There are few outings new moms can count on for relaxation. An eye exam, the annual physical, anything necessitating time in a room sans children becomes a precious respite during those early days of turning newborns into functioning people.

Personally, I never once felt guilty about hiring a sitter for a check-up. In fact, I looked forward to my doctor appointments like a day at the spa.

I became especially giddy at the prospect of these mandatory solo outings shortly after the birth of our fourth child. I still remember the joy at my semi-annual dental appointment that first summer, when my dentist informed me I would need to return for a root canal.

For 45 heavenly minutes, he said, I would be off the grid, cradled in his chair. All by myself.

As it turned out, my virgin root canal voyage was also “Career Day” at a local high school in town, and a young teenage girl, whose name I do not remember but looked like Tori Spelling, had decided to shadow my dentist as she explored a career in dentistry.

I settled in as the chair made its gentle recline and opened wide. Dr. C grabbed the needle and gave Tori a thorough play-by-play of all he was doing inside my mouth.

Once sufficiently numb, Dr. C placed a bite blocker on a molar to prop my jaws apart and turned on the drill.

“Right here, you can see the root,” he told Tori through his mask.

I caught a glimpse of her forehead as she replied, “mmm-hmm.”

“Now when I pull on it,” Dr. C continued, “you can see the entire root just comes right …”

THUD.

“Tori!” Dr. C called to the floor.

Tori had passed out at the sight of what I imagined to be a bloody, vampire-like, mangled mess coming out of my mouth, a mouth I could not close due to the bite blocker still in place.

“Get me the smelling salts!” Dr. C called to his staff. I tried awkwardly to sit up, but I could not move from the reclined chair; instead I floundered like a turtle on its back with its mouth propped open, draped with a plastic bib while a flurry of action erupted around me.

“Would you like a magazine?” his assistant offered, as I lay open-mouthed and captive in the chair, giving thanks this had not happened midway through a mammogram.

I nodded and uttered, “Eee-le” through the bite blocker. She smiled and brought the latest “People” from the rack while Dr. C worked on reviving his newest patient who, I imagine, not only made a career change that day, but also likely became a candidate for sedation dentistry.

Luckily the Novocain held up better than Tori did, and Dr. C was able to finish the job. But not before I finished my magazine. And I returned home drooling but refreshed from a morning of R-n-R (root canals and relaxation) at the dentist.