Two days ago, my son broke another one of his permanent teeth, this time while throwing himself with wild abandon into a backflip on the neighbor's trampoline. While reportedly almost a perfect execution, Zane went into the tuck a bit over-vigorously, and threw his knee into his face. There was a moment of confusion on what had happened, until he said he "felt a painful hole in his mouth" and noticed blood seeping through his pants. Apparently, the force of his patella was great enough to break his left lateral incisor about 1/3 of the way down, leaving the tooth temporarily lodged in his knee. The tooth came out, and with the intrepid scrutiny that is unique to a 9-year-old sibling, little brother quickly came up with the missing chunk. Boys, tooth shard, and bloody pants came home.
It is no accident that our pediatric dentist knows Zane by name and athletic incident, and I think perhaps might regard our family with a small grain of incredulity. The forthcoming emergency trip to the dentist for a broken tooth was Zane's second.
Only a year and a half ago my supernaturally strong bean-pole child was demonstrating his parkour ability to a rapt 3-year-old out at dinner. Zane jumped onto a street sign to show him a horizontal "flagpole"move, and either in a dramatic miscalculation of the pole's location, or a failed missive at flying, fell straight down, tooth first, 2-3ft onto the concrete. The horrific cracking "smack" that followed was enough to make the other firefighter/ paramedic friends I was with scream. My golden-haired child lay motionless on the ground, only long enough for me to envision the bloody broken horror I would find when I abandoned 20 years of medical training and leapt to him, quickly scooping him up in my arms, any principle of spinal immobilization gone. There was very little blood, his eyes welled with tears and refocused, and he gently spat a perfect triangular shard of his first adult tooth out into my hand. We were both shaken, but he had the words. "Mom, how did I miss?"
Which brings us to Tuesday morning, seated in the world's friendliest pediatric dentist office. While two visits is by far not "routine", the dentist did explain to Zane that one only has so many permanent teeth, and at the rate he was going, he'd be in dentures by college. This time the damage was more severe, the pulp nearly exposed, and a crown in his near future. Zane, true to his nature, did not miss a beat to ask if this was his opportunity for a gold crown with "just a small diamond, nothing too showy". (He was only half joking). He smiled at me, and then it hit me.
Both times, both broken teeth, his face has been nearly unscathed. No teeth gnashing at angles through lips, no bloody torn mouth. Just cleanly broken teeth. This is because in most everything physical Zane does, he does with a giant, wide, beaming smile. I was overcome with gratitude and amazement.
What a marvel, to be an almost 13-year-old boy, at the pit and precipice of teenage angst and turmoil, and plunge into the world without caution, with near-blind abandon. To dive at a flagpole, believing in your heart and soul that you would fly horizontally, that your sheer will and the assured love of gravity would hold you. To hurl yourself high into the air backwards, all fibers of your slight sinewy back and gangly legs contracting, gathering speed and force, eyes and mouth wide and sucking in the damp spring air. No disgrace, no embarrassment, no shame…. and no fear. Believing in your place in the world, penultimately present in the moment, even in the blazing pain of an unexpected trauma. And most of all, hours later, to beam that same, unfettered grin, albeit a little broken and crooked, and say, "Well mom, I almost got it. Next time."
What a marvel indeed.
