A couple years ago, my wife and I received the call you never want to receive from a child.

“Mom and Dad, I haven’t been to the dentist in 6 years.”

Not wanting to discourage our youngest son, Kyle, a full-blooded millennial, we remained silent. Stunned, I closed my eyes and imagined the teeth of a meth addict. My junior progeny pooping on a wilderness trail during his middle school years was one thing, but this was next-level foulness. Janet, tapping into a reservoir of motherly instinct, finally broke the silence and asked, “How are you feeling, son?”

Of course, I wanted to say more. Growing up in a military family and then serving in the military myself, dental appointments were mandatory formations—as regular as my mother-in-law after her morning dose of Fiber One. Every six months, a dental exam appointment notice arrived in the mail. The question was not whether I’d go, but whether I’d choose mint or the slightly naughtier bubble gum as my preferred fluoride flavor. By my teen years, I’d learned to express moderate anxiety as they reclined me in the chair, in hopes of being taken to a faraway place by a snort of nitrous oxide. Good times.

During our Air Force assignment to Germany, our wing commander decided that we should have as many medical-related appointments as possible scheduled on the same day, to reduce time away from the workplace. On my designated day, I sat in the dental chair, as a checklist-toting young dental technician stuck 7 fingers in my mouth.

“Major Johnson, has anyone ever taught you how to brush properly?”

Loaded question. I thought for a moment, then decided to play along.

“No, I don’t believe so.”

The Airman retrieved a mirror from a drawer and handed it to me. With me looking on, she proceeded to brush my teeth, demonstrating the proper circular motion, angle, and pressure. She was so thoughtful and professional, I considered stopping by the clinic after every meal for servicing.

Moments later, she looked down at her checklist, then asked, “Major Johnson, have you been taught how to floss regularly?”

I realized she had a checklist to follow, and that regardless of my answer, I would be spending all day at the dental and medical clinics.

“I don’t believe I have.”

She retrieved the mirror from the drawer again and handed it to me. For the next few minutes, I watched as she sliced through my gums, retrieving a variety of saliva-soaked Doritos fragments.

“Do you floss regularly, sir?”

Hmm. Gut check moment.

“I try to,” I lied. (In my defense, “regularly” is a vague term. One could argue that flossing semiannually, just prior to dental exams, for 50 years, is a regular event.)

An hour later, I found myself sitting across from another young, checklist-toting Airman in a small room at the medical clinic. It was time for her to update my medical history, a series of 300 or so invasive questions covering exercise, nutrition, medications, allergies, past surgeries, my parents’ health, and boxers vs. briefs.

A third of the way through the interview, she asked, “Major Johnson, has anyone ever taught you how to do a testicular self-exam?”

“Yes!” I declared. 

Fool me twice.

That brings us back to Kyle. For reasons of poverty, cost-savings, and benign neglect, the adult manifestation of our youngest son had decided dental care wasn’t a priority. For six long years, he valued high end coffee, dense religious tomes, and a Spotify subscription over preventing tooth decay. Apparently more than a few of his peers have made similar choices.

Thus, when he called us recently for a dental update, I tensed up. What had become of his neglected teeth? When he takes the podium each week and smiles before his congregation, do the people on the first few rows shield their eyes? What would young snaggle-tooth tell us?

“I just got back from the dentist,” he proudly declared. “The dentist said I have perfect teeth—in fact, he used the word beautiful.”

“That’s my boy!” I responded, winking at Janet. “Never had a doubt!”

Sometimes fatherly pride runs deeper than a recessed tooth. 

Sometimes your worst fears about a child are totally unfounded. 

Sometimes parenting is like a hit of nitrous oxide.