Teeth Time: A Torturous Tale

The five year old found a long lost tooth brush from the depths of our voracious couch — its grungy bristles splayed in protestation of years of misuse and neglect. A combination of crumbs, dust and dog hair littered the ground as her hand vibrated with every step she took, wielding it towards my face. I locked my lips, but she shouted, “Open wide!” I shook my head. “Open up!” She shouted again.

I interjected. Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long to be repaid for this beloved nightly ritual, so I unlocked my lips and prepared my mouth for the words that were about to spill out of it. “Get mine!” I generously offer. “Get mine and then you can do it.” I immediately regretted the words.

Happy with the compromise, she trotted off to prepare my toothbrush. She returned, the brush in hand barely visible beneath her tight grip and a thick layer of minty toothpaste. She tapped her foot and smugly demanded, “Open up.”

I did. She painted my teeth with it, the foamy saliva toothpasty mixture made its way across my lips and my chin and eventually up to my nose.

I smiled — a Joker-esque toothpaste grin- perhaps my good behaviour would elicit some in return.

The three year old watched with pure glee on her face, I could read her thoughts — it’s her turn next. For now she accepted her place in line, and as holder of the spit bowl — there was no way they were letting me get up to use the sink.

She recreated our nightly routine perfectly by shouting commands, tickling the roof of my mouth, prodding my tongue and giving me receding gum disease all while muttering something about getting all of the sugar bugs. 

I protested. 

“I’m not finished yet.” She countered, as she continued to rake my gums. 

Before my jaw physically fell off of my body, I shouted, “Show time!”

It worked though. The three year old was slightly more sympathetic to my nightly endeavour and there was only a short wrestling match that night.

Time well spent.