The Toothbrush Tussle
The day began with dew shimmering on the rose-petal canopy, glistening like tiny diamonds strung across pink velvet skies. Sunlight filtered gently through, promising peace. It was a lie.
I knew better now. Peace, in the land of the fae, was just a polite pause before the next round of chaos. And today’s chaos had been lurking on the horizon since last night’s victorious potty triumph.
Toothbrushing.
A mortal necessity, a toddler battleground, and—if the pixies had anything to say about it—a full-scale theatrical performance.
My daughter, cheeks still rosy from sleep, sat cross-legged on her mossy blanket, clutching her stuffed bunny. She looked cherubic, innocent… unsuspecting. Which, of course, was when the “help” arrived.
The Pixie Parade Returns
“Ho-ho! The Potty Patrol returns, now moonlighting as the Dental Defense Force!” Tiddle declared, soaring into the clearing with the grace of a rock tossed by a mischievous hand. His acorn crown had gained a single feather since yesterday.
Sprank followed, brandishing what could only be described as a wand made from a toothbrush duct-taped (with magic) to a twig. Glitter rained in his wake. “We bring weaponry for the noble battle against Plaque!”
Nib, the smallest, dragged a satchel three times his size, bumping along the moss. From its depths came clattering, rattling, and the faint smell of mint gone terribly wrong.
My heart sank. “No. Absolutely not. Toothbrushing is not a battlefield.”
Sprank spun dramatically. “That’s what the Plaque Lords want you to think.”
Behind me, my daughter squealed in delight. “Sword fight!” she cried, hopping to her feet.
Traitor.
The Enchanted Toothbrushes
Sprank, eager to impress, produced a set of toothbrushes far too big to have fit in Nib’s bag. Each glowed faintly, humming like a bee with a grudge. One sparkled with emerald fire, another pulsed with blue lightning, and the last one—heaven help me—dripped what looked like honey.
“These are the legendary Toothblades of Cleanora!” Sprank proclaimed. “Forged in minty freshness, destined to smite the cavities!”
“Or rot the teeth with sugar,” I muttered, eyeing the honey-dripping one.
My daughter gasped. “Mine!” She lunged for the lightning brush, sparks zipping between her tiny fingers.
I swooped in just in time. “Nope. Absolutely not.” The brush hissed at me like an offended cat. “We’re sticking with the human one.” I produced our humble pink plastic toothbrush from my pocket, the kind you get in multipacks at the mortal grocery store.
The pixies looked scandalized. “But where’s the drama? The spectacle?” Tiddle asked, aghast.
“I’m aiming for ‘two minutes of calm,’” I replied, tucking the dangerous brushes firmly out of reach.
The Battle Begins
Of course, calm was not on today’s menu.
The moment I crouched beside my daughter with our mortal toothbrush, the pixies launched into a rallying cry. “For shiny molars! For gleaming canines! For the fall of the Plaque Lords!”
Fairies from nearby blossoms poked their heads out to watch. A frog, clearly sensing entertainment, hopped closer and croaked like a trumpet. Even the brook seemed to hum louder, as though narrating the opening score.
My daughter, now fully swept up in the spirit of war, grabbed the brush from my hand. She leapt onto a mushroom stool and brandished it like Excalibur. “I fight the sugar bugs!” she declared.
Sprank conjured up an illusion of swarming gummy bears and licorice whips, each sporting snarling teeth. They surrounded the clearing like an army. My daughter shrieked with glee and charged.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “This was supposed to be bedtime hygiene, not bedtime chaos.”
Mint Mayhem
Somehow, toothpaste entered the equation. Not our neat mortal tube, mind you—Nib’s experimental “Pixie Paste.”
It foamed. It bubbled. It smelled like peppermint, strawberries, and burnt toast all at once.
My daughter, utterly delighted, smeared it across her brush and attacked the gummy-bear illusions. Each swipe of the toothbrush sent foamy sparkles exploding into the air. A single bubble floated toward me, popped, and left my lips tingling as though I’d kissed a snowflake made of jalapeños.
“Is this… safe?” I demanded.
Nib shrugged. “Mostly?”
“Mostly?!”
Meanwhile, my daughter was conquering the battlefield, giggling as sparkles clung to her cheeks. At one point, she chased a licorice whip into the brook, scrubbing it clean until the poor thing dissolved into harmless rainbow mist.
I’ll give her this: she brushed thoroughly.
Order Restored (Sort Of)
By the time the chaos subsided, the clearing looked like a candy store had exploded, then been scrubbed clean by a very enthusiastic janitor. My daughter’s teeth sparkled—literally. I made a mental note to check later if that glow was magical residue or just leftover glitter.
Maribelle, ever the voice of reason, arrived with a weary sigh. “Pixies,” she said, folding her arms. “Do you recall yesterday’s lesson about ‘helping quietly’?”
The trio froze mid-celebration.
“Yes…” they chorused, sheepish.
“And yet here we are,” Maribelle continued. With a snap of her fingers, the battlefield illusions vanished, the sparkles dimmed, and my sanity took a cautious step back toward center.
She turned to me and pressed another bead into my palm. This one glowed a soft minty green. “A Soothing Charm,” she explained. “It helps little ones enjoy calm rituals. Perhaps less… theatrics next time.”
I thanked her, clutching it like the lifeline it was.
Mother’s Reflection
That night, after I wrestled my daughter into bed (her pillow now faintly mint-scented and glittery), I finally sat down. The forest had quieted, stars winking lazily above like curious eyes.
I thought back on the chaos—the bubbles, the sparkles, the tiny toothbrush duel.
Yes, it had been madness. Yes, my patience had frayed dangerously thin. But my daughter’s laughter had rung through it all, pure and joyful. Her smile—bright, clean, and still faintly glowing—was worth every frazzled nerve.
Raising a child in Faerie was not about quiet, tidy victories. It was about embracing the mess, finding magic in the absurd, and holding onto the moments of joy that bloomed even in the chaos.
And maybe, just maybe, my daughter would grow up to love brushing her teeth after all.
The Hint of Tomorrow
As I doused the lantern and stretched toward sleep, a new sound reached my ears. A faint rustling, followed by the low, rumbling growl of… something.
The brook quieted. The fairies hushed. Even the pixies stopped giggling.
From the shadows, two gleaming eyes blinked at me.
My heart skipped.
Tomorrow, it seemed, would bring a new challenge—taming whatever beast had just wandered into our clearing.
Heaven help me.
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