rinse. spit. repeat.

"and don't forget your toothbrush. after all, you're still in your cavity-prone years." - breaking away (1979)

every night the dance begins around 8 pm or so. bedtime. showdown. gunfight at the ok corral. cue music. the combatants? in this corner, weighing in at a respectable 187 lbs, wearing red trunks with gold trim... alright, alright. enough already with all this tangential adhd meandering. so here's the scoop. every night is the same. yours truly is forced to chase his two-year-old seemingly halfway across the globe in order to stick a toothbrush into her mouth for a few seconds before bedtime.

the drill always begins with my demand that my daughter come to the bathroom so that i can discharge the dental duties of a doting dad. two's inevitable response: "uh... no." come here, kid. "no!" come here! "no!" come here right now! "no! no! no! no!" i said come here this instant! "noooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!"

stage two involves the aforementioned chase and capture. this normally requires a short pursuit through one, possibly two, rooms of our condo until i can corner the little monkey against her will. when i finally have the mischievous imp in my grasp, i carefully lay her down on the carpet, toothbrush in hand, and attempt a cursory cleaning. but the kid is smart... and slippery. within a few seconds, she usually squirms free of my hold and cleverly positions herself onto her stomach, arms and legs extended outward like a starfish, not unlike a freestyle wrestler locked in a defensive posture on the mat. my response? why, flip the kid onto her back, of course. her response? why, quickly roll back onto her stomach naturally. onto the back. onto the stomach. the back. the stomach. back. stomach. (sigh) after maybe ten to fifteen reps of this silliness, the rascally rabbit usually begins to tire and allows me to proceed to stage three. the problem is that my two-year-old long ago figured out that in order to brush another's teeth, one requires access to another's mouth.

hence stage three: unlock those lips. i have come to learn that my daughter can press her lips together for a remarkably long time. my response: i gently squeeze her nostrils shut until she's forced to gasp for air. mouth finally open, i dig in to perform the dirty work. but not without one final obstacle. you see, the kid loves to feel like she's in control of the situation. any situation. i suppose it gives her a sense of empowerment. and who am i to mess with a two-year-old's sense of empowerment?

stage four: give and take. my youngest will ordinarily propose that i allow her the privilege of brushing her own teeth while lying on her back. sometimes this means that for every ten seconds i spend in her mouth, she requires at least thirty seconds to move her winnie the pooh toothbrush about her teeth and gums in a mostly pathetic attempt at oral hygiene. but hey, it's a relatively small price to pay for a shot at fighting plaque and tartar buildup, ain't it?

oh, and before i forget... step five: rinse and spit. now back on her feet again and hovering above the bathroom sink courtesy one fisher price step stool, rinsing for my daughter begins with a swig or two of cold tap water. this is followed by an exercise in juvenile spitting futility that often sees the lion's share of mouth water ending up in two's nightgown, and not the sink.

whatever. i tried my best. lights out. time for bed, kid.

quite possibly the worst choreography ever recorded on film: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_w4Xulsjo5I

see if you can catch your hometown, and quite possibly the worst choreography ever recorded on film: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnP-b_IVdT0