes to the ER and they palpate for appendectomy trauma or want to MRI for pancreatic cancer or something. Way to be oblivious.
My reaction would tend toward pity if these teeth didn't make Lucy so darned naughty. They must be the opposite of wisdom teeth. EVIL teeth. Telling her to do naughty things like wipe spaghetti sauce all over the freshly laundered table cloth. Or test out her running skills on the sofa. Or play with cords every time my back is turned. Or turn the Whine Amplifier to 12 (This is Spinal Tap, anyone?) and add another layer of screech.
But, at least I know what's going on now, and I can try to be patient and sensitive to the fact that the girl is probably in pain. Try. I can't remember who told me this, but it's been repeating in my head lately: "If it's really really good or really really bad, you can be certain that it will be short."
Now, short is a pretty relative term. But it does bring a little hope.