Oops! (We did it again)

Those blasted teeth! Seriously! Since our (read: Tara's) last visit to the dentist some 4 months ago, we have been ever so good with the sweet stuff:
We've stuck to our "juice time" deadline of 6pm / dinnertime and have usually only had water after that time. "Juice time is over," Mummy says, and all but Jose stick to it. Mostly diluted apple juice known as "fifty-fifty" or water for drinks, and milk. (How much damage can milk at night do?)
Sweets - not many at all. When we have sweets in the house I make sure I sacrifice myself and eat most of them myself... For Tara they're definately not a daily treat any more as they used to be before the discovery of The First Cavity, and the onslaught of crippling maternal guilt.
All right, we do like some cake with our coffee at the weekend, and granted, when there is ice cream in the freezer, Tara likes to get up before her lazy ass mummy* and help herself to a breakfast of an ice cream and sometimes two; and yeah, somehow we do use the word 'treat' on a more or less daily basis... Anyhow, my conscience is a lot clearer than it was ten months ago.
And still, when I had a good look at one set of tiny, 4 year old teeth last week, there was a new little cavity that should not have been there.
It's not fair. It must be genetic. Yes? No?
So, another sweet trip to the dentist for a filling for Tara, who accepted her fate cheerfully enough. Equipped with her own little bottle of rinsing water - somehow the only thing she remembered with distaste from her last horrid visit - she marched through the door with optimism, showed her special water to everyone, sat down on The Char on mummy's lap like before, and two seconds later crumbeled, cried and refused to be touched. Treatment, yes please, but not too close please!
The NHS kindly offered to desist and send her away - to a hospital for proper anesthetics for a tiny cavity that required five minutes work. They did not want to give her a lifelong fear of the dentist. Sweet. They rather give her anesthetics, and we're not talking local, we're talking all-out.
Err... sorry, not an option (Are they out of their minds???!).

We swapped mum for dad at Tara's request and bought her cooperation with promises of immediate trips to the toy shop, promises of a visit from "the little mouse" ratoncito perez (the Spanish tooth fairy, being a mouse not a fairy), a fair amount of threatening of worse things to come (see last paragraph), and lots of stickers from the nurse. "AAAAaaaaa," said mummy, for the duration of the treatment. "AaaaaAAA," said daddy for just as long. Leo looked on, and Tara sat it out, whimpering, but remembered to rinse with her special water at the end.
It was well scary, but did it hurt, Tara? No, not at all.


It was awful.

Check-up in three months, and there are another three highly critical spots on her front teeth. I just hope that we can scrape by until they fall out, I'm not so sure I can make it through those doors with her again, for more than a check-up.

PS.: As I'm writing this I'm eating the toffees I'd bought her for her Schultüte.

* Lazy ass mum, you got to be kidding me. I hold a full time job in child care at night, surely I'm allowed, on occasion, and as often as said occasion might present itself - even 6 out of 7 times - to sleep for as long as possible, say, 9am?!