Secret Foam

         Only people who have lived with me know my secret.  And now, it’s only my husband and toddler son who are subjected to my dark side.  Well, not dark, but my white, foamy side.  

I am a messy toothbrusher.

I am not one of those people who can wander from room to room while brushing their teeth.  I need to be standing, perched over the sink, hoping any droppings make their way into my sink basin and not onto my orange slippers.  It’s one of the only things I do without multitasking.

I was taught to use a pea-sized ration of toothpaste.  I do that.  My husband insists I need to brush with my mouth closed.  I try to do that.  But still, I foam.  First at the corners of my mouth.  Then a trickle starts, working its way down to my chin.  And then, the dam breaks, and the bristles of my toothbrush can no longer contain my tri-colored Aquafresh.  My toothbrush has transformed into an uncontrollable stick of foam.  My hand is covered, and the trail continues down my wrist towards my elbow.  A river of spit and toothpaste that won’t stop until I use one hand to scoop up and rinse off the white goo from the other.

My messiness is nothing I’m proud of.  And it worries me.  How will I properly teach my young son to brush his teeth?  Will this be our first example of, “Go ask your father”?