This is my charming child Seamus Villa (here pictured with a full set of shining sparklers).
Today he has faced an alarming trauma as he had a baby tooth removed under general anaesthetic. Shock and haunting horror for all.
The little tooth he lost today, although clean and well cared for, was bashed dramatically last year in a head-banging collision with his step-mother. His front left tooth was pushed out of place and an ever-swelling gum almost encouraged an extraction without the need for a dentist. Ouch, and double-ouch.
It has taken almost four months (and a lot of secret wishing that all would go back to normal) to get an appointment for removal. Then the moment charged round. What a roller-coaster ride today has been. Not for Seamus though. He has, like his usual confident-self, taken it all in his stride. He happily woke, dressed and trundled to the hospital with hands suitably doused with anaesthetic cream (much to his delight). The range of health professionals that came to chat to us, dental surgeon, nurse, and anaesthetist were all greeted by my bubbly well-mannered boy.
Seamus complied (a little too well for my renegade-liking) with the health-service circus and actually skipped his way down to theatre. His only minor wobble, apart from his tooth, was when they put the mask over his face to send him to that most magical and alluring of sleepy-slumbers. I stroked, kissed and whispered to him as he closed his eyes.
So now Seamus has a cute goofy grin and has to face trying to eat and drink and adjust to his new mouth and face. The whole experience hasn't phased him at all (evidenced by his short recount of the experience - audio below). He is now running around, his same cheeky-self - well, perhaps a little cheekier!
Good job Seamus you're a real trooper.
Mothering Seamus through this experience was made easier knowing exactly what it's like to lose your teeth. Here's me, aged 5 with a gummy-grin all of my own. I knocked my teeth out running (and falling on to a hard stone floor) to see my beloved Aunty and Uncle. Triple-ouch.
(The lower body amputation was far more traumatic than loosing a tooth).
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