Carol’s Column

A toothy tale about headgear

"MOM, you won't believe it. There's been a disaster."

Who says I won't believe it. In a family that breeds disaster in the same way that rabbits give birth to their young, of course I believe it.

"So?"

"So, I can't find the mouthpiece for my headgear."

For those of you who are not in the fortunate position of owning a child whose front teeth stick out at right angles, whose jaw is deformed in that it is at least 5cm out of alignment with the rest of his face — I will explain that a headgear is the latest, orthodontical device for correcting skew teeth.

In order to straighten our third son's teeth and therefore make him look attractive so that at the age of 21 he will not be left on the shelf — we took him to an orthodontist who had, after cementing Jamie's jaws together with bands, wires and other such contraptions — prescribed a headgear.

Now, a headgear consists of two parts forming a black, hat-like contraption reminiscent of a scrum cap.

This clever little device is accompanied by a cunning piece of wire which fits into the lower section of the cap.

With the aid of two elastic bands, the finished article makes the wearer resemble either a space man or a horse with a bit between his teeth.

Take your pick.

Luckily, Jamie was not the only child at Rosebank school with crooked teeth. Judging from those sporting headgears, it seems as if they're the latest fashion.

To get back to the original scenario:

"I've lost the wire mouthpiece," said Jamie.

My husband erupted in that typically quiet way of his.

"You've what?" he bellowed. "Do you realise that we mortgaged the house, sold the Krugerrands, pawned the racing pigeons and put ourselves in the red for your teeth?

"Do you realise that our orthodontist is sampling the delights of French cuisine on the French Riviera — paid for by R40 installments on that wretched piece of wire?"

Jamie was suitably contrite.

"Dad, I took it off to play soccer and put it in my tog bag. It's mysteriously vanished."

What do other typical South African families do on a cold winter's night in Johannesburg when the temperature gauge has dropped to below zero and even the corns on your toes are frozen?

Well, whatever they do, they remain indoors.

Not us.

My husband issued forth his rallying call: "Fall in Lazars. Man the motor — we'll search the school."

Which we did at 10 at night.

"Deploy and advance!" yelled my husband, "forward march!" For an hour we patrolled the Rosebank Primary School soccer field.

Nothing.

Eventually: "Stand at ease," he ordered. "We'll man the dustbins."

Which is why at almost midnight, when the rest of the world was snuggled up in bed, we were elbow deep in eight dustbins. One per child, two per parent.

Such are the advantages of being a parent.

Through the broken pencils, discarded sandwiches, squashed apples and pears, crumpled works of art and soggy fruit-juice cartons we searched.

And then . . . Eureka! At the bottom of the last dustbin, we found it — nestling happily in a soggy banana peel.

Oh, what happiness there was. What joy. What ecstasy.

We returned home, tired, smelly and triumphant.

It's little things like this that are sent to try one.

This morning I fetched Jamie from school, eager to see his little face with, of course, the headgear and wire mouthpiece.

The face was there, as was the headgear. The mouthpiece was gone.

"Where's your wire?" I shouted a little loudly. I was distressed, you understand.

Silently, he handed me a note.

*Dear Mrs Lazar,*

*Thank you so much for finding Melissa's mouthpiece,* the note said. It continued: *We couldn't imagine where it could possibly be. Now we know. Yours sincerely, Myrtle Crumb.*

Lucky Myrtle Crumb. Lucky Melissa Crumb.

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