The tooth, the whole tooth (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

And so Little G's teething marathon continues. I do not know what lap we are in, but I'm hoping we are about to complete it. Such is my current dental fixation that the first question I ask parents of any babies I encounter is not the name/age/sex of their child but how many teeth they have.

All, without exception, have more than Little G. Mind, she manages pretty well with two bottom and one top one. I am observing her crust technique for future reference. Meanwhile You must be mad and I try to focus on Little G's undoubted intelligence, and the fact that she can already hum a Watford supporters' song (no words thankfully and we blame Grandad for singing it to her).

Teeth are a mere by-product, we tell ourselves. She is clearly developing her brain first. But oh my - she is suffering. Of course You must be mad has been offered loads of advice, but all of it involves putting a fingerful of various gels into Little G's firmly clamped mouth, so it is not a viable option.

Last week Little G had a total meltdown on the 321 bus going back to St Albans. Never done this before as we like our bus trips. Screaming, arching her back, red-cheeked and inconsolable. Having tried every technique known to womankind to calm her down, finally I got up, turned round, and apologised to the rest of the bus for the noise.

I explained that the baby was teething, and however much it was annoying them, she was hurting far more. Luckily the bus was full of pensioners, so instead of pursed lips, tutting and disapproving stares, Little G and I were bathed in a warm wave of sympathy.

I think we will all be very glad when this particular phase of her development ends, though. To paraphrase King Lear (rather badly): ''How sharper than a serpent's thanks to have a toothless child.'' 


To be continued ... ...