I take Eitan to the Orthodontist. This offers a nice reason to hang around the boy mid-week, mid-morning (In anticipation, Eitan brushes his teeth for
six minutes ensuring unintentionally, Dear Reader, his gums
bleeding for our visit). Every six months or so since '08 we see the same dentist
and have yet to be charged - a substantial investment for the Doc yet, given Eitan's boulders, I understand the bet: his an English smile. But today yields hope - X-Rays show adult molars and encisors moving in perfectly repositioning teeth that otherwise go every-which-way. Ortho rubs chin :
"We still may need braces in a year or two. Definitely."
Eitan, for his part, all
for braces or, at least, not concerned by the dentist who does work for the Chelsea squad and friends with
Frank Lampard, Drogba and Stevie "G" (Of Liverpool). Eitan thinks this is cool. I think it means Expensive.
Aftewards we walk along Parsons Green in Fulham to a cafe for hot chocolate, pictured. Eitan
a delight and all sorts of curious in the innocent way a (soon to be) 11-year old can be. He refuses to discuss girls or puberty and I probably force too much on him but, as I tell Eitan, I would rather he be embarrassed now than ignorant later.
