Dentistry’s Problem Children
NIKKI SCHULAK writes and performs comedy about bodies and relationships in Portland, Oregon. She has a master’s degree from the Bank Street College of Education. Her essay “On Not Seeing Whales” (Bellevue Literary Review) was chosen as a Notable Selection in Best American Essays 2013. Sometimes, she’s a little bit of an unreliable narrator.
UST AS I WAS putting nachos in the oven, my son came bounding down the stairs, slipped into the laundry room, and slammed the door. I know the importance of giving kids space, so I minded my own business. But when the nachos were baked and he was still in with the dirty clothes, I knocked.
“Leo? Is everything OK?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
He was standing in the laundry sink, his left foot raised and held under the running faucet. There was blood—lots of blood—pooling down the drain.
“What happened?”
“I injured my foot.”
“How?”
“I cut it. With one of my knives.”
Knives had become important to Leo ever since we sent him to that wilderness survival camp for children where a four-inch locking blade is an essential item on the packing list. The campers whittle spears, then hunt bullfrogs and cook them over a campfire. Bullfrogs are an invasive species here in the Northwest, and they prey on our native tree frogs, which are too peaceful and green to fight back. Kids come back from this camp hungry, covered in mud, and go barefoot for the rest of the summer.
“I wasn’t throwing knives though, Mom,” Leo said. “Honest. It accidentally slipped.”
Such a graceful lie in a dire moment. That’s when I knew: my son was growing up. Five years ago, under the same circumstances, he would have passed out. As it was, night.
