I went to the dentist today, as summoned, for my annual checkup, and my teeth were presented with a clean bill of health. I love going to the dentist, because from the time I was 12 until I was 29 and had been entered onto the rolls of Swedish residents, I had been to the dentist exactly once, due to the high cost of dental care in the States and to my teeth being in such good shape that I didn’t strictly need to go to the dentist. Of course, if I’d needed to go to the dentist, I might not like it so much now, but as it is, a trip to the dentist’s office is always a great ego boost for me. The dentist and hygienists are always amazed that at the ripe old age of 31 I don’t have a single filling and have yet to need one. They wax quite poetic, opining Det är guldvärt att ha så fina tänder,* and I leave feeling like a prize pupil. And with slippery-smooth clean teeth, to boot.

I have to take Lydia to the dentist on Friday morning before she goes to school and I have a feeling that will be a much less pleasant experience. Ordinarily Olof takes her because his presence brings out the stoic in her, but that morning he has to take Moa and Prins Bertil to the vet for their respective spaying and neutering. (Sidenote: I hate how in Swedish they call it “kastrering” for both male and female animals, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there–which, after all, is why it’s a sidenote, but I digress). She (Lydia, I mean) is suspicious of any sort of doctor visit and always fears the worst (which, so far as she knows–thank goodness–is a shot or a blood test). And she’s a big baby about pain. Honestly, she nearly passed out when I took a splinter from her toe over the summer, and I didn’t even have to go under the skin. The end of the splinter was clearly visible and I just–I say “just,” as if it didn’t take me at least a half-hour and fifty tries–took hold of it with my tweezers and pulled it out. I don’t think she’s yet recovered from the trauma.

*It’s worth the price of gold to have such nice teeth.