Some people see newborn children as empty vessels waiting to be filled, small souls ready to grow. Others see babies as the innocent perfection of the human form. Actually, I would guess that most parents feel both ways much of the time. Call it the parental paradox, if you will.

When my son Max was born, he breathed really loudly. So loudly, in fact, that I thought he just might be killing himself with every breath. Like most new dads (and moms, for that matter), I often checked him in his crib just to make sure he was still breathing. In the early days, my heart would race if I went into his room and couldn't hear a raspy chest rattle. Of course, he was still breathing, though sometimes I woke him up trying to figure that out.

I can't remember when I stopped these "breath checks," but I think it was sometime around two or three months of age. After that, plenty of other worries ascended.

As soon as Max started to move, he began to hurt himself. He always has bruises on his shins from running into things, and he often has black eyes and scratches in all sorts of places. He's the type of boy who's liable to run full speed into a bramble rose bush, just to see what happens (it's not pleasant). After his first couple of serious spills, I've learned to take his injuries in stride. I don't put him in dangerous situations, but I'm not particularly overprotective, either. Max can learn things from falling down. Kids heal fast, much faster than adults.

Max hasn't been a "sick baby." To the contrary; he's had one bad fever and one ear infection (which came with a fever, but I think you know what I mean). Those sick times were a little freaky, though again I think I am getting used to the idea that my "perfect" son just might get sick every now and again. He will get better, you know.

Illness, bruises, scrapes are the sorts of things that happen to every child on a regular basis. Children are remarkably resilient, and parents have to learn how to accept these "imperfections" as part of the package.

About a month ago, my wife Barbara noticed that Max had some brown spots on his lower front teeth. I couldn't see them. Max doesn't really like other people putting things in his mouth--especially toothbrushes--so I didn't have much of an opportunity to get a good look. I poo-pooed Barbara's worries, though I said we ought to make an appointment with a dentist just to be sure. She didn't need any of my encouragement, quickly locating a pediatric dental practice and making the appointment.

Then I finally saw the brown spots myself. One covered about half of one tooth, and the others kinda ran across the bottom of his lower front teeth. Big, ugly spots. I began to wonder if the crankiness of the last two months wasn't the "terrible twos" but rather tooth pain. I wondered how the hell he would eat if he lost all of his lower teeth. I ran over in my head all the things that cause early tooth decay (giving a child a bottle for bed, not brushing teeth, letting a child drink juice all day, giving a child sugary snacks or allowing the child to constantly graze), and none of them had anything to do with Max. I'd seen kids drinking Coke out of nipple bottles (a truly dangerous practice, and not just because of the Coke), and I would bet most of them manage to avoid early tooth decay. So why was Max facing such significant problems at twenty months?

Worst of all, I couldn't look at his smile any more, for fear of seeing the brown spots which symbolized my failure as a parent. Sickness, minor spills and the like are things that parents can't really control. Teeth falling out? That boomerangs right back on the parents. We must have done something wrong to cause that tooth decay, and I didn't want to be reminded of that. So I'd look Max in the eye, but avoid his toothy grins.

Then the day of the appointment came, and Barbara took Max to the dentist. She didn't think I should go (for reasons that had nothing to do with the dentist or teeth in general), and I'm glad. I've never had problems with dentists, but I didn't want to hear the bad news from a stranger. I'd let Barbara tell me, instead.

Except that it wasn't bad news. "They're iron stains," the dentist told Barbara. "We can take them off, but he really won't like it." He said this after it took four people just to pry open Max's mouth for a cursory examination. No need to put him through even more serious trauma. The iron stains could wait for another six months or a year, whenever Max might manage to sit through the procedure relatively peacefully.

I missed a week-and-a-half of smiles because I was afraid of having somehow screwed up my son's teeth. I was mad at myself for the stains on his teeth, and I was mad at the stains for making me scared to experience my little boy in his happiest moments. Now, I'm simply disappointed in myself. A parent has to be able to accept his or her limitations as well as those of a child. If Max's teeth were seriously messed up, we'd simply have to deal with it and go on from there, whether the problem was our fault or not. Recriminations don't do anyone any good. You have to learn from your mistakes, even the ones you make at the expense of your child.

Jon Worley doesn't see the dentist very often, but he has good teeth nonetheless.