On Teeth

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Pity Robbo’s Youngest, my friends:  She had her wisdom teeth yanked yesterday.  Four of them, all impacted, and one pretty deep and requiring advanced excavation.

She came home in somewhat elevated spirits from the anesthesia, but today her face is so swollen up that she looks, in her own words, like a cartoon of herself.

She’d had plans this weekend to go with her friends to one of those haunted cornfield things, but that’s all off.  “My mouth hurts so much right now, I can’t even think about the idea of trying to scream,” she said.

I think I’m off the hook of having to cook her anything solid for dinner this weekend, too.

Poor kid.

Now that Ol’ Robbo thinks about it, I simply cannot recall whether I had any of my own wisdom teeth out.  (On the other hand, I recall vividly having my upper bicuspids yanked when I was in middle school so that my braces had room to rumble.)  I know I started life with only three to begin with.  I have a dim recollection that one of them may be impacted, but then I draw a blank.  Perhaps we reached the conclusion, finally, that it wasn’t worth messing about with them unless and until they started causing problems.

I sure hope they don’t now, because I’m getting too old for the sort of thing the gel is going through.