I’m entering a new phase of parenthood called “orthodontia”. Samantha recently had a complimentary consultation with one of our friends who is an orthodontist in the area. After detailing that it would only cost a few thousand dollars to subject her to treatments seemingly inspired from visits to the Tower of London, they handed me the paperwork.
Occupation. I can’t resist. I write “Domestic Goddess”.
Employer. I feel small leaving it blank, so I write, “My Big Bad Self”.
Emergency Contact. At the time my best friend was in the middle of building a house and living with her parents. I wrote her name, and in the space provided for the address I filled in, “homeless somewhere in Parker.”
And then I began to think about it. Emergency Contact? Now, I’m not disputing that orthodontists are indeed doctors. But what exactly would constitute an orthodontic emergency for which they would need to track down my BFF meandering around in her Pilot chanting, “September the house will be done…September the house will be done,”? I can just see it now:
“911, What is your emergency?”
“My daughter…[heavy breathing] she’s crying and I can’t get her to stop. She needs a different color of rubberbands like, YESTERDAY!!”
“I’m sorry to call so late, but little Susie has swallowed her headgear again.”
Now that my friend is in her house and has a real address, I should probably amend the paperwork. But really? I’m not even sure it’s necessary.