On Love and Dental Exams

David and I stand in the darkened hallway preparing to slip into our bedroom—stealth is key with a seven-month-old roommate. I have a dentist appointment in the morning and I’m mentally working through our family schedule like a math problem. 

If my appointment is at 7:30am in Midtown, I have to nurse Henry first, there is construction on Hwy 50, and David has a meeting to get to, what time do I need to wake up and can I stop to pick up a latte afterward?

“Remind me, when does your meeting start tomorrow?” I whisper to David, my hand paused on our doorknob. He responds with a sheepish look. “Oh, I made a scheduling mistake when I asked you to change your appointment time,” he murmurs. “It turns out I don’t have anything pressing tomorrow.”

I drop my hand from the doorknob and roll my head back in frustration. “The hygienist is coming in extra early for me,” I hiss. “She isn’t supposed to take patients at that time, but she made an exception.” 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly interjects. “The meetings I thought were tomorrow were actually today. It was an honest mistake.”

“I also have to wake up extra early,” I continue, emotion building behind my hushed voice before I trail off with a resigned, “it’s ok, let’s just go to bed.” 

An hour later I’m still awake, curled up in the pitch black of our room listening to my husband and son’s slow breaths rise and fall above the sound of the white noise machine. Thoughts pulse through my brain at a rapid pace. I tell myself I’m still angry about the dentist appointment, but it’s not really about the dentist appointment. (Is it ever really about the dentist appointment?) 

The next morning, David, bouncing Henry on his hip and supervising the girls’ getting ready routine, leans in to give me a kiss as I walk out the door. “Enjoy the break!” he calls after me. I whip around and pin him with an icy stare. “Oh yeah, an invasive dental exam,” I deadpan. “Such a break.” 

He returns my stare with a kind smile. “For the next couple of hours, you don’t have to take care of anyone but yourself.”

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“Honestly, I really struggle with resentment when David travels,” I confess to the circle of women I’m sitting with. A late summer delta breeze blows across the church patio, rustling the leaves on the trees with a welcome burst of coolness. We’re supposed to be discussing the parenting bible study we’ve been going through, but the conversation veered off course when a friend mentioned how exhausted she was from her husband being out of town. 

“Oh, completely!” a second friend chimes in. “Even when I remind myself that the conferences my husband attends are necessary for our livelihood, I still have a hard time.” 

“I always want to ask him if he enjoyed his vacation,” a third friend laughs. “And my husband is like ‘babe, I’m working the entire time’.” 

“Hey, eating dinner with just adults and returning to a hotel room by yourself sounds like a vacation to me,” I say. 

We let the conversation remain on the surface, leaving so much left unsaid. I don’t actually resent David; I struggle with jealousy. When his firm needs him to, he can travel—I envy that freedom. He has the ability to linger over fancy dinners with clients and return to a quiet hotel room where no one needs him. I can’t leave the house to do anything without first considering the needs and schedules of everyone I live with. These days, the heaviness of that reality feels like a weight pressing down on my shoulders.

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After wrangling three kids into bed each evening, David and I have developed a ritual of sorts. He cleans the kitchen and I straighten the rest of the house while we debrief our day. When we’re done, we almost always end up together at the kitchen table.

We share highlights and we laugh a lot. We discuss our own personal troubles and the hard times we are supporting friends through. There seems to be a never-ending stream of harsh realities affecting our community—sickness, loss, financial difficulties, heartbreak, multiple divorces. 

There’s a series of questions constantly on our lips. We ask them in the quiet of these evenings at the kitchen table, in whispers as we reach for each other before falling asleep, wordlessly across a room filled with our children’s squeals, in text messages throughout the day. 

“Are you ok?”

“Are you ok?”

“Are we ok?”  

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I sit in my minivan after the early morning dental appointment and, I hate to admit it, but I did enjoy myself. My hygienist is one of my neighbors and a lot of fun to talk to, even when she’s deep cleaning my gums.  

There’s a reel on Instagram that makes me laugh every time I see it. The Full House theme song plays while the text “Basic Needs and Chores that for Moms are Considered Self Care!” flashes across the screen. A smiling woman with blonde hair pulled into a messy side braid appears with a vacant smile and proceeds to act out taking a shower, grocery shopping alone, sitting while you eat, and going to the bathroom without someone watching. Apparently, dental exams should be added to her list. 

I’m prepared to go straight home and dive into my day. Bring on the nursing sessions, naptime rocking, homeschool preschool, kindergarten pick-up, and incessant requests for goldfish. Forget the latte, I’ve had my break. My cup is full. 

Turning out of the parking lot, I think about David’s parting words to me—for the next couple of hours, you don’t have to take care of anyone but yourself—and suddenly realize what he was trying to communicate. It wasn’t really about the dentist appointment. (Is it ever really about the dentist appointment?) He was reminding me, in his own gentle way, that I don’t have to do everything for everyone by myself. I have a partner; he sees me, he loves me, he appreciates me. 

I decide to stop for coffee and pick up lattes and danishes for two. Because David and I are in this together. 

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Love After Babies".