Ever since 10-months-old, the Parents misused my uncontrollable laughter when being tickled to brush my teeth. With my mouth wide open, Mommy would sneak in and scrub my mere six teeth so hard that she might as well sand wood.
Why do they make such a big deal about brushing teeth anyway? I’m a baby! Can’t we afford to buy a new set of teeth?
So let them rot. Let me floss instead!
Finally, we made a deal – I will brush my teeth if I can floss afterwards.
I can still remember my first successful flossing attempt.
As usual, I ran to the brushing station and pointed at the three glistening toothbrushes on the counter, shouting, “Mama, Dada, Me!” As if they have woken from a spell, they floated towards my command with Mommy’s help.
After gnawing at my toothbrush, I carefully picked up a floss pick and watched Mommy closely as she puts one in her mouth, all the while looking at the mirror.
I took a deep breath and attempted to do the same.
Nope, the floss is lying flat; it needed to be upright.
Nope, I missed my mouth entirely.
Argh! Why did she make it look so easy?
Unlike the previous nights, I refused to give up.
Nope, too far to the right. What is wrong with my clumsy fingers? How is it that when I moved my hand one way but the hand in the mirror moves the other, aren’t they supposed to like… mirror?
Pluck.
The sound vibrated in my mouth. Ahha! The floss pick string is in between my teeth. It may have taken a total of 248 attempts during my short lifetime, but I finally got it!
“Good job, Izzy. Look, Daddy. She’s flossing!”
I proudly smiled at the latest accessory in my mouth, the green pick dangling over my lips as if, it too, is having a victory dance.