Unlikely inspiration

The parenting advice I hear most often is "Pick your battles." That's good advice, but it's kinda like saying, "Feed your unicorn every day." You can certainly pick the battles you want, but that's no guarantee you'll walk away any more successful than if you picked every single battle you wanted.

I know this, because twice a day, I engage in battle with my son. I'm not sure if that makes me a good, consistent mom, or a glutton for punishment. I suspect it's a little of both.

The battle I've picked is brushing teeth. Or, more specifically, Mark brushing his teeth. I feel like this is a righteous battle, and one the universe should side with me on. And yet, every day I realize I'd really be more successful feeding a unicorn than getting Mark to brush his teeth.

I've tried everything--rewards, encouragement, praise, threats...well, that's it, actually. I don't know what else to try.

I taught him good habits when he was little, how to brush and for how long. He'd shrug his shoulders, then tell me it didn't matter, because these were baby teeth and he was going to lose them all anyway. (It's hard to argue with that.)

I tried buying fun, spinny toothbrushes, which he treated as toys, not dental tools.

I scared him with stories of "sugar bugs" and cavities. He just looked at me and rubbed his fingers and thumb together in the universal sign for "more money."

"Tooth Fairy," he'd say, then spend the next hour deciding what to buy with his riches.

"No girl will ever want to kiss you," I tell him now that he's older.

"GOOD!" he says, though I'm sure he'll change his mind about that in the next couple years.

I've about given up. I'm pretty sure he's gonna grow up into a toothless hillbilly. And yet, I can't help myself. I still engage in the twice-daily battle.

"Brush your teeth," I tell Mark every morning. He replies, "OK," then shuts the bathroom door for approximately three seconds before shouting, "Done!"

"Brush your teeth," I tell Mark every night.

"I did," he insists, before going straight to bed.

I touch his toothbrush, which is always pristine and dry. (Don't worry, I'm not passing any germs onto him--he's never actually put that toothbrush into his mouth.)

Toothbrushes are the same age. One needs replacing, one is barely used. Guess which one's Mark's?

"I know you're lying!" I shout in what I'm sure is the exact opposite of June Cleaver's voice and demeanor. But hey, Beaver Cleaver always felt guilty when he did something wrong. My little angel does not share that trait.

And then, a couple days ago, out of the blue, a miracle happened.

We were talking about work, and what went on at my office that day. I mentioned that my poor friend Frankie went to the dentist for gum surgery.

"Gum surgery?" Mark asked, nervously running a finger across his mouth.

"Yep," I said. "She said they shoot a big needle into her gums to numb them first!"

Mark seemed to pale at that. He gulped, took a few steps backwards, then said, "I don't know why, but I suddenly feel like brushing my teeth." And he ran off to do exactly that.

I just sat there, dumbfounded. I didn't tell him the story to scare him, but hey, who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth? (Seriously--the most apropos cliche ever!)

And now I'm glad to report that in the past few days, Mark has brushed his teeth without fail. He gave me attitude about it once, and I just casually remarked, "Frankie said that needle was BIG," which sent Mark scurrying to the bathroom.

And sent me to work, to thank Frankie for what those parenting experts call a "teachable moment." Because finally, finally, I picked my battle and won.