The Amazing Toothbrush Race - Michelle Hauser (read novels website .txt) 📗

“I’m gonna beat you” I shout, as I grab two toothbrushes from the medicine cabinet. I begin applying the toothpaste to both brushes as I hear the little footsteps and the refrain “bee chuu” echoing as it draws nearer to the upstairs bathroom. His eyes light up as he rounds the corner, all smiles and dimples, he realizes The Amazing Toothbrush Race has begun.

“Mommy’s beating you!” I taunt him now, as I wave one of the brushes in front of him and then rest it on the edge of the pedestal sink. With the other brush in hand, I take my usual place beside the sink, seated on the family throne, and start furiously brushing my teeth.

“Bee chuu” he says as he pulls his little wooden stool toward the sink, chubby fingers grasping the edge of the bowl, snatching his toothbrush from its perch. We’re eye to eye now, even in the race, and he shadows my every move. With strokes of my brush to the left he goes left (his right), with strokes of my brush to the right he goes right (his left). I spit, he spits. I re-wet my brush, he re-wets his brush. This is the kick-off to the nightly routine, where after a “rinse-rinse” and “tap-tap” of the brushes we move to story and cuddle time.

This night is a far cry from the one two months ago when, in spite of my declarations about how I would never use his Machiavellian techniques to discipline my child, I accidentally became my Father. I honestly think he might have taken over my body for a brief period of time. This was the night of the ‘toothbrush incident’, when my son looked up at me - with utter defiance and just a tinge of evil in his eyes - and pitched his toothbrush on the floor and screamed “No!” In a millisecond, every maternal fibre in me snapped and I dug in and prepared for battle, convinced I would hold my ground until the bitter end. As far as I was concerned, that kid was going to brush his teeth come hell or high water.

By way of back story, it’s relevant to know that in my Father’s world the fear of a streak of “bad genes” in the family motivated him to engage in a kind of tactical and confrontational warfare with each of his children (six in all) specifically during early childhood. Flashes of what he referred to as “The Simons Streak”, or what were probably more accurately “The Terrible Twos”, would lead to toddler tussles of epic proportions. The tales of these great battles have become legend, part of family folklore as it were, and I realized on the night of the toothbrush incident, they had become a rather unfortunate part of my parenting continuum as well.
Just to be clear on this, and to pre-empt any calls to the Children’s Aid Society, there was no yelling, no screaming, no hitting; not on my part anyway. But there was an intensity in my dealing with him that night that felt strangely and eerily beyond my control. Over and over again, I would methodically reapply the toothpaste to his toothbrush and set it on the sink, saying in monotone, “Joseph, it’s time to brush your teeth now” he would scream and kick and fight and bang his fists on the floor. He would alternate between throwing the toothbrush across the room and mashing it into the carpet - thus the need for constant reapplications. We went back and forth like that for over an hour until my husband came home and declared an immediate truce. Joseph collapsed against his Father’s chest, his little body wrung out from his massive tantrum, heaving with sobs.

In an ironic role reversal, and probably in response to my shocking malevolence, my husband became very maternal, comforting Joe, taking him to his room and rocking him to sleep. It was then that the embarrassment began to set in. What was I thinking? Who had I become? I did the only thing I could do at that point, which was call my Mother to see if she could talk me down from the ledge of shame and humiliation I was dangling from. I needed immediate affirmation that I was still a good mother, and more than anything I needed an extra pair of hands to help me wrestle with the ghost of my Father.

When I told her what happened she said, “Oh honey - why didn’t you just make a game out of it? – you know say ‘Mommy’s gonna beat you’ – or something like that?” I breathed a sigh of relief and let go of the tension I had been holding on to since the toothbrush incident began. Why couldn’t I have taken that kind of relaxed and light-hearted approach? Why did I have to make the stakes so high? She added “He’s not going to die if he goes to bed one night without brushing his teeth”. I knew she was right. The opportunity to thrash the situation out with my Mother was invaluable and helped me to see that head-on confrontations and power struggles with toddlers are never a good idea.

After I said goodnight to Mom, and while he was asleep in his crib, I tip-toed into Joe’s room to pat his back and assess whether or not any permanent psychological damage had been done, and perhaps more importantly, whether or not he still loved me. I couldn’t tell either really because he was sound asleep. The next morning, he was ready and waiting for me with arms outstretched and I choked back the tears as I held him close to me. It was the day after the toothbrush incident when The Amazing Toothbrush Race began. I couldn’t believe how quickly Joe caught on to the concept, but by the second night the words “bee chuu” had already become part of his delightful and growing vocabulary.

I marvel at the complexities of the parenting continuum, and the breadth of knowledge and experience that has been passed on to me. As with everything, we need to take the good with the bad. But when Joe and I race for the toothbrushes at night, and when we settle into our story-time pillow pocket afterward - in relative peace and harmony - I need to say how glad I am that my own Mother is just a phone call away. I hope she’s not keeping a tab, because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to pay that bill.

Publication Date: 02-22-2010

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