The Do Not Forget Things

A toothbrush, a tantrum, and what really matters

A scene from an much earlier season of parenting, in which I learned a thing I will not forget:

Scrambling to run out the door. Five minutes late, of course.

Diaper bag packed? Yes.

Snacks? Yes.

Everybody pottied or in a fresh diaper? Yes.

Shoes on, everyone? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes.

And then …

“Son, did you brush your teeth?”

Guilty shoulder shrug, slight grimace.

And I lost it. The stress of the past month, the rush out the door, the late night working on a writing project—it all hit me in one, sick rush.

I lost it.

I sucked breath through my teeth, raised my eyebrows, threw my hand on my hip, looked at the ceiling. Then I got that lanky, oversized boy square in my sights and let him have it.

“This is not o.k. Son! YOU HAVE GOT TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH! You are not 4 years old! Do I really have to remind you to brush your teeth every morning? Seriously?”

His lower lip trembled. His big, beautiful blue eyes shifted shamefully to the floor, where he couldn’t see his whole line of siblings staring at him in his moment of disgrace. His cheeks flushed white, then pink, then red.

And his shoulders? Those proud, tall shoulders of that burgeoning man-child that spread so elegantly, reminding me daily of the handsome guy he’s becoming? They were hunched. Cowed into submission by the angry words I was spitting in his face.

Just then, the face that I saw before me wasn’t my boy at all. It was the image of a friend who has a son of her own. A friend whose health was failing, who was facing saying goodbye long before anyone expected. Her son, I realized, would brush his teeth without his Momma’s nagging for many, many years before he was grown.

The tears came before I knew what was happening. I grabbed my boy by his bent shoulders, hugged him close and begged his forgiveness. Pressed my lips to his forehead while it was still low enough for me to reach, wrapped my arms around him while he could not escape. Loved on him. Felt him slowly, gingerly, uncoil and accept the kisses I couldn’t stop myself from lavishing on him.

Because really, I realized, I didn’t give a whip about whether or not he brushed his teeth. Not in the big picture. What I cared about is that I had this boy–this young man— to love and cherish. I had my precious boy right there, in that moment.

Those are the big things. The Do Not Forget Things.

The teeth? Well, they mattered. But not more than my son. Not more than his heart, his pride, his sense of what it was to be loved and accepted. I was grateful that God, in His infinite love for both this child and me, pulled me back just far enough to remind me of how blessed I was. Sure, I had a boy whose idea of oral hygiene was, shall we say, lacking. But I had that boy. I was blessed to be his mother. Praise God, I watched him lose every single baby tooth in his head. Later on, I was the one to hold his hand at the oral surgeon’s office as they eased the IV into his arm before they wrest the wisdom teeth from his jaw. I was the one who answered the phone when he called home from Boot Camp that first time, voice shaking and drill sargeants screaming in the background. I was the one who saw him nervously knot his tie on his wedding day. And, God willing, I’ll have lunch with him some day when I’m 70 and he’s 43, and I’ll tell him that he’s too young to be worried about this or that. I will be a part of his life, should the Lord allow, and he mine. And I will not ask, not once, about how often he brushes his teeth.

That, well … that’s a Do Not Forget Thing. That’s the stuff that matters.