In an attempt to pretend that I am a conscientious parent, I make Charlie brush her teeth twice daily. She has her own little tooth brush and fluoride free toothpaste, and we have this "brusha brusha BRUSHA!" song that we sing while shaking our asses and brushing our teeth. Beyonce, step aside; there's a new booty shaker in town and her name is Char-rizzle.
Today a new twist was put on our little song and dance number. As we were singing the brusha song (well, I was; Charlie had her toothbrush in her mouth) she pulled it out of her mouth and stuck it in mine to "brush" my teeth.
Time froze. I have revealed on here several of my neuroses and phobias...food touching, water, my obsession with post it notes, my hatred of Katy Perry. In an attempt to fool people into thinking I am saner than I am, I have not revealed yet another one of my phobias until now.
I hate teeth. Rather, I hate teeth that are not clean. When I took some time off work to stay home and care for my father, if I had to handle his nighttime routine, we soaked his false teeth versus me brushing them. I would struggle to not gag when he would brush his remaining teeth in his mouth and spit the toothpaste into one of those kidney shaped bed pans (cause the wheel chair did not fit into the bathroom). I barely held back waves of nausea when I would take those false teeth and put them into the cup to soak. My very own special circle in hell will surely involve me being up to my neck in water, being forced to do a dental hygienist's job while watching people mix their food on their plates.
You get the picture. I gave up trying to figure out what I ever did to karma to deserve this torture and tried to keep the panic out of my voice when I told her, "OK! Mommy's all done brusha brusha! Charlie's turn!" She happily stuck the toothbrush back into her mouth and kept brushing her teeth.
That, bitchez, is love. I better get put into a damn fine nursing home.