Dom now has a full set of teeth.  Even the stubborn, pointy canines have finally made their grand entrance into his mouth.  He takes great joy in grabbing my hand and pulling it toward his mouth while saying, “Uh-uh!” in a singsong voice.  Sometimes, he’s nice enough to release my fingers, but others he chomps down.  Hard.

Because of his big mouthful of teeth, we need to be dedicated toothbrushers.  Both Daddy and I have the battlescars to prove our attempts at oral hygiene.  When Dom sees a toothbrush heading his way, one of two things happens.  Either his lips clench closed so tightly that Parent #2 needs to pry his jaw open so Parent #1 can gain access…or he pretends to cooperate, opening his mouth, only to gnash down at the last minute on an unsuspecting finger.  Hard.

We’ve tried everything.  Thomas the Tank Toothbrush…Elmo Toothbrush…Singing Toothbrush…The Who-Can-Brush-Their-Teeth-the-Best Game…Dom doesn’t fall for any of it.  I asked him the other day whether he wanted all of his teeth to fall out, and he triumphantly said, “No toothbrush then!”

I can only assume that God somehow built this toddler toothbrushing resistance into our genes.  In that case, plaque and germs won’t cause problems until, say, age four, when a child is slightly more reasonable.  I mean, God created toddlers, and he knows their stubbornness, right?

Sometime after age two, a child should make his first trip to a pediatric dentist.  I need to schedule this appointment, but I’m terrified.  Dom may not have any teeth left by then, since no toothpaste is allowed to enter his mouth.  He may bite the dentist’s finger off, pulling us directly into a multi-million dollar, loss of livelihood lawsuit.  Or, the boy might just open wide for the nice dentist, giving me a mean-Mommy complex about forced hygiene.