Supernumerary

Oftentimes, as parents, we are awed with the genetic traits that have randomly been selected for passage down to our children. In our newborns, we look at noses and ears, delicate fingers and long toes; we are shocked by the red hair or the electric blue eyes of our offspring. I know that, for me, seeing the large, perfectly round cranium and broad shoulders and exceptionally long legs of my second son well made up for the fact I had succumbed to the ‘evil’ C-section. Genetics had chosen for him the powerful skeletal frame of his father and the well-developed muscular frame of mine, and due to the wonder that is modern medicine, we were able to marvel at the miracle of our combined genetics.

Of course, it was surreal at the time—the baby Ant once was did not fit in the hospital bassinet unless he was curled up, and the nurses had to search the pediatric ward to find diapers that fit him. Combine this comedy of errors with a morphine drip, and you can laugh for hours.

And then… sometimes, parents are faced with the randomness of genetics that have selected less-than-optimal traits for our children. Perhaps it is a heart defect. Or a learning disability. Or a chronic condition that will require management all throughout their life. Why, we wonder, why? Why would this be what was passed on of me? This is not the best of who I am; this is not what I had hoped for my child! We feel responsible, in some way, for a biological process that is almost wholly beyond our control. Even if it is some minor, tiny flaw that does not matter much in the grand scheme of things.

When Ant was 4 months old, he already had six baby teeth fully erupt in his mouth. These were my genetics. I started losing baby teeth and replacing them with permanents when I was five. Ant was 4 ½. The dentist and the pediatrician agreed—it was before the normal range, but given his genetics, and the size of his jaw, it was perfectly on track, for him.

He lost 9 teeth. Six grew back immediately. Three did not.

Trips to the dentist involved condescending discussions with me about how things develop in their own time, but after two years, it was apparent that things were NOT developing in their own time. The grainy x-rays that were finally taken seemed to show that there were no permanent teeth there to grow in.

Let me take a step back for a second, and explain a few things. First, teeth are my Achilles heel.

Blood, puke, snot, poop—well, you could envision Yoda saying something like, “The gag-reflex is strong in this one,” and you would be right on track when describing me. I once had a psychic tell me I should be a nurse (because of my helpful and caring nature) and while that sounds nice and all, I ended up laughing and told her that I wouldn’t be back. There’s one person who shouldn’t be a nurse, and that would be me. Puking in the bedpan would not be the best way to help a patient.

But when it comes to teeth—Oh! I have nightmares about teeth. I have had bad dental experiences. Especially when both of my children were toddlers, I was desperately, horrifically afraid of them knocking out a tooth.

One of the reasons I have so many problems with teeth, in general, is because of my family’s weird relationship with teeth. Extra teeth, in particular. Which many of us had. K’s genetics actively selected to NOT have this problem, and I was so very grateful for it. Ant’s had seemed to take it a step further, and omit teeth.

Which leads to the second thing that needs to be explained: While missing teeth (which appears to be hereditary) is nothing new in humans, Ant was missing the top central incisors. The two front teeth. Everyone marveled about how this could be the case. It just doesn’t happen—nevertheless, there it was. An empty section on a grainy x-ray where teeth should have been.

J comforted me by telling me Ant would always be too big of a guy to be made fun of. Amazingly enough, this helped.

A couple years ago, I blew out the side of a fully erupted wisdom tooth. I had had an extra wisdom tooth removed in the area years before. I think the next one that grew in just wasn’t up to par. It needed to come out, and hey, what the hell, take the other three out with it. They had cramped my other teeth, and sometimes made my mouth a little sore (nothing to complain about really, but if I have to go under for you to dig out a tooth, then go for them all. If you find any extra, hiding out behind them, take those as well). When I woke up, the very nice oral surgeon was giddy with the experience of dealing with my mouth—“I got them all! It was so easy! You’ve only been under for about 45 minutes! And I got two more, on the bottom! I had to shave a lot of the bone off, but there’s some more out! I think that’s all of them—whew! That was fun! Don’t get in a car wreck for the next year, or we will have to wire your jaw shut.”

Okay. Thank goodness I was higher than a kite.

Once the wisdom teeth were removed, my teeth started to readjust. It was a little creepy. Finally, I became concerned enough to find a dentist here, and I met Dr. M (the chorus of angels sing here), and he is fantastic! I want this man to be my children’s dentist! I told him so, and he wholeheartedly agreed!

Upon which we enter the part of the story where Ant inspires maniacal glee in Dr. M…