Why I Love the Dentist

Despite my previous post, this is not about my undying devotion to my dentist because he thinks I look like Susan Sarandon, though that is a perfectly rational reason to write him into my will.

Tomorrow I'm scheduled for a root canal and I realized for the umpteenth time that I really don't mind going to the dentist. Kind of look forward it, actually. Even for root canals.

My dentist claims that mothers of young children are the only patients who enjoy spending time in his office. I think he's on to something.

From the time I wake up to the time my head hits the pillow, I run the world. I keep four little beasties fed, clothed, bathed, behaved (sort of), alive, and relatively uninjured. I keep a house from falling apart or being condemned by the health department. I keep my car maintained and repaired and running. I keep myself maintained, repaired, and running. I go to work and keep my department running. I plan and strategize and oversee and delegate and follow up. At home, at work, at church; I cajole and entreat and sometimes nag. I keep track of all the details--what size shoe each child wears, what level of certification each employee is at, which child needs what shots before school starts, which keys are checked out to which employee, who is due for vision exams or training sessions or playdates or promotions.

There are very, very few places in my life where I can let the burdens slide off and let somebody else take over. The dentist's office is one of those places.

When I get in that chair I'm not in charge anymore. All I have to do is lay there with my mouth open and do nothing. I've been known to fall asleep while he's drilling. No happy gas; it's just the unadulterated bliss of surrendering control.

Zen at the dental office.