My teeth, they were not pretty. Extreme measures were taken. Headgear was worn. Retainers maintained.
And all was right with my teeth, until Christmas break, 1991. It was my sophomore year in college and time, I believed, to have my permanent retainer removed. I guess I thought this because I was an orthodonist?
Um, no. But somehow I persuaded my orthodontist to take it out. I begged and pleaded and possibly argued. I mean, after nine years, my teeth certainly weren't going to move, right?
About an hour after I'd left his office and hit the road back to glorious College Station, my bottom teeth moved just enough to be slightly crooked...or hideously jacked up, depending on whether you're asking an untrained layman or the orthodontist who happens to be my brother-in-law.
Last summer, after years of having to look at my crooked bottom teeth, Moody sat me down in the "Rainbow Room" at his office and slapped braces on me quicker than I could whine, "but how am I supposed to eat Milk Duds, now!?!"
He may have called me a lightweight under his breath, I'm not sure.
Anyway, last week, Uncle Moody so sweetly put braces on Tee and Olivia.
This was the before picture.
It was like Christmas in August.
Moody is treating them in phases and I'm convinced it's partially because, if we waited much longer, my kids would have never let me take pictures like these.
I think she's simply appreciative of his proper occlusion.
That one was for you Uncle Moody.