Peter McKay

This past week, I took my son to the orthodontist for the last time so he could get his braces off. He's now 15. I haven't kept count, but I am pretty sure that for most of his life he's either had train tracks, retainers or some other torture device wired into his oral cavity.

We first took our son to the orthodontist when he was 8 years old. Up till that point, he had been a pretty normal-looking kid, cute even. But then he suddenly started sprouting teeth in all different directions — some pointing up, some down, and some seemed to be trying to escape his mouth by going straight sideways. We have a school picture from that time period where he looked like a confused hillbilly about to run off to make a batch of moonshine in the holler.

Our son was doomed by his genetics. The right combination of DNA, and you're Tom Cruise. A bad mix, and you get a kid with a mouth where the pearly whites have to cram in like people on a train in Calcutta. My son spent so many afternoons in the orthodontist's chair that I wondered whether they were going to put a little brass plaque on it with my son's name engraved.

We thought we'd reached the home stretch almost a year ago, when the orthodontist announced we were in the "rubber band" phase. All my son had to do was wear little rubber bands that hooked his upper and lower jaw together for a few months to reduce his overbite. If he did this faithfully for six months, taking them out only to eat and brush, he'd be given his release papers and sent on his way. My son sat up immediately in the chair and announced that this was all unnecessary — he didn't see anything wrong with an overbite. Overbites, in fact, were pretty cool!

The orthodontist would hear none of this. An overbite, he explained, would make my son's jaw hinge unevenly, leading to all kinds of problems in adulthood. I'm pretty sure this was a lie, as I know a lot of adults with overbites who seem to get along fine, but the orthodontist was probably worried about his own reputation.

My son would be a walking, grinning advertisement, and he wasn't getting out alive until he was perfect.

Two months later, we came back for a checkup and the orthodontist shook his head sadly. My son had made no progress and clearly hadn't been using the bands regularly. On the way home, I admonished (that's parent-speak for "yelled at") my son. I'd been finding rubber bands everywhere — in the couch, on the kitchen counter, in my car. I even came across a rubber band in my coffee one morning. He'd obviously been putting rubber bands everywhere but in his mouth.

Two months later, the orthodontist had the same verdict: The boy was making no progress at all. If he didn't use the bands more rigorously, they'd have to attach metal springs to hold his jaw closed, a step that would be uncomfortable and, of course, come at an additional cost. Both my son and I gasped. On the way home, I asked my son, in a kind voice, whether he had a death wish.

For the next appointment, two months after that, I was out of town and my father-in-law had to take my son. I called afterward to ask about the verdict.

Everything was fine, my son said gruffly. No need to wear the bands. The orthodontist was satisfied. I cheered into the phone and assured my son I always knew he could do it.

Two months later, I was in the waiting room as the dental technician called me back to talk to the orthodontist. When I got back to the massive treatment room, the orthodontist was shaking his head grimly. There'd been no progress. None at all. Zilch.

I stared at my son in the chair. He was rapidly shifting between looks: innocent, confused, then indignant, hoping one would work. When we got in the car afterward, he started to sing the praises of overbites, but I cut him off. We had a father and son talk. Either he wore his rubber bands, I told him, or I'd take over the orthodontia — at home.

Our little heart to heart moved his cold one. He wore the rubber bands every day, no matter how uncomfortable or awkward. And after years of orthodontia, our darling boy has a movie-star smile, two rows of perfectly aligned chompers.

At least that's what the orthodontist tells me. As any parent can tell you, the only thing a 15-year-old won't do — besides wear their rubber bands — is, ironically enough, smile.

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