There is a clear hierarchy established within our household. The order of authority and roles is as follows:
- Me and Jo
- Moira
- The dog (Which one, depending on the day.)
- Probably Slayden
- Kara if she hasn’t tattled
- Logan when he’s not hiding snacks
- The vacuum
Around bedtime, however, the list becomes chaotic, and it turns into a free-for-all. Everyone scatters with an agenda that must be completed before sleep is possible. It’s never the agenda I have planned, though. Moira may be the worst; she has reached the age where she thinks she knows best. Two years old. This night, Moira’s agenda revolved around teeth. You see, Moira believes—no, knows—that bedtime is when she becomes the family dentist.
It started simply. I was teaching her that we brush our teeth before bedtime, you know, normal life. She let me brush her teeth, spit a tiny amount into the sink, and we wiped her mouth. “All done,” I said, not knowing how I had just set the stage for future torments. She grabbed a toothbrush and said, “Dada, open mouth.”
I thought it was cute.
It was not cute.
She jabbed me deep in the tonsils, as though she was desperately trying to clear a stubborn drain. Not just any drain, but one from the 1920s, long forgotten and choked with tangled roots and a century’s worth of grimy buildup. Toothpaste bubbled and foamed uncontrollably in my mouth. My gag reflex surged wildly, threatening to overwhelm me. It felt as if my very soul was being scrubbed clean and forcibly pulled from my body. Then, almost as suddenly and abruptly as it had begun, I was instructed to spit. She calmly wiped the corners of my mouth with a gentle cloth and, with a contented smile, happily went to bed.
Now it has become a nightly routine that we both follow without fail. Every single night, I carefully brush her teeth, making sure to be thorough and gentle. Then, without missing a beat, she takes over and brushes mine. But she does it with an intense vigor, almost violently, wielding the toothbrush with the same strict authority and urgency as a TSA agent working during a high-stakes red alert situation.
The older kids observe this strange ritual with a mixture of quiet horror and disbelief. Kara, feeling uneasy, asked if she could “just floss instead” to avoid the unsettling process altogether. Logan, ever the helpful one, quickly chimed in with a practical suggestion, “You should wear a mouth guard,” trying to offer a solution. Slayden, curious and wanting to join in, made an attempt to get involved once, but was immediately met with a fierce, intimidating stare from the princess, effectively shutting him down.
Jo just sighs deeply whenever I start to complain and then calmly reminds me, “Well, you did let her start it in the first place.”
And she’s right. I did.
So now I end every night being waterboarded by a toddler with Paw Patrol toothpaste and a look in her eyes that says, “I know your dental history, peasant. Don’t forget to floss.” For someone who doesn’t even have a full set of teeth yet, she is quite adamant about tooth brushing!
Hope today’s a good one
– austininva
