I hate brushing Olivia's teeth. Let me paint a picture of our typical nightly teeth-brushing experience (we won't even talk about the after-breakfast brushing):
I go get her toothbrush from the bathroom and put toothpaste on it.
As soon as she sees me come in her room with it she screams and runs to her bed, lays face down, stuffs her mouth with blanket, and holds both hands over it to prevent intrusion.
I tell her she can choose to open her own mouth or I can do it for her.
She always chooses not to do it willingly.
I hold her hands down while trying to pry her mouth open.
Her electric princess toothbrush sounds like a scary dentist's drill.
I shove it back and forth in her mouth a few times while she tries to bite down to prevent movement.
I start to feel like I'm torturing her and start to sing a fun, lighthearted teeth brushing song to avoid feeling like a complete war criminal.
We both come out of it breathing hard and sweating.
She smiles cause it's over and climbs under the covers to await a story.
I congratulate myself on another night of forced dental care and only allow her to drink water after brushings (and for the rest of the night) to prevent the possibility of a cavity. Not for her sake, but for the sake of the unfortunate dentist who would have to fill that cavity with a real drill and actually put his fingers in her mouth.