Parenting is a journey filled with little challenges that sneak up on you. Sometimes, it’s the big milestones—sleeping through the night, potty training, learning to talk. Other times, it’s the small, everyday things that test your patience and creativity. For me lately, it’s been brushing teeth. Or rather, trying to brush the teeth of a strong-willed toddler who is absolutely convinced she’s got it handled.
My daughter is in that wonderful age where independence blooms like a wildflower—beautiful, unpredictable, and impossible to contain. She wants to do everything by herself. Closing Velcro straps (sort of). Pouring her own juice (everywhere). Put on her pants or zipping her vest. And brushing her teeth.
When I try to help, she looks at me with those big, stubborn eyes and says the same thing every time: “Me too.” In her world, “Me too” means “Let me do it. I can do it. I want to try.” And as a mom, I love that. I want her to feel confident and capable. I want her to believe she can do hard things. But also—she’s two. And two-year-olds, for all their enthusiasm, aren’t exactly experts at dental hygiene.
She’ll scrub around for a bit, nibble the toothbrush, sing a little song, and rinse. Done. Except, not done. Not even close. The corners are missed. The back teeth don’t get much love. And sometimes, she gets distracted mid-brush and starts brushing her chin or her stuffed animal’s nose. And if I try to step in, if I say, “Okay, now it’s my turn to brush a little,” she recoils. She frowns and says, “No.” And then again, “Me too.” Her way of saying, “Don’t take over. Don’t make me feel small.”
I’ve tried explaining. Calmly. Kindly. Gently. I’ve told her how brushing our teeth well keeps them clean and strong, how sugar bugs can make holes in our teeth, how pain can happen if we don’t take care of them. I’ve used storybooks and songs and colorful charts. She listens. She nods. Then she grabs her brush and does it her way. The independence is admirable. The effectiveness, not so much.
I found myself in this loop—trying not to force her but also trying to protect her health. Some nights I gave in and let her be, even though I worried. Other nights I pushed a little and ended up feeling like the bad guy. It never sat right with me, the forcing. I don’t want brushing teeth to become a battlefield. I don’t want her to associate something so routine, so important, with stress or struggle or feeling like she’s being controlled.
Then one night, I tried something different. Desperation makes you creative. I looked at her, holding her toothbrush like a little sword, ready to battle me again, and I said, “Okay. Let’s brush together.” Her eyes lit up. She was suspicious but curious.
And then I handed her my toothbrush.
I said, “You brush mine, and I’ll brush yours.”
The surprise on her face was priceless. She took it seriously. She got up close and studied my teeth with the intensity of a tiny dentist. While she focused on brushing mine—very gently, very carefully—I took my chance. I brushed hers. Properly. Each corner. The backs. The molars. All while she was too busy concentrating on what she was doing.
No tears. No fighting. No “I’m angry.” Just peace. And laughter.
That night was a breakthrough. Not just because her teeth were actually clean for once without drama, but because something shifted. It became a game. A ritual. A moment of connection rather than conflict. She felt in control. She felt proud. And I felt like I found the key I’d been missing.
So now, that’s our thing. Every night, we brush each other’s teeth. We stand in front of the mirror and giggle. She asks, “My turn?” and I say, “Yes, you brush mine, and I’ll brush yours.” Sometimes she hums a little tune while doing it. Sometimes she tells me, “Open big,” like she’s the professional. I play along, sometimes even pretend she missed a spot, and she takes it seriously.
I still check afterward, of course. I still floss for her when needed, and I still guide her hand now and then. But the tone has changed completely. She’s more open now. More willing. Less defensive. Because she’s not being brushed—she’s participating.
What I’ve learned from this tiny victory is that toddlers don’t always respond to logic the way we hope. They’re not moved by lectures about cavities or long-term consequences. They live in the moment. They want to feel empowered, not corrected. They want to be included, not managed.
And sometimes, the best way to help them do something properly is to let them feel like they’re the ones helping us.
By giving her the role of brushing my teeth, I gave her responsibility. A job. A mission. It wasn’t just about getting her to comply—it was about creating a moment where she could feel capable and trusted. And in return, I got the cooperation I was craving, without force, without tears, without turning bedtime into a negotiation.
It’s a small change with a big impact. And I know it won’t last forever. One day, she’ll grow out of it. She’ll be brushing her own teeth in peace, no tricks required. But for now, I’m grateful. Grateful that this stage of parenting still offers space for play and imagination to solve problems. Grateful that I didn’t give up after the first few failed attempts. Grateful that she let me in again, in her own way.
If you’re a parent struggling with the same nightly battle, maybe give this little switcheroo a try. Let them brush your teeth. Make it silly. Make it fun. You might be surprised how quickly they open up. How quickly the resistance melts away. And how something so simple can turn a frustrating task into a beautiful ritual you both look forward to.
It turns out, sometimes the best parenting hacks don’t come from books or blogs. Sometimes, they come at bedtime, when you’re tired and thinking on your feet, trying to avoid yet another meltdown. Sometimes, the best ideas are the ones your child helps you discover, just by being who they are.
So now, when she says “Me too,” I smile. Because I know she means, “Let me be a part of this. Let me try.” And now I say, “Yes. Me too.” Because this journey? We’re in it together. One toothbrush at a time.
