MOTHERING

Retaining Sanity Over a Teen's Retainer

by Fern Kupfer

This is the story of my 16-year-old stepdaughter's retainer. Retainer.You know, the removable plastic mouth implement your teenager must wearafter the permanent braces come off and you've paid the orthodontist theequivalent of your dream vacation in southern France. You and yourhusband have not taken the dream vacation, because you are good parents.And good parents have children with perfect bites.

Our orthodontist is cagey. When my stepdaughter had her bracesremoved, he sent a letter commending her on her new and improved smile.Then he wrote instructions about using the retainer. For the next sixmonths the retainer was to be worn night and day, to be removed onlywhen she was eating. Otherwise the letter stated, the teeth could shift — could return, in fact, to their original position. This, theorthodontist stated clearly, would not be his responsibility. We were tosign the letter and return it to his office.

We read the letter aloud as a family. Megan's younger sister wouldbe getting her braces soon, and we wanted her to witness the highseriousness of this commitment. "We have just spent thousands of dollarson your teeth," we told Megan. "You must wear this retainer."

Megan nodded, tapping her foot. Her friends were waiting in the car.

"Where is your retainer?" became a refrain for the next few weeks."Where is your retainer?" followed our hellos, goodbyes, goodnights.

Where was the retainer? I'll tell you where it was: The retainer wasin the upstairs bathroom just as a car pool was honking in the driveway;it was in Megan's book bag - her book bag was in her locker atschool; it was in her jeans pocket (retainers go through the wash cyclewith little harm, but they should not be put in the dryer); her retainerwas at her friend Jana's house; her retainer was wrapped in a napkin inthe trash.

Where her retainer was not was in her mouth.

More lectures. "We have spent all this money on your teeth blah,blah, blah. You're 16 and should take responsibility for yourself blah,blah, blah. All this time and work and money will be wasted if you don'tblah, blah, blah."

"Where's your retainer?" I began to check Megan before she left thehouse. She was cooperative but sullen, like any criminal suspect given abody-cavity search by the mouth police.

My husband devised a plan. Every time we asked and Megan did nothave her retainer in her mouth, we fined her a dollar. We kept a charton the refrigerator. By the third week she owed us her allowance into1994.

"Where's your retainer?" This question caused tension between me andmy husband, because I seemed to be the only one asking it. "Well, Iwould ask her, but I just don't think of it," my husband lamented."Neither does she," I told him.

So one day I was complaining about this on the phone to my brother."This is really making me crazy," I said.

"So let it go," my brother said.

"But her teeth. They might shift," I said.

"They're her teeth. Not yours," my brother countered.

"All that money . . . "

"Well, you paid it already," my brother said. "Consider it spent.Gone. Kaput." Then: "Look, chances are, her teeth will not move entirelyback to the original position. They might shift a little. But, if theymove a lot, then she can pay to get them fixed when she's on her own.Don't hound her anymore. Let it go."

Let it go. Just that phrase was freeing. Images of doves let loosein my head. Let it go.

My husband and I sat Megan down for a final talk. It went somethinglike this: We said we weren't going to ask if she were wearing herretainer ever again. We weren't going to check anymore. She wasn't goingto be punished in any way if she wasn't wearing her retainer. Theresponsibility was hers. Hers alone.

She had a beautiful smile. If she wanted to keep it, that was up toher. But we weren't going to spend any more money on orthodontics. Ifher teeth shifted and she needed more work, she could pay for it herselfwhen she was an adult. Taking care of her mouth was now entirely up toher.

"So, you understand what we are saying?" I said finally.

Megan looked at us for a while, nodding. Then she broke out in asmile, a beautiful, three-thousand-dollar, orthodontically correctsmile: "Hey!" she said, turning to us before she left the room. "So Idon't have to wear my retainer again. Cool!"

Fern Kupfer is a novelist and writing professor at Iowa State University. She is a frequent contributor to Working Moms' Internet Refuge.

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