​Unlike most parents who have been through it, there wasn’t a formal announcement.
 
In fact, there wasn’t any clear line of demarcation.  And while some of the signposts were there, I failed to see them, most likely because I didn’t want to.
 
So, at least for me, it was a surprise
 
Yup, The Hubster and I have become empty nesters.
 
It has now been eight months since The Teenage Daughter—who, in all fairness, will turn 20 years old one week after Christmas—has left the building to live her with kind and good boyfriend.  Already, the two of them seem to fit like an old shoe, so much so that my child appears more comfortable, and way happier, than I’ve seen her in a long time.
 
Most Girl Clown Dancing fans know that my girl graduated from high school last year, and then, for a whole lot of reasons, enrolled in our awesome community college. 
 
When the time came to start her freshman year there, we wanted to support and encourage her as much as possible.  So, to that end, we picked up the costs for all book rentals, registration fees and parking passes. (Thanks to a generous patron, her first year of tuition was free.) 
 
There’s more, all of which we were happy to do. 
 
We didn’t ask her to pay any room and board, and we also gifted her with a top-of-the-line laptop.  In addition, I gave her my sensible white sedan to commute to school, about 10 minutes from our house.  And we agreed to give her a small weekly allowance for gas and snacks, as well as money to cover her cell phone and most of her car maintenance
and insurance.    
 
In return, we asked that she find a part-time job (she did) and adhere to a reasonable curfew (which she mostly did), and let us know when she wouldn’t be home for dinner.
 
We figured she’d live here, with us as a mostly invisible parachute, until she got her associate’s degree, graduating with zero debt.  After that, she would move out to attend a four-year school, or maybe leave for a promising job that would be the springboard to whatever her career might be. 
 
It was A Very Good Plan.
 
And really, all went well for the first three months or so.
 
Then I noticed that she was starting to spend a lot more weekends with girlfriends.  My daughter has always been
an extrovert, so while the frequency was unusual, it still didn’t register with me that something else might be going on. 
 
But not long after, she was staying only a night or two at home in the course of any given week.  Still, we knew her grades and her job were A-Okay, so we decided it wasn’t worth an interrogation.
 
The Big News arrived in January.
 
My daughter had stopped by to pick something up.  As usual, I was on the couch with a dog or two, reading and trying to mind my own business.
 
“Okay,” she blurted out. “I have a boyfriend.  I’ve known him for a couple of months.  But now it’s official, so I can
tell you.”
 
Not long after, she and he met The Hubster and me at a favorite restaurant.  They requested that this first meeting take place in public, primarily because my child was terrified that her dad wouldn’t approve of the relationship.  She needn’t have worried; it was obvious that this man adored her, which was the most important thing to us.  We also liked the fact that he had met her at school; worked full-time, and was a few years older than her. 
 
Still, my child continued with her mostly-not-around schedule, grabbing a few items from her room here and there whenever she left.   
 
Then, a few weeks later, the two came over for dinner.   We’d just begun to dig into the meal. 
 
“So,” said The Hubster, gazing intently at both of them.  “Are you two living together?”
 
My daughter and her beau looked at each other.  Then, both smiling sheepishly, they nodded yes.
 
“It’s fine,” replied her dad.  “We just wanted to know what’s going on.”
 
The energy in the room lightened considerably, and immediately. 
 
That night, my daughter skedaddled with most her clothes and makeup and shoes to what is now her home.  These days, we usually see them once a week, sometimes for dinner, sometimes for breakfast.  In-between, my girl and I trade jokes and recipes and videos on social media.  She also knows that if the relationship ends up taking a different turn, her bed isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
 
Meanwhile, it’s a whole new, and pretty interesting, ball game for me.
 
Having had her in my home for nearly two decades, and also not being able to imagine my life without her, of course I miss her effervescent energy, keen observations and good humor.
 
I mean, what can I say?  I love her.  Beyond the moon and back.   
 
However, I don’t miss the moodiness and general angst that comes with being a 19-year-old, which included the mastering of slamming doors, one word answers and withering glances.  
 
All in all, it’s just a lot calmer, and a lot more predictable, around here.
 
Indeed, we’re smack in the middle of a routine that I found in an article titled 10 Things to Look Forward to as an
Empty Nester.  I identify with more than few items here, including the fact that our food bills are way smaller, and
the kitchen sink is cleaner. 
 
Did I mention that we can also cook shrimp and canned beans and eggs now without my daughter making faces?  But the very best part for me is number seven:  having the chance to now experience my child as a terrific young adult. 
 
