A Legacy Project

“Bite down.” Our son was in the orthodontist’s chair. He was nine years old. My wife was keen on having his teeth fixed, as soon as possible. Dr. Brown looked in his mouth, swabbed, tapped, did a little perfunctory scraping, then shook his head and sighed. “David,” he said, “your mother has been bringing you in to see me for two years now, and you’re still not ready for braces.” He spoke with a Utah drawl. It was, for me, worth the visit just to hear him say bite down (sounded like da-oon.) But she had cause. Her own tortuous history of orthodontics, for one thing. And as far as the boy was concerned, it was, in truth, a messed-up bite in our son’s mouth. He had an unruly mob of teeth in there, pointing every which way, calling to mind one of our favorite episodes of The Simpsons. (Orthodontist, opening a book of photographs, showing it to Lisa: “Do you want your teeth to look like this???” On the cover: FAMOUS BRITISH SMILES.  Lisa: EEEEK!) 

Finally he got what his mother wanted. 

Dr. Brown cemented an expander to his upper molars in the back of his jaw. When David got up from the chair I was handed a tool, a small metal bar with a pin attached to a swivel on the end. “Just give him half a turn with this once a week,” Dr. Brown said. “See you in six months.”

“This is good,” his mom said. “His teeth are too big for his mouth.” She pointed at her mouth. “That was my problem.” 

“Food gets stuck in it,” David said at dinner that first week. 

“But you can eat okay?” she asked.

He tongued the appliance in his mouth. “I guess.” 

At the end of the first week, after he brushed his teeth and the appliance that night, I leaned over him in his bed, a small flashlight in my mouth, the device in hand. He opened, I shined the light and inserted the pin into the device. Easy. I  gave it half a turn. 

And he screamed. 

“What?” I said.

“What?” his mother said. 

He screamed a little more. 

We were just getting started.