Today three-year-old Lillian took a turn in the dentist’s chair. And yes, we brush, we floss, we don’t do juice. It’s apparently just their teeth.

She had this reluctant look on her face the moment we got out of the van. This silent pleading. “Do I have to go?” was all I saw in her eyes. As we traveled from parking lot, to office building, to elevator, to the dentist’s suite, she knew the answer was yes.

Prep work, then Novocaine. Then tears.

I was analyzing the situation. How much should I coddle? I don’t want to be overly sensitive and perpetuate some kind of behavior that will make her a dental wimp. I want to do my best to keep her strong. Brave. What kind of attention did she need? I studied the situation for a sign. And I got it.

As the doctor and her staff moved away from the chair, giving time for the numbing to take hold, Lillian looked at me, motioned for me to come to her and said, “Mom! Can’t you see I’m crying?”