Of course, each one of us is still working through the many fluctuations that this new life chapter is bringing. Interestingly, I find myself neither happy nor sad.  Rather, I prefer to think of it all as a new learning experience,
one that I’m trying to be completely present for.  
 
So far, so good.
 
What about your experiences as an empty nester—either from a parent perspective, or from a child’s point of view?  
​As always, I look forward to your stories and comments! 

I don’t have any problem admitting it.   
 
I’m a fuddy duddy old lady when it comes to a certain, oh-so-hip fashion look. 
 
That look is the tattoo.
 
Yup, I get that millions of folks—mostly, it seems, millennials and younger—absolutely love the idea of permanently celebrating a person or event or other favorite thing on their bodies.  In fact, one in five Americans boast at least one tattoo, and 90 percent of them have no regrets about it.   
 
Still, why go through the incredibly painful procedure of having an image literally burned  on to one’s arms and legs, and ahem, other, more private places?  I mean, really, isn’t that what birth announcements, greeting cards and posters are for? 
 
This also begs another question: have those with new tattoos ever seen a decades old tat?  Trust me on this one—it’s not a pretty sight. 
 
This doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate the artistry that goes into the contemporary tattoo.
 
I’ve been privy to some inspired designs—delicately intertwined flowers; hummingbirds in flight, even a bagel adorned with lox and chives.  And, in the case of a husband of a dear friend, I’ve glimpsed a large Native American chief, replete with fancy feathered headdress, rendered on one side of a muscled torso.  Perhaps because he still has the  beefy body of the fireman he once was, it works. There’s also the fantastical design that a breast cancer survivor had emblazoned on her chest, one that went justifiably viral (a photo is below).
 
Still, yours truly has zero desire to step into this inky arena.  
 
Maybe that’s because I grew up at a time when the only people who had tattoos were sailors and soldiers; thugs who lived inside prison cells, and all other manner of scary outsiders.  Tats back then all seemed about the same, too—often primitively drawn, they were oversized hearts and names of vanished sweethearts.  Other objects of desire included snakes, daggers and skulls.
 
And although most tattoo “parlors” had sterilization machines then, few operators used them.  In some parts of the country, especially New York City, that meant getting a tat could also mean risking serious illness.  Well into the 1960s, newspapers reported stories of blood poisoning, hepatitis and worse. 
 
But now, my not-exactly-festive thoughts on tattoos have taken A Significant Curve.   
 
That’s because The Teenage Daughter recently got one.   
 
It wasn’t exactly a shock because she’d been talking about it for a while now.  
 
And, I had always told her that once she turned of legal age, and could pay for it herself, I guess that I really didn’t have much say in the matter, except to give my opinion.  But it made me sad to think that the itty-bitty girl I had once rocked and changed and bathed, the same little baby with the softest skin in the entire world, would grow up to pay someone to drag a vibrating needle across her.   
 
I was minding my business, reading on the couch, when she worked up the nerve to tell me about her upcoming adventure.
 
“So, look,” she said, standing above me.  “I’m getting a tattoo. I’ve already made the appointment.  And, yeah, I just wanted to tell you.”
 
Once again, I told her that I wasn’t exactly thrilled, but that I also couldn’t stop her.
 
I added one more thing.  
 
“Just make sure, really sure, that you really, really, really like what you’re getting,” I said. “Because you’re going to be living with it for the rest of your life.”
 
She replied that she understood. 
 
In fact, she said, she had thought long and hard about the design she was getting.  It was going to be a complete original, something no one else in the world would have. 
 
“It’s going to be a tribute to my Da-Da Casey,” she said.  “Didn’t you know that?”
 
That’s when my heart began to melt.
 
Casey was my late partner.  We were together for a decade, and he was also my daughter’s first father.  Indeed, we had traveled to China to bring my girl home, and he helped me through the many rough spots that come with instant motherhood.  And, unexpectedly on his part, he fell madly and deeply in love with her. 
 
But because of a lot of personal demons, he also took his life when she was just shy of two years old.
 
There are dozens of photos of them together, but she has only one memory of him—laughing with her while blowing bubbles in her face.  Yet, somehow, his complete adoration for her has been imprinted in her every pore.  And because he wasn’t around long enough to give her time outs; lecture her on right and wrong, and bug her about homework, she has romanticized him to the  extreme. 
 
Hence, it makes sense that her first tattoo is a tribute to him.
 
