Forceful Personal Hygiene

So by now you all know of my 3 year old, Peanut. Lately we have been having some personal hygiene issues. Why, you ask? Well, Peanut doesn’t like to brush her teeth. Or wipe when she uses the bathroom. Or wash her hair. She likes to play in the dirt and eat bugs. In short - I have a dirty, dirty child. And when you’re like me (I know, you totally wish you were) you can’t stand seeing dirt under someone’s fingernails. It just totally grosses me out. Wash your hands once in awhile, yo!

Anyway, today I’m talking teeth. See, it is a perfectly normal morning ritual for me to load toothpaste on Peanut’s little mermaid toothbrush, sit on her lap, hold her arms down, pry open her mouth, and brush her teeth. She hates it. She screams open mouthed, while spitting foam like a rabid animal. She cries like I’m torturing her. And sometimes she laughs because “the toofbrush tickles, mommy!”

It drives me nuts. I really wish she would just take the damn brush and do it herself. I mean, the toothpaste tastes like bubblegum! It’s delicious! I could eat it on some crackers with a nice mouthwash chaser. It’s that good.

So, I’ve been trying to make brushing your teeth look cool so she will be more inclined to do it herself.


I’ve tried: “See how funny it sounds when you try to sing while you’re brushing?”

And: “Its fun to DANCE while you’re brushing!”

And: “Only cool people brush their teeth. So that means I’m cool and you’re not.”

Her response to that last one: “That’s ok, I don’t need to be cool. Because I’m already AWESOME.” -She surely is her mother’s daughter.


I’m fairly certain that the only conclusion she’s come to is that her mother is an idiot who dances with a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, spraying toothpaste everywhere while singing Paula Abdul’s greatest hits.

I can’t wait to do that in front of her friends when she’s 16.

*evil cackle*

That must be why my mother embarrassed the shit out of me in high school. Like the time she pulled up in front of the school in a run-down truck with a stove strapped to it, screaming my (first AND last) name and waving like a maniac. Mother’s revenge….I must have forgotten to clean my room or something. Or maybe it was because I got suspended for swearing in German at the substitute teacher. (And I totally would’ve gotten away with it if the assistant principal didn’t speak fluent German.) Meh, whatever.