Do Your Teeth
My middle sister and I are a few years old, and we nag our parents over how much time we should spend brushing our teeth. Almost every night, we yell down the hallway, “How many more times?” This, meaning strokes with the toothbrush, is usually offered to our parents after a few seconds. They get so fed up replying “six more,” or “three more,” followed by “how about now?” that my father places a 2-minute hourglass on the bathroom counter and says we can stop when the pink sand runs out of the top.
Years later, this hourglass drifts into my mind when I visit my parents. Most visits end in an evening bedtime ritual that includes dental hygiene. I brush my teeth with my mother and watch as she takes the cap from the toothpaste then puts the gel on her index finger.
“No,” I say, washing her hand in the sink. “Brush your teeth with this.” I hand her toothbrush over; and she shakes the tube of paste. Then she rattles her toothbrush in short strokes—this is the shake that appears when she is not sure what she should be doing. I apply the paste for her and hand it back.
“Brush your teeth,” I coax.
She continues to shake.
Frustrated, I try the way most familiar to me for dealing with a situation like this: I imitate her. “MOM,” I say in a voice that is quiet yet firm. “DO YOUR TEETH.” She glares at me through the mirror above the sink. “Do your teeth,” I repeat.
“I know!” she says, exasperated, though she does not move the brush.
“I know you know,” I reply, holding her gaze in the mirror. “It’s time to do your teeth.”
She glowers at me for another few seconds before snorting indignantly and shoving the toothbrush in her mouth. As she proceeds, I retreat to another room.
In the dimly lit kitchen, I pour a glass of water and find myself staring at the reflection in the microwave. Who is this person? I wonder, is this the face of a woman who will discipline her future children with the same tone she uses on her mother?
As I process these thoughts from the kitchen table, my mother’s head appears from the hallway.
“I’m sorry,” she starts. Her voice sounds small in the shadow of the evening, and she hesitates before taking a few tentative steps into the kitchen.
“Don’t worry about it,” I reply, scooting out a chair for her. And we sit, laughing at the late-night programming, forgetting everything around us.
Years later, this hourglass drifts into my mind when I visit my parents. Most visits end in an evening bedtime ritual that includes dental hygiene. I brush my teeth with my mother and watch as she takes the cap from the toothpaste then puts the gel on her index finger.
“No,” I say, washing her hand in the sink. “Brush your teeth with this.” I hand her toothbrush over; and she shakes the tube of paste. Then she rattles her toothbrush in short strokes—this is the shake that appears when she is not sure what she should be doing. I apply the paste for her and hand it back.
“Brush your teeth,” I coax.
She continues to shake.
Frustrated, I try the way most familiar to me for dealing with a situation like this: I imitate her. “MOM,” I say in a voice that is quiet yet firm. “DO YOUR TEETH.” She glares at me through the mirror above the sink. “Do your teeth,” I repeat.
“I know!” she says, exasperated, though she does not move the brush.
“I know you know,” I reply, holding her gaze in the mirror. “It’s time to do your teeth.”
She glowers at me for another few seconds before snorting indignantly and shoving the toothbrush in her mouth. As she proceeds, I retreat to another room.
In the dimly lit kitchen, I pour a glass of water and find myself staring at the reflection in the microwave. Who is this person? I wonder, is this the face of a woman who will discipline her future children with the same tone she uses on her mother?
As I process these thoughts from the kitchen table, my mother’s head appears from the hallway.
“I’m sorry,” she starts. Her voice sounds small in the shadow of the evening, and she hesitates before taking a few tentative steps into the kitchen.
“Don’t worry about it,” I reply, scooting out a chair for her. And we sit, laughing at the late-night programming, forgetting everything around us.
Comments
Post a Comment