So, I took my 15-year-old son to the dentist the other day. Just a simple checkup, right? Wrong. When you have a teenage boy, “simple checkup” translates into a two-hour test of patience. We got called back into the room after a hopeful 10 minutes… and then he sat in the dental chair forever before the dentist even showed up. Two hours of waiting, people. Next time, I’m bringing a sleeping bag, snacks, a thermos of coffee, and maybe even a small folding chair, because this is clearly a survival situation.

My son, naturally, was thrilled. Nothing says “fun” like reclining in a dental chair for what felt like an eternity, staring at the ceiling tiles like they hold the secrets of the universe. He fiddled with the bib like it was some high-tech gadget, pretended to doze off, dramatically flopped side to side, and sighed so heavily I started wondering if we needed a respirator just to survive the atmosphere of teenage boredom. Every time I tried to distract him with conversation or funny TikToks, he gave me the patented 15-year-old death glare, followed by a slow, deliberate “Mom… really?”

Other patients came and went, breezing through their appointments like they had some secret fast-pass, while we remained trapped in dental limbo. I considered starting a new sport: competitive waiting with teenagers. If they gave out medals for endurance, we’d win gold. By hour one, I was plotting escape routes. By hour one and a half, I started bargaining with the universe: “Please, just let the dentist show up before I turn into a fossil.”

And when the dentist finally arrived, my son barely looked up from pretending to inspect the ceiling like it had suddenly become an art exhibit. But eventually, we survived. Two hours, one chaotic teenager, countless sighs and eye rolls, and me thinking: never again. Next appointment? Pillow, snacks, tent, maybe a small campfire. Because in the epic saga of raising teenagers, a two-hour dentist visit is basically a mini-hike through the wilderness.