Twelve hours later, I’m still feeling jangled from our visit to The Girlie’s dentist this morning. It is a strange place, with primary-colored walls and floors, and fishies on the walls, and lots of people talking in squeaky voices. We’ve been once before, but I hadn’t noticed that everyone talks to everyone in that sing-song voice usually reserved for speaking to those who are knee-high. Except in this curious space, even the Dentist himself speaks to everyone by leaning forward, raising his eyebrows, tilting his head, and pushing his voice toward a falsetto. Which is rather unnerving when you’re trying to have a conversation about the relative merits and dangers of concentrated flouride treatment, or when you’re getting grilled about chocolate milk, pacifiers, and sippy cups (not guilty, nearly cured, slightly guilty).
Folks are a little passive-aggressive, too: after kindly assuring us that the screaming and writhing Girlie was in fact comparatively well-behaved and that we should not worry or be embarrassed, the dental assistant left the room and returned to wag her finger in all three of our faces. “Do you see where you bit me?,” she asked in her chirpiest voice. We apologized (again), of course. And she bobbled her head back and forth several times and said, “Oh, it’s okay!!”