Yesterday, I took Charlie to the dentist. And the night before, I laid awake dreading the visit and worrying about what might happen and plotting out all the possible ways something could go wrong, which wasn’t all that hard, really. It seems to happen all the time.

Two weeks ago, at the same dentist’s office, Henry screamed and cried because he didn’t want to have his teeth X-rayed; six months ago, he screamed and cried because he didn’t want to have his teeth brushed. Both times, the office staff were kind and considerate, and both times, I sobbed in the car on the way home.

I had no idea how Charlie’s visit would go. I had talked with him about having X-rays and about having his teeth brushed and about letting the dentist look in his mouth. He wanted to know if he would be able to pick a toy from the treasure chest, and if he could play the video games in the waiting room. I said yes, to both.

Yesterday morning, I got up early and showered and stood in front of my closet. It seemed important to me to wear something nice, to look like I knew what I was about, because there was a good chance that one–or both–of my children would end up in a heap on the dentist’s floor.

Two weeks ago, as Henry hysterically insisted that the X-ray film would “feel weird,” I watched the nurses exchange concerned glances and I knew that their concern wasn’t so much for my son but for me. I knew that they were wondering where exactly I had gone wrong in parenting this child, why I didn’t seem to have any ability to make him do what he was being asked to do. And frankly, I wondered, too.

I find myself, sometimes, thinking that perhaps there’s nothing wrong with Henry, that maybe his behavior is my fault. Maybe I’m just not a good parent; maybe I worry too much or expect too much. Maybe it’s all in my mind.

Often, when people can see that I’m struggling, they reassure me by saying, “There’s nothing wrong with him! He’ll be fine! You just need to relax!” And while I know that they are right–there isn’t anything “wrong” with Henry, and he WILL be fine, and yes, I do need to relax–I end up feeling that much worse in the moments when Henry is clearly struggling to do what other kids his age can do. Because I wonder if it’s all my fault.

So yesterday, because I was worried that Charlie, too, would scream and refuse to cooperate, I made a point of putting on a nice skirt and a necklace. I went out of my way to look like I wasn’t an exhausted mess, to look like I was a mother who knows what she’s doing. I suppose, at some level, I hoped that this would set the tone, if not with Charlie then with the dentist’s staff, who would see that I’m trying, I really am. And then, when the crying started, they wouldn’t wonder how I let this happen.

In the end, Charlie was wonderful. He did everything he was asked to do. He was peaceful during the X-rays and giggled when the nurse took one bit of film out and put another in. He sat still to have his teeth cleaned; he opened his mouth for the dentist. He said thank you when he was finished.

The nurse–the same nurse who tried, patiently and cheerfully and without any luck, to X-ray Henry’s teeth–made a note, in red ink, on Charlie’s chart about what a good patient he was. The doctor made a point of thanking me for being so helpful and attentive. I don’t think they were really talking about Charlie, though, or about my willingness to have him sit in my lap while his teeth were X-rayed. I think this was about their understanding that I’m not a bad mother.

I just wish it were as easy as putting on a pretty skirt every day.