I never promised you no Novocaine

Peter stood by the office door bouncing up and down on his toes like an Olympic sprinter ready to step into the starting blocks. This was a kid ready to flee.

Too bad for him, I wasn’t about to let him go.

Peter needed two stubborn baby teeth extracted so the adult teeth had room to drop into their proper place. Thus our trip to the dentist’s office. Except once in the chair, Peter wouldn’t cooperate. That needle. The pain. As a nine year old, this was his first experience with Novocaine being injected into his gum line.

The dentist shook his head at me. Try an oral surgeon, he advised. Peter, still wearing a paper blue bib across his chest, had one hand on the door knob. He was desperate to race to the car, to get as far away from that needle as possible.

I hate watching my children suffer pain. If I could take every scrape, every scar, I would. But, alas, pain kind of goes along with childhood. Kids suffer pain. (Welcome to the rest of you life, kids. At least until you go home to be with the Lord. Forever and ever, amen!)

We’ve had our share of injuries here; my kids know pain. Two broken bones (Susan’s wrist; Lucy’s leg), stitches into the tongue (Peter), scalp glued (Lucy), severe burns (Lucy, again. Poor baby!) as well as our share of the less severe scrapped knees and bee stings. (Amazingly, Edmund is the only one to be ER-free as of this writing.)

I remember when Susan received her first vaccinations at the pediatrician’s office. My tiny newborn, a mere six pounds, jabbed by the most unsympathetic of nurses, witnessed by me, a fretful, newbie mother. All I could do was stroke Susan’s arm as I stood by feeling helpless, listening to her loud wailing. I suspect I suffered more than she, because as soon as the shots were done, her cries abated. As for my own tears and trauma, nope, not for awhile.

Fortunately, I’ve also toughened up over the years. Having four kids will do that to a mom.

As for those stubborn baby teeth still firmly embedded in my boy’s head. I needed to make a decision. Poor Peter, jumpy in his sneakers, ready to make his escape out the door into the summer sun. He was sold on the idea of an oral surgeon and anesthesia. I had my doubts. Doesn’t a surgeon equal more money? Plus, more importantly, I was concerned about the next time Peter would face the needle in the dentist’s chair. Cavities happen. I can’t promise my boy a future without Novocaine.

So I did what any other mother of a scared nine-year-old boy would do. I told him to get back up into that chair. And hold still.

As much as I hate to see my children in pain, I know life requires it. When the day calls for bravery and courage, when I need to be tough as nails for my kids, in front of my kids, to show them how it’s done, I can do it.

When Susan needed blood drawn to see if that naughty Lyme bacteria was gone from her body, I talked her through it. When Lucy needed medical care in the emergency room for her leg last summer, I held her in my arms, whispering to her it would soon be alright.

Oftentimes we need to walk through a little more pain to start onto the road to healing.

As a mother, it’s not my job to make life pain free for my children. Life is painful with it’s scrapes, broken bones, and dental needles. Broken relationships, lost friendships and heartache will eventually find my children as they mature and experience life as adults. They are going to need to be brave for that suffering too. Let the learning begin now.

Jesus was a boy once. When Jesus fell and got his rough-boy play cuts and scrapes, did Mary teach him bravery? If Jesus cut himself in the wood shop, helping Joseph, did Mary tell Jesus to be brave as she bandaged the wound?

I bet she did.

When Jesus went to the Cross, to endure suffering he didn’t deserve, did he remember boyhood lessons on bravery from his mother?

I bet he did.

The only thing I can do as their mother is to teach them to be brave.

Back in the dental chair, Peter squirmed. I took both of his hands in mine.

“Now is the time to be brave.”

Finally, after much negotiating for soft-serve ice cream and half-kidding threats of recording his tears for a YouTube video, the needle met the gum line. Tears slid down into his soft brown hair. As Peter took a step closer toward courageous man, my eyes stung with unshed tears.

My boy may have taken all the pain, but he wasn’t alone.

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