To The Teeth.

I know it’s a little early, but the Meanest Mother of 2007 nominations have been voted upon and a winner has been decided. It was an honor just to be nominated. Frankly, I was shocked when they called my name.

According to insiders, I was always in the Meanest Mother Top-Ten, but until last month I couldn’t expect anything better than fifth runner-up; possibly winning the talent competition in Vague Threats in Public. But then came China. With China came recalls and the magic word we kept hearing was “lead”. Lead, as we've all come to find out, is the navy-blue blazer of Chinese manufacturing: it goes with everything.

It goes with toys. It goes with baby bibs. It goes with children’s jewelry. It doesn’t go with children’s nightwear, however, because that’s where formaldehyde goes. I guess the upside is that our children will be stupid, but well-preserved. Luckily for us, so far Daughter has had no toys or do-dads on the list. However, I think this has less to do with our incredible luck and more to do with the amount of import inspectors having been cut drastically since 9/11. I suspect I am living in a fool’s paradise, which is kind of depressing because I had hoped my fool’s paradise would have nicer towels.

Which brings us to toothpaste. Earlier this year two lesser-known brands of toothpaste were recalled, owing to…yes, lead. Daughter’s favorite kinds of toothpaste are the kinds with names like “Super Straw-Nana-Lime”, well-known cartoon figures on the labels and complicated dispensers. In short, exactly the kinds which are made in China and produce that holographic affect when extruded on the brush with aid of recycled Napalm. For once, I decided to get ahead of my paranoia. Instead of waiting for the seriously understaffed Food and Drug Administrations inspectors to find out our toothpaste was tainted, I threw the iridescent pump-bottle of Hello Kitty Razz-Dazzle Sparkly Bubbli-Tastic Toothpaste and Grout Whitener into the Hazardous Waste bag and went in search of American-made toothpaste.

Which took me to Tom’s of Maine. At first, I was suspicious. “Of Maine,” I thought skeptically. “Sure, they are. City of Maine, Guangdong province, no doubt.” But unless their offers of factory tours in Sanford, Maine are just an incredible ruse to get me to part with four dollars, I imagine they are, in fact, an American-made product. Actually the web site does say their bar soaps are made in New England, the flossing ribbon is made in Pennsylvania and the liquid soap is made in Canada. I guess for complete disclosure the name should be “Tom’s of the Eastern Seaboard” but as long as you aren’t tainting my daughter’s brain, I’m willing to allow you a little artistic license. During my next trip to the grocery store, I bought Tom’s of Maine Cinnamint. The next morning, during the usual manic rush to school, I sent Daughter in to brush her teeth. Minutes later, having fed the pets some lesser meats of American origin, I raced in to the bathroom, to find her glaring at the tube. She waved it at me like an epee.

“This is new”, she said warningly.

I chose to ignore the tone and pretend that we all loved the new in my house.

“Yes, it’s Cinnamint. You love cinnamon, you love mint.”

We stared at one another.

“It’s from Maine!” I added unhelpfully.

“Where’s my Hello Kitty?” she asked suspiciously.

“Hello Kitty had…issues” I said, busying myself with brushing her hair, “Just try the new toothpaste.”

She stuck out her tongue and let a single taste bud get an inch or so from the toothbrush. She then commenced to gagging and flinging herself around the bathroom. From the gasped words barely issuing from her clenched teeth, I was led to understand that Tom’s of Maine Cinnamint was the spiciest and nastiest hell-rot ever forced into a recyclable tube, and that if I forced her to use it even once, the state would get involved. We spent several minutes negotiating a temporary DMZ. I would rinse nearly all of the vileness off of her innocent toothbrush. In return for which, she would brush her teeth with the barest scrapings of Cinnamint this morning and stop falling down on the ground and grabbing her throat. Before the evening brushing, I would find a Tom’s of Maine flavor which wasn’t designed by Satan.

Because I have nothing better to do with my time, I went back to another grocery store and found the Tom’s of Maine flavors for children. Erring on the side of caution, and not wishing to watch Daughter do her interpretive dance of anaphylactic shock again, I bought the strawberry flavor, because she usually voted for strawberry-like flavors. The nights’ brushing began with sniffing the toothpaste and then tentatively touching it with her finger before she allowed her tongue anywhere near it. It was like watching an Aboriginal tribe find their first empty Coke bottle. She tasted the air around the toothpaste and frowned.

“It doesn’t taste like my strawberry toothpaste”, she judged.

I tasted a bit. It was actually rather nice. It tasted not unlike strawberries.

“It tastes not unlike strawberries,” I wisely noted.

“Yes,” she agreed, in a tone which suggested that maybe I had sucked on a few lead-paint soaked toys in my time. “But strawberry toothpaste doesn’t taste like strawberries. I like the way the pretend strawberries taste. And this toothpaste doesn’t sparkle. I’m not going to use it.”

I finally lost what was left of my mind, my patience and my sense of humor. A free and frank exchange of views followed. My general meanness was discussed at some length. After the dog hid under the bed and a court-appointed mediator was brought in, we finally reached a compromise. When she is an adult and can drive, she will drive to the store and buy her own toothpaste. It will not only sparkle and taste like nothing in nature, it will have a half-life measured in minutes and cause her to spontaneously grow a fin every two years. She will buy it and use it and I won’t be able say anything because I will no longer be the boss of her. I am also very, very unpleasant, and many other friends of hers have nice mothers who let them pick out their own toothpaste and also let their daughters wear heels to school. This wasn’t completely on-topic, but I think she felt as long as we were discussing my many faults, she might as well get everything on record.

Fine by me. When you are the Meanest Mom in the world you don’t wear that title lightly. You earn it, and then you have to keep earning it, because mothers are competing for my title all the time. Somewhere out there is a mother refusing to buy a set of Pokemon cards. Somewhere out there another mother forcing a child to stop hitting her brother, even after he started making that noise in the back of this throat. Somewhere out there a woman is irrationally insisting a child wash both the backs and the fronts of his hands.

If I don’t force my child to brush her teeth with American-made poison twice a day, I might have to give back my tiara and sash.