Lila does not like to have her teeth brushed. They would have rotted and fallen out by now were it not for Josh's feverish dedication to her dental hygene, that, to be perfectly honest, needs to be monitored, lest it make the tiny leap into unbridled mania.
The nightly task is replete with systems (daddy brushes daddy's teeth; Lila brushes Lila's teeth; Lila brushes daddy's teeth, and finally, the one that really counts, daddy brushes Lila's teeth), rituals (The oft-repeated mantra, so sacred that it could become Passover's fifth question: "Lila, when do we brush our teeth?" "Every! Night!"), pleading ("Just a little bit more! Just...a...little...bit...more...and...Done!") and endless praise ("Hooray! Hooray for Lila! Hooray for Lila's squeaky clean incisors!").
And though I rib him for it, Josh's consist and measured assurances are the very model of good parenting, in my mind. The two of them battling it out in the bathroom every night is a microcosm of the constant negotiations upon which parenting is based. Push too far and you breed resentment and fear. Back off too quickly and you hand over the reins. It's reassuring to see the cogs of progress so plainly at work.
And I won't go anywhere near the task, myself, so...someone's got to do it.
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