<tuesday february 11, 2003 - 10:00 p.m.>

The other day I took Emma grocery shopping. It was going well. I picked out a colourful box of Kleenex and suggested that she Keep Her Very Own Box in her own room. She was thrilled and walked around the store clutching it tightly. ("Wow, my OWN box of Kleenex! THANKS MOM!")

We were almost done when I realized that I had forgotten to buy the girls some toothpaste. We made a beeline for the cosmetics aisle, and there, at knee-level (of course), was the kiddie-toothpaste display.

For those who are childless or have tooth-free children I should explain that children's toothpaste is a whole different category of Dental Polish and Breath Rejuvenator. Some of it is fluoride-free, which is recommended for those who haven't yet learned how to spit. Trust me when I say that this skill we take for granted really does take about 3 years to master, and even then some people never get it.

Other types of toothpaste are (as Emma would say) available in "non-spicy" flavours. The most popular one seems to be bubble-gum. This in itself makes me wonder. Why pick a sugary flavour for something that is supposed to keep your mouth cavity-free? Why not something a little healthier like banana? Or strawberry?

Anyway, I asked Emma to pick out which toothpaste she wanted. I figured that they were pretty much all the same. I mean, there's one with Tweety bird on the label (why would a bird need toothpaste?), another with Blue's Clues ... one is Fruity Bubble Gum and the other is Grape Bubble Gum – really, what can possibly go wrong? She narrowed in on a third tube that had a picture of Barney. It was larger than the others. I paid no heed. She seemed pleased with the choice.

When we got home and I was in the living room when Mark came in, waving the tube at me in a rather accusing fashion. He was obviously ticked about something, something related to this purchase.

"Why did you buy this?"
"Uhhh..."
"This is the wrong kind."

It was obvious to me that he'd flipped his lid. I was too tired to compute. I must have looked pretty blank, because that's when he explained the reason behind his craziness:

"This is the one that plays the song."

At this point it had all become crystal clear. I really did buy the wrong toothpaste. I had made a fatal error and unless we took quick action we'd be paying for it for months and months. And Emma, the little sneak, knew all along.

This particular Barney toothpaste plays an electronic version of "Yankee Doodle Dandy" when you open the cap. Why hadn't I noticed the words "musical toothpaste" emblazoned in purple letters across the front of the package?

Mark demonstrated. Gadzooks it was annoying, and loud. In fact the tinny high notes would certainly send the neighborhood dogs into fits of rabid frenzy, it could probably raise someone out of a coma. But since there is no one in a coma around here the latter point is moot.

It would probably wake Sarah up, dogs or no dogs, coma or no. And Emma knew perfectly well that this had been verboten on a previous shopping trip with Daddy. She had tried to sneak it past me and had won. Or so she thought.

Our immediate instinct was to destroy this cursed doodad.

Mark sprang into action. I've never seem him so committed to a domestic task. He brought the tube down into the "workshop" a.k.a. the stack of tools surrounded by more tools and cardboard boxes. He was back upstairs a few minutes later with a freshly disabled tube.

Emma was disappointed, but the more important thing here is that we, her parents and guardians, are able to maintain our sanity for that much longer. Isn't that more important?

I looked more closely at the label: "plays music for 70 seconds to encourage children to brush longer!" Question: Why not just set an eggtimer if you're so committed to prolonged toothbrushing? And that way the world would be spared this auditory assault. And what's with the yankee-doodle? Whoever thought of this is definitely NOT a parent, that's all I have to say..

There is a part two to this tale of toothpaste.

When someone (read, Emma or Sarah) gets really quiet for more than three simultaneous minutes, and is out of view, we immediately know that Something is Up. Something is undoubtedly being chewed on, thrown down into a heating grate, stuck to a wall etc. Someone may even be getting squashed or trapped behind furniture, or worse, getting fingerprints on mummy's books (!) so we have to investigate.

Emma was in the upstairs bathroom. She was supposed to be washing her face but it was awfully quiet. Mark went up and caught her eating the aforementioned toothpaste. Then she tried to lie about it. There was no mistaking it. The air was saturated with the smell of bubble gum. And her breath had never been fruitier.

"Where you just eating the toothpaste?"
"No."
"You never eat toothpaste, Do You Un-der-stand?"

Emma collapsed in a heap and cried. I went upstairs to talk to her.

"Daddy got mad because I ate toothpaste!" she wailed.
"Well Emma you're not supposed to eat this stuff. It is not to be eaten." She didn't believe me.

I pointed to the words on the front of tube (it actually read "bouchon musical" - or whatever is French for "musical cap.") See here, it say "Do Not Eat."

"NO! It's says BARNEY!"

Dammit, I was losing this one.

I flipped it over and read her the fine print, near where it says that 4/5 dentists recommend etc etc. This time I told her the truth.

"It says here to use a pea-sized amount... that you should only use with adult supervision, and do not swallow!" This, she accepted.

This morning she waved the tube at me. "You spit this out mummy," she announced, as if it was old news. "You do not eat toothpaste, right?"

Right-o.

a.