Because he loved the desert, she designed a simple landscape of that terrain, with his birthdate on one side, and on the other, his first name trailing from a mountain in flowing cursive.  She also made sure to have this tranquil image drawn on a part of her arm where no one can see it unless she wants to show it.  All in all, it’s exquisite.    
 
So, I’m ready to admit one more thing.
 
For a tattoo, it’s pretty darn cool.
 
What do you think about tattoos?  I look forward to your comments and stories!  

Given that we’re all humans, I think we can all agree on this: every one of us is imperfect. 
 
(The only exception is the first time one falls madly, deeply and impossibly in love with his or her utterly unflawed partner.   But this, too, shall pass.) 
 
Now I’ll go a step further: I believe that each of us has at least one phobia. 
 
Perhaps it’s more of an irritant to your spouse, like making absolutely sure the closet doors in a bedroom are completely closed before going to sleep, because who knows what sort of nocturnal presence is lurking beside our jeans and shirts?  Or it could be something that messes big time with our everyday lives, like the arachnophobia The Teenage Daughter once endured.   Her panic in grammar school after glimpsing even the tiniest spider was so acute—hysterical screaming, running and weeping—that she saw a school counselor for an entire year.  
 
Lest you think you’re phobia free, trust me, that’s impossible.
 
Indeed, you’re sure to find at least one perfect fit at www.phobiasource.com or www.phobialist.com, both of which list hundreds of fears. 
 
As a matter of fact, the former says phobias are the most common type of emotional disorders in the United States, and gives this simple definition: an intense fear of certain situations, activities, things, animals or people.  The site goes on to say that while the person knows the behavior around his/her fear is irrational, their behavior is also out of his/her control.
 
So it’s here, in alphabetical order no less, that you’ll find familiar phobias like dentophobia (fear of dentists) and agoraphobia (fear of open spaces/fear of leaving a safe place).  But who knew about kynophobia, the fear of rabies; katsaridapobia, the fear of cockroaches, and bufonophobia, the fear of toads?  There’s also octophobia, which is fear of the figure eight, and pupaphobia, the fear of, you guessed it, puppets.   
 
Then there’s my brand new phobia.
 
Not coincidently, it began about three months ago, right after my child got her driver’s license and began going places
by herself. 
 
And even though she is very, very good behind the wheel, and gets around in the sturdy, boring white Saturn sedan I handed down to her, I’m still uneasy. 
 
One reason is that her traveling isn’t limited to getting to work and college classes.  Nope, The Teenage Daughter traverses all over our wide open county—a total area of more than 3,000 square miles, including curvy canyon roads and crowded freeways—to do things like bowling, swing dancing and late night meals with her crew. 
 
It gets worse.
 
That’s because my phobia isn’t limited to simply hoping that my girl stays safe.
 
Nope.  It’s because I absolutely believe that every single time she backs out of our driveway, I will never see her
​alive again.
 
Lest one thinks this is a tad extreme, regular readers know I come by this fear honestly.
 
After all, her first dad, who was also my longtime partner, left our house one night to kill himself—which he did with frightening efficiency.  (That story is here, at http://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/a-shot-in-the-dark.)  Yup, it’s another new psychological scar that has reared its not-so-pretty head, although it has no doubt been buried deep inside me, a full 17 years after the suicide.    
 
And, while I knew that I couldn’t be the only person in the world with this issue, I assumed that only a handful of people suffer from this.  After all, even I’m aware that it’s a bit extreme.   
 
Then I heard a recent radio interview with Rabbi Susan Silverman, the older sister of the brilliant comedienne
Sarah Silverman.
 
The eldest Silverman voiced that she, too, once suffered from the identical crippling phobia for decades, but never knew why.  To say it wasn’t easy on her husband and children is an understatement.
 
But then, after more than a few years with one therapist, she casually mentioned that her infant brother Jeffrey died
in a freak accident in his crib when she was two years old.  Her mother and father were away at the time, leaving the
baby and herself in the care of grandparents, who discovered the body. 
 
While Silverman had no memory of the event, the therapist explained that on some level, she still remembered the
death; consequently, her phobia began rooting then.  After years of counseling, the once-constant fear is now much subdued.  (The entire interview is at www.npr.org/2016/05/23/479150041/susan-silverman-on-anxiety-adoption-and-making-a-family-in-an-uncertain-world.)
 
Given that I’ve only just become aware of this same phobia, I still don’t know how I’ll go about fixing it. 
 
For now, I am extremely grateful for cell phones, and the fact that my daughter almost always texts back within five minutes of receiving a text from me making sure that she’s okay.  (Although I’ve never mentioned this fear to her, she went through the same death, and perhaps that’s why she responds quickly.  Also know that I make sure to never ever text while she’s in class, at work, or especially, driving.) 
 
Furthermore, I now have a ritual that happens if I’m home when she’s leaving .
 
I tell her to drive carefully, and I tell her I love her, in that order.  I know that these words are no more than a talisman, but saying them makes me feel better, and who knows, maybe they do act as some sort of magical, unseen protectant.  I also pray, out loud and in my head, many times during the day,that she’ll have a really good day, and be safe in every way.
 
So far, it has worked. 
 
Still, I also know that becoming a parent means becoming a hostage to fortune. 
 
And that probably means that while I can put a band aid or two on this phobia,  it isn’t going to  disappear anytime soon.  While I’m not exactly okay with this, I know that I have to live with it… at least for now.
 
What’s your phobia, and have you come to terms with it?  I look forward to hearing your stories and comments, especially if you’re a parent! 

​As the years go by, and all of life becomes less black and white, I’ll admit it.
 
I can be wrong.
 
When this is pointed out, and especially if defeat is imminent, I say what my late partner used to say.
 
“I strike my colors!” 
 
Centuries ago, this meant to lower the flag (i.e. the “colors”) of a ship while it was at sea.  Doing so was a universally recognized indication of surrender, especially if the vessel in question was under attack. 
 
In my world, uttering this phrase means that my opinion needs some serious attitude modification.
 
The last few months—filled with betrayal, anger, and at last, some serenity—have been filled with some extremely rocky days and nights for our family.  Thankfully, we’re now all on the same path… but not without crossing some gnarly territory first. 
 
This is about college.
 
My daughter will soon graduate from high school, a private college prep place that we’ve only been able to afford because The Hubster teaches there.  
 
In just about every way, the school has been a saving grace from our public school experience.  We’ve found small classes; instructors giving quality time to kiddos because they aren’t buried in paperwork, and a mindset that the coolest kids are those who get the best grades and do the most community service projects. 
 
This way of thinking has helped my daughter become a special young adult. 
 
In spite of the school’s strict academic standards and her documented learning differences, she’s a solid B student.  More importantly, she’s compassionate, strong and funny, and runs with a good crew,
 
So when it came time to meet with the school’s college counselor, there seemed to be only one route toward continuing her education: get into a four-year university.  It was suggested that we especially look at private places, since they, too, boast the same Very Good Things as her high school. 
 
When we brought up community college, the idea was immediately shot down.
 
“OH!” said the counselor, turning to my daughter.  “You can do much better than that!”
 
So, this path was dropped in favor of finding nine colleges (three to reach for, three that my daughter would likely get accepted to, and three that would definitely want her) for her to submit applications to.  Because we were taking this route, there would also be SATs for my child to endure, and some extra tutoring. 
 
Still, we caught the excitement, gamely nodded our heads and budgeted accordingly.
 
Knowing how expensive college can be, we also asked the counselor about those costs.
 
“Get accepted first,” she said.  “Don’t worry about money. The money will come.”
 
All seemed to be going to plan when our kid was accepted into eight of the nine colleges on her list.  Out of this, three schools in New York offered congratulations, including the prestigious Pratt Institute, her number one reach school. 
 
Then the scholarship packages started arriving.
 
Except for one huge thing.
 
They weren’t exactly offering the funds we’d thought they would be.
 
In fact, despite as much as 30 percent off from the listed tuition/room and board costs, enrolling in any of these schools was going to cost us, the parents, at least $30,000 per year in loans (yes, that’s four zeros). 
 
On top of that, my daughter would graduate with a monumental amount of debt—up to $50,000.
 
This slope gets even more slippery if parents and kids decide that the loan must be deferred in order to attend
said school. 
 
That’s because once this decision is made, the monies are frequently manipulated to favor the lender. 
 
In fact, it’s not uncommon for federal college funds to be bought and sold several times, with compounded interest merrily added along the way.   Consequently, both parent and student debt often ends up being much higher than the initial figures given.   And basically, unless you die or become completely disabled, there is no way, ever, to get out from under, even if you declare bankruptcy.   (Many dozens of these horror stories are at http://studentdebtcrisis.org/read-student-debt-stories/)   
 
So, yes indeed, the money would come—from our pockets.  This also meant that unless we dived into deep debt doo-doo for the rest of our lives, going to college in this manner wasn’t only not smart, it was unworkable.   
 
It was time to strike our colors.
 
It wasn’t easy for our daughter to hear the new plan—another look at community college.
 
Honestly, this wasn’t a happy dance for me either.   
 
I’d always pictured my kid at a toney East Coast campus, popular and happy, and because we had done everything right and in its logical progression, never having to worry about costs.  And, I also remembered that what was once called junior college was where the losers went. Everyone got in because all of its students had been rejected everywhere else. 
 
Then I started looking into what community college is today. 
 
Specifically, I started looking at the school my daughter will be attending.
 
As it turns out, this CC is ranked in the Top 10 in our state.  It also has only 6,000 kids, so classes here, like her high school, are small.  Did you also know that Walt Disney, Tom Hanks and Jonas Salk all started their higher educations at community colleges?
 
Another plus is that once my child receives her AA degree, she’s guaranteed admission to one of our 23 state colleges or a growing handful of California universities, including UC Berkeley.  There’s another track to ensure that all of her ducks will be in place if she decides on an out-of-state or private school.  Moreover, both public and private four-year schools generally offer way better financial aid to junior transfers, partly because so many freshman and sophomores have already dropped out. 
 
In addition—and it turns out that this is now a trend around the country—many of the CC professors here teach the
exact same courses  at the expensive four-year college that’s down the road.
 
Here’s another selling point: students who start college at a CC are much more likely to graduate from a
four-year institution.  
 
I don’t know exactly why this is.  But I do know that with its far lower tuition rates, and often, far more majors to choose from, community college students have a lot more wiggle room when it comes time to figure out what they want to do with the rest of their lives.  On the other hand, students who enter a pricey university immediately after high school often don’t get this luxury—maybe because a lot of families quickly find out that they can’t shoulder the exorbitant costs beyond the initial four years.    
 
And one more thing. 
 
Thanks to a generous patron, my daughter’s first year of tuition will be free.
 
Cuesta College, here we come.
 
What do you think about college costs today, and what do you think about community colleges today?  I’d love to hear your thoughts!
 
P.S.  Find out more about the advantages of community college here, at http://www.moneycrashers.com/benefits-of-community-college/.

So, it turns out there’s a coming-of-age ritual these days that nearly every teenager gets to do.

I’m not thinking here about dreading the first day of high school; suffering through a puppy love breakup, or finding out that your Best Friend Forever has been posting trash behind your back.

Yup, all of the above scenarios are certainly part and parcel of young adulthood.  But I’m betting that another adolescent passage happens a lot more.

I’m talking about wisdom teeth, or more specifically, their removal.

My 17-year-old daughter first started noticing that “something is growing in the back of my mouth” a few months ago.  While she said that the sensation didn’t feel exactly like a cavity, she did say, “It feels weird, but I don’t need to go to the dentist.” 

I immediately took her to our dentist.    

And because he has been juggling in the dental world for a while, he knew exactly what was wrong.   

Her wisdom teeth were coming in. 

Which meant, of course, that they needed to come out.

Our dentist isn’t an oral surgeon, but he was happy to write the required referral I needed to give to whatever specialist I could find.  

As it turned out, the stars were in my favor in this particular arena.   

That’s because a good friend whose son is a year older than my daughter had already done the research. Our kids have the same health insurance, and she had found the nearest provider.  Okay, he was 97 miles away, but no matter.  I’m here in The Golden State, so of course I drive.  Plus, I was fairly certain my child’s insurer would foot the entire bill if that’s where we went, so I knew that my time on the road would be well worth it.

That, and the fact that this particular dentist is all about wisdom teeth, to the point that his website URL pretty much says that. 

Our first appointment was the consultation.  After filling out the usual health history paperwork, my daughter and I were ushered into a small, sparse room.

There was a flat screen television mounted on one wall.  There were two chairs.  That was it—no gaily wrapped toothbrush or sample packet of floss anywhere in sight.   

The dentist—whom I’ll also call Dr. Wisdom Tooth--then entered, heading toward my child.  A grey-haired gentleman wearing pressed jeans, sneakers and a polo shirt, he introduced himself, then shook her hand, looked into her eyes and called her by name.  He did the same with me.  I was immediately impressed. 

He next took out the x-ray our family dentist had given us, and solemnly pointed to each blurry wisdom tooth. 

All four were impacted, he said, and the bottom two had some sort of cysts around them.  They were also growing in a way that, much sooner than later, were going to painfully collide with her neighboring molars.

He looked at my daughter, and quietly said, “Your mouth is a ticking time bomb.”

That got my attention. 

Dr. Wisdom Tooth then explained that she and I would now be shown a video on what the extraction procedure would entail.  After that, I’d have to initial, many times, a form that essentially said we had both watched the presentation and understood it. 

A compact tutorial, the DVD was over in less than ten minutes.  I scribbled my initials many times. We were given a prescription for pain pills and directions on what to expect the day of the procedure, then started our long drive home. 

After the insurance approval came through—amazingly, only a few weeks of waiting—we once again found ourselves in the office of Dr. Wisdom Tooth. 

Astonishingly, at least to me, the entire procedure took 37 minutes (not that I was counting).  

And while my daughter had hoped to give a hysterically funny post-surgery performance for YouTube audiences around the world, she basically was pretty out of it when a couple of the dental staff put her in my car, and then slept for an hour before asking for her favorite radio station.  (However, there are some pretty crazy post-surgery patients.  One with many millions of hits is here, at www.youtube.com/watch?v=idjo2fhLKDY.)

Oh, and given that I have a sturdy kid, she went to school the next day (although her cheeks did resemble those 
of a chipmunk’s).      

Given that the whole adventure involved driving many hundreds of miles, as well as dealing with a bloody mouth, heavy duty pain medication and, right, the actual wrenching out of teeth, it really was a positive experience.

Which got me to thinking about my own adventures (yes, plural) in Wisdom Tooth Land, which weren’t nearly as festive. 

The first was at 13 years old. 

I had braces and needed to have the bottom two wisdoms removed so the wireworks could finish their job.  My mother and I went to the recommended surgeon and, being a placid and dutiful child, strolled right over to a big dental chair.  A mask was put over my nose and mouth, and I was asked to start counting backwards.

My next memory was waking up on a narrow cot in a nearly pitch black room. 

I was sobbing.

There was a cup of very watery, very hot chocolate (huh?) in a Styrofoam cup beside me.  My crying was so loud that a member of the staff rushed in to reassure me, telling me I’d be going home soon.

I realized, much later, that what had terrified me so much was never being told what was going to happen.  

No one, not a staff member, not the dentist, not even my mother (who likely had no clue herself) had given me any preparation for the procedure.  And since I had never had any sort of extraction before, what did I know?  Heck, I assumed that the dentist would remove those troublesome choppers in a few yanks, and I’d be hopping out of the chair in five minutes.

In fact, the experience was so awful that it started a new routine for me, one that I still practice.  

Today, if a doctor or dentist or any other health care professional needs to do something I’m unfamiliar with, I always ask him or her to give me the lowdown before starting anything.  Sometimes, I’ll even make sure that a staffer talks me through every single step.  For me, knowledge is power.

The second visit to Wisdom Tooth Land was a decade later.

I was living in Brooklyn and had an amazing health insurance plan through Columbia University.  It was seven dollars per month!  Of course, this meant that only students would be taking care of all of my health care needs, but heck, it was seven dollars a month! 

At some point, a recommendation was made: the two upper wisdoms needed to come out.  I don’t remember a consultation, but I do remember that when I went in for the extractions, I was wearing a cute denim jumper and about 10 dental students crowded around the chair.  I was also informed that I wouldn’t be knocked out completely, but given 
laughing gas.

The gas made time slow down, with the minutes also feeling jumbled and somehow goofy.  And one other thing: I felt so ridiculously carefree that when a student showed me the bloody tooth he had just pulled, I thought: wow, how cool is that!  Too, I distinctly remember thinking that all of these students could gang rape me right now and none of it 
would matter.

Once the procedure was over and I was just beginning to feel like myself again, the lead dentist asked where I lived.  It was a long subway ride home and he knew it.

“Okay, hon,” he said, smiling.  “I’ll just give you a little more gas to help you.”

I floated back to Brooklyn.   

There were never any complications with the procedures, and I’m pretty sure I needed very little, if any, pain medication.  And of course, I survived.

But I’m so happy that my daughter had an entirely different journey with a dental office that completely has 
its act together.  

Unlike me, her trip to Wisdom Tooth Land has left no emotional scars.

And for that, I am an immensely grateful mom.

What are your wisdom tooth (or other dental) tales?  I look forward to hearing from you!