Of Teeth and Hippies

Alas, two teeth. One at a time mind you but only a week apart. After a few slightly cranky but otherwise undramatic days, on the morning of her five-month birthday (Ya when it's your first kid you celebrate every month as a birthday...I figure it will wear of soon but it's also been a monthly tribute to us surviving as parents.) So she reached for my finger to gnaw and enthusiastically administer it's morning drool-bath as is her custom, when I yelped and yanked her mouth open to display a tiny but distinct little white ridge. After a wail in commemoration of the end of my maim-free nursing days we extended the expected congratulatory praise and made a fuss over our "big girl" all the while thinking we were pretty lucky to get through tooth number one without fever or tantrums or sleeplessness. Other than some exploratory nibbling that makes me highly uncomfortable I'm happy to report no major bites despite my, I feel, well-justified anxiety. I've decided I'm implementing a strict three-strikes-and-you're-out policy regarding her breastfeeding. People keep telling me you can teach them not to bite by pinching their nose etc but I'm pretty sure that just isn't a learning curve The Ladies and I are up for.
(Did you know the first two teeth come in together and then are followed by the top two a few months later? Now I wish I could draw you the terrifying picture that puts in my head but what animal has snapping jaws with two razor sharp teeth close together on the bottom and two on the top? The anatomy of the Pyranha comes to mind. That's messed up.) All that to say, tooth one was somewhat anticlimactic. 
Enter tooth two: way way worse.
I saw it starting to break through a few days later and it definitely seemed to be more sensive. I was nursing in the middle of the night when she jerked her head back with a sudden squeal of pain. I guess she bumped it or something. Now let me tell you as much as I love my child there's a limited amount of sympathy I feel I can extend in these circumstances..."I'm sorry, did you hurt your razor sharp tooth on my soft vulnerable boob...?". I feel this is the rough equivalent of someone crying about hurting their fist on your face. (But again...she has no perspective so I do comfort her). That was night one. Night two was an endless cycle of up screaming every 15 minutes. Next to no sleep for either of us and despite the tylenol and freezer teethers nothing seemed to be helping. I haven't felt that helpless since her colic days and was debating how crazy I'd look bringing her to the hospital (her pain-cries were escalating to a point where we were both crying). I'm pretty sure this stems from my unquestioning faith in the medical community and my comforting delusion that doctors can fix anything. I feel I'd be an ideal candidate for the medical equivalent of "Magic Monster Spray" as long as it's prescribed by a doctor with a bona fide medical degree and prefaced by "studies show that..."
Anyway, the next morning I packed up my miserable kid ("miserable" being her current state of mind and in no way representative of my feelings towards her. most days.) and headed to my favorite pharmacy (I will pay a few bucks more for a pharmacist that is knowledgeable and spends time giving me extra info. She also has a Parisian accent and the most charming little pixie haircut.) French-Pharmacist was out for the day and her younger and unnervingly eager-beaver replacement was happy to assist me. I should have known when I saw the little braided hemp bracelet peeking out from under her sleeve...right there, I should have known. (You know...the ones with the stupid little plastic beads that look like you made it in summer camp when you were twelve in which the only acceptable reason to wear them is if you have a kid who is twelve and made it at summer camp. Or if you're in fact that kid.)

Important sidenote: I hate hippies. I sincerely do. I'm sorry if you include yourself in this people group. I'm sure you're very nice and hopefully also a productive member of society who believes in bathing regularly. I'm sorry but as far as I'm concerned bathing is non-optional, gainful employment is essential to a society running smoothly, organic food is a silly selfish and unsustainable luxury of the first world, nobody cares what color your aura is and while I'm at it, Freelove brought us nothing but STDs. There. All my prejudice in a nutshell. (*deep breath*).
 She did however have cute shoes. I wonder if she knows leather comes from an actual animal that once had a face *eyeroll*. Okay, done for real now. End of sidenote.

 So I asked her about Orajel (it's a topical benzocaine gel that temporarily numbs an infant's gums during the teething process.) She advised against harmful "chemicals" in the bloodstream. Beg your pardon but isn't the study of pharmacy essentially a specialty in these "chemicals" that we tend to disperse through the bloodstream? I schooled myself to silence and instead she asks me how I feel about homeopathic remedies and instead of replying "similar to how I feel about placing rocks on my stomach to re-align my spiritual energies" In the name of diplomacy I opted for "I don't have much confidence in them". She then (??) directed me to the naturalist section and recommended these oral drops from a company I've never heard of in a box that felt the need to advertise that it was made from recycled paper. I use to work in pharmaceuticals. I'm no expert but I can recognize glorified chamomile under a fancy name for $17. (Which scientifically actually has it's merits but not $17-worth-of-merit. Not even in a recycled box.) I had to make a considered effort to confine my eye-rolling to my minds eye. Seeing as I found myself without my handy indelible black marker and scribbling "fraud" on her posted pharmacy license wasn't an option, I smiled politely and said I'd think about it and unceremoniously walked out making a mental note to instill in my daughter the necessary disdain for such pseudo-scientific quackery.
I walked into pharmacy number two.
"Tempra and Orajel?"
"Aisle two."
Done