ONE of the joys of pregnancy is that once the baby is done with you, your body is never quite the same again. No matter how much a women tries, there will always be something a bit different. Some ladies might be lucky and just carry an extra few pounds. Some are left with slightly lower boobies. Neither are that bad in the big scheme of things. A badge of motherhood some might say.
The less lucky ones get a whole combination of mummy side effects. Sadly for me, I fall under this category.
With my first pregnancy there were stretch marks. Beautiful.
The second brought not so pretty piles. Lovely.
Third time round and definitely not third time lucky, I had bleeding gums the whole way through.
Then, as a generous gesture from Mother Nature herself, I gained a whole handful of post birth gifts for good measure. I didn't get bags under my eyes, I got matching luggage. Suddenly the odd white strand of hair turned into greys galore and to top it off, I have gained rubbish, achy, poorly teeth. Fab.
I blame the children.
Yep. It seems that my little peas have sucked out every last drop of calcium and goodness from my gnashers and have left me with nothing but useless brittle fangs and endless visits to my least favourite person ever. Mr Dentist.
Mr Dentist and I have never been too close. As a child I ate more apples than any small person should healthily consume to prevent having to visit that tooth doctor of doom. Little did I realise I probably did more harm than good with that apple addiction.
My fear of dental treatment is totally irrational and unfounded but I would honestly rather stick pins in my eyes than let anyone poke around my gums. It's just not normal.
The Man thinks that my fear all stems from my inability to stay quiet. Not being able to talk when someone is tinkering with my teeth may well be one reason but I reminded him that it is less about the tinkering, more about the horrible needles that they like to stick in your gob. For the greater good of course. Ha! No thanks.
So anyway, something wasn't right, my jaw had been feeling odd and I hadn't even been talking on the phone that long. After three days of achy face, I bite the bullet and book an appointment.
If it wasn't for the fact I had considered taking a bat to my face the previous night I would have made an excuse or ran away. Before I know it Mr Dentist is elbow deep in my mouth having a tinker. After a few minutes he informs me it is safe to close my mouth. Phew, no injections! I find some confidence and laugh away my nerves. I even say out load how silly I was to worry.
Mr Dentist does not share my sense of humour.
"Root canal or extraction" he suggests. I'm booked in for a week's time.
With a pitying smile he blames infection.
With a silent sob I blame the apples of my eye.