I am in the orthodontist’s office as I write this morning. Katie, my 11-year-old, is a frequent visitor here. She has a knack for popping the brackets off her teeth. My orthodontist is the most patient of medical men. He sees her coming, flashes a wide (and nearly perfect) grin, and assures her that whatever has gone astray can be pushed back into place. It’s a process, he contends, and he’s in it for the long haul.
The brackets and braces are adjusted once again, everything is glued in place, and she leaves confident that all will be well (and sometimes more than a little sore). All will be well. Her teeth, once growing every which way in her mouth, are being trained to be straight. They want to fight the new posture, to go with the natural bent, but again and again, they are brought back into line and held there. Most of the hard work will be finished by the time Katie is in her mid-teens. Then, according to the plan, a retainer will hold them in place, and when she is old they will not depart from the straight and narrow path.
You see where this is going, don’t you? Please read the rest